INK FOR BLOOD

CHAPTER ONE: THE CLEANSING

By Kevin Weir

For a hundred years, the Great Machine sat upon the coast. Eight insectoid legs in the earth and sea, eight tentacles waving to the heavens. An angel of old, as the church decreed. For the people of Wrotdam and the surrounding countryside, it loomed ever-present on the horizon. Just as it did on a cool December morning while the sun hid behind a thick layer of grey clouds.

Frost glowed on the windows from the lamplight inside. Autocars rumbled along the cobblestone, pushing the old horse and cart off to the edges. The day was predicted to be unseasonably warm. Children formed humanoid shapes out of the vanishing mounds of snow. The markets were bustling, from the lower ward to the upper, as Wrodamites prepared for the New Year’s Eve celebrations that night.

A cascade of bells disrupted the peace. They started in the Mechanical Cathedral high above the merchant’s district and moved through the city. The tune was sonorous and unique. The Alabaster Bell signalling the beginning of the Cleansing.

By the time the chime of the Alabaster Bell reached the Sawbones Barracks, it was already alive in a flurry of motion. An old stone building in Chasmdrop, a district of the lower ward that bordered the gorge splitting Wrotdam in half, it was the first building built when Wrotdam expanded. Originally a hospital, but only for a year, it found better use as a home and training facility for those who killed monsters — and the people who would become them.

Edwin Zhen entered the barracks. He was ready for the hunt, with his branderbuss on his hip and his twin boltblades in an inverted sheath under his signature green jacket. He brushed some dust off the patches and stitches that held the old leather piece together and gave a nod to the young sawbones as they rushed past. He had a sly demeanour to him, holding himself firm with assuredness and intense, dark eyes. Rig met him in the front hall, beard still wet from a bath. He stood bare-chested, an impressive display of human strength.

“I thought you were moving out of the barracks,” Edwin said.

“Why?” Rig headed down the hallway to the living quarters.

Edwin followed. “Because you told me you hate this place. Everyone’s drunk, fighting, or fucking, your words. Could be good for you, too. There are some nice flats in Copper Street, I’m not saying you have to buy a house.”

They passed the central courtyard, filled with straw training dummies torn to shreds and a fighting ring. Training swords had been dropped without care once the bells started ringing.

“No one wants to room with a sawbones,” Rig said.

“Not everyone hates us.”

“No, they’re afraid of us. For good reason.” He used a towel to dry off his bald head and tossed it into a hamper. “Who kills the inkbloods before they turn?”

A few sawbones ran past as Edwin and Rig entered a room built for six people. The personal racks were all empty, save one that had a long coat, a branderbuss, and Rig’s personal weapon, a large riotsaw. A single-sided chainsaw with two rows of teeth — about as subtle as Rig himself.

“You underestimate people,” Edwin said, leaning against the wall. “A lot of them understand we help.”

“A necessary evil, as the church would say.” Rig tossed on a shirt and checked his branderbuss. The barrel had been charred black and, despite the size, the long firearm was surprisingly light. “Not all of us can be hopeful like you. And not all of us can get married and have kids.”

“I know. I’m not going to claim I’m not lucky, but you’ll find a gent who accepts you and all your grumpy ways. People don’t survive long being an island. Not in our line of work.”

“Everyone dies alone, Edwin.” Rig swung on his coat and grabbed his riotsaw, hefting the monstrosity onto his shoulder. “If I survive this Cleansing, maybe you can talk to me like your kid. Until then, let’s go kill some monsters.”

“You could try to be more enthusiastic. Some people think we’re heroes during the Cleansing.” Edwin jabbed Rig in the ribs. “And it’s not every day you get to be a hero.”

Rig gave Edwin a dull look. He put on his hat, pulled up his mask, and stormed past, bumping Edwin’s shoulder with his own. There was no talking to Rig if he didn’t want to. Edwin gritted his teeth and left to join Rig outside the barracks. Every sawbones that wasn’t on away missions, about two dozen, gathered in the training yard, waiting for Commander Stringer to give them their orders. She stood on a carriage bench, a battle-hardened woman with a smug demeanour and an old regiment coat.

