Black Iron

by Franklin Veaux

  The attackers had a considerable advantage, alarm bell be damned. The guards in the guardhouse had had time to grab their rifles, but after a short exchange, they had been overrun. Now it was down to hall-by-hall fighting. The defenders were disorganized, sleepy, and uncoordinated. They had set up hasty barricades and were blocking off access to the upper quarters of the Palace, but the attackers held numerical superiority and better organization. It was, at this point, merely a matter of time.

  One group of attackers formed a column, headed for the wide, sweeping stairway that would take them to the living quarters above. As those in the front of the column fell to gunfire, those behind returned fire, their rifles roaring in the enclosed space. They gave the defenders no time to reload, closing quickly with sword and bayonet, swarming over the improvised barricades, slashing and stabbing. Blood flowed, creating a slick glaze on expensive marble, soaking into exotic foreign rugs brought at great expense from the lands of the Ottomans.

  The column moved relentlessly, stepping over the bodies of fallen defenders and, sometimes, its own, but relentlessly nonetheless.

  The Duke opened his eyes, blinking. There were loud noises coming from outside his door, and screams. He turned on the gas lamp near his bed.

  The sounds outside were loud, and frightening. He curled up, clutching his blanket. Somewhere outside his door, he heard screams. There was a loud thump, then silence.

  He stayed in his bed for a long minute. The silence was almost more frightening than the screams had been.

  Eventually, he rose and padded in his nightshirt to the door. He pressed his ear against it.

  Nothing.

  He turned the knob and crept cautiously into the hallway. It was dim, with just a single solitary gas lamp flickering uncertainly in its lamphouse on the wall. The hall was empty.

  He walked down the hallway and turned the corner. There were many men there, lying on the ground in awkward positions. The floor was covered with something sticky that clung to his bare feet. He put his hand over his mouth, recoiling in horror.

  There were men carrying lanterns a little way down the hall, and all were wearing the uniforms of his uncle. Relief poured through him. “Hello!” he said. “Over here! Help!”

  Two of the men turned toward him. He recognized one of them from days he had spent at his uncle’s manor house out in the country. He smiled with relief. “Edmund! What’s happening?”

  “It’s the Duke! There he is!” Edmund said. He raised his rifle.

  There was a bright flash and a sound that hurt the Duke’s ears. He felt something hit him very hard. He blinked. The floor seemed a very long way away. It came closer, floating up to meet him. The world went black before it reached him.

  ✦

  Claire brought the crossbow up and fired. The bolt caught the thing in the neck. It twisted, hissing angrily, and fell toward them. Donnie swung the nozzle of his fire thrower toward it. Flames leaped out to catch the falling monster. They met. There was a dazzling flash and a loud bang, so deep it was felt rather than heard. The creature crashed to the ground in a flaming wreckage of once-almost-living flesh, scattering the small group of people huddled against the wall.

  “We ’ave t’ get under cover,” Donnie said. “Move! Now!”

  They moved as a group toward the stables, clustered in a tight knot. Long tongues of fire sprouted in all directions, warning the twisted creatures on the ground to keep their distance.

  Half of the stable was completely consumed by flames. Thick black smoke poured into the night sky. The far end had already collapsed, thick wooden beams glowing with heat. Fire danced atop them. A couple of the apprentices, unequipped with the fire-spouting machines, grabbed burning sticks from the rubble, waving them in front of them. The creatures around them seemed unwilling to press closely, either because they’d seen what happened to their companions caught by the fire throwers or from some vestigial, instinctual fear of flames.

  Not that they needed to. Time was on their side, and they appeared intelligent enough to know it.

  Thaddeus felt the heat close around him. He pressed back as far as he could beneath the overhanging roof. Outside, something crashed to the ground and blossomed into flames. He heard Claire’s crossbow thwang again.

  “We can’t stay here,” Thaddeus said.

  “Nope,” Donnie agreed.

  “When the stable burns down, those flying things will kill us.”

  “Yep.”

