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Engines of Obsession: Chapter 11
🕑 Added 2025-08-04 01:33:05 +0000 UTCChapter 11: Reginald
For the second time in as many weeks, Turner was unable to trust his own eyes.
He'd danced around the subject with Milo and Martin, but Turner knew real magic existed. It was subtle, gentle. It guided and eased things, most of the time. Fantasy stories talked of wizards blasting fire at dragons, but that just wasn't how things worked.
Now, Turner stared at something he really couldn't explain. The wooden puppet-boy looked like a young teen, thirteen or fourteen years of age, but all wood. His motions were fluid, complete with small fidgets and tilts of the head, subtle shifts of his weight. Yet while he could see joints, Turner could find no sign of pulleys, gears, or anything else.
This was no clever trick or clockwork marvel. It was an enchanted object, moving -- and speaking -- entirely on its own.
Turner took one step back, his hand slowly moving toward his jacket. "Who... what are you?" It hit him then, that this was likely the 'boy' that had been wandering with the construct. That it was his tracks they saw. But that would mean...
"You came back here after Henley?" Turner guessed. "So Blakely is coming back, too."
He was just throwing guesses to the air. Anything this boy said would be more than what Turner knew right now. None of this made any real sense.
The puppet-boy paused, becoming shock still. A waggle of one dagger, and he tutted at Turner. "Oh, you had me going, boy. You aren't a hunter, are you? You don't really know anything about Blakely, do you?"
One sudden leap carried the boy over to a pallet of boxes, his shoes landing with a thud that sounded heavier than Turner expected. Twirling about, the puppet now had three knives, which he began to juggle casually.
"You said came back. You must be the reason the prototype never made it back from Hodgeworth. Pity." He caught the knives and spread all three in a fan pattern in one hand, holding the tips. "You presume a lot! I am not Blakely. The name is Reginald, and whether or not she'll be back? I have no clue! She goes where she needs to. Sometimes we like to stay!"
Deft flicks of his wrist brought the daggers into appearing as one... then the other two appeared in his other hand. Reginald resumed juggling after the minor sleight of hand, his mouth moving up and down like a ventriloquist's dummy's jaw, yet making clear enunciations. It was a direct contrast to the unnaturally fluid movements of his body.
"And who are you, then? Let me guess... you stumbled into the prototype and now you want answers." Reginald chuckled. "Best to just walk away... is what I would say. But I don't like loose ends, young man and fair maiden!"
A silvery flash in Reginald's hand showed another knife, but Turner and Nora were already moving. She dove to the side, while Turner's hand withdrew his revolver. The pistol bucked hard, the roar more deafening in the echoing yet still-confining storeroom than when he'd fired outside.
The dagger embedded in the box, dropped from startled fingers as Reginald toppled backward. A loud clattering thud of wood hitting the dirt floor followed up the gunshot, even over the ringing of Turner's ears. He was already moving to circle around the boxes. He doubted that a single bullet would take down something animated by such powerful magic.
"Where is he?" Turner called to Nora as he circled. Her sense of dread around these things had gotten them this far.
"I don't know!" Nora called. "He's not like the others! I think... I think there are more in the crates! But he feels different!" Light flared as Nora turned her staff's strange luminescence up to the highest she could. It still didn't flicker like torchlight, but it also wasn't as bright. Better than the dim shadows they'd started in, though.
A glimpse of movement brought Turner to spin about, just as several of the crates in the pile of Blakely's property exploded outward. Bronze-armored constructs, crusted green with the patina of age, scuttled outward as Reginald leapt from the shadows to perch on the frame he'd been hanging upon when Turner first saw him.
"That wasn't right," Reginald complained. "I've only just woken up again! You can't kill the hero in Act One!"
Turner felt his blood run cold at the sight of so many constructs. Even one had been too much for him alone, and he knew Nora didn't carry enough Sunbursts for this many. A half dozen of the skittering things poured out, clattering across the surface of the pallet and onto the floor.
These were smaller than the one Turner had fought before. Each was less than two feet around, though more oval than circular. The legs were shorter, but six of them on each scrambled across the dirt, making small imprints from the dagger-like points that gleamed with steel, not bronze. A distant part of his mind noted that their 'eyes' consisted of a single green lens, and they lacked the metal hood that could protect them.
A weakness.
Even as the analytical part of his mind processed all of this, years of paranoia and experience moved Turner on automatic. He held the trigger of the revolver, palm quickly jerking the hammer back to fan multiple shots. Bracing the revolver against a box, he blew through the rest of the cylinder in moments, filling the air with more booming shots and the acrid smell of powder.
Three bullets impacted against the construct in the lead. The first two staggered it before the third burst the lens in front. The last two hit the one behind it, where one glanced off the armored shell uselessly. The other hit a joint, the thing's motion twisting as the bladed leg struggled to move correctly. The skittering noise grew louder despite the damage, as the remainder diverted around the two damaged machines.
