The Return of Daud Read online

  Then three men lunged forward. Daud waited until they were in striking distance, then feinted for the one on his left, the man ducking back in reflex then swinging his blackjack, before realizing Daud was out of range, having pushed off with his left leg, darting instead to target the thug in the middle. Forearm horizontal, elbow braced, Daud’s arm collided with the man’s throat, crushing his larynx. The gangster staggered and swung, but the attack was weak; Daud parried the soft blow easily with his still-raised forearm, then slammed his boot into the man’s thigh. There was a crack and the thug sagged forward, head down, presenting the back of his neck to Daud. Daud didn’t waste the opportunity and slammed down on the back of the man’s skull with both hands. Vertebrae crunched and the thug dropped, his chin met by Daud’s swiftly rising knee. Teeth went flying as Daud sidestepped, letting the gangster’s body drop to the road.

  Two tree-trunk arms wrapped around his torso, pinning his arms to his sides. The man hissed in Daud’s ear, his breath hot and smelling of sour onions.

  He couldn’t see his attacker, but the man was big. The gangster reared up, lifting Daud clean off his feet, as two more men lunged in to join the fray. Daud lifted his legs and kicked out, his boots connecting with their faces, sending them staggering backward. The gangster holding him roared in his ear and squeezed as he adjusted his footing for better balance.

  Daud used this to his advantage, rocking his upper body forward just as the gangster thought he was stable. The sudden shift in Daud’s center of gravity caused the man to tilt forward, his grip loosening. As Daud’s feet touched the ground, he winged his arms out, breaking the gangster’s grip. He ducked left and then right as he dodged two swinging blackjacks, before weaving in the opposite direction to deliver nose-breaking punches with the heels of his hands, left then right.

  There was a bang, and Daud felt the trailing hood of his jerkin puff out, pulling sharply on his neck. Daud glanced to his right and saw smoke rising from a pistol. Someone was obviously keen to bring the fight to a conclusion before more of the gang were taken out. The shooter paused to check her aim, sighting down the barrel with one eye closed.

  Daud dropped as the pistol fired again, the shot safely wide. Daud ducked down and darted forward before pushing himself up and throwing himself at the shooter. He caught the woman’s wrists, flinging her arms high and sending the gun spinning into the air. The woman fell and hit the cobbles on her back, while Daud directed all the force of his own landing into the woman’s chest, slamming his knees into her body with a satisfying crunch. The gangster’s mouth flew open and her eyes bulged as something broke inside her. Daud quickly rolled off, easily escaping the woman’s flailing hands.

  On his feet, Daud spun around ready for the next attacker. There were bodies on the ground, but there were a great deal more still standing—and now they were angry. Back over at the Suicide Hall, Jack was shouting orders Daud couldn’t quite make out.

  The Sixways Gang surged forward as one, their sport forgotten. They were now operating as a pack, and were going to take him down by sheer brute force and overwhelming numbers.

  Daud felt the Mark of the Outsider flare on his hand. After so many years of refusing to call on the power, the rush he now got from it almost overwhelmed his thoughts. He shook his head, trying to clear it. The Mark gave him power, but if he couldn’t focus it, that power would become a liability.

  The Sixways Gang charged, blackjacks and knives held high, roaring a battle cry. Daud braced himself, ready to absorb what hits he could, ready to use the strength of the gang against them. And he succeeded, ducking and weaving and diving, following through with his own punches and kicks, each carefully aimed, despite the chaos, to cause maximum damage.

  At first, anyway.

  There were too many of them, coming too quickly. He mistimed a punch, threw his body off balance, and a blackjack connected with his shoulder, sending him tumbling. He went with the movement, ignoring the pain, ready to spin back around and catch the attacker unaware from his opposite side, but suddenly there was no room. The gang crowded close, forming a scrum that surrounded Daud, forcing him to curl into himself, even the light of the day dimming as the gangsters yelled and screamed and, too close to use their weapons, began to tear him apart with their bare hands.

  Daud held his breath and clenched his fists.

  Enough. Enough.