  “And as soon as the fire-shooters quit working, those monsters will tear us to pieces.”

  “Yep.”

  “So we’re all going to die!”

  “Looks like,” Donnie said.

  “That it? No plan to rescue us all? No clever idea to get us out of here?”

  “Nope,” Donnie said. “Look out!” A section of the ceiling collapsed to the ground, trailing smoke.

  “What do we do?”

  “Keep fightin’ ’til we can’t,” Donnie said.

  “Thaddeus Mudstone!” The call came from outside the burning stable. “Thaddeus Mudstone!”

  Thaddeus shook his head and peered out into the courtyard.

  “Thaddeus Mudstone! I know you! I see you! You killed me, Thaddeus Mudstone!”

  It was there, standing just outside the range of the fire throwers, a creature that… Thaddeus wiped sweat from his eyes.

  It wore a face he recognized, a face that belonged to a man who had tried to kill him, a man who had burst into his flat carrying a heavy mace, only to fall through the steps during Thaddeus’s mad climb to safety.

  “I know you! I know who you are!” the thing said. “You killed me!”

  “You should have stayed dead!” Thaddeus shouted.

  “You killed me!” it repeated. It held up its arms, and they were not arms, but two long, curved lengths of bone that ended in wicked points. Something oily dripped from those needle-sharp points.

  “You killed me, Thaddeus Mudstone! Now I am going to kill you!”

  It screamed an inhuman scream of pure hate and sprang on powerful legs that were not even remotely human, and it was fast, oh so fast. Flames leaped out to meet it, passing through the empty space where it had been. Thaddeus lifted the heavy rifle he carried. He sighted along the barrel and pulled the trigger. A cloud of smoke burned his eyes. An elephant hit him in the shoulder, knocking him back. The rifle fell. A hole opened in the creature’s chest. Blue goop poured out. The creature’s face twisted with rage. It scrambled to its feet and leaped again.

  Thaddeus felt it collide with him. It stank. Its skin was dry and hot. The arms closed. Twin points of agony flared in Thaddeus’s sides where those evil points dug in. He felt something pour into him, burning like hot acid. His legs stopped moving. His vision narrowed.

  “How does it feel, Thaddeus Mudstone?” the creature said. “How does it feel to know you are dying?” It leaned close until its face was almost touching Thaddeus’s. “You did this to me.”

  Then Jake was there, his club rising and falling over and over until it was covered with blue gunk. The creature stiffened and slid off Thaddeus. Jake’s face filled Thaddeus’s vision. “Muddy!” he said. His voice sounded far away. “Muddy, can you hear me?”

  The world faded.

  ✦

  “Where are you taking her?” Julianus said. Suspicion and anger battled each other for control of his face.

  “Down the hallway and left. There’s a servants’ stairway. It leads into the laundry. On the other side is a hallway that goes all the way through the Palace. There’s an ale storehouse and a side entrance that goes out to Bosington Street. Nobody uses it much.”

  Another gunshot came from the end of the hall.

  “Very well,” Julianus said. “Move!”

  Julianus and Rudolf dragged a large, heavy table, edged in gold, from the Queen’s cha
mber into the hallway. They flipped it on its side, blocking the hallway. Rudolf crouched behind it, propping his rifle over the edge. Julianus extinguished the gas lamp. Gloom descended.

  Max led the way away from the sound of approaching gunfire, with Alÿs behind him, then Eleanor, then the Queen. Julianus took up the rear.

  They moved in a tight group, keeping low. The hallway was dim, the light uncertain. Alÿs had passed this way countless times before, but tonight, it felt like she was moving through alien, hostile terrain. The lone working gas lamp hissed and sputtered, sending shadows slinking down the walls. Alÿs found herself wishing Thaddeus were there. This seemed like the sort of situation his talents were uniquely suited for. What would he do, if he were here?

  Run, most probably. She hadn’t known the life of a commoner involved so much running.

  Max paused at the corner, where the hallway intersected with another that led toward Eleanor’s bedroom and the quarters where Alÿs had, until two fateful days ago, lived. He paused for a moment, darting a quick glance around the corner, then waved them forward.

