The Iron Assassin

by Ed Greenwood

  What stepped through them walked like a man, but had the face of a thing. A mottled black and green snake-snouted hairless head above arms with fingers like the long, strong tentacles of a giant octopus. It wore an eternal, lipless smile, yet clearly conveyed gloating amusement as it stepped forward into the light, lidless eyes baleful, mighty arms crossed.

  “By drinking the Deep Blessing,” Lord Winter purred, “we gain eternal life, immunity to poisons, swift regeneration if we slay and take the life force of a creature when we are wounded—and powerful tentacles to slay with. Thus we become supreme over mere men, as the Elders are.”

  The Elder stopped behind the center of the altar, leaned forward, and uncrossed its arms, revealing what it had set on the altar.

  An ancient, battered, leaning ruin of what had once been a large and grand goblet.

  “Behold the Grail,” Lord Winter said reverently. “The font of true kingship, the chalice that holds the life at the heart of all things. In it now the Elder has concocted the same potion that transformed him, long before any of us drew breath. He has waited long for the proper sacrifice to turn someone else into a fellow Elder. And now we have two.”

  “I think not,” the Queen snapped.

  “Oh, but a reigning queen is a fitting sacrifice, and, once made, her Prince as rightful successor is every bit as acceptable. The first candidate to be made an Elder is with us.”

  “And who might that be?” the Prince asked quietly.

  “Mister Norbert Marlshrike.”

  The hangings parted again to reveal the smirking tinkerer.

  “And the second candidate?”

  “Is,” Lord Winter gloated, “to be myself.”

  Unhurriedly, the Elder bent down behind the altar and lifted into view two huge, thick black candles, resting on their own metal tripods. Setting them at either end of the altar, he then produced a black altar cloth and smoothed it over the stone block as attentively as any parlor maid. As a shallow dish of beaten copper followed, the seven Order members advanced on the Queen and the Prince Royal.

  Grimly, the two soldiers stepped in front of the royals, drawing belt knives, but two of the Tentacles drew pistols and casually shot them dead. The Queen stirred, as if to turn and run, but her son took her hand, and they calmly faced the altar as the Tentacle agents surrounded them.

  The Elder produced a vial of clear oil and poured it into the copper dish, then pointed at Marlshrike and then at the hangings.

  The tinkerer nodded and hurried back through the tapestries, only to reappear almost immediately with a candle lantern, which he passed to the Elder with reverence.

  The Elder opened its shutter, removed the lit candle inside without apparent pain, and, with it, lit the two tall black candles.

  They caught and blazed up smokily, emitting a strange spicy smell, and the Elder began a liquid, hissing chant of words Lady Rose had never heard before. Nor had Tempest, by his expression, or the royals. The Tentacles members all took up the chanting, though Rose noticed some of them pronounced the words very differently than the tentacled Elder. Awkwardly, that was the right word.

  As they chanted, the Elder raised a wicked-looking knife, his movements as slow and deliberate as a priest conducting a long-memorized religious service at an altar; flourished it in the air; and then put it down again and lifted the Grail the same way.

  That was the moment when Tempest chose to slice a small hole in another of his bags of ball bearings, to let some bearings escape when he threw it—and he hurled it, from the darkness behind the Order members clustered behind the Queen and the Lord Lion, right at the Elder’s head.

  It struck accurately and hard.

  Dazed, the Elder staggered, the Grail clanging down against the altar and spilling the blessing—and ball bearings bounced everywhere.

  Sending Marlshrike, Lord Winter, Grimstone, and Order members slipping, sliding, and falling.

  “Don’t move, Mother!” the Prince Royal told the Queen, wrapping his arms around her.

  Nor did she. Like statues they stood amid spreading tumult. The black candles toppled, igniting the altar cloth and the oil in the copper dish.

  Squalling, the Elder clawed at the flames, trying to put them out and to recover the Grail, which was now rolling lopsidedly across the floor. He was not helped in this endeavor by Order members, who kept helplessly falling onto him as ball bearings ruined their footing—in a spreading flood that Tempest reinforced with the contents of another slit-open and hurled bag that Hardcastle had just passed him. This bag exploded against the side of Lord Winter’s head.

