The Man-Butcher Prize by Charles X Cross

Author:Charles X Cross [Cross, Charles X]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781838010102
Published: 2020-06-11T22:00:00+00:00

1668

‘Right… Welcome all, to the inaugural…’ The mayor cleared his throat to gain the attention of the crowd and started again. ‘To our first ever Man-Butcher Prize!’

The five hundred rag-tag spectators cheered with brutish gusto. Significant pride swelled in Terrowin’s chest; he had built this. It had taken an excruciating six months to properly organise and promote the event. There had been bleachers to build, and posters to paint, and all other manner of things to do. Granted, he hadn’t actually lifted a finger to do any of those tasks, but he had come up with the initial idea, so it was all his own doing nonetheless. Now, the day had finally come, and in ten sluggish minutes the competition would be underway.

Forty-three assassins entered the competition in total, all vying for a prize with his name on it. Whether he lived or died, one thing was certain; the Man-Butcher Prize would be the most fun he’d ever have, and would be remembered for generations. He tingled with anticipation. The thrill, the rush, and the exquisite sounds of pain – it was all so close! Stood shoulder to shoulder with other guilders, at the brink of almost certain death, he could barely contain his excitement.

Most of his adversaries were armed with blades: bollock knives, daggers, tower hangers, scimitars, a vicious and impractical flamberge, and even more he couldn’t name. Some had things a little more exotic; a man in a round helmet carried a crossbow, a frontierswoman coiled her whip with menace, and while not exactly refined, he saw one brute wielding a club spiked with a dozen bloody nails. None of those would be especially effective against the collection of firearms he’d spotted in the crowd, but each to their own, he supposed. Maybe they were crazier than he was, and liable to win. He suspected the explanation for such outmoded weaponry was simpler than that; those with coin to afford pistols and powder would be far less likely to waste their lives than destitute dagger-men.

Terrowin had his own tools of death. As the Man-Butcher, a name he’d earned early in his career, it was only right that he carried a cleaver to justify the handle – held in a custom scabbard under his arm. His weapon of choice however, was also his most prized possession; a silver flintlock engraved with wild flowers. His mother, a retired trick-shooter, had gifted it to him when he set out in search of fortune. He didn’t imagine she’d think he’d use it kill well over three scores of men, women, and anyone else who got in his way, but liked to believe his success would make her proud anyway.

‘Are you excited?’ he asked a huge woman to his side. He was giggling between each word, and almost delirious with anticipation.

‘Aye,’ she grunted; another Scold. Terrowin had to suppress the urge to ask her exactly what shire she was from. He was almost as excited to meet a fellow countrywoman as he was to compete for his very own prize, but she didn’t look in the mood to talk.

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