  Heart beating fast, Alÿs followed him. Shadows lay heavily on every wall and in every corner. Light spilled into the end of the hallway from around the corner. “The servants’ stairway is at the very end,” Alÿs said. “Doorway on the right, just before it turns ’round the bend.”

  Max held out his hand, gesturing for the others to remain where they were. “I don’t like this,” he said. “Who lit the gas lamps around there?” He crept forward cautiously, his gun ready.

  Shouts echoed up the hallway behind them. A gun roared, setting their ears ringing.

  “We need to move now,” Julianus hissed. “It won’t take them long to realize Her Grace is not in her quarters.”

  They raced down the darkened hallway, keeping low and quiet. More gunfire boomed up the hall behind them. There was a scream, abruptly cut off.

  “Something’s wrong,” Julianus said. “We should be hearing fighting outside. The regular army should have responded by now.”

  “I don’t think the cavalry’s coming to rescue us,” Alÿs said.

  “Well, then,” Margaret said, “we will rescue ourselves.”

  “It would be easier if the Palace weren’t so big,” Eleanor said.

  “It would be easier for them to find us too,” Julianus said.

  Max stopped, so suddenly that Alÿs nearly ran into him.

  “What’s—” she said. Max put his fingers over his lips, a dark shadow in the dim light.

  “People ahead,” he said quietly. “I hear them.”

  “How many?” Julianus said.

  “Hard to say.” He crouched on the floor and laid his rifle down quietly. He took off his cloak. “Give me your breastplate.”

  “Why?” Julianus said, already unfastening the straps.

  Max wadded up his cloak, placed it over his breastplate, and strapped Julianus’s over his chest atop it. “Did I ever tell you,” he said, “how I was promoted to captain of the guard?”

  “You said you saved the Duke from drowning in the lake.”

  “I did,” Max said. “I just left out the assassins. Three of them. Italian sympathizers. They were waiting for us on Queensbury Lane.” He picked up his rifle. “They tried to run him through with a sword. I knocked him in the water and killed ’em all. Her Grace felt that advertising the fact that the Italians came so close to succeeding would only embolden the rest of them, so we never talked about it.”

  “I had no idea,” Julianus said.

  “Get the Queen out of here,” Max said. “Make sure she’s safe.”

  “What are—”

  Max was already gone, fast and, for such a large man, eerily silent. He was silhouetted briefly in the light that shone from around the corner. His gun roared. He drew his sword and disappeared.

  Answering gunfire boomed around the corner. Eleanor crouched in the hallway with her arms over her head, sobbing. Margaret touched her shoulder. “It will be okay,” she said. She squeezed Eleanor’s hand. “It’s almost over. Just a little way left to go. You can do this.”

  There was a scream that ended in a hideous gurgle. Another gun spoke. A shower of plaster rained from the ceiling ahead of them. There was a scream, followed by a metallic crash.

  “Stay here,” Julianus said. “If you see or hear anyone coming up behind you, make for the servants’ stairway as fast as you can. Alÿs, you know the way.”

  “Wait!” Alÿs said. “We can’t—”

  Julianus was already halfway down the hall.

  He stopped just before the corner, back to the wall, and risked a quick look around. Then he waved frantically, gesturing them forward.

  Alÿs ran toward him. Margaret followed behind, leading Eleanor by the hand.

  Julianus held out his arm. “Don’t—” he began. Alÿs evaded him easily and ran around the corner.

  Max was lying on his back in a tangle of red-uniformed bodies. His sword was in his hand. Blood pooled on the floor and decorated the walls in long wet streaks. His rifle lay beneath him, the bayonet on the end covered with—

  Alÿs looked away.

  Max coughed. His breastplate—both breastplates—were dented and perforated. “Go!” he whispered.

  “Hang on,” Julianus said. “We’ll get—”

  “Go!” he said again. His voice was a scratchy rattle.

  “I’m not leaving—”

  “Go!” He coughed. His eyes filmed over.