  The Mark of the Outsider flared into life on the back of his left hand and he was ready to unleash the full power at his disposal, when a sudden hush descended on the group. The crush eased as the gangsters backed off.

  Daud looked around, getting his bearings. He was in the middle of the Sixways itself. The Suicide Hall was behind him. Dead ahead was the end of Wyrmwood Way, the street that led back into Dunwall proper. Between him and escape stood the barman. The giant of a man moved forward, limping on his injured leg, his lip curled, gold teeth shining. The rest of the gang moved to give him some room.

  The power of the Void flooded through Daud, making him feel light, alive, dangerous.

  That was when he heard it.

  Metal on stone, rhythmic, heavy.

  Getting louder. Getting closer.

  The others heard it now. Feet shuffled as the gang turned toward Wyrmwood Way.

  The barman stayed just where he was, staring at Daud.

  A gasp went around, and everyone moved back toward the Suicide Hall.

  The machine was bipedal, a skeletal structure of metal and wood that towered over the heads of even the tallest members of the Sixways Gang. The thing’s head was a carved wooden beak, long and pointed like the skull of a mythical giant bird. The chest was boxy and compact, comprised mostly of a large geared wheel on the left, and three glass cylinders on the right, rising in an arc out of a machined metal cover. There were four arms, long and hinged, angled up and out like the legs of a spider sitting at the center of its web. The upper portions of each were short, encased in amber-colored wood, but from the elbow down they were nothing but steel blades, so long their wickedly sharp tips could easily skim the cobbles some six or more feet from the articulated shoulder joints.

  Daud had never seen anything like it, and gauging by the reaction of the Sixways, neither had they. The technology was amazing, breathtaking.

  Deadly.

  It walked into the Sixways and stopped, its whole structure vibrating as it lifted its great arms high over its beak-like head. Over the scuffing of the gang’s boots on the cobbles, Daud could hear a faint ticking sound. The gear wheel in the machine’s chest spun and the glass bulbs glowed. Daud saw the air shimmer over the joints at the shoulders and the waist as though there was another force at work, in addition to the clockwork, holding the whole construction together.

  Daud looked at the barman, who finally turned around to see what had arrived in the Sixways.

  “What in the name of the—”

  He never finished his question. Almost as soon as he had opened his mouth, the clockwork soldier sprang into life, moving forward and rubbing its blade-arms together like a chef sharpening his knives.

  “Combat protocol four. Combat protocol four,” came the tinny voice from somewhere inside the machine’s boxy torso. “Civilian profile but hostile. Entering combat state.”

  The barman drew breath to speak again—and then it was over, his head severed from his body by the scissor-like action of two of the clockwork soldier’s blades, snapping together with perfect precision, shearing through flesh and bone in an instant.

  Arterial blood, scarlet and hot, was pumped high into the air. The barman’s body dropped to its knees, then forward onto its chest. His head bounced on the cobbles and came to rest by Daud’s boot. He looked down at the grimacing dead face of the gangster.

  The games were over. Daud was no longer the concern. As one, the gang turned and watched, stunned into a terrified silence, as the machine creature stood, blade-arms twitching, gear wheel spinning.

  The machine raised its arms into the air once mo
re, the sun reflecting off the four polished blades.

  Whatever it was, whoever had built it, its function was clear.

  It was a killing machine, pure and simple. And it was here to make sure nobody got out of Wyrmwood Way alive.

  8

  THE SIXWAYS, WYRMWOOD DISTRICT, DUNWALL

  18th Day, Month of Earth, 1852

  “Dear readers, you will be fascinated to know that earlier models of the Clockwork Soldier had human-like faces! Allow me to explain. As you know from Chapters 18 through 22, I had been testing the Clockwork Soldiers against a wide range of enemies. Early in this process a problem emerged. The would-be thieves and assailants were not intimidated by the delicate ceramic faces of the earlier prototypes. One criminal even believed he recognized an uncle and attempted conversation!

  Undeterred, I set about redesigning the head mechanism, encasing it with a terrifying visage! I knew I had found the right design when my first test subject fell to their knees in fear.”

