The Lazarus Gate

by Mark Latham

  A bullet zipped past me, tearing my coat and rippling into the portal, causing me to discharge my pistol instinctively into the group of enemy sailors who faced us. I put down one of them for certain, and put the fear of God into several others before they fell upon us with rifle butts and bill-hooks. I fell to the ground, and fired again, catching an assailant in the chest. The buck-toothed man gasped his last breath and fell on top of me, pinning me to the ground. I looked around in desperation, feeling warm blood ooze onto me and hoping that it was not my own. Jim had been hit in the arm by the opening volley, and had dropped to one knee, battling manfully with his sabre against three men who were pressing towards him. The ship was no larger than a frigate, and the gangway that faced us was only a few yards wide, which prevented our enemies from outnumbering us too severely—and yet they were proving equal to the task of overcoming our rather weak assault, so shaken as we were by the passage between the worlds.

  Just as I thought we were done for, two of Jim’s men found their courage and charged through the portal. One of them, a big, broken-nosed man, held his rifle across himself and pushed over two Otherside sailors like ninepins; the other man, a wiry sort with a large, puckered scar on his right cheek, skewered an adversary with his bayonet. In the confusion, I managed to heave the dead man off me and stagger to my feet, hauling Jim up too. Our men took up firing positions near a bulkhead and cleared our path with expert precision, and in the brief respite we took stock of our surroundings. We were in the shadow of the central arch of London Bridge. The ceiling of the bridge above us was covered in pipes and bundles of cables, which sparked periodically as they conducted huge amounts of electricity between the arches. It seemed that the whole structure had been transformed into some gigantic, diabolical science experiment. The masts and spars of the ship, though not as tall as one would find on a conventional Navy vessel, almost scraped the inner archway, and tiny streaks of lightning darted betwixt spar and cable. It had been the old waterman, Grimes, who had mentioned the Thames tides to me, and by my reckoning the tide was now at its lowest; even so, the shallow-draught warship could only just scrape under the bridge. Looking along the length of the vessel, the walkway opened out onto a long, flush deck, with compact smokestacks dotted along its centre line. Howitzers lined the ship’s deck—I counted eight on each side of the vessel—and amidst the smoke and steam we could discern dozens more sailors running to and fro.

  Without a word from us, the smaller of the two marines opened the bulkhead door beside him, and before we could stop him he had lit a stick of dynamite, thrown it inside and closed the door behind it. There was a loud bang, followed by muffled cries.

  ‘What are you doing?’ I yelled. ‘We’re here to find their commander!’

  The man shrugged. ‘Orders is to kill him,’ he said, by way of explanation.

  I shot a glance at Jim, who likewise shrugged, and I realised that he was right. By fair means or foul, we were there to assassinate Lazarus.

  ‘Well then,’ I said, ‘just you be careful with that dynamite; it’s not known for its stability.’

  ‘Best not ask where he got it,’ Jim interjected, with a wry smile.

  Jim issued orders to his men to secure the aft portion of the walkway, and defend it against the marines who would surely join the fight any second. We moved along the walkway behind them, forced somewhat by the portal, which crept up behind us inch by inch as the ironclad continued its slow progress. The bulkhead was soon half-swallowed up by coruscating light, but that was no longer our prime concern. A few yards ahead was a stair rail, leading up to the bridge. Jim and I would have to brave it whilst the sailors below covered our ascent.

  Jim went first up the steep steel-shod steps, while I struggled up behind him. He had given me no time to volunteer to go ahead, even though his injury meant he’d had to sheathe his sabre in order to make the climb. The first I knew that there were enemy marines in our path was when one came flying over the rail above, almost knocking me down the stairs. Jim had virtually run into the fellow as he reached the upper platform, and had heaved the man over his shoulder and sent him crashing to the deck below. I gritted my teeth, wincing at the thought of having to fight on with my own injuries, and raced up the stairway as fast as I was able. At the top was a platform, and a doorway to the bridge, but there was no further time to assess the situation. Jim was even then engaged in a brawl with another marine, whilst a second was racing at him with a naval axe at the ready. I drew my pistol and snapped off a round, taking the man in the side and sending him spinning away. Jim had by then bested his man, and kicked him down the stairway opposite, where he collided with his onrushing accomplices.

