Free Merkabah Rider: The Mensch With No Name by Edward M. Erdelac Page A

malformed spawn of
Lilith’s with alchemical devices and infernal machinery beat out by the glowing
hammers of the Fallen in the furnaces of hell?
    Whatever
it was, the thing had at least an animal’s intelligence, for it stirred at the
Rider’s approach. And though it had no eyes or nose that he could tell, there
came a hollow snuffling from within the gun muzzle face, and the chain tail
rippled and clinked, and a greasy brown salivation spilled from the jawless
maw.
    He
hesitated to approach it. It was said in the midrash that the gaze of this demon was gorgon-like—sure, inalterable death. It was
strongest during midday between the middle of the month of Tammuz and the ninth
of Av, which it was now. It had to have eyes then, down in the bottom of that
cannon muzzle. Perhaps it had been fitted with the tube to bring to heel its
power, like a biting dog fitted with a muzzle and leash, or a skittish horse
with blinders.
    The
clawed feet curled and the iron ball groaned and shifted slightly.
    The
Rider rushed up, drawing his Volcanic. He would jam the barrel into its face
and shoot, and hope for the best. He could not possess the soulless
Mazzamauriello and thus push the cannon back down the ridge. It had to be
destroyed, or disabled at least, here in the Yenne Velt. Between the spiritual
and physical planes there was correspondence. If he defeated it here, it
couldn’t rain down iron on the people below.
    He
prepared to leap on the thing if he must, but something strange happened. The
creature did not scrabble to turn and fight or lash its chain laced tail to
alert Mazzamauriello. Instead, it seemed to relax its clawed feet, laying them
flat. The snuffling sound stopped and became a steady, if labored breathing.
    The
Rider stood beside it, ready to leap off the ridge if it made a move.
    But
it did not.
    It
waited.
    For
how many eons had it existed thus? Was it in pain? Had it volunteered to submit
to Lucifer’s art and now regretted it, or had it been an unwilling experiment
to begin with?
    The
Rider didn’t know. He did know that as he placed an ethereal hand on the cold
metal and angled the barrel of his pistol inside, Ketev Meriri, Bitter Destruction (Bitter of its fate perhaps?) did nothing to prevent him.
Its hot breath beat down on his gun hand.
    He
pulled the trigger. The gun bucked, and the ring filled with blue-white fire.
The entire form of the entity shuddered, and then the ball rolled out from
underneath it, and it crashed to the ground and did not move. It was like
putting down a suffering animal.
    The
Rider backed away, and watched Mazzamauriello jump and stare at the cannon. No
doubt in the physical world it had simply collapsed, the carriage breaking
apart, or the gun inexplicably dislodging.
    Mazzamauriello
cursed and stomped and flung down the chain tail. He wasted little more time,
and leapt onto a black pony (it had white eyes in the Yenne Velt, marking it as
an unnatural beast—possibly some kind of demon itself). He kicked the animal
and it went down a side path.
    The
Rider fumbled for his talisman and conjured his ether-horse. The dwarf was
headed back to Varruga Tanks.
     
    * * * *
     
    Gersh hunkered down over Wilkes and turned him over. It was too late for
the freighter. He didn’t know when the man’s neck had been broken, probably
when he’d struck one of the buildings as he was dragged. He was a mess of
bleeding cuts, exposed flesh and dust.
    The
Colonel helped Purdee to his feet.
    “Why
the hell did your gun work and mine didn’t?” Purdee wanted to know as he
inspected his torn coat sleeve.
    “Sheardown
loaded yours,” Gersh said.
    “That
rotten little curandero,” Purdee spat. “He was one of them?”
    “He
was with them,” Gersh said, getting to his feet, “but not one of them.”
    “Don’t hardly make no sense,” Purdee said.
    The
Colonel had his field glasses out and was looking through them at the ridge.
    “I
wondered why they’d stopped firin’,” he