  Julianus’s face hardened. “Let’s move,” he said. “Alÿs, you first.”

  A groan came from beneath the pile of bodies.

  Julianus reached down. His hand came up gripping the arm of a boy of perhaps seventeen. His face was battered, his uniform torn.

  Julianus dragged the boy to his feet, twisting his arm behind his back. “Move!” he hissed.

  Alÿs opened the door to the servants’ stairway quietly. She darted a look down, then slipped through. Margaret and Eleanor followed. Julianus dragged the dazed soldier through and closed the door soundlessly behind him. “What’s down there?” he said.

  “The laundry,” Alÿs said. “A hallway to the servants’ quarters. Storerooms. There’s another hallway that goes all the way to the alehouse.”

  “Move.”

  Looked at from above, with the roof peeled off, the Palace was in many ways two entirely different buildings that shared the same space. There were ballrooms and grand dining halls and opulent living quarters appointed with luxuries from every corner of the globe, all connected by wide hallways with marble floors, just as you might expect from the domicile of the wealthy ruling class.

  But there were also storerooms and laundry rooms and boilers and passageways through which food, supplies, and coal were carried, and the small, cramped spaces in which the servants lived, often two or three to a bed.

  These two places coexisted in the same space but rarely touched each other, separated as they were by the architect’s arts. There were few places where these two entirely different buildings opened directly into each other. It is a truth understood by the best architects that the more your existence depends on other people, the less you want to see of them.

  The laundry room was one of those few portals between the two worlds.

  The portions of the Palace reserved for the servant classes were lit by gas lamps and oil, rather than the newfangled, expensive electric lights. This second Palace, the one inhabited by the working class, was still brightly lit.

  The servants’ palace was also a great deal more porous than the palace of the aristocrats. Servants rarely need to make Grand Entrances, after all. They do, however, have to contend with moving food and drink and cloth and bricks and all the other thousand essentials necessary to support other people in a life of luxury in and out, so there were far more doorways from the out
side world into the servants’ palace than into the aristocrats’ palace. That made it far easier for the servants to escape, even as those above them in the accidental social hierarchy imposed by birth were trapped in their chambers.

  The people who labored in the laundry had long since fled, abandoning great piles of clothing in enormous tubs of hot water. Rows of coal-fired stoves still glowed with heat, driving steam from the just-washed laundry drying on wooden racks in front of them. The air hit the tiny band in the faces as they descended, hot and humid as a tropical jungle.

  Alÿs led the way down the steps. Julianus half-led, half-dragged the soldier, eyes wide with terror, after her. When they reached the bottom, he shoved the man down onto his knees. “What’s your name?” he growled.

  “Bertie, sir. Bertie Meaker.”

  “What are you doing here, Bertie Meaker?”

  Bertie looked down, lips pressed tightly together.

  “I asked you a question,” Julianus said.

  Bertie shook his head. “I can’t tell you. He’ll kill me!”

  “Who? Lord Rathman?”

  Bertie remained silent.

  “Is he here in the Palace right now?”

  The silence continued.

  “Is he in this room right now, with a sword in his hand, talking to you?”

  “No,” Bertie said.

  “I am,” Julianus said. “And I am becoming impatient. Whatever you imagine Rathman might do to you if you talk to me, believe me, it is nothing compared to what I will do with this sword, right now, if you do not.”

  “I can’t!”

  “I suppose you are of no further use to me, then,” Julianus said. “Bertie Meaker, for the crime of taking up arms against the Crown, and by the authority vested in me by Her Majesty the Queen, I hereby sentence you to death for treason.” He raised his sword.

  “Wait!” Bertie cried. “It was orders, sir! Direct from his lordship the Earl. He says…” He darted an anxious look at Margaret. “He says the Queen is corrupt. He says she is betraying the Realm. It’s the Turks, sir! It’s bad enough that she allows all the Jews and Mohammedans in our land, but now she wants to marry a Turk!” He clamped a hand over his mouth, red-faced.