“We need to get started quickly,” she said. “So keep those lips shut while you get your assignments. Surprisingly, the leeches are actually going to pull their weight and rout out the infections in the upper ward. Our focus is going to be on the south side of the lower. Forest Reach, Copper Street, and Ogfen are all within the infected area, but it’s spreading fast. Yusuf, Alvar, and Gwendolyn, clear out Forest Reach.”

Three sawbones ran off. Stringer read other orders, sending out sawbones across Wrotdam to bring fire to infected areas, ensure the Mire did not spread, and patrol the streets for outbreaks. When the Cleansing was called, nothing was held back.

“Edwin, Rig, and Hitomi,” Stringer said. “Franz is already in Copper Street. Get there.”

A wild-haired woman leaned back from the crowd, catching Edwin’s eye. Hitomi waved to him and pointed at the gate. She swung her wave cannon — a mechanism the size of her torso — onto her back as she left.

Edwin clapped Rig on the shoulder. “You should look for a place while we’re over there.”

Rig groaned. They left the courtyard and joined Hitomi as she pulled up the autocar. It was a dark grey metal streamlined ride with two bench seats and a trunk Hitomi popped open.

“We’re driving?” Edwin asked, leaning on the driver’s door. “We can walk to Copper Street.”

“It’s not for getting there,” Hitomi said. “It’s for getting away.”

“You’re crazy,” Rig said.

Hitomi pointed at him with a grimace. “You’re mean.”

“He means paranoid.” Edwin walked around the autocar and got into the passenger seat.

“Paranoid isn’t better, Edwin,” Hitomi said. “Paranoid is crazy. I’m not crazy. Kemper was crazy and a leech burned his body up in Downing Park. I’m focused.

“Kemper was seeing amber, it was different.”

“Right.” She rolled her eyes. “Maybe we’re all crazy. This Cleansing is already feeling like a chaotic state of affairs, I heard people saying the Mire’s acting off. A leech claimed he saw an inkblood walk right past a crowd of folks, grabbed a fruit seller right off his cart and tried to drag him into an alley. You tell me, since when does the Mire pick a target? Since when does it abduct people?”

“Since when do you listen to rumours from leeches?” Edwin rested his cheek on his hand. “What leech was this?”

“I don’t know. Caleb heard it from Julia who overheard the leech talking to an alchemist.” She tapped her hands against the steering wheel in frustration. “All I’m saying is if today goes bad, I’m done. I’m driving back to Osaka.”

Rig put his riotsaw in the trunk, next to Hitomi’s wave cannon, and used some rope to tie it shut despite the two massive weapons. When he entered the backseat, the autocar sunk several centimetres with him and the trunk’s lid bounced against the rope. “What about the ocean?” he asked.

“I’ll swim.” Hitomi put the autocar in gear and drove toward Copper Street.

The cobblestone streets didn’t make for a comfortable ride in the autocar, it was still a new invention to the world. They bumped along abandoned roads, weaving between carriages and autocars left behind by the fleeing citizens. Horses whinnied as Hitomi tore past.

“When was the last Cleansing?” Edwin asked.

“Three years. 1895,” Hitomi said.

“That was the last one?” Edwin asked. The buildings whipped by. 1895 was forever ago. The Cleansing came on a rainy March night. Edwin was stuck for twelve hours in the pouring wet, fighting off a horde of sludges in a trainyard. It wasn’t a night to forget.

“You’ve been out of town or something?” Hitomi took a sharp right, heading south down Monti Road.

“Wales,” Rig said. “Right?”

“And Scotland,” Edwin said. It was that rainy night in 1895 when Edwin returned home to find his front door shattered on the stoop.

“How does the wife feel about that?” Hitomi asked.

A cold night. Front door shattered. Dina Zhen had thrown her body across Thomas and Fei, trying fruitlessly to protect them against the Mire. Their blood soaked through the wood floor of his bedroom. It spread to the carpet around the bed and stained it red. How could that only have been three years earlier?

“She doesn’t mind,” Edwin said.

They drove past many darkened buildings, lit only by sparse lavender candles. They would dissuade the Mire from entering, though couldn’t completely repel them. Their power seemed to be in hope — the person hiding behind them hoped that they worked.

