The Iscariot Sanction

by Mark Latham

  NEAR ROGATE, HAMPSHIRE

  John grappled with the thing at the window desperately, fending off its claws and gnashing teeth. He saw Tesla from the corner of his eye, flailing about as the coach went over yet another hillock and veered around an awkward bend. John heard Lillian cry out in alarm, but he could do nothing but fight for dear life, and try not to be scratched for fear that whatever had befallen his sister would also befall him.

  With all the strength he could muster, John finally wrenched his left arm away from the beast, and smashed his elbow into its face. It thrust an arm into the carriage to save itself from falling, but for the scant seconds John was free he had reached to his ankle and snatched out his knife. With a vicious backhand swipe, he drew the blade across the monster’s throat and it fell from the window, but the immediate avian croak it gave was a sure indication that the creature was not dead, even if it was out of the running.

  John slammed the window shut and clambered at once to the other side of the carriage, dismayed to find no sign of Lillian. Tesla, on the other hand, was rummaging through his kit bag.

  ‘Mr. Tesla,’ John said, ‘if there is anything in that bag of tricks that can help us, now would be the time to find it.’

  ‘A minute,’ Tesla said.

  That was more time than they had. More time than Lillian had. John took up his pistol and looked out of the flapping door, out into the gloomy countryside that sped past them at a rate of knots. With a deep breath he hauled himself into the cold air.

  * * *

  The hunchbacked creature—Lillian still could not bring herself to think of it as a ‘vampire’—hoisted her off her feet. Lillian looked over its sloping shoulders and saw the rumbling carriage with its faceless driver hurtling after them through the mists. She tried to prise the creature’s clawed hands from her collar, but it was possessed of a strength that belied its scrawny frame. She kicked at it, but drew little more than a flinch and the hideous, throaty growl that she had come to associate with her nightmares. She did not understand how the beast remained upright on the moving coach, and feared they would both be thrown from the roof at any moment.

  Do not be afraid. Let me in and we can be together.

  In her panic, she had allowed her defences to slacken again. But the voice no longer filled her with dread, nor did she feel any compulsion to obey it. If anything, it made her realise that the goal of the monster before her was not to hurt her, but to abduct her.

  Lillian gambled on her intuition, and let go of the creature’s arms, staring fearlessly into its sparkling, violet eyes. It did not drop her, but instead hissed, tilting its head to scrutinise her. The fetid stench of the thing’s rotting flesh was nauseating. Lillian reached up for her hairpins slowly, focusing all the time on her mental defences, to mask her intention from the Majestic who whispered to her. Her fingers closed around the delicate weapons.

  ‘Lillian! By God!’

  John had clambered up to the coach roof. The creature started, and turned its attention away from Lillian to face this new threat, and in that instant Lillian struck. The two pins slid into the beast’s papery hide, either side of the throat, thrusting upward into its skull. With an ear-piercing scream that caused Lillian physical pain, the creature fell limp, and rolled from the roof of the carriage as Lillian fell onto the roof face-first. She looked up to catch the briefest glimpse of a naked, lily-white corpse vanishing beneath the wheels of the pursuing vehicle, before she began to slip from the roof. Terror gripped her as she struggled for purchase. She was half-over the stowage compartment, staring down at the muddy road, when she felt a hand grip her arm, and finally she steadied herself. To her great relief, it was John who now held her, and not another creature.

  ‘Get back!’ she yelled. ‘I’m all right, and I know what to do.’

  He tried to argue, but she silenced him with a hard glare. John ducked as a low-hanging branch whipped over his head, nodded to his sister, and swung himself back into the coach.

  Don’t be a fool. Let me in, or you all shall die.

  Looking at the black coach that pursued them, Lillian felt the call strongly. The voice in her head presaged the throbbing of the wound at her shoulder, and she knew the two were linked. Was de Montfort aboard that coach, she wondered? Was he the creature that even now exerted influence over her? Or was it some other who tugged at her, impelling her to join them? She wanted it to be so. She felt her heart lurch at the realisation that she was no longer in command of her emotions. Deep down she ached to be united with whatever dark lord summoned her. And that thought sickened her, made her grit her teeth in determination, and drove her to fight. She would not allow some inhuman creature to sway her from her course.

