The Iscariot Sanction

by Mark Latham

  When the voice of the Other came, it was almost a relief. If it pursued him still, then he was alive. But that it had found him meant that his relief would be fleeting.

  You are ours now, little blood-sack.

  Arthur blinked against the night, trying desperately to come to his senses. Shadows moved around him, the icy cold numbed him. His fingers closed around something wet and slimy; he at first recoiled, but then identified clumps of vegetation. He felt now the damp seeping through his clothes, felt needle-sharp pains all over his body, and the sticky warmth of the bullet wound, from which his strength seemed to flow into the cold ground.

  Relinquish the spark of life and come to us, blood-sack. The Other cajoled him, the voice in Arthur’s head sounding soothing, alluring.

  He tried to shake it from his thoughts, but it was there still, scratching at the inside of his head. Arthur realised that his limbs would barely move, that he must be injured badly. He knew that if he lay there too long, so suffuse with etherium, the Other would claw its way after him greedily. He willed his body to move, willed his hands to grip the coarse bushes beside him and his arms to pull him upwards. His wound burned like fire, his own blood feeling impossibly hot in the freezing air. He crawled at first, wriggling and undignified, every inch of ground covered causing him more pain than he’d thought possible.

  Where are you running to, little blood-sack? We hunger.

  Arthur’s vision swam. Slowly but surely he began to make out shapes and colours; a dark sky, a pale pink horizon, foliage washed with purple hues, picked out by the weak light from a cloud-covered half-moon. He pushed with his legs, his crawl becoming a clamber. His feet sank in deep puddles of mud, making every step laborious.

  We will find you, and we will snip-crack your bones…

  He could see the Other in his mind’s eye now—a half-glimpsed mass of writhing terror, upon which his thoughts could not linger lest he be dragged to madness. Arthur steeled himself, his freezing fingers poking into his pockets, fumbling for his syringe case and the phials of etherium. It was still there, but he would not use it unless it was absolutely necessary.

  Snip-crack; snip-crack; snip-crack…

  Louder and louder, closer and closer, the Other stalked him. Arthur knew he had taken too much etherium. In the cradle of the Tesla field he had felt safe, knowing that his powers would need to be increased tenfold if he were to combat de Montfort. But now, out here, he felt more vulnerable than ever. He was a candle in the darkness, a feast of rotting flesh for the lord of flies.

  That thought spurred him onwards—if he were to die, it would be on his own terms. He knew he could outrun them, at least for a while—the Other would try to break through the veil, to create a Rift within the fabric of the universe, but that would take time and energy that the Riftborn often failed to muster. By staying on the move, a Majestic could lead the Riftborn a merry dance until finally, he hoped, the demons lost the energy to break through. If he were to tire before them, however…

  Where are you? Blood-sack, blood-sack… where are you?

  There were other options. He fingered the syringe case, but knew that it was a desperate gambit, a last resort. Mundane etherium. Not etherium at all, but something perhaps more sinister, dressed up with a fanciful name to make its use more palatable to the general populace. No, the source of mundane etherium must remain a closely guarded secret, known only by the Nightwatch and their masters. Arthur pushed such thoughts from his mind—all thoughts, indeed, for only a clear head could hold the Other at bay. But he was in no state to bar the doors to his psyche. He could feel long, probing fingers picking away at the psychic defences he had so hastily formed. He had to keep moving.

  Where are you?

  The voice was louder now. A sharp pain jabbed at Arthur’s skull, and he felt the trickle of blood from his nose. The after-effects of etherium were often violent. The attentions of the Other more so.

  The ground became less even. Arthur scrambled up a steep bank, grabbing clumps of tough heather to pull himself upwards. His vision began to return to normal, the dark moors coalescing into focus. The cold night air pricked at him relentlessly.

  Where are you?

  Arthur reached the top of the bank, and a stronger breeze pushed at him. Before him was a wide bed of heavy gravel, and a pair of rail tracks. His memory flooded back to him, piecemeal at first, then faster. He remembered the creatures aboard the royal train; the Tesla pistol—where was it now? He remembered falling from the train. He knew he was lucky to be alive.

  Arthur straightened up as best he could, and the agony of his wound almost forced him to his knees. He could not bear to touch it, for he knew he might pass out, and there was no telling what would happen then. He locked his mind, visualising ironbound doors and barricades, fortified against the raging demons beyond. They hammered at his mental defences, and howled with hatred.

  ‘Where are you?’

  The voice was loud, and close. Head spinning, Arthur steeled himself for a confrontation with his old enemy. The cat-and-mouse game they had played since the Awakening was almost over.

  ‘Arthur! Where are you?’

  He saw the figure stumbling towards him, slender and black against the dark moors.

  He saw Lillian Hardwick. Even as she reached him, he fell into her arms, weak and limp, and laughed until he wept.

  * * *

  ‘Arthur, we have to find somewhere to stop,’ Lillian pleaded. ‘You must rest.’

  ‘No,’ Arthur said, though speaking at all seemed too much of an effort for him. ‘The Other… we have to keep moving.’