  —THE ASTOUNDING CLOCKWORK SOLDIERS

  A Precise History by the Creator Himself, Kirin Jindosh, Grand Serkonan Inventor (Chapter 23)

  In almost perfect unison, the Sixways Gang pulled their guns out and opened fire at the clockwork soldier. Daud ducked down and dived sideways, just in time, as the fusillade sparked against the chassis of the machine creature, sending bullets and shrapnel everywhere. The clockwork soldier shook under the attack, its casing remarkably resilient, but not indestructible. The amber-wood panels began to chip and there were blackened marks on the metal parts of the machine as bullet after bullet found its mark.

  But the machine was too strong and the gang’s ammunition was limited. In just a few moments the gunfire began to quieten, then stopped entirely.

  The machine shuddered but did not move. The big gear wheel continued to turn, and the bulbs on the chest flickered in sequence, like the machine was plotting a response to the attack.

  Whatever it was, Daud knew the gangsters didn’t stand a chance. Ducking under the low-hanging eaves of a building, he looked over his shoulder, searching for Eat ’Em Up Jack. She had retreated back toward the Suicide Hall’s doors, and was staring at the monstrous machine.

  The gang began to reorganize, casting aside their empty guns and switching to the blackjacks, perhaps hopeful the partially exposed, seemingly delicate mechanisms of the machine creature would succumb to a brute force attack.

  The clockwork solider jerked into life, stepping toward the gang. Daud could only watch as the horror unfolded before him.

  The first two died quickly, impaled through the stomach on a blade-arm each, their bodies then lifted clear of the cobbled street and tossed to one side without any apparent effort. With the machine’s beak-head turned away, two others moved in to attack what appeared to be an opening on the other side, but the first lost his arm nearly at the shoulder and the second had her forehead cleaved as the machine, clearly able to see directly behind it, swept its other arms around to defend its flank.

  The rest of the gang hesitated—Daud gave them that much credit, at least—as the machine pivoted at a perfect ninety degrees and walked toward them at a measured pace. Its thin, articulated legs neatly stepped over the blood-soaked bodies on the street.

  Daud ran through his options. That the Sixways were dead was a given—the machine must have been brought by the Duke of Serkonos to help with the coup, an unstoppable force to wipe out any and all opposition. There would be more of the things, too—this one had just been sent in to deal with Wyrmwood Way.

  None of it mattered. He needed to complete his mission.

  To do that, he needed to live—he needed to get out, now.

  But he also still needed to know where the Twin-bladed Knife was. And there was still someone here who might have the information he needed.

  He looked up at Eat ’Em Up Jack. The young woman was back at the top of the stairs, calling to her gang, but Daud could see the fear and uncertainty that was now clouding her expression.

  Daud gritted his teeth as he felt the power flow through him. He reached forward and pulled himself across the Void, reappearing at the top of the stairs beside her. Jack took a single step back in surprise, then growled and reached into the top pocket of her tunic. From the concealed sheath, she drew a knife with a blade that was long and square, more like a spike. She flipped the stiletto around in her grip, placing her thumb on the pommel, ready to fight.

  Daud held out his hand. “I can get us out of here.”

  She just stared at his hand and frowned, her brow slick with a cold sweat.

  Out in the Sixways, just twenty yards away, the clockwork soldier continued its rampage, dismembering anyone within range of its killing arms. The heavy cobblestones of the intersection were running thick with blood, but the gang was clearly not about to give up. Even from this distance, Daud could see the fire in their eyes. It was the same kind of intensity, the same kind of focus he’d seen in the Whalers, back in the day. The Sixways were strong, skilled fighters, a family who had each other’s backs—loyal to the very last.

  Loyal to their leader, Eat ’Em Up Jack, they were protecting her. But it wasn’t enough. The machine was making quick work of the gang, and it was getting steadily closer.

  Daud turned to Jack. He reached out for her, but she pulled away.

  “We’re getting out of here, now!”

  She looked at him and snarled. “No! I’m Eat ’Em Up Jack. I’m the leader of the Sixways Gang. I stay with them and I die with them.”