  Jim indicated the door next to him, and we did not pause before flinging it open and rushing inside. Most of the bridge section had now passed further towards the portal, and as we entered the room we saw a sheet of shimmering light bisecting it; the glowing amber window between worlds seemingly could not be obstructed even by walls of iron. The ship’s captain stood by the wheel, wrestling with it as the portal enveloped him. Flanking him were two midshipmen, who turned with a start as Jim and I made our presence known. One tried to stop us, but Jim hit the man full in the stomach and shoved him aside, before drawing his sabre and pointing it at the second sailor, who threw up his arms in surrender. Jim threw the man from the room and fastened the door tight shut. By then the captain had sunk into the portal, with just a man-shaped outline of tiny dancing sparks to account for his whereabouts. I girded myself and leapt through after him, hoping upon hope that the gate would allow me to cross back and forth an unlimited number of times.

  Again, I was plunged into that strange half-world, and my arms drove forwards with great difficulty against the sheer ‘thickness’ of the air around me, until I caught hold of the captain’s shoulders. In a trice we were both on the other side of the veil, and the captain cried out in alarm—he was clearly new to the sensation of traversing between the worlds and was now as disorientated as I had been; added to that, I was dragging him from the ship’s wheel, and he must have thought that the very hounds of hell were pulling him back to where he belonged. I wrested him from the wheel and threw him across the bridge. He clattered into a metal desk, sending charts and ledgers scattering across the floor. I pulled out my revolver and held it to the man’s head.

  ‘Lazarus,’ I snarled. ‘Where is Lazarus?’

  ‘Who are you? What are you doing?’ he said, pathetically. He looked a man of experience rather than a green sailor, but I doubted he had ever seen real fighting, man-to-man.

  Before I could say more, Jim appeared behind me, through the portal.

  ‘The ship’s picking up a bit of speed,’ he said. ‘No time to waste; best kill this wretch and move on.’

  Taking Jim’s cue, I cocked the revolver and nodded grimly. The ruse was enough; the captain, whose brow was soaked in nervous sweat, broke down.

  ‘Please, no! I’ll tell you what you need to know—but it won’t do you any good. Lazarus is in his cabin, aft. But you’ll never get past the marines.’

  ‘Thank you, you’ve been most cooperative,’ I said, pistol-whipping the man unconscious. I imagined at worst he’d wake up with a headache, though what fate would await him in his own world should we succeed was anyone’s guess.

  ‘He may be right,’ said Jim. ‘We’ve managed to gain ground, but the ship is under propulsion and is coming through whether we like it or not. And if Lazarus is well guarded… this could be suicide, John.’

  ‘True, but duty calls,’ I said, determinedly. ‘And besides, I think we can create a little distraction whilst we’re here.’

  I took hold of the ship’s wheel, and with all my might turned it as far as it would go to port, and then grappled with it as it spun back, and took it all the way to starboard. Jim cried out protestations, but was too late—the ship swayed to the left and we heard a terrible scraping sound as the ironclad hull met the solid stone buttresses of the bridge; then the whole v
essel lurched violently, heeling to starboard.

  We steadied ourselves and looked out of the fore windows. The sky in our London had turned a pale orange colour, making the cityscape a series of smudged, black silhouettes as the lingering fog slowly relinquished its grip on the capital. It was a second of serenity, quickly shattered by the sound of cannonades. The naval guns on the shore had opened fire at Lazarus’ flagship, and as the first shell hit the prow the entire ship trembled. I had a feeling that the armoured behemoth was designed to take a pounding, but it still made me feel better knowing that the guns were there.

  ‘What the devil are they doing?’ asked Jim, incredulously. ‘They have orders not to fire until the second ship is sighted.’

  ‘I imagine they’re panicking,’ I replied. ‘And who can blame them? Come on, Jim—let’s not stay here to get blasted apart by your guns. We have work to do.’