“I heard it’s bad out there,” Rig said, shutting his eyes. He never liked autocar rides.

Edwin looked back at him. “It’s just beginning and people are already saying that? What? Is there a lot of it?”

“Mire’s more aggressive this Cleansing. It’s going to be a tough day. Or week.”

“Well.” Edwin shrugged. “If you’re going to complain, you could always just lay down and die.”

Rig huffed and opened his eyes. “I plan to die on my feet. The world is absolute shit, and you better believe I’m not going to kneel just because it wants me to. Never fall, not even in death.”

“You know,” Edwin rolled his head back, “there are people who don’t know you that would think you’re an optimist.”

It was dramatic, but it certainly motivated the recruits. No one became a sawbones because they wanted to. It was a life for the downtrodden, those who could put violent tendencies to work, and those who didn’t mind drinking raw Ink to keep fighting. But there was power in a defiant attitude like Rig’s. Edwin couldn’t lie, it motivated him as well.

Hitomi stopped at an intersection, leaving the autocar with one tire on the pavement. The sawbones stepped out. Rig grabbed the riotsaw and wave cannon from the trunk. He tossed the cannon to Hitomi as he gazed down each street.

“Franz!” he shouted. “Where are you?”

There was a bang from a few streets down. Edwin took off. He was faster than his companions and easily vaulted the alley fence as a shortcut. He slid onto a street splattered with black slime. In the middle of the road stood a sawbones wielding a tyrant hammer. A mass of black-grey ooze in a vaguely humanoid shape lunged toward Franz. He met the sludge with a wide swing. Upon contact, the strike plate pushed back and the tyrant hammer unleashed a fiery blast that tore the sludge apart.

Franz turned toward Edwin, covered in muck with smoke twisting out of the hammer’s exhaust. He pulled down his mask and squeezed the mess out of his striking blonde hair.

“Güten tag, Edwin,” Franz said in the thickest Prussian accent Edwin had ever heard. “I hope you have not come alone. The streets are alive today.”

Franz ejected the empty Ink canister from his tyrant hammer’s head. It was the size of a fist, much bigger than the inkwells that powered a branderbuss. He fumbled in his coat pockets and then pulled out a fresh canister. It took a few hard whacks to get it into place, the tyrant hammer was an old weapon, much like Rig’s riotsaw. Franz gave it a spin then rested it on his shoulder.

“Hitomi and Rig aren’t far behind,” Edwin said. He motioned to the mess. “You’ve been busy.”

“The Mire is fighting back. It’s already taken people’s hearts. I saw inkbloods go that way before I was distracted.”

Edwin winced. Sludges were one thing. An inkblood still looked human. Still bled like a human. “We’ll deal with them, Franz.”

Rig was first around the corner. He had saw and branderbuss in each hand, ready to fight. Hitomi wasn’t far behind, her hair done up in a lopsided bun with the wave cannon strapped to her right arm, holding it by a grip with a trigger. She took one look at the mess then flipped up her hood, pulled up her mask, and snapped on her tight-fitting goggles. No piece of Mire ever touched Hitomi.

“Come,” Franz said, turning down the road. “There is one of those nests.”

Hitomi fiddled with the wave cannon, turning dials to regulate Ink flow and pressure. With a strike from her palm, the piping filled with liquid fading from amber to blue as it approached the reservoir. Franz led them past an apartment, to an alley that went into a small courtyard between the buildings.

Strung up between the apartments hung a black and grey pulsating mass. Thick strands reinforced with bone and wood hung like spider webs and part of a clothing line went in one side and out the other. A nest that large should’ve taken hours to form. The Mire was working fast. A bulge grew on the bottom of the main section and dropped a new sludge onto the ground below. In total, three dozen sludges patrolled the courtyard.

“We should push them to the street,” Rig said, emotionless as always. “Hitomi can clear them out.”

Hitomi raised her wave cannon and gave it an appreciative tap. “I can clear them out right now.”

“No.” Rig placed his branderbuss over her cannon.

A sludge noticed the onlookers and cocked its facsimile of a head. Other sludges followed, turning toward the sawbones and lumbering forward. Half paid no mind, sitting catatonic beneath the nest.

