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 forceat 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 more, 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.