  And with that, we plunged once more into the breach, emerging back on the other side in the control room that was shrinking in size, inch by inch, as the ship crept through the portal. We paused, realising that the only way out was through the door that Jim had barred, and that there were probably armed enemies on the other side of it. Our fears were quelled, however, by the sounds of pounding on the bulkhead door, followed by a cry of: ‘Sir! It’s Vickers, sir. We’ve secured the bridge, and the reinforcements have arrived.’

  We flung open the door, and saw Vickers, the big soldier, standing before us in the shadow of the bridge. The sounds of battle were all around us, and Jim complained to his man that the reinforcements had come too early.

  ‘We’re showing all of our hand,’ he said, ‘and the enemy will make us pay for it. Who gave them the order?’

  ‘Dunno sir. Sorry sir,’ Vickers replied.

  ‘Don’t look a gift horse in the mouth,’ I interjected, and jollied Captain Denny along. Lazarus had to be found quickly if we were to put a stop to the madness. If the other enemy vessels broke through, we would not have enough men on alert to stop the invasion.

  We rushed down the stairs onto the main deck, where men were engaged in vicious firefights and hand-to-hand combat. Some of Jim’s soldiers were hunkered behind the gunwales, exchanging fire with sailors from the other ships off to either side. Their efforts were ineffective given the range, but I admired their enthusiasm, and it seemed as though we were winning the fight for the deck.

  Seeing an opportunity, I raced towards the centre of the deck, pistol drawn, finally escaping the clutches of London Bridge’s dark shadow and emerging into the red light of dawn. But as I glanced about me, I saw that it was not dawn that greeted me, but a vision of such dizzying terror that I can barely put it into words even now.

  For the first time I saw daylight on the other side, but it was no natural atmosphere. In the other world, the sky was afire, a swirling tumult of liquid flame that hung in the air in place of clouds. The Thames stretched out beneath it, reflecting orange fire in every ripple, and much wider than in our own world. Beyond the bounds of Southwark, it seemed that acres of city had fallen away as if eroded by the river, or perhaps spirited away into some other realm, some other hellish universe that craved the desolation of the Othersiders’ world. In that widening stretch of scarlet waterway, the invasion fleet was assembled—not one ship for each of the arches of London Bridge, but a flotilla of a size not seen since the Armada. Hundreds of ships, boats and skiffs filled the Thames, flying the colours of a dozen great nations. They waited like a pack of hounds for the orders of their huntmaster: the herald of our doom that Lazarus represented. The city itself was dark and satanic, with towering spires and structures dwarfing even the familiar features of St Pauls, and gigantic chimneys pouring thick smoke into the burning sky. Other black shapes flitted and floated in the air above those forbidding structures, like swarms of huge flies buzzing over a midden heap that, even here, had surely once been the jewel in the Empire’s crown. Some of those airborne specks were familiar—dirigibles and balloons, or else clearly of human design—and yet others seemed alien, jerking about the sky spouting jets of steam and fire. Even those dire creations of men paled in comparison, however, to the flying Things that swooped and soared upon the flaming thermals on great membranous wings. That sight, observed in but an instant, was dizzying and terrible, but I could have coped with the madness of it all had I not then seen the abomination that presided over it all. Above the horizon was a cyclopean black form, cast against the roiling tempest of fire like an obscene shadow-play of unimaginable scale. It seemed at first like a huge, clawed hand, flexing towards the pale, muted sun, but it was nothing so… human. It was an indistinct form, sometimes solid and black as night, sometimes as intangible as smoke; a tangle of writhing tentacles and claws that scraped at the heavens, holding all of this Other London in its thrall. I do not know what it was, nor what force had unleashed it upon the Othersiders’ world; all I know is that I was struck most horribly by the fearful sight of it, stricken momentarily mad at the thought of such powers in the universe. The longer my gaze lingered upon it, the more I convinced myself that I could hear it—or, rather, feel it—whispering and scratching; scratching in my mind. I closed my eye tight, but that only seemed to make the hideous noise louder, as if inhuman fingers were probing within my skull.

  A heavy shove brought me to my senses. Vickers had pushed me to the deck, and as I looked up I saw him punch an Otherside marine square on the jaw, knocking the man over with one terrific blow. Vickers extended his hand, and I took it gratefully and let him heave me to my feet.