  Daud turned back to the fight. It was getting closer—and it was weakening, but not enough.

  Could he finish the job? Save the gang—save Jack—and still get the information he needed? It was a mercenary thought, but Daud had no time for anything else.

  It was do, or die.

  He just needed a weapon.

  Daud turned, his gloved hand snatching at Jack’s. She swore and swung with the stiletto, but Daud was faster. He grabbed her wrist and twisted, forcing her to loosen her grip. Then he slid his hand up and tore the knife away from her.

  A stiletto was not Daud’s favorite choice of blade, but it was better than nothing. He moved to the top of the steps and reached forward.

  In the blink of an eye he had crossed the Sixways, appearing behind the clockwork soldier. Before the machine could react, he stepped up onto the crook of the thing’s knee and lifted himself onto its back. The torso was covered with amber-wood plates, but the complex mechanisms underneath were within range of his blade.

  The mechanical creature spun around, momentarily unable to determine where this new attacker was. The blade-arms flailed, snapping back and forth, but Daud, his head ducked down, remained out of reach. He clung on, ignoring the machine as it announced a new string of protocols, and peered between the plates on the thing’s back.

  This close, the machine’s heart looked so delicate and fragile—the narrow stiletto was the ideal weapon. Ignoring the large spinning gear wheel that was sure to snap the small blade in an instant, Daud slid the knife under the lip of an amber-wood plate and used it as a lever. He pushed the stiletto up to get a better angle, then plunged it downwards.

  There was a spark, and the hot smell of oil, but if he had managed to inflict any damage, the clockwork soldier didn’t show any ill effects. It whirled again, having now realized its attacker was clinging to its back. Servos whirred as the machine pivoted violently at the waist, trying to dislodge him. The surviving members of the Sixways Gang dodged out of range of the long bladed arms as the clockwork soldier jerked and staggered around in a small circle, fighting to get Daud off.

  Daud’s grip slipped, momentarily. He needed a new plan—the internal mechanisms of the creature seemed to be just as tough as its exterior framework, and with the machine determined to get rid of him, he knew he would be thrown off any moment.

  Then the machine pushed its torso forward, bending sharply at the waist. Surprised, Daud slid up its back, until he was forced to loo
p an arm around the clockwork soldier’s neck just to stay on. Then the machine straightened, Daud’s legs flying out behind as he struggled for purchase.

  He felt the sharp sting as his leg was glanced by an oblique sweep of one of the blade-arms. Daud hauled himself up the machine’s back, straddling the shoulders, the back of the carved wooden head pressed against his chest.

  He was in a vulnerable position. There was little to hold onto, and he was exposed to the four swirling blades.

  The head was large, from the tip of the beak to the base of the skull-like shell almost as long as Daud’s arm—but the neck mechanism on which it sat seemed ridiculously slender, no more than a spinal rod and three piston-like struts with universal joints, allowing full freedom of movement. Daud rammed the stiletto into the machine’s neck, sliding the blade between one of the struts and the central column rod until the hilt stopped any further progress. Then, grabbing the small handle with both hands, he pushed the weapon sideways. Something was going to give—either the machine’s neck, or the knife.

  He needn’t have worried. The stiletto was a fine piece of metalwork, and one of the clockwork soldier’s neck supports snapped cleanly, breaking like a twig. The thing’s head lolled and the machine’s blade-arms fell as its whole body listed to one side for a moment. With the struts on the other side of the neck now presented to him, Daud jammed the knife home again, shoving it with the heel of both hands, and broke both universal joints on the support rod. The rod came out entirely and dropped to the cobbles with a clatter.

  The machine made a sound like the brakes failing on a rail carriage and it reared up again, another attempt to rid itself of its attacker. Daud shifted up so his knees were on the machine’s shoulders, locked his fingers underneath the thing’s beak and yanked upwards.

  With a spray of sparks, the creature’s head came off in his hands and Daud fell backward, bracing himself as he hit the cobbles.

  Neck sparking, the machine tottered on its thin legs, its arms swinging, the sharp tips of its blades gouging the cobbles, throwing up hot orange sparks.