Oisín McGann - Ancient Appetites

Nate stumbled back, stopping just short of the edge of the carriage, nothing behind him but the torn iron of the tender and, beyond it, the wreck of the locomotive, flames coughing fiercely from its firebox and starting to spread across the spilled piles of coal. The air over the hellish scene was full of gritty, choking smoke. He nearly lost his balance, and his arms went out to regain it… leaving him wide open. Hugo drove his sword into Nate's side. Nate screamed, dropping his own blade. As Hugo made to pull back for another thrust, Nate clasped his hands around his ancestor's and lunged backwards, still impaled on the sword. Hugo was thrown forwards, tumbling over Nate's head as they fell into the pile of coal in the wreck of the tender. A sharp, white-hot pain shot through Nate as he landed, and the sword twisted in the wound, making him cry out again. Hugo got to his knees; jamming one foot against Nate's hip, he wrenched the bloodied blade out and raised it for a killing blow. But just as he did so, three figures rose up from beneath the coal, seizing his arms and legs in wrestling holds. He fought like a berserker to break free, but the Maasai were too strong, too well-trained, their hearts too set on vengeance.

'Unhand me, you blasted blackamoors!' Hugo shrieked, thrashing vainly against their iron grip. 'What are you doing? What is this?!'

'This,' said Abraham in a deep, calm voice, 'is your personal Hell, Hugo Wildenstern. And we are here to deliver you to it.'

'You can't do this!' Hugo screamed at Nathaniel. 'You would let servants do your killing for you?!'

'They are free men now. What they do with you is their business,' Nate retorted, sitting up with a grunt and pressing his hands against the wound. Not wanting to show how badly he was hurt, he got unsteadily to his feet and turned his back on his ancestor. Then he added: 'I never wanted you dead – I just wanted you out of my house.'

And with that, he walked away to join his family.

G erald leaned back against the workbench, smoking a cigarette and staring at Brutus. With all the family conflict going on around him, there had been little time to consider how recent events were going to affect his work. Now that he had a moment to think about it, it dawned on him that if Nate's plans succeeded, the ancestors' extraordinary bodies could be lost to science.

And Nate had to succeed – the prospect of these throwbacks taking control of the family was unthinkable. But while Gerald would have been the first to admit that the four ancients were abominations of the highest order (even for Wildensterns), he despaired at the thought of losing the greatest chance of discovering the true nature of the intelligent particles. If a transfusion of Hugo's blood could help Clancy recover from a mortal wound, understanding those particles could change the course of medicine for ever.

So Gerald made a decision there and then. He would take Brutus's inert body down to the cellars, where he could tell Nate he had incinerated it in the huge boilers that heated the house. There were forgotten rooms down in the foundations of Wildenstern Hall where Gerald stored some of his equipment, as well as more illicit materials he wanted to keep from prying eyes. He would keep Brutus there, where he could carry on his experiments in secrecy.

Gerald had enormous faith in his cousin. Nate had yet to realize his full potential in the family but Gerald knew what a formidable opponent he could be. If he succeeded in defeating Hugo and his sisters, for the sake of science it was imperative that at least one of the ancestors be kept alive.

The moral implications of what he was doing did not particularly bother Gerald – he considered himself a servant to a higher cause that could override all other considerations. Anything was justified to advance along the path of science.

On the off-chance that Nate failed, Gerald could always tell Hugo that he had been trying to save Brutus's life. That part at least would be true.

There wasn't a moment to lose, but there was still the problem of moving a man of Brutus's size without the help of too many loose-lipped servants. Gerald stepped over to the sleeping giant and put a hand on his brow – then he jerked back as the monster let out a trembling moan.

Brutus awoke. His consciousness returned gradually and he lay still with his eyes closed and let it come. As his awareness of his body stretched out along his limbs, a terrible pain in his right arm told him he had been wounded in the fight. He could remember a mighty struggle, hands grabbing him, blades cutting him. He tried to flex the fingers of his right hand, and though he was sure he could feel them to their tips, there was no movement against his hip, where they lay. Instead, something cold and hard twitched against his skin. He had heard about this from men who had lost limbs in battle. Ghost pain. His hand was gone – replaced by some clumsy tool of metal.

Brutus did not know why he was not dead. Perhaps Hugo and their sisters had saved him, but his one clear memory was of them lying in a bog grave, their bodies ravaged with wounds. Earth was being thrown upon their faces. Perhaps someone had kept him alive to prolong his torture. As his thoughts turned to his family, he was struck with the certainty that they were in mortal danger. He must act.

His memories were confused; he could not think clearly. Opening his eyes, he found his vision was blurred. The room around him looked large and bright, with tall rectangular windows that blinded him with their light. He was in a bed, and on his left side, on a small table, were what could have been small weapons or surgical tools. His hand clumsily grasped the largest, a saw of polished metal. As he sat up, his unfocused eyes picked out the shape of a man lying in a bed a few feet away to his right. Brutus could see no details, but the man was not moving.

That was when he looked down at his right arm and saw the claw attached to it. The claw opened as he lifted it, and clicked closed as he pushed it away. What sorcery was this? He gaped in horror, but stayed silent.

Then he noticed the man standing to his left. The man's left hand held a short white stick from which smoke was rising lazily. His right hand was in his hair and he was staring at Brutus in what looked like awe.

'My God,' the man said in a low voice. 'You're awake!'

He was dressed in strange, straight-edged clothes unlike any Brutus had seen before, and he knew now that he had fallen into foreign hands. He was among enemies. A violent rage came over him, old battle instincts coming to the fore. His powerful muscles bunched, the hand holding the saw swung back.

Gerald stumbled backwards an instant before the naked seven-foot-tall medieval ogre, with gold needles protruding from his skin, slashed at the young doctor's neck with the bone-saw. Brutus let out a cry of savage aggression as the saw embedded itself in the top of the table. He pulled it free, his newly awakened body moving with a raw but cumbersome power. Staggering forward, he made to attack again.

'Wait! Wait! I can take you to your family!' Gerald cried.

The giant hesitated, breathing heavily. The fist holding the saw was poised in midair.

'That's what you want, isn't it?' Gerald said softly. 'To be with your brother, Hugo, and your two sisters, Elizabeth and Brunhilde?'

Brutus was still for a moment, but then he nodded.

'Yhheeess,' he croaked with vocal chords that hadn't worked in centuries.

'Come with me then, and I'll take you to them.'

Brutus stood unmoving for what seemed like an age… and then lowered the blade. Gerald could see just how weak the giant was; the initial effort of the attack had emptied him out and it was taking all his strength to stand upright. But maybe he had enough left in him to make it to the elevator. Once Gerald had walked him down to the cellars, he was sure the ogre would have no fight left in him and could be subdued with a minimum of effort.