  ‘That fella nearly done for you, sir. You’d do well to keep your good eye open, if you don’t mind me saying.’

  ‘Not at all, Vickers, thank you,’ I said, dusting myself down. I looked around, averting my gaze from the terrible sights of the city beyond, though I knew they were there still from the cold creep at the back of my neck. ‘Where is Captain Denny?’ I asked.

  Vickers gave a shrug. ‘Went on ahead, I s’pose.’

  ‘Then there’s not a second to lose. Come on, man!’

  And with that we raced towards the cabins at the rear of the vessel, dodging clumsy attacks and swirling melees as bullets whipped past us. We passed the next smokestack, and were momentarily obstructed by an enemy marine who was as surprised to see us bearing down on him as we were to see him. Vickers did not stop, but instead shoulder-barged the man, flattening him on the lime-washed deck. We did not pause—judging by the number of friendly soldiers who had already forced their way this far along the ship, the man would have enough on his plate without pursuing us. The fighting raged around the chimneys, around the howitzers and winches. Our numbers were fewer, but the Othersiders were not expecting to fight on board their own vessel, and I imagined that the troop transports were elsewhere in the flotilla. The other ships in the invasion fleet had stayed their course, and were not advancing through the portals; I could only assume that they had to be certain of Lazarus’ presence on the other side before they dared cross in numbers. Likewise, I had to be sure that he never set foot on our side of the veil again. But something gnawed at me. Jim had been dismayed that his men had disobeyed his orders, even though their actions had benefitted us, and now he was missing. What had Ambrose said? ‘Even I don’t know all of the agents infiltrating this city. Why trust him and not me?’ Could he be one of them? I shuddered at the thought, and prayed it would not turn out so.

  As Vickers and I reached the door to the officers’ quarters, the ship heeled again, lolling to starboard. A tremendous clanging noise resonated across the metal hull of the ship. I looked out across the river, thinking at first that the Othersiders were firing upon their own ship, but they were not, of course.

  ‘Them’s our guns, sir,’ said Vickers. ‘Reckon they’ll sink this tub soon enough.’

  It certainly seemed as if the big man was right. However, I also saw with dismay that the ship to our port side had begun to load its launches with marines, undoubtedly to send across and liberate the ship we
were on. I did not know if the sound of guns in my own London would have brought further reinforcements, but if it did not then we certainly had insufficient men for the task of holding the ironclad. With this as motivation, I flung open the door to the officers’ quarters and went inside, with Vickers in tow.

  We found ourselves in a cramped corridor, with wide-open bulkhead doors off to left and right, and another at the end. Through each of the side doors were flights of steel-shod stairs, and the faint thrum of machinery suggested that they led to the engine rooms and, most likely, the crew quarters. I had spent a long time aboard various ships, and knew the ship’s mess and captain’s cabin would be straight on. I made for the door ahead of us, but was distracted by Vickers as he made a pained ‘Oomph!’ I spun around in time to see that a marine had clubbed Vickers across the shoulders with a rifle, though the big man miraculously kept his feet. Vickers turned with surprising speed, and began to wrestle the gun from the grasp of his attacker. He spared a moment to look over his shoulder and shout to me: ‘You go on, sir; I’ll handle this.’ As Vickers proceeded to push his assailant back out of the door, I made yet again for the bulkhead door at the end of the corridor, which was invitingly ajar.

  With my gun drawn, I pushed the door open slowly, but was betrayed by its horrendous creaking. The room within was gloomy and quiet, and the sounds of combat outside were so muffled that they might as well have been a mile away. I stepped cautiously into the room, which ran almost the width of the ship, with a dining table taking up most of its length. The drapes on either side were drawn. I was about to dismiss the mess as empty and continue across to the captain’s cabin when a voice made me freeze.

  ‘It’s about time—I thought I would be waiting until hell froze over for you to arrive… brother.’

  I turned on my heels to face the threat. There was no mistaking Lillian’s voice; so cold, cruel and mocking, but still melodic and wanton. There she was, sitting at the head of the mess table, her feet up on the boards showing her long legs and stiletto-heeled boots. How I had not seen her when I first scanned the room I could not fathom, for her white face shone in the gloom like moonlight shining on porcelain.