  Tempest, Hardcastle, and Rose pounced on the Order members, keeping low so while they slipped often, they couldn’t fall. Tempest wrapped his arms around one unwashed neck and jerked with all the strength the exoskeleton could lend him—and something broke, the man’s head lolling sickeningly. He clawed at the Order tough’s belt and pockets, recovered a cosh and some knives, and tossed them to Hardcastle and Rose.

  The Lady Harminster let out a little shriek as that sharp steel came flashing at her in the candlelight, but clapped her forearms together and managed to field the knife an inch or so from her face.

  Tempest gave her an apologetic grin and called, “Watch!” Then he tackled the next Order member, using a knife to slash open the man’s jacket—and promptly pulling it up to shroud the man’s head. He tied it there, then punched the blinded man into collapse.

  Rose smiled, nodded, and did the same thing to the nearest Order member. As the man collapsed, she looked up to discover that Hardcastle was in his element. All this while, he’d been hammering Tentacle agents with the cosh—and grabbing everything flammable he could find, including their jackets, and hurling them onto the flames to keep the Elder busy.

  Tempest was now peering all around the cellar. Hardcastle tore down some of the hangings to feed the flames, revealing a horizontal pipe studded with bulbous valves from which spoked metal wheels protruded and open-ended side pipes jutted. Tempest pointed at one and called, “Rose!”

  The Lady Harminster saw where he was pointing, rushed to that wheel, and tugged on it.

  Lord Winter and the Elder both struggled to rush at her.

  “No!” Winter shouted. “Don’t you dare touch that, woman!”

  As he came around the altar, flames licking at his robes, the Elder was making shrill, squalling, burbling, wet sounds that might have been words. He threw the lit candle from the lantern at her, and then the knife.

  Rose turned the wheel and told the onrushing lord angrily, “That’s for the way Bentley Steelforce died.”

  The pipe jutting from the valve was a good three feet from her, but not far from Winter’s face as he charged—and the candle bounced off his shoulder, spitting flames in all directions. The gas jetting forth from the pipe ignited with a roar, and Winter screamed as the Elder’s knife struck him in the shoulder—and he vanished in the heart of a roaring flame.

  The “Uncle” of the Ancient Order danced in agony amid the gas flame, managing to stay upright long enough to shield the Elder behind him from sharing his fate, but the tentacled thing seemed to have had enough.

  Howling incoherently and trailing flames, it turned and fled from the cellar, its roars of pain echoing back to them from increasingly distant sewer tunnels.

  The blazing Lord Winter staggered back, slipped on some ball bearings, and fell—right onto one of the black candles, impaling himself on its tripod spike. He shrieked once, then sagged, leaning over as he burned.

  Rose shrank back from the sight in horror, only to find herself under attack from two grimly crawling Order members. She punched and kicked, as Tempest struggled forward through the ball bearings to the gas pipe, clawed his way up to turn the wheel she’d turned back again—and shut off the gas.

  As the jet of flame died and Rose battered the last two Tentacles men into groaning immobility, Hardcastle ducked behind the rest of the hangings to make sure there were no more lurking foes.

/>   He found himself staring at a ladder of rusty metal rungs set in one wall. The way Marlshrike must have come.

  He climbed them, discovered they ended at a trapdoor, shoved it up and open, and found himself in a warehouse. The morning sun was flooding in through a nearby open loading-dock door, and a dozen or so curious-looking loaders were clustered near, behind two tense-looking beagles.

  “Hold hard, there! Who are you, and what’s going on down there?” the nearest one challenged him.

  “Hardcastle’s my name, and I’m trying to escape,” Hardcastle replied, mustering what dignity he could.

  “Who’s been doing all the screaming?” the other beagle demanded.

  By way of reply, he inquired, “Is Standish with you?”

  “Wot?”

  “Chief Inspector Theo Standish. Handsome fellow, about yay wide and—”

  “That’ll do, Hardcastle,” Standish snapped, striding into view from behind the warehouse men. “Tell me, have you returned the mail ship you borrowed?”

  “That you, Standish?” Tempest called, from the depths below. “There’s something down here you should see.”

  “Oh? Such as?”

  “The Queen and the Prince Royal, for a start. A little bruised, but—”

  “Aye,” Standish sighed, rolling his eyes. “If they’re in your keeping, they would be.”

