Warlock

oil and was now grating against itself without lubrication.
        
        There was an angry noise as of bees swarming, then a strangled, ugly screech from Cartier's shattered throat as the inhuman machine tried to use his voicebox for some unknown purpose. Then the wires stopped moving and the smoke rose in a gush and the thing that had possessed him was finally dead beyond recall.
        
        They stood for a while, watching the smoke blow away from the corpse, listening to the howl of the wind, unable to cope with what they had seen.
        
        At last, it was Richter who turned the mood to one of determination. That is the sort of thing Oragonia would bring to bear upon the Darklands. If Jerry Matabain had his demonic way, your loved ones, your wives and children would be as those assassins which have stalked us: creations without souls, things more machine than man, with love and emotions gone from them and nothing but obedience to Jerry Matabain as their life's motivation!”
        
        “No!” someone called, furious at such a thought. And it had worked, this call to patriotism and to love of family, to fear that lies in all men-fear of losing their individuality. Other men began grumbling, angry at the treachery set loose among them and dedicated, as never before, to reaching the east and the stores of Blank era machinery waiting there.
        
        “But,” Richter said, “we are not yet free of this curse. There is another such creature loose among us. Does anyone here remember who Cartier spent his time with? Did he have a buddy, a companion he seemed to share secrets with?”
        
        The men talked among themselves, turned curious faces on each other, and in a few moments, the word came from several places at once, then was repeated everywhere: “Zito-Zito-Zito. Zito. Zito. Zito. Yes, it was Zito. It was Zito he was with!”
        
        The Coedone Gypsy stood where he had been, the bow in his hand. There had been but one arrow, and that was now embedded in the corpse of what had been Cartier.
        
        “It can't be so,” Richter said, staring at the dark gypsy. “You once gave me your kerchief. You swore eternal fidelity.”
        
        “An' it is na' true, either,” Zito said, approaching the commander with his tough hands spread to either side, as if he were as perplexed by these accusations as the old man was. “I wa' with him, tha' is sure. Bu' tha' does na' mean guilt! I am as loyal to tha' commanda' as-”
        
        He was no more than ten feet from the commander when a thrown knife buried itself to the hilt in the center of his chest, ripping cleanly through his bulky coat and spearing flesh. Eyes turned in the direction of the knife, stopped on Mace who stood in the position of a marksman. “He would have throttled you, Commander, or worse,” Mace said. “It was in his face, believe me.”
        
        Everyone turned to stare at Zito.
        
        The gypsy was looking stupidly down at the blade buried in his chest, swaying back and forth as his pierced heart labored to pretend that death was not present, and the machinery that shared his flesh worked to knit the torn artery inside of him.
        
        Mace spoke again, his voice self-assured, even though the dying man seemed only to be that and no more-certainly not a fiend whose body sheltered an alien life form. “You told him to do no more than wound the guilty man whenever we discovered who it was. Instead, he placed that arrow in Cartier's neck, a deadly shot.” Mace turned to Zito. “Were you frightened that what few traces of humanity remained in Cartier might turn on you and betray you if you only wounded him? Was it necessary to kill him so that he might not say the truth in his last moments?”
        
        “It is na' true,” Zito gasped.
        
        Blood bubbled up on his lips.
        
        He looked beseechingly around the group, and finally a man named Hankins stepped forward and went for the wounded gypsy.
        
        “No!” Mace shouted.
        
        But it was too late. As Hankins touched the dark Coedone, the gypsy snarled, clasped the man in a death embrace.
        
        Hankins screamed, fought to break loose.
        
        The Coedone's face split, spewed forth snaking wires which stung into Hankins, threaded his flesh and sought out the core of him, slowly turning him into whatever it was