Turner was already on the move. He felt a flash of pain on the back of his hand when one of his spent cartridges, still hot and smoking, glanced off the knuckle. Empty brass clattered to the floor as he ducked behind another pallet, shoving his sole speed-load into place and rolling the cylinder.
Nora hadn't called for help, so Turner knew she was making herself difficult. He heard some clatter from nearby, and the hissing of some chemical. A whiff of tar hit his nose, and he knew what to do next.
His first cylinder had been spent in a rapid-fire heat, but when Turner rounded the corner this time, he took more careful aim. The distance was greater, if not by much, but the clockwork thing was whining and moving sluggishly. Nora's tarball had gummed up the legs and blinded it with the sticky splattered substance, so Turner could take his time.
It still took two shots. The first pinged off that greenish bronze shell, but the second went right into the innards. It didn't 'die' -- if these things were alive in any sense -- but it collapsed and twitched wildly, unable to see or move in any manner that could keep it going. That would have to be good enough.
"These things have the same sense of wrongness," Nora gasped, looking through her satchel for something else to use. She'd ducked behind a large chest of some kind, keeping out of view. "But this Reginald doesn't cause the same feeling! I don't know why!"
Turner risked a look toward the puppet-boy still standing atop the frame they'd found him on. The four remaining skittering machines -- one of them still limping -- had changed direction and were splitting up, moving more slowly in an obvious attempt to outflank.
Reginald himself was being very casual. His mock suit had a hole in it where Turner had shot him, and he was using a dagger to pry the bullet out of his chest. Turner could now see the polished wood beneath, though he was pretty sure the bullet should have gone deeper.
The puppet-boy looked up with a clattering of his jaw as he spoke again. "Oh, we have a true witch in this pair!" The bullet popped free, allowing Reginald to wave the dagger about. "Still don't know what you're feeling? That's all right. Me and the missus aren't like this riffraff. We think, we feel. Not that it matters for you."
He cackled, the dagger disappearing into whatever hidden sheath he'd drawn it from to begin with. "Two down! But how many bullets are you carrying, I wonder? And all this noise! Will the guards notice, you think?"
Nora glanced over the top of the chest. "He's right, Turner. We need to end this or get out of here."
Turner knew she was right. His own caution was telling him he'd already pushed his luck too far. His answer was another roaring boom from the revolver, sending the construct that had been climbing up near him toppling away.
The loud thud of the bronze apparatus as it hit the floor gave him some satisfaction, even if that didn't end the thing for good.
"I'm not sure he'll let us," Turner grunted as he looked about for another. He saw three, one of them limping. Where had it gone? The room's dimness was making it harder than he'd like to see the metal murder machines.
Reflexes and paranoia saved Turner's life in that next instant. He saw the motion out of the corner of his eye, nothing more. Without further thought, Turner hurled himself toward the floor. The razor sharp blades on the front of the small construct missed his neck, but he felt a line of hot pain at his left arm.
The bug-like mechanism crashed to the floor and tumbled, quickly righting itself. These weren't as strong or fast as the one Turner had fought before, but he had no intention of finding out what kind of gap there was in their abilities. The revolver bucked twice more, as fast as he could pull the hammer back and shoot.
Both shots went into the construct's 'face' before it could finish turning around. He wasn't sure if the first had taken it out, but after the second it definitely wasn't moving. Problem was, that left him with only two bullets in the cylinder, and then he'd be on slow and painful manual reloading.
Turner felt blood soaking his shirt, and numbness in his left arm. That last pounce had tagged him in the bicep, but the blade was sharp enough it had sliced clean through the flesh. He only spared a glance for it, confirming it was bleeding but not life-threatening, then Turner was back to tracking the remaining constructs.
Two shots left. Three constructs and a mad puppet. Unless Nora had some surprises, this was not going to end well.
One, two... Turner saw the third one an instant too late. It was up, above him, and his head jerked back to try to get a clear shot. He could already see it was about to leap -- he knew it wasn't likely he could snap the shot off in time.
CRACK!
The explosive noise of a rifle shot came at the same time a ringing noise sounded from the skittering machine. One side of that shallow bronze dome bulged, while another suddenly sported an inward dent centered around a hole.
The bug-like machine twitched once, then fell off the high perch, to thud to the packed earth.
"Thanks, Milo!" Turner called. He couldn't see the hunter, but since Milo had been able to look into the lit space, the shot had been clear. The bronze shells on these constructs were far too thick for his revolver, yet Milo's rifle packed a bigger punch. Too bad it was single shot.
Turner knew Milo could cycle another round into the breach pretty quickly. Unfortunately, most of the constructs were threading between crates, chests, and pallets. Another clear shot from the doorway was unlikely.
"Nnh! TURNER!" Nora cried out from nearby.