  In truth, Lillian was starting to think about her own injuries. She was tired and weak, but Arthur was leaning on her more and more heavily. She could not complain—he was half-delirious, raving about the Other. Several times now, when he had grown more distressed, blood had flowed from his nose, and he had suffered terrible convulsions. They had been forced to stop each time, Lillian cradling him as though he were a babe in arms, soothing him with soft words until his agitation passed and he was able to resume their flight.

  She had no cause to disbelieve Arthur about the pursuit of the Riftborn, but she also knew that he had lost a lot of blood, was weak and near insensible, and had taken a large dose of etherium already. Not only that, but she had far more pressing concerns. Arthur was in no physical state to travel, but he was also in no mental condition to offer any advice on their options. Of their partnership, Lillian had always relied heavily on Arthur for carefully considered strategy. Her plan had been a rushed one, for the Knights Iscariot had clearly not intended to leave the two agents to their fate on the moors. They were in pursuit.

  A howl echoed through the night, rolling to a high-pitched crescendo that tailed into a staccato, avian shriek. It was getting closer.

  Spurred on by the knowledge that they were being hunted, Lillian had opted to follow the rail tracks back east, towards the last village she remembered. She hoped there was more to it than merely the station and church she had seen—much of the nearby environs had been masked by woodland, she recalled. If they could only find a cottage, or an inn—somewhere to take shelter from the creatures at their heels.

  The shriek came again, and this time it was answered by another, more distant. They were closing fast. Lillian wondered if these were the same creatures that had been crawling over the train, perhaps stowed away waiting for their master’s command, or whether the Knights Iscariot had their ghoulish, bestial creatures prowling the moors for runaways. She guessed that de Montfort—or his mysterious ‘Nameless King’—would be able to exert a measure of control over the beasts even at a distance.

  Lillian dropped Arthur as gently as she could into a pile of heather beside a rocky outcrop, sheltered from the wind—and, she hoped, from the view of their pursuers. She took stock of her weaponry again, more out of habit than hope. The situation was dire. She had a single-shot derringer, with five rounds including the one in the chamber. Only one of her hai
rpin-blades had survived the battle, which presently did a poor job of controlling her dirty, tousled hair, and she had a small knife stashed in her left boot, weighted for throwing. Arthur had his standard-issue pocket knife, heftier than her own but short-bladed, and four etherium bullets for a pistol he had lost. He sat on the damp ground, muttering incoherently to himself. Or rather, Lillian realised with a shudder, chanting some strange litany against unseen terrors.

  She had lost track of how long they had stumbled through the scrub. Behind her were many miles of moorland, punctuated by tall, craggy rock-piles. Ahead, the horizon terminated at an indistinct, black forest, some half a mile away at least.

  Lillian heard a growl so close she could almost pinpoint it, and she scanned the darkness behind her. At first, the moors seemed just as they had seconds before. But she quickly looked back again as she realised the vertical stones that erupted from the landscape had increased in number. Thin black shapes, stock-still and full of menace, stood amongst the rocks. So unmoving were they that Lillian was almost ready to discount their appearance as a trick of the softly undulating flames that glowed as ever on the horizon to the south. But then she saw two tiny pinpricks of purple light flash briefly from one of the figures; violet eyes gleaming keenly and, surely, seeing her.

  ‘Arthur, it’s time to go,’ she hissed.

  Arthur murmured something akin to a protest, but allowed himself to be pulled to his feet and guided onward in a pitiful limp. He leaned less heavily on her now, which was a small mercy as she tried to overcome the intense chill in her bones that made her limbs feel like lead. She glanced over her shoulder. The figures had multiplied—where there had been two, there were now four, and they were closer. They remained still as statues, their flickering eyes the only signs that the creatures were alive at all.

  What are they waiting for? Lillian did not wish to find out. Instead she picked up the pace as best she could, half-dragging Arthur with her. The pain in her side flared up; she was certain she’d broken a rib or two, but she could not stop. Her mission had surely changed—her sole objective now was to get Arthur to safety, and find a way home. Arthur was starting to gibber incoherently, the volume of his mutterings increasing. Even though the enemy was upon them, and surely aware of their location, Arthur’s ravings made Lillian feel exposed, and she tried her best to hush him, to no avail.

  They covered another fifty yards, torturously, and Lillian heard a snarling sound all too near. She turned again. There were five of them now, and they had moved once more, fanning out into a horseshoe formation, herding their prey ever eastwards. Whenever Lillian looked at them, even if she tried to spin quickly and catch the monsters unawares, they were stationary once more; yet each time they had taken up a new position. These were the bald-headed creatures with some semblance of intelligence, the snuffling, prowling hunters of the Knights Iscariot. Their long overcoats transformed their silhouettes into ominous black monoliths on the windswept moors.