  * * *

  The crash of The Steel Kiss, and the rolling explosions and rising tongues of flame that followed, were spectacular.

  Lady Roodcannon watched from the tree that her lowered line had swung her into, smiled brightly at the spreading conflagration, and then shrugged.

  “It’s just a ship,” she observed aloud. “I’ll build others. And seize the Empire another day. After all, it’s not going anywhere, is it?”

  * * *

  The candles were all out, leaving behind a sharp reek and no small amount of smoke, but the cellars were brightly lit now by scores of beagle lanterns. Brisk constables were bustling everywhere, frowning as they snapped out queries and replies. The Queen and the Prince Royal were gone, taken to safety, but other disappearances were less acceptable. It seemed Marlshrike and Grimstone had slipped away unnoticed in the confusion of Lord Winter’s grisly demise, and so had the Elder. Although they were pounding along miles of old tunnels and the nearest navigable sewers beyond, the beagles had as yet found no sign of those three persons.

  And no wonder. London was a large place, and a proper flight of steps had been located a few rooms away from the altar-cellar that led up into the back room of a burnt-out public house. Now that there were beagles everywhere to stand escort, Tempest had sent Rose and Hardcastle away with the battered Grail in their keeping.

  Which left him free to explain to a skeptical Standish what had occurred, in the heart of a throng of senior beagles who were examining the bodies.

  “A tentacled man-thing?” the Chief Inspector growled. “That the best you can do? You’ll be babbling of mermaids next!”

  Jack Straker sighed in loud exasperation and gave Standish his best glare.

  “Theo, I’ve not been drinking, and I’m not pulling your leg! I saw what I saw, and—”

  “Where’s Lord Winter? Is he dead? And has he said anything to anyone?”

  Standish and Straker both turned. They knew that voice.

  It was coming from behind two commanders and the Deputy Assistant Commissioner, who were all stepping into the lantern light in full uniform. Behind them stood a tall figure in a greatcoat, gloves, mask, and a top hat studded with a glittering column of diamonds.

  Lord Staunton doffed that top hat, and his mask came with it. He handed it to the Deputy Assistant Commissioner as if the man was an underbutler and stepped forward.

  “Yes, my Lord,” Standish replied, “Lord Winter is dead. Caught in a gas flame, I understand. According to Lord Tempest here, he did say something about a Deep Blessing before he died.”

  He stepped aside and waved at what was left of Lord Winter.

  Lord Staunton looked down at the sprawled bones and ashes, from which a few tardy wisps of smoke were still rising.

  He gazed silently for a long time and then stepped back.

  And nodded, seeming almost regretful. “The hunger,” he murmured, “would have been almost unbearable.”

  Something in his tone made Standish look at him sharply.

  As Lord Staunton took another step back, a twisted smile rose onto his face.

  “You see,” he said softly, as both hands came up with many-barreled guns in them, thrusting his coat open so they could see the tiny badge of many tentacles he wore, “I am one, too.”

  And then he started firing.

  * * *

  “More tea?”

  Lady Rathercoats was at her most motherly, her eyes sparkling with excitement. It wasn’t often she had two fine men of noble rank in her parlor, and Lord Sefton and his son Algernon Hartworth seemed in no hurry to depart.

  “I will, yes, thank you,” Lord Sefton growled, and it was a mark of how shaken he was that he meant it, rather than shooting longing glances at the sideboard and wondering aloud if there was whisky to be had.

  They’d been discussing the same thing the entire neighborhood seemed to be buzzing about—the exciting events of the preceding night. It seemed half the Tower of London had been destroyed, and most of an army of loyal soldiers of the Empire slaughtered—not to mention dozens of airships crashing together in the sky and falling in flames into the Thames. Dastardly traitors had sought the lives of the Queen and the Prince Royal, but failed.

  “This time,” Lady Rathercoats added darkly. “And what of that horrible walking dead man, that Bentley Roper?”

  “Hadn’t heard anything of him being involved,” Lord Sefton growled, devouring another sandwich as he talked, “but it seems Lord Tempest and the man Hardcastle and Lady Harminster, too, were all in the thick of it and are due to be knighted, or decorated, or given silver punch bowls, or some such. Seems they rescued the Queen and the Prince.”

