Shrike

	“Shrike!” howled Tom, hurling himself up and forward with the sword held out stiffly in front of
him, feeling the green light spill across his face as Shrike spun hissing to meet him. An iron arm
lashed out, hurling him backwards. He felt a searing pain in his chest and for a moment he was sure
that he had been torn in two, but it was the Stalker’s forearm that struck him, not the bladed hand, and
he landed in one piece and rolled over, gasping at the pain, expecting to see Shrike lunge at him and
then nothing, ever again.

	But Shrike was on the ground, and Hester was bending over him, and as Tom watched the
Stalker’s eye flickered and something exploded inside him with a flash and a crack and a coil of
smoke leaking upwards. The hilt of the sword jutted from one of the gashes in his chest, crackling
with blue sparks.

	“Oh, Shrike!” whispered Hester.

	Shrike carefully sheathed his claws so that she could take his hand. Unexpected memories
fluttered through his disintegrating mind, and he suddenly knew who he had been before they dragged
him on to the Resurrection Slab to make a Stalker of him. He wanted to tell Hester, and he lifted his
great iron head towards her, but before he could force the words out his death was upon him, and it
was no easier this time than the last.

	The great iron carcass settled into stillness, and smoke blew away on the wind. Down in the
valley, horns were blowing, and Tom could see a party of riders starting up the hill from the
caravanserai, alerted by the sound of gunfire. They carried spears and flaming torches, and he didn’t
think they would be friendly. He tried to push himself upright, but the pain in his chest almost made
him faint.

Chapter 22: Shrike, Mortal Engines, pg 93/152