Trent Jamieson - Night's engines

Cadell crouched in the shadows. He hadn’t even bothered to wipe the blood from his lips. He grinned at Margaret, and seeing that face, all that blood, she knew that David was right, there was nothing of Cadell there. Nothing gentle or clever in all that hunger, unless the world itself was just hunger. Margaret had grown up on the terrors of the Roil, but this was an altogether darker thing, and worse, because she had seen some of that look in David. This was no Cadell, but a hollow man, possessed of a mouth, a gut, and cunning. Then clouds passed over the moon, and he was little more than a dark mannish shape.

Rain fell all at once, a great heavy downpour. How could they fight in this? Cadell sprang to his feet and sprinted at them through the dark — and David did something truly annoying. He stepped in front of her.

Margaret had to resist the temptation to cut into his back. David raised a hand, the Orbis on his finger flared with a cold hard brilliance that drew everything around them sharp and clear. It was almost as though the light of another time lit the street, things slowed, and grew a dangerous clarity.

Cadell backed from the light, a blood-covered hand thrown in front of his face, and Margaret could see each drop falling from his fingers to the gravel. None of it lost in the rain. Then things sped up, the light changed subtly. Cadell scurried backwards. But the glow followed him, and his hands couldn't conceal what he had become from it. Another drop of blood splattered on the ground.

“You remember what you are,” David said, and Margaret was startled by the pain and disappointment in his voice, as though despite knowing what he was facing, he’d never truly expected it. Cadell halted, lowered his hands, his face long and lupine. None of the sadness was there nor his overbearing mockery and impatience. He truly was cored of everything but the husk. And yet he stopped.

David strode towards him, closer and closer, until they almost touched. “You remember what you are,” David repeated. “Though not as much as me. If you honour the man, not the curse-”

Cadell swiped him aside, a movement so swift that Margaret hardly saw it, her limbs already given over to reflex as Cadell darted towards her. So much for David.

Margaret swept her rime blade out, and Cadell grabbed her by her wrist so tightly her bones creaked. She slammed her left fist into his face, it was like punching iron, and yet Cadell reacted. His eyes widened, and dark blood streamed from his nose. But he didn’t let go, just yanked her closer. She felt her fingers loosen, the sword starting to fall from her hand. Something moved behind them. Cadell's head snapped forward, Margaret almost buckled beneath his weight.

Over Cadell's shoulder, David's face loomed; blood streamed down a cut beneath his eye. He smiled at her, and, again, there was something ghoulish and un-David like about that grin. He closed his hands around Cadell’s head and wrenched him to one side. Now Cadell’s fingers released their grip, and David kicked out, driving him away from her — ribs cracked as the Old Man lifted into the air.

David was already sprinting after Cadell, who had landed in a crouch, catlike. Cadell wasn’t running, though. David kicked out at him, Cadell grabbed his leg and, as though it were little more than an afterthought, spun David in a rough circle, before hurling him into the window of the butchery. David went through, headfirst. There was no elegance in the way either of them moved, only strength and speed.

Cadell was fighting on instinct alone and it was giving him the edge.

Margaret let her rime blade drop, pulled free her rifle and shot Cadell in the head. The Old Man spun towards her; perhaps she should have considered running. She shot him again, and then there was no time. He was swinging out at her, and she was using the rifle like a club, looking up at those bloody teeth. She knocked his hands away, heard one of his fingers break as she struck them.

She scrambled back, all instinct herself. His eyes were as dark and empty as an Endym’s, and Margaret knew that soon she would follow him down into death. She was outclassed. Endyms, Quarg Hounds, Roilings — she could destroy those, but Cadell was another thing altogether. She flung her rifle at his head, and he swiped it away. She snatched a pistol from her belt and shot him in the chest, point-blank. It didn't even slow him down.

Cadell struck her hard, and she fell to the ground. He pressed one hand against her shoulder, reached down with the other to touch her neck. She raged against that strength, and couldn’t move. Her hands closed around the Verger's knife in her belt, she yanked it free, drove it into his chest. His mouth opened and shut. Margaret could hear the breath whistling through his broad nose, she could smell blood and putrefaction on his breath.

The rain stopped. Gutters gurgled, something dripped nearby, and Cadell peered at her, a heartbeat and a heartbeat more. Kill me and be done with it, she thought.

Cadell jerked forward, and then he was rising. Lifted up from behind, David’s hands around his neck, the Verger's knife jutting from the Old Man's chest.

“Husk,” David said, in a quiet voice that became a growl. “Husk, you are as NOTHING to me!”

David squeezed, and Cadell shook, eyes bulging. He thrashed in David’s grip, but David didn’t let go. The muscles in his arms flexed with a strength that Margaret could only wonder at. He squeezed and squeezed, and finally Cadell stilled.

David threw the body at the ground, and kicked it. Bones cracked. He kicked it again and again, mumbling something under his breath.

He turned to Margaret. “Are you all right?”

Margaret nodded.

“Good,” he said, and he didn’t look all right. He looked like he was crying. “We need to end this. Now.”

THE CITY OF HARDACRE 964 MILES NORTH OF THE ROIL

David looked down at the corpse of Cadell. It shuddered at his boots, so he kicked it again. I did it, he thought. I managed it. But it’s not over yet. And already he could feel the exhaustion pulling at him, felt sick with it.

There was a break in the clouds and the moons shone down, and just to their left glowed the Stars of Mourning: those symbols of sin and forgiveness. That sight steadied him somewhat; reminded him, too, that the corpse was on the street for any passerby to see.

“We will need to cut the… body up,” he said, looking to Margaret. “Burn the pieces, and we need to hurry.” He tried to sound calm, more in control than he felt.

Margaret was already unsheathing her rime blade, her rifle at her feet. “No, that’s not going to work.”

David walked back through the broken window of the butchery. The blades weren’t too hard to find.

“This is much better,” he said. Thank the Engine for what little Carnival remained in his veins — and there was not nearly enough of it. His hands didn’t even shake, and they would, yes, they would. He’d killed what was left of the man who had saved and made him what he was. David wanted to cry out with joy, he wanted to punch the wall with his fist. He wanted to eat, suddenly that was all he wanted, and there was meat here, in the cold room.

Yes, he needed that. Now.

He yanked the iron door open, breaking the lock in the process. Inside he dragged free the least frozen leg of lamb and bit down on it. It was tough work, but he managed it, you just needed to get the angle right, chew with rather than against the grain of the meat. A few bites, then a few bites more. Part of him wondered what it would be like if the blood was still warm.

He heard Margaret calling his name. Of course, how could he be so forgetful?