“Rig’s right,” Edwin said, pulling up his mask. “You’ll hit the buildings. Might hurt the people inside. We’ll go through the middle and bait them to follow us. Once they’re grouped up, you can get them.”

“I’ll be waiting.” Hitomi ran back the way they came.

The encroaching sludges stretched their arms until bone blades grew out. Some dragged them along the ground, digging distinct gashes in the stone.

“I wasn’t thinking about her hitting the buildings,” Rig said, aiming his branderbuss at the sludges. “I was thinking about her being gentle and not hitting anything.”

“I know.” Edwin reached to his lower back, unclipped his boltblades, and let them slide into his hands. Rig was efficient, but cold. Edwin had known him long enough to understand it didn’t mean he was heartless, just that he didn’t always recognize how much something would affect him until it was right in front of him.

Franz struck first. He batted away the sludge’s swing with the hammer grip, then slammed the other side into its chest. The blast didn’t just destroy the sludge, it devastated the three others right behind it. Rig came in next, firing into the crowd with branderbuss shots. A charred sludge grew a bear trap of bones from its chest and snapped at him. Rig swung down with his saw, dismantling the sludge with brutal strength. He fired a few more shots then holstered his branderbuss and grabbed the riotsaw with both hands. Half the hilt slid up behind the blade, striking the Ink reserves and bringing the chains roaring to life.

They pushed forward. Franz and Rig cleared a path with their heavy weapons. Edwin zipped between the sludges, taking out chunks of muck with each pass. The electricity in the blades disrupted whatever kept the sludges together, a finer feat than fire, which burned it out. Still, the Mire could only be killed by destroying the heart, which moved constantly within the body of the creatures. The sludges sitting motionless beneath the nest rose and joined their companions in the fight.

Edwin sliced a sludge half a dozen times and its body simply collapsed into a puddle. The horde pushed back against them. Edwin smiled. The Mire was bestial and fought with pack tactics, it would never run, but it would retreat for a better strike or easier prey. As long as they kept its attention, they could bring it right where they want. They fought the sludges on the move, cutting through the middle until they reached an alley on the other side.

“Keep them interested,” Edwin said, deflecting a blow by clapping his blades. “We need all of them on the street.”

Rig bull-rushed his way to the centre of the group. He planted himself and, with a roar, spun with his saw outstretched. He sent up waves of black slime. The sludges at the back charged forward, following Rig onto the street. It was more than the three dozen Edwin counted in the courtyard. They stumbled over each other, absorbing the pieces of dead sludge to make themselves stronger. Rig bashed a sludge aside and rejoined Edwin and Franz. They successfully lured them into the open.

That was when Hitomi arrived. “Make some room,” she said.

Edwin sliced a sludge’s arm off then moved back with Rig and Franz. The horde exited the alley, lining up perfectly for a shot from Hitomi.

“Two times load.” Hitomi pointed the wave cannon at the oncoming mass. “Firing!”

The cannon let out a crack and unleashed a chaotic lattice of lightning. Sludges flew back, coming apart through the combination of force and electricity. Hitomi’s feet slid across the ground from the force of the blow. The lightning seared the surrounding buildings and turned the street into a slimy mess. Hitomi ejected the Ink canister and reloaded.

“Clear.” She slammed the cannon onto the head of a still-twitching sludge. The wave cannon was a powerful weapon. Simple, and restricted in use, but still powerful.

“Gut gemacht,” Franz said. “I’ll burn the nest.” He ran off.

Edwin smiled. It was the best a nest clearing could go. But, it wouldn’t be the only nest in Wrotdam, probably not even the only one in Copper Street. As if in reply, a sound like a building collapsing came from the south and someone screamed.

“It’s not done,” Rig said, shutting down his riotsaw and leaning it against his shoulder.

“What’s the problem?” Hitomi primed her wave for another shot. “Do you want to go home already?”

“Of course not.” Rig glanced at Edwin. “It’s not every day you get to be a hero.”

Edwin rolled his eyes. “We’re moving on, Franz!” he called out, hopping backwards.

Four sawbones ran through a city frozen in time, weapons ready to fight again.