  “Some people have all the luck,” Algernon observed gloomily. “Piloting airships, firing guns, shooting honest-to-God real masked bad men … why can’t such things happen to me?”

  “Oh!” Lady Rathercoats exclaimed, scandalized. “Lord Sefton! Did you just hear what your son said?”

  “Yes,” Lord Sefton replied gruffly, “and I’m rather proud of him.”

  Algernon turned and gaped at his father. The broad smile he saw on those gruff and usually frowning features reassured him of the truth even before his question left his lips. “You are?”

  * * *

  Standish swam back to consciousness to find himself staring at an unfamiliar ceiling with wandering cracks in its yellowed plaster. He felt weak indeed, emptied, and in a deuced amount of pain. Shoulder, ribs, head, left ear …

  “What’s left of me? And what happened to Staunton?”

  “Escaped, I’m afraid,” Lord Tempest told him cheerfully. “Thanks to the Commander and Deputy Assistant Commissioner traitors. As did the Lady Roodcannon. Dashed untidy mess your beagles have made of things, all told.”

  “What’re you—my beagles?”

  “Your beagles,” Tempest said, checking his bandages. “You’ve lost most of an ear, but the rest of you should heal. You’ve been promoted to Assistant Commissioner by the Prince Royal. He expects a report, once you’re well enough to go around and give it.”

  Standish groaned, shook his head, then closed his eyes and shook it harder. Yet when he opened them again, the ceiling hadn’t gone away and he hadn’t woken up from some dream. He was awake.

  Assistant Commissioner?

  “Where am I?” he demanded to know.

  “Rented room at the Crown,” Tempest replied, and waved at some decanters. “I ordered in some decent drinkables, but you can’t have much until you’re a little more healed.”

  Standish turned his head and blinked again. Among the gleaming glassware stood a battered, lea
ning metal goblet. Lady Rose Harminster and Mister Bleys Hardcastle were sitting behind it smiling at him.

  “Oh, yes,” Tempest added. “And you’re in the presence of what might or might not be the Holy Grail, and esteemed individuals who are most definitely newly created Lords Investigator Royal—and the only Lady Investigator Royal in all the Empire. You lucky fellow. We’ll have a drink on the strength of that now, I think.”

  And they did.

  DRAMATIS PERSONAE

  in order of appearance

  JOHN LANGFORD, Dread Agent of the Tower (secret agent for the Crown) and Sworn Sword of the Lion (knight); loyal, trusted—and doomed

  MISTER BLEYS HARDCASTLE, a staunch and sturdy man of action; if this was a Holmes tale, he would be our Watson

  JACK STRAKER, Lord Tempest, a flamboyant and debonair nobleman, lean and hawklike inventor, and an Investigator Royal; if this was a Holmes tale, he would be our Holmes

  QUENTIN AMBERTHWAITE, Lord Staunton, a nobleman and the founder and sponsor of Lessingham’s (an exclusive club in a fashionable part of London), within which establishment he bears the nickname “the Old Man”

  Chief Inspector THEO STANDISH, of the Yard; a dour, grim policeman fueled by fury

  MISTER HALWORTHY BURTON, a high-ranking Crown official of Whitehall, concerned with collecting taxes from gentlemen and lords; venomous and unpopular

  HENRY ROLYNDSON, Lord Hawkingbrooke, Lord Guardian of the Royal Household, “the Old Hawk,” a formidable old warrior who is also serving as Lord Chamberlain of the Empire as our tale begins

  REGINALD THROCKMORTON, the Imperial Herald of the Realm; “Throck” to the Queen; old, loyal, and short, a man who knows very well how to glower

  His ROYAL HIGHNESS FREDERICK VILLIERS HANOVER, Lord Lion of the Empire, Prince Royal of England and Its Dominions Low and High, Sword of the Seas and Defender of the Two Faiths, and Most Dread Lord of London; better known to the Empire as just “the Lord Lion”; heir apparent to the throne, womanizer, and the possessor of very piercing blue eyes—dashing, very dashing

  IOLANTHE SHARPLEY, Lady Hailsham, a beautiful, spirited, well-armed, and loyal Dread Agent of the Tower (secret agent for the Crown) who is very good at what she does