rigid snake into the heather that covered part of the hillside.
'It looks like the drinks are on me,' Nate breathed shakily. 'See the size of that? It's a foot wide if it's an inch.'
'I told you it was big,' Gerald said, nodding. 'I've wanted to catch sight of this creature ever since Clancy used to scare us to bed with those stories of his. All these years, and nobody's managed to trap it.'
He gazed expectantly at Nathaniel, his blue eyes, flushed cheeks and damp black hair making his unhealthily pale face seem as if it were glowing.
'But you handled bigger things than this in Africa, right? You haven't steered me wrong, have you? We can still go home and get more men.'
'And have a bunch of bog-trotters traipsing around, making enough noise to wake the dead?' Nate snorted. 'That's exactly why nobody's caught the thing. No, we can handle it.'
But looking at that track, he was beginning to have second thoughts. After finishing school he had decided to defer his place at university in favour of travelling. While some of his friends had gone off on jaunts to London, Paris or even New York, Nate had wandered further afield. His family had made part of its vast fortune capturing and selling engimals, and he wanted to see how it was done. And the biggest, most dangerous engimals were to be found in Africa.
The family employed the services of the famous American hunter and trapper, Peregrine Herne, and Nate had defied his father, using the family's connections to get a place on an expedition to the Congo. He had spent over a year travelling with Herne across the Dark Continent, studying the various species through books and observation in the wild and, of course, joining in the hunts.
He had thought that after helping trap berserkers and behemoths, he would be well able to handle whatever minor predator Glenmalure had to offer. Now, without Herne's practical wisdom and the teams of wily black guides, Nathaniel was beginning to feel out of his depth.
'They say there's not a horse in Ireland that can outpace it,' Gerald said over his shoulder. 'And it's particularly partial to crushing people against tree trunks. So, are we going, or what?'
'We're going,' Nate retorted. 'I'm going to need a lamp to follow this. The heather's thick.'
He had a small oil lamp in his bag, with a red lens and a metal hood over the glass to allow only a sliver of light to show. Lighting it, he followed the track carefully through the bent heather. The hill grew steep, and he could feel the burn in the muscles above his knees and in the backs of his calves as he climbed. Behind him, Gerald's breathing became shorter and more strained.
'You sound a bit pursy,' he hissed to his friend. 'You should walk more. This is an easy trek. You wouldn't last a day on the trail in Africa. You're breathing like a steam engine.'
'Funny then that you're the one blowing all the hot air,' came the caustic reply.
The trail wound through some thigh-high growth, and crested a ridge. There were some sparse, stunted trees dotting the hillside, sucking a living out of the marshy soil. Nate and Gerald were peering into the fog, trying to make any kind of sense out of the blurred grey, when they heard the low rumble of a growl far off to their right.
'Did you hear that?' Gerald gasped.
Nate held up his hand for him to be quiet. There came another growl. The fog made it impossible to gauge the direction properly, but it was close enough to set their hair on end.
'This will do, right here,' Nate whispered, beckoning his cousin into a stand of heather at the base of a fir tree. They crouched down in the soft, rough foliage, and Gerald gratefully propped the shotgun up against the tree trunk.
'If we can hear it, it can hear us,' Nate added. 'That's all I need. Hand me your bag.'
Gerald shrugged off the backpack and handed it over. Nate pulled out a wooden cube no larger than a shoebox, and then another object, covered in cloth. Unwrapping it, he revealed a funnel-shaped piece of metal, much like the end of a trumpet, with a bend at the narrow end.
'A music box? What, you're going to play it a tune?' Gerald smirked. 'I think you spent too much time with those bloody snake-charmers.'
'Watch and learn,' Nathaniel replied as he fitted the narrow end of the horn into the top of the sandalwood box. He inserted a small handle into the side of the music box and started to crank it round. Gerald looked on in fascination, his curiosity winning over his sarcasm.
'Most of the larger, lone engimals are territorial,' Nate explained quietly as he finished winding up the box. 'They don't take kindly to challengers. The Boers use these things as decoys.'
There was another mumbling growl, low and menacing. In the grey, cloudy air it was hard to tell how close it was, or in what direction. Gerald took his small hip flask from his jacket pocket and took a swig of brandy. His fingers were shaking as tried to screw the top back on.
Nathaniel took off the gold rings he wore on each of his middle fingers.
'I would have thought you'd need those,' Gerald muttered. 'You're going to need all the health you can get.'
'I saw a man tackle a berserker on the Cape,' Nate replied. 'His ring caught on its carapace; it pulled his finger off.'
'Ah, right. Well, give them here, so.'
Nate handed over his rings and dragged a large coil of rope from Gerald's bag, pulling one end free. It had a loop tied into it, not unlike a hangman's noose.
'You're going to hang it now?' Gerald shook his head in puzzlement. 'Or is that for you, in case you should fail? You can take this whole 'honour' thing a bit far, you know-'
'It's a lasso,' Nate told him. 'The ranchers use it to catch cattle and horses in America. Herne taught me how to use it.'
'Nate' – Gerald frowned, looking serious now – 'you can't catch this thing with a bloody
'Quiet!' Nate was peering into the fog. There was the sound of movement nearby. 'It's closer than I thought. Stay put. Don't make a sound… And don't bloody shoot anything.'
Gerald swore under his breath, fervently wishing he'd never proposed this stupid idea. Shifting the coiled rope onto his shoulder, Nate picked up the box and crept out into the open. He carefully placed the box down in the damp grass and then pulled out the handle. Instead of music, a metallic chugging sound erupted from the horn, the sudden noise harsh in the muffled silence of the fog. Nate sprinted to a nearby Scots pine, dropping the rope onto the ground, making sure that the looped end was free. Wrapping the other end several times around the stout trunk of the tree, he tied it off and sank down into the heather to wait.
He had hoped for more time to prepare, but the beast had obviously heard them. Damn Gerald and his prattle. The box's noise made it hard to hear the sounds of the creature's approach, but Nate knew it was coming. It would not come stealthily, not with such a blatant challenge to its territory.
And then he heard it: a deep throbbing, rising to a rasping roar. Two pinpricks of light appeared through the fog, growing steadily as they rushed towards him. The creature roared again, and its eyes blazed, the mist igniting with a white glow around it. He could hear the sound of its passage through the undergrowth now, as it crushed the heather beneath its wheels. And then it charged out of the fog towards him, its engine bellowing.
It was the biggest, most savage velocycle Nate had ever seen.
He lay frozen for a second, terrified. For that instant his nerve failed him, and all he could do was look. Its wheels must have been more than two feet in diameter, its body nearly half that again in width at the cowl. The silvery metal and black ceramic of its torso bulged with power, veined with jagged, angry markings of gold and red. It stood four feet tall at the shoulder, and must have been nearly eight feet long from nose to rump. Its cowl and horns were painted with the dried, rusty-brown blood of its most recent victims. It had raced across the clearing and screamed past him before he had time to flinch. A magnificent beast. Nate closed his eyes and let out a shuddering breath. He was a fool. He should have brought more men.
But the wet tearing of soil as the velocycle skidded into a turn told him he had seconds before it came back. There was still a chance that he could defeat it. It would be confused. The decoy gave the impression of a large, aggressive engimal, and the velocycle would have been expecting to be met by a rival. It probably hadn't even seen the box. The next charge would be slower, less confident.
It didn't roar this time, rushing through the grass as if hunting for prey. Its lights were hooded as it came into
