Read Online Clockwork Fairy Tales: A Collection of Steampunk Fables by Stephen L. Antczak, James C. Bassett - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Stephen L. Antczak, James C. Bassett
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deadly jolt of electricity through the door and set off a cacophony of alarms as a sort of afterthought. Maroushka told Vasyl how to open them and repeated the sequences several times until Vasyl had them memorized, then went over to Baba Yaga’s loom,which stood near the open workshop door. Petya kept watch while Broom carried the kegs of petrol.
“Ready?” Vasyl mouthed at the cat.
Maroushka gave a distinctly nonfeline wave of her paw and Vasyl set the dials and switches by the door to the first sequence. Zero, one, one, two, three, five, eight, thirteen. He forced his hand not to shake. One wrong turn—
The first of the three heavy bolts slid back with a heart-stopping
thud
that echoed through the kitchen. Petya’s face paled.
“What was that?” Baba Yaga demanded from the workshop.
But Maroushka was already working at the loom. She pushed on the warp beam, jumped down on the treadles, then leaped back up to the beam. The loom banged and thumped. This only made the tangled threads worse, but that wasn’t the point.
“I am starting your weaving, Grandmother,”
Maroushka said in Vasyl’s voice.
“Just as you said.”
No response from the workshop. Vasyl traded nervous looks with Petya and went on to the second sequence, and the third. As each bolt clunked aside, Baba Yaga shouted for an explanation, and again Maroushka said “he” was weaving.
The door was now unlocked. Petya took Vasyl’s hand. The smith’s palm was warm and calloused. Petya said, “Go!”
Vasyl shoved the door open. An immediate alarm screeched. The trio didn’t take time to listen. They bolted out the opening and down the steps into cold air. Olena was standing at the bone gate.
“Papa!” she cried. “Uncle Vaska!”
Vasyl had never been so glad to see her. Petro ran forward and snatched her up. Vasyl and Broom dashed after. The noisome, moonlit courtyard with its dead windows and uneven cobblestones seemed absurdly normal after all those days inside Baba Yaga’s hut.
The moment the two men reached Olena, Baba Yaga herself appeared in the doorway holding a trembling Maroushka by the scruff of the neck.
“Traitor!” she screeched, though whether she meant Vasyl or Maroushka, Vasyl couldn’t tell. “I’ll devour you alive!”
Olena screamed. Maroushka twisted in Baba Yaga’s grip and sank her brass teeth into the witch’s arm. Baba Yaga shook her arm with a howl, and somehow Maroushka managed to leap up and attach herself to Baba Yaga’s face. More outraged howls.
“Run!” Vasyl said.
They fled through the dark streets, following Broom’s blue eye lights. Petya continued to carry Olena, whose little face was tight. “I was worried,” she said. “And I followed you, even though I was scared.”
“You did a good thing, my Olenka,” Petya panted. “You saved us all.”
They turned down another alley. “Can’t she follow us in her flying mortar?” Olena asked.
“We stole the fuel,” Vasyl replied tightly. “But we’re not safe yet. She’ll—”
“Behind us!” Petya cried.
Baba Yaga was, indeed, coming behind them, running like a demon scarecrow, her long legs eating up the distance between them. Her iron teeth gnashed and blood ran from a dozen cuts on her face. Olena whimpered.
“Broom!” Vasyl cried. “Break the kegs!”
The kegs shattered like eggs in Broom’s arms, and a river of petrol cascaded down the cobblestones toward Baba Yaga. From his pack Vasyl drew the knife he had taken from Baba Yaga’s kitchen and stabbed at the stones. Sparks flew, and the petrol ignited. Fire roared. Heat sucked the air from Vasyl’s lungs and singed his eyebrows. Baba Yaga leaped back from the yellow flames.
“Go!” Vasyl gave Petya a shove, and they ran again, with Broom lighting the way. They reached a deserted crossroad and sprinted over it. In the distance, a bell struck five o’clock. Still an hour until dawn, when the tesseract would close. Vasyl gave himself a final look at Petya,
“Ready?” Vasyl mouthed at the cat.
Maroushka gave a distinctly nonfeline wave of her paw and Vasyl set the dials and switches by the door to the first sequence. Zero, one, one, two, three, five, eight, thirteen. He forced his hand not to shake. One wrong turn—
The first of the three heavy bolts slid back with a heart-stopping
thud
that echoed through the kitchen. Petya’s face paled.
“What was that?” Baba Yaga demanded from the workshop.
But Maroushka was already working at the loom. She pushed on the warp beam, jumped down on the treadles, then leaped back up to the beam. The loom banged and thumped. This only made the tangled threads worse, but that wasn’t the point.
“I am starting your weaving, Grandmother,”
Maroushka said in Vasyl’s voice.
“Just as you said.”
No response from the workshop. Vasyl traded nervous looks with Petya and went on to the second sequence, and the third. As each bolt clunked aside, Baba Yaga shouted for an explanation, and again Maroushka said “he” was weaving.
The door was now unlocked. Petya took Vasyl’s hand. The smith’s palm was warm and calloused. Petya said, “Go!”
Vasyl shoved the door open. An immediate alarm screeched. The trio didn’t take time to listen. They bolted out the opening and down the steps into cold air. Olena was standing at the bone gate.
“Papa!” she cried. “Uncle Vaska!”
Vasyl had never been so glad to see her. Petro ran forward and snatched her up. Vasyl and Broom dashed after. The noisome, moonlit courtyard with its dead windows and uneven cobblestones seemed absurdly normal after all those days inside Baba Yaga’s hut.
The moment the two men reached Olena, Baba Yaga herself appeared in the doorway holding a trembling Maroushka by the scruff of the neck.
“Traitor!” she screeched, though whether she meant Vasyl or Maroushka, Vasyl couldn’t tell. “I’ll devour you alive!”
Olena screamed. Maroushka twisted in Baba Yaga’s grip and sank her brass teeth into the witch’s arm. Baba Yaga shook her arm with a howl, and somehow Maroushka managed to leap up and attach herself to Baba Yaga’s face. More outraged howls.
“Run!” Vasyl said.
They fled through the dark streets, following Broom’s blue eye lights. Petya continued to carry Olena, whose little face was tight. “I was worried,” she said. “And I followed you, even though I was scared.”
“You did a good thing, my Olenka,” Petya panted. “You saved us all.”
They turned down another alley. “Can’t she follow us in her flying mortar?” Olena asked.
“We stole the fuel,” Vasyl replied tightly. “But we’re not safe yet. She’ll—”
“Behind us!” Petya cried.
Baba Yaga was, indeed, coming behind them, running like a demon scarecrow, her long legs eating up the distance between them. Her iron teeth gnashed and blood ran from a dozen cuts on her face. Olena whimpered.
“Broom!” Vasyl cried. “Break the kegs!”
The kegs shattered like eggs in Broom’s arms, and a river of petrol cascaded down the cobblestones toward Baba Yaga. From his pack Vasyl drew the knife he had taken from Baba Yaga’s kitchen and stabbed at the stones. Sparks flew, and the petrol ignited. Fire roared. Heat sucked the air from Vasyl’s lungs and singed his eyebrows. Baba Yaga leaped back from the yellow flames.
“Go!” Vasyl gave Petya a shove, and they ran again, with Broom lighting the way. They reached a deserted crossroad and sprinted over it. In the distance, a bell struck five o’clock. Still an hour until dawn, when the tesseract would close. Vasyl gave himself a final look at Petya,
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