  The shrouded coachman cracked his whip once more. Another wiry, pale figure emerged from the carriage, crawling spider-like along its side, and onto the horses that panicked, wild-eyed at the thing’s touch. Something inside Lillian told her to give herself to the creature, to let it carry her off into the night and end the chase. She glowered, and instead reached down and took out the derringer from her boot, holding the small gun tight. She stared down the violet-eyed beast that jerked and scuttled over the team of horses towards her. It reached the lead horse, and crouched low, ready to leap at Lillian. She took aim at the horse.

  Before she could pull the trigger, her defiance turned to surprise as a loud fizzing noise filled the air, accompanied by a flash of blue light that—for a second—turned the night to day. A coruscating arc of electrical energy flashed from below her, from the coach window, and struck the pale creature in the chest. Its gleaming white skin charred and peeled instantly. Its body was wreathed in bands of lightning, which leapt from the horses to the ghoulish beast in flickering bands. As the creature fell between the animals and into the road, the horses shied off to the right, crashing through a dark hedgerow and falling in a tangled, whinnying heap. The carriage itself broke away, bouncing over a ditch and flipping end over end, the black-swathed driver flying through the air.

  Lillian barely had time to register what had happened when she was almost thrown from her position by another jolt from their coach as Selby fought to keep his own team from panicking.

  She grabbed the ropes of the stowage tight, and shouted back over her shoulder as loud as she could. ‘Selby, pull up! Pull up, I say!’

  It took some time to come to a halt, and when they did the enemy was out of sight. Lillian climbed from the roof of the coach, fighting the urge not to be sick.

  Tesla disembarked nervously, still holding the strange weapon, which smoked ominously. John followed, Webley revolver in hand.

  ‘Selby, everything all right?’ John called.

  Jim Selby climbed down from his seat, legs visibly shaking. He took off his hat, clutching it tight as he nodded to John.

  ‘We need to search the wreckage,’ said Lillian, pointing back along the road.

  ‘I’m not sure, sis. Maybe we should make our getaway while we can. That was a damned close-run thing.’

  ‘No, John,’ said Lillian, gritting her teeth. ‘We need to go back there, and make sure there are no survivors.’

  She could not—would not—say that she wanted to put a stop to the voices in her head, to the nightmares. Perhaps John knew; he nodded assent. Lillian led the way, treading down long, damp grass, wading knee-deep through it as the cold wind picked up, causing the black field to ripple like a vast lake, and the upended coach to creak, its one good wheel spinning awkwardly on its axle in the breeze. Her hands were held outwards from her sides, each holding a small knife, as she trod cautiously, deliberately, towards the wreck.

  Lillian remembered a time, long ago when, as a little girl, she had stolen from her bed in the middle of a winter’s night, and had walked through the long, wet grass of the fields behind her old family home. She had not thought of that episode in the longest time, except in her dreams. She had been caught up in a terrible storm that night, and had awoken lost and frightened, cold and soaked t
hrough, almost a mile from home. Her enduring memory was of being swept up in her father’s arms, having almost drowned in the river. Marcus Hardwick had seemed impossibly huge, enfolding her in the bundles of his overcoat and running back home with her. She had almost died of pneumonia shortly afterwards. She vaguely remembered her mother and father and older brother sitting in a dimly lit room, their faces lined with worry. When she had pulled through, something within her had changed. Her parents did not notice it at first, but eventually they came to know that their daughter was no longer the carefree girl they had known. The brush with death had taught her, even at that tender age, to pursue her goals relentlessly, and hang the consequences. This had often brought her into conflict with her father. Indeed, the last time she remembered feeling any true bond of love between them was when she had been carried back to the house in his arms.

  The creature before her now was like a parody of that memory. A pile of heavy black cloth given form and life, a ragged creature dragging itself away from the wreckage of the coach. It redoubled its efforts when it sensed the approach of its enemies, and began to crawl more frantically when John put a bullet in the head of a pale-skinned monster that hung limply from the window of the coach wreck. Lillian saw that the driver’s legs were shattered—he was dragging them piteously.

