Devon Monk - Dead Iron

“That’s good, now,” Bryn Madder said. “Sit back and hold on to your bonnet.”

Mae sat. Then she lifted her feet. The sling shot forward at a remarkable speed. She held tight to the ropes, surprised at how smoothly the wheel device above drove down the rails.

Other than the occasional crate or sack stacked along the wall, Mae had no good handle on distance, but knew she must have gone far enough that she heard the twang of another sling being shot behind her. She twisted to see who it was, but in the darkness and shadows thrown against the walls and ceiling, she couldn’t make out much.

With no horizon, sun, or moon, she couldn’t say which direction she was going, but knew the corner must be just ahead. She tucked her feet, just as the lantern slapped light across a wall dead ahead of her.

The sling rocked up to the right, sending Mae’s feet precariously close to the wall before sliding down the left curve of the tunnel. Mae suddenly worried how she was supposed to stop the sling. She didn’t see a brake line or any other slowing device.

Then the ground, the entire tunnel, shook. At first, just a tremble. She wondered if it was her imagination. Then the shaking grew stronger and stronger. Something huge, something heavy, moved above them.

“That’s a matic,” Alun Madder called from somewhere down the tunnel ahead of her. “And Shard LeFel. Hurry. Hurry!”

Mae didn’t know how she could hurry any more. The tunnel walls rushed past at a dizzying pace. It felt as if the track would never end.

Rocks pelted down in dusty plumes, battering her shoulders and legs. The ceiling shook rocks and clods of dirt like a rusted sieve. It was hard to see through all the dust kicked up. Hard to breathe. For a brief, wild moment, she wondered if she should jump.

And then the tunnel exploded. The force of the concussion knocked Mae off her sling and tumbled her to the ground. Rock and dirt collapsed and filled the tunnel ahead with rubble, cutting off their route.

A huge metal hand reached down into the hole that had been punched through the tunnel ceiling. No—not a hand. It was a steam hammer, five metal pistons pounding down like great metal fingers, each attached by rods and tubes and wheels to a hunk of metal—the matic’s arm—somewhere above the ceiling.

“Back!” Alun Madder was on his feet. He threw off the sling and ran. “Turn around!”

Mae spun, a thick cloud of dirt and stone sucking all the air out of the tunnel. Rose, Cadoc, and Bryn had all been knocked out of their slings too. Bryn Madder and Rose were both running behind Alun Madder, but Cadoc stood there, calm as a prophet watching the doom come calling, while Mae ran past him.

“LeFel,” he said.

“Run, run!” Rose Small pushed past Bryn, pushed past Alun.

The floor lifted, held there for what felt like an eternity, then fell. Hard.

Rose Small, ahead of them, lifted, fell. Mae was battered to the ground. She landed on her hands and knees as all the world broke apart. A five-fingered wall of iron sheered the sky from the earth.

There was too much noise: the thunderous pounding of iron and steam, the pulverizing of rock and dirt, the Madder brothers cursing up a blue streak.

And Rose Small, screaming.

Mae scrabbled up out of the dirt that threatened to bury her, swimming free, digging free, up and up toward air. She broke out just as the Madder brothers pulled up through the hole where the ceiling had been.

“Rose, Rose!” Mae called. She blinked away the light—too much moonlight and firelight after the soft underground lanterns. And finally her vision fell to focus.

Rose Small stood in front of the giant matic that was nearly as tall as a house. The hammer contraption that had busted apart the tunnel was retracting slowly, folding like an elbow alongside the main body of the device.

High above, perched in the matic on his throne, was Mr. Shard LeFel, his gloved fingertips holding brass levers as if they were reins. Mr. Shunt, too tall, too thin, a shadow with bloody eyes, stood in front of the matic, pressing a knife to Rose Small’s throat.

“Give me the witch,” Shard LeFel said, his voice carrying over the chug and hiss of the matic’s engine, “or Mr. Shunt will rip this girl apart.”

Cedar fought instinct that told him to run, far from the flames, from the mob, from the matic that rumbled over the ground toward Mae Lindson’s house.

But where there was a matic, Mr. Shard LeFel would not be far behind, and neither would Mr. Shunt.

Cedar intended to put a final end to that monster.

He paused in the stand of trees, watching the mob. There were too many people, too many guns, too many torches, between him and the matic. He growled, low and unheard over the heat of the fire, the heat of the men shouting. The tuning fork against his chest rang out with a single sour note even though he stood perfectly still. The Strange who had taken Elbert was near. Near enough to kill.

Inside that matic was his foe, his enemy, his prey. Two beating hearts waiting to be ripped free of the sinew that held them, two spines to break, two skulls to crush. Mr. Shunt, and Mr. Shard LeFel.

Cedar crept low and growled softly again. The mob swarmed closer to the house, yelling. His ears pricked up. Faintly over the yelling of the crowd, he heard the back door slam shut.

Mae. Mae trying to run free. Mae trying to escape. His heart beat faster as the thoughts of a man overrode the beast’s need to kill. Mae had been in that house. He’d told her to stay until he returned. They would trap her. Kill her.

A blaze of flame shot up the side of the house, wood catching fire beneath torches and quickly turning into an inferno.

Cedar Hunt rushed silently through the cover of underbrush, the cover of shadow, the tuning fork screaming a bitter song.

Mae couldn’t die. He couldn’t let her die. Couldn’t bear her death. He ran a wide berth to get behind the house to the door he had heard slam. The wind heaved with smoke, fouling Cedar’s sense of smell.

She couldn’t survive that fire. He’d told her to stay. She would be burned alive.

Wolf instinct yelled: Run. Every nerve pumped hot with panic, powering his muscles to bunch and push. Faster. Faster.

Cedar pressed his ears down against his head and bared his teeth as he ran across the field. The wound in his side split open, poured with new pain. Almost there. Almost there to save Mae.

The heat from the fire grew stronger and stronger with every step he took. The light ruined his vision.

He leaped through the open back door and into a blistering hell.

Fire roared, chewing away the walls, snapping the wooden whimsies, burning them to ash, destroying the chairs, the floor, the walls, the ceiling, with white-hot liquid heat. Cedar crouched, eyes slit, and pushed into the living room. Searching for Mae.

Smoke burned his eyes; embers singed his fur. His skin charred. He could not find her. Could not find Mae.

There might be a nook or corner where she hid, but there was too much fire. He could not endure.

Run, run, run, the beast howled.

And Cedar Hunt could not hold against that instinct any longer.

He ran from the house. Out into the night. Ran until his lungs filled with air instead of smoke. Ran until the cool winds cleaned his eyes and soothed his flesh.

He had to believe Mae had found her way out. He had to believe she had left the house earlier in the day; had to believe she had tired of waiting for him and gone hunting. Had to believe that the door slamming was just a trick of the wind.

But he didn’t. Not in these lands where nightmares spread roots and sucked away all hope, all life.