He was already moving. Turner had seen Nora fending off the damaged construct while he was fighting for his life. She was pretty good with her staff and knife, but neither were good at disabling a bronze-shelled murderer.
The blades didn't have enough strength in them to bite through Nora's staff, but a slowly spreading red stain at her side told Turner the machine had slipped through at least once. At least it looked shallow.
Nora managed to wedge her staff underneath the flailing metallic aggressor at a good angle for leverage. A heave flipped the bronze-shelled monster onto its back. These were much smaller, lighter, and weaker than the monstrosity Turner and the rest had fought in Hodgeworth, but each was still at least twenty pounds of metal.
Without hesitation, Turner fired one of his two remaining bullets into the opening in the shell, watching the machine twitch and 'die' a moment later.
One left.
"I should have known anyone who could take down the prototype wouldn't be so easy to take care of," Reginald's voice floated up, hidden amongst the storage. "I guess what they say is true! If you want something done right... do it yourself."
Turner caught sight of the final 'bug' skittering toward Nora. This time, he had enough time to take careful aim and fire that final bullet in the cylinder into the glass lens in the front.
It didn't kill it. The construct staggered, lurched blindly, then scrambled forward another few feet. Nora finally took care of it with another well-placed tarball into the ruined front mechanisms.
Turner had no idea what was inside there to make them move. They didn't operate like any other machines he'd ever seen. Even so, the gummy ball of sticky, semi-liquid substance must have gotten twisted up in something important. The machine lurched to a halt, twitching feebly.
That had been his sixth shot. Turner could have reloaded manually, bullet by bullet, but he knew Reginald was coming, and how fast the puppet-boy was. He holstered the revolver and called out, "Nora, move!"
He was right. Reginald didn't give them much of a chance.
Nora had barely started moving when the agile, quick wooden 'boy' leapt from between two boxes, blades glittering. Both daggers arced for Turner in a deadly flash of steel catching in the dim light.
His sword was already mid-draw.
Turner didn't hesitate. He saw movement, he swung. A powerful swing with the hips behind it, bringing the blade down in a deadly slash at the nearest threat. He was in motion, twisting away at the same time, trying to avoid the incoming strike.
A line of heat lanced across Turner's chest from the tip of a blade barely connecting.
At the same time, Turner felt his blade catch on something. His swing continued, and Reginald showed his own agility then. A mid-air twist brought another stabbing pain to Turner's thigh, this time much deeper.
Then the dagger slid away as Turner completed his swing, resistance to the blade vanishing with a loud splintering noise.
Turner staggered, his back thumping against the crate behind him. Pain flared in his thigh and chest, but his right arm was still good. His sword was steady and upright.
Reginald tumbled and came upright on his feet in an instant. He whirled about to face Turner and -- a little further away now -- Nora staring at him. One dagger flicked upward, ready to fight.
The other clattered to the floor, along with the puppet's arm.
The puppet glowered with those marble-like, glowing blue eyes. "You... cut off my fucking ARM!"
The wooden boy's shriek was followed by a blurred motion of his feet. Turner's sword went up to defend -- but Reginald was already atop some boxes, vanishing further into the storehouse. A retreat?
Turner sagged, almost falling over. A warm arm caught him, and Nora provided support for him to limp forward. His leg was aching and wouldn't respond -- a deep cut, then.
Milo was there, eyes wide. "What in the three Fates was that?!"
"One of Blakely's toys," Turner grunted. "Grab one of the bug-things. And the arm if you can. We need to get out of here. The Watch will have heard the gunshots."
It had only been a few minutes, but over a dozen gunshots would definitely draw too much attention, even muffled by the storehouse walls. At least the light had been dim, so perhaps nobody knew exactly where it had come from.
Turner looked at the concerned Milo. "Tell Martin to move, we need to get our things and leave town before they can close off the bridges."
"Already done," Milo replied. "As soon as I heard the shots, I realized we'd be running. I sent Martin to pick up Clinker and our things. He'll meet us at the eastern bridge."
That mildly surprised Turner. The kid had learned fast. Maybe Hodgeworth had been more of a wakeup call than he'd thought. "Nh, good move," Turner grunted.
Nora sighed as she continued to support the limping Turner. "Less talking, Turner. We need to put some distance between us and the town, fast. Then look at those wounds."
"Did you kill him?" Milo asked. He must have missed Reginald running away.
Turner shook his head. "No... he ran. I think he still could have won. He got me pretty good there, and he moved... I don't know how to describe how he moved. He wasn't like the other constructs."
"He moved like a gymnast," Nora finished. "Or an acrobat. A knife fighter. He knew what he was doing. If Turner hadn't cut off his arm he might have just killed all three of us then and there."
"A lucky hit," Turner agreed. "I saw movement and went for it. I felt the wood splinter, I must have hit the elbow joint."
Nora made a shushing noise. "Stop talking. We need to go." She sighed heavily.
"I guess our only option is to tell Lord Byron about this."