  She marched over to the stricken man, kicking him over onto his back. He lashed out at her with a large hand, which she at once knocked aside and trod upon. He grunted, but said nothing.

  At Lillian’s signal, John stepped forward and tore the muffler and hat from the man’s head. No monster was revealed beneath, and Lillian knew without her brother’s confirmation that this could not be de Montfort.

  He was a man, large and sallow-skinned, face podgy and devoid of expression. He babbled something incoherent, and then said only, ‘Mercy.’ Lillian knew at once that he was a simpleton, some poor imbecile employed to the cause of the Knights Iscariot because he could know no better.

  As if to confirm her thoughts, Tesla spoke. ‘It has always been the way,’ he said. ‘The Knights Iscariot can rarely pass for normal men—those of sharp wits fear and despise them. So they look to these poor unfortunates to do their bidding—brain-damaged wretches whose only experience is servitude.’

  ‘What shall we do with him?’ Lillian wondered aloud, half to herself. She had come to the wreckage with murder in mind, but she had not the stomach for that now.

  ‘Innocent or no,’ John said, ‘he is not our concern. The Knights Iscariot know where we are—we must at least get to the safe-house before any more come for us, and return to London at first light. If all these stories are to be believed, further travel by night would be folly.’

  ‘I’m not sure how safe this “safe-house” shall be, judging by their strength and tenacity.’

  ‘Then we’ll have to pray that there are no more to come. The Knights Iscariot are a power in the north, but not here. If they had more creatures to spare, perhaps they would have sent them already, but do you really want to take that chance?’

  Lillian looked into the pleading eyes of the coach driver. ‘You are right,’ she said to John, the words sticking in her throat. ‘We leave him. Let’s go’.

  TEN

  Tuesday, 21st October

  THE APOLLONIAN CLUB, LONDON

  When Lillian Hardwick entered the marble hall of the Apollonian, it was all Arthur could do not to rush to her, take her hand, and declare his relief that she was well. Yet above him, looking down from the upper balcony, was her father. And so even as Lillian made to greet him with utmost familiarity, and with a twinkle in her eye, Sir Arthur Furnival stepped towards her, cutting short her approach and bowing to her brother and their companion before greeting Lillian.

  ‘Lieutenant; Agent Hardwick. I am most pleased to see you returned safely.’

  ‘Really, Arthur, there’s no need to be—’ She stopped short. She peered over Arthur’s shoulder, up towards the balcony. The briefest scowl crossed her features, and she said only, ‘Your concern is appreciated, Sir Arthur. We suffered some minor inconvenience on the road, but nothing to worry about. May I introduce Mr. Tesla, of Serbia.’

  Arthur was unsure how to respond—as was so often the case, he could not tell if Lillian was cross with him, with her father, both of them, or neither. If only his powers gave him more of an insight into the workings of the female mind. He extended a hand to the stranger and said, ‘Pleased to make your acquaintance, Mr. Tesla. I hope your journey was a pleasant one.’

  ‘It was not,’ replied Tesla, ignoring Arthur’s hand. The man’s mind was clearly elsewhere. He craned back his head and spun slowly on the spot, gazing in childlike wonder at the great domed skylight that cast the white marble hall in a pinkish hue. Tesla’s eyes flittered around the great hall briefly, before finally alighting upon the man before him. ‘But it could have been worse. You are a Majestic, no?’

  ‘I… yes…’ replied Arthur, puzzled.

  ‘I can always tell.’ Tesla smiled proudly. ‘You have the look of men from ghost stories,’ he explained. ‘Except you carry the ghosts with you always.’

  ‘Please, won’t you come this way,’ Arthur said, changing the subject hastily. He held out his hand in the direction of the stairs.

  ‘We are to meet Lord Cherleten,’ Lillian said. ‘I expect he will be in the armoury.’

  ‘I am afraid not, Agent Hardwick,’ Arthur replied, hiding his dismay at the coolness that had come between them masterfully, thanks to a lifetime in high society. ‘Lord Cherleten is waiting upstairs with Sir Toby… and Lord Hardwick.’

  Lillian said nothing, but simply strode past Arthur, not even looking him in the eye, and Tesla followed. As John passed Arthur, he winked.

  ‘Don’t worry, old boy. I’m sure she won’t be cross with you for ever.’

  With the little entourage shepherded towards the waiting Lord Hardwick, and the loud clicking of Lillian’s heels echoing through the hall, Arthur followed suit, not entirely sure why Lillian should be cross with him at all; a feeling he was somewhat accustomed to.

  * * *

  John was tired, and utterly famished. He sat as straight-backed as he could, and tried to look attentive whilst his father, Sir Toby and Cherleten took it in turns to question Tesla, but in truth he was exhausted. Lillian appeared fully engaged with the proceedings, despite their father’s rebarbative disposition towards them both, and he had no idea how she managed it.

  They had spent a restless night in the safe-house at Liphook, which had become a veritable fortress when the landlord heard that agents of the Crown were in danger. Lillian’s sleep had been fitful, and John had elected not to wake her for a turn on watch duty, instead maintaining a vigil over her, terrified that the mysterious Knights Iscariot had managed to take some control over his sister. He had not seen her in such a feverish state since her bout of pneumonia many years prior, and it pained him to see her so again. Upon their return to London, John had insisted on looking after Tesla while Lillian went home to dress as propriety dictated for the debriefing. He had half expected her to slap his face at this suggestion, but instead she had acquiesced. The truth of it was she was not herself, and John only hoped that her thoughts could not really betray them to the enemy. More than that, he had already told her all he knew about their father’s secret work—it was not much, but it was more than anyone should know. He felt sick that, through his beloved sister, he might have inadvertently betrayed their father. But he had to believe Lillian; if she said she was over the worst of it, then he would trust her.

  There had been no further attacks—if the monsters had come for them, they had decided against assailing the safe-house, with no easy ingress and armed men within. Or perhaps they had some other reason for allowing the agents to escape. It was now well past three in the afternoon; they had lost an entire night boarded up in a roadside inn far from their destination, sleeping in a single room like fugitives.

  ‘Lieutenant? Are you paying attention?’<
br />
  John snapped to his senses when he realised that Sir Toby’s eyes were upon him. ‘Yes, Sir Toby. Sorry, sir.’

  ‘You have first-hand experience of Mr. Tesla’s weaponry—do you believe it to be effective against the… vampires?’

  ‘Wampyr,’ Tesla corrected, though no one paid him any heed.

  ‘Is it more effective, or can we afford to delay its development a while longer?’

  ‘I’m sure I’m not qualified to offer an opinion, Sir Toby,’ John said. Though he hadn’t been listening, he was sure that Sir Toby was playing peacemaker between his father and Lord Cherleten, as usual, and John would really rather not take sides in that particular spat.

  ‘Yes, the weapon is effective,’ Lillian said. She had not been asked directly, but since when had that ever stopped her speaking up?

  ‘Go on,’ Sir Toby prompted. The old man often encouraged Lillian; John was glad of it, most of the time. At other times he’d rather Lillian kept her head below the parapet rather than risk their father’s ire, which only ever added to their poor mother’s burden.

  ‘The creatures, be they vam—wampyr—or no, are strong and fast, though susceptible to mortal wounds to the head. Little else seems to hinder them—even the loss of a limb only slows them for a time. Mr. Tesla’s weapon not only killed one of the creatures outright, but caused sufficient collateral damage to bring their pursuit to a halt. In short, a single shot from such a weapon did more than a sustained assault by Lieutenant Hardwick and myself.’

  Sir Toby looked thoughtful.

  ‘And this “collateral damage”,’ Lord Hardwick said, his voice lowering to a growl as he became more displeased. ‘Is it worth the risk of discharging the weapon in less favourable battlefield conditions? When innocent lives may be at stake?’

  ‘A simple modification is all that will be required,’ Tesla said, unaware of the glare he drew for his interruption. ‘I could not create a focusing array with the materials I had aboard ship. With your assistance I am sure the Mark II Tesla pistol shall be much more precise.’