  Lillian could not tolerate the idea of being pushed into a trap. She considered what would happen if she were to make a stand. As if in answer, the black statues were joined by something else, something that made Lillian’s heart sink. A low howl rang across the wastes, and the pale, hunched forms of a dozen hideous ghouls now approached, what Ewart had called ‘gaunts’, crouched at their masters’ feet. They were so close now that their grunts and hideous cries were plain to hear. Lillian knew that if she tried to fight they would overwhelm her. Would they spare Arthur? After seeing de Montfort in person, she rather doubted it; it seemed she was part of some sadistic game.

  She forged onwards, staggering up a sudden incline, tripping on the uneven ground. As she did so, something snapped at her heels; she turned at once, ready to fire her weapon, only to see a pallid form scurry backwards, eyes fixed upon her until they vanished into the shadows. As she crested the rise, her heart skipped a beat. Protruding above the dark forest ahead was the unmistakeable spear-tip of a church spire and, nestled beneath the jagged black canopy of the skeletal woods were small, yellow lights. Lamps glowing at windows. An inn, perhaps; sanctuary, or a trap.

  There was no other choice. Lillian pulled at Arthur’s arm and started towards the village, but this time he gave out a pained cry and fell to the ground, clutching his side. At this, the snarls in the night grew louder, and one of the pallid creatures, unable to contain its bloodlust, leapt forward. Its jaws were upon Arthur’s wound before Lillian could react, a wet, snapping sound as of a beast rooting within an animal carcass, lapping at fresh blood, grunting and snuffling greedily.

  Lillian fired the derringer, which was shockingly loud upon the still moor. The beast uttered a hoarse, hate-filled scream as the small bullet struck its neck; it tumbled away from its prey, scrabbling in the heather, bounding and snorting like an injured bull. Sir Arthur cried out too, in agony and fear, and Lillian knew at once that there was more at stake than a mauling at the jaws of the vampire beasts. An orb of amber light, small at first, but growing by the second, began to form in the air above Arthur’s stricken form. Within the hazy orb was a brighter, jagged flash of white, which began to open like a wound, revealing something hideous beyond, something red and blood-slick, infinite and terrible, with a million flurrying claws and pin-sharp teeth.

  The Other.

  The vampires shrank back from the light, hissing at the approach of a new enemy. Lillian grabbed Arthur by the collar and hauled him from beneath the amber glow, which was already the height of a man, hanging in the air some six feet off the ground. Black tendrils probed from the Rift, smoke-like, but gaining solidity by the second. Thousands of pairs of eyes peered into the world, shining like stars—perhaps they were stars. Lillian saw but the briefest glimpse into the Other’s realm, that fabled veridical plane, and what she saw frightened her in the way that darkness frightens small children, instilling within her breast an absolute certainty of the horror lurking in the unknown.

  The black-clad hunters moved at last, circling warily, seemingly uncertain whether to press their pursuit of Lillian and Arthur, or to face the new threat. When they turned as one to the Rift, Lillian had the sudden epiphany that they did not want her dead; that the vampires would protect her, save her.

  But for what worse fate?

  A sound like snapping bones and squelching flesh assailed Lillian’s ears, accompanied by a horrendous cacophony of screeches. She felt her teeth and bones vibrating, and for a second she felt as though she were falling into deep water, and was overcome by the absolute conviction that she was to be swallowed up by the Rift—that she could somehow be shaken into another world entirely.

  The amber light grew. The vampires’ avian clicks became snarls. The tearing of the veil between worlds was audible, and with it came the smell of brimstone, and of fresh blood, of ash and decay. Arthur screamed again, and clutched his head. Lillian could not look—she felt the light upon her, like it was the warmth of a new day’s sun. From the corner of her eye she saw the pallid shapes of the Knights’ minions scuttle past her like enormous spiders, scurrying towards the new foe. Somehow she willed her body to move, tightened her grip on Arthur’s collar, and pulled him away.

  Behind them, claws slashed, teeth snapped, and inhuman screams echoed across the moors.

  * * *

  The church had been locked. Lillian gave it up as futile, and moved on quickly along the narrow lane, searching for the lights that she had seen burning from the moors.

  Crossing a footbridge over a shallow brook, she saw it at last—an inn, half-timbered and dilapidated, the first in a short row of village shops on what appeared to be a long-forgotten road. Lillian chanced a look behind her—of the Riftborn and the Knights Iscariot, there was no sign.

  Arthur had calmed, although he was by no means himself. He breathed raggedly. Lillian wondered just what he had seen, in his mind’s eye. To her shame, she realised she did not really wish to know.

  With soothing words, Lillian encouraged him to follow her to t
he inn. The metal sign creaked softly on the cold breeze, emblazoned with a heraldic raven pecking the eyeball from a dead soldier. The name of the inn, the Ravengill Arms, was painted above the grisly scene in a faded, uneven hand.

  She stood on tiptoes and peered through a grimy, leaded window. Within, a large oil lamp that looked as though it had been taken from a ship hung from the soot-stained ceiling, giving off a smoky, yellow light. The bar that it illuminated appeared deserted. There was no fire in the hearth, so why leave an oil lamp burning? Such a waste was surely beyond the means of a humble innkeeper in so remote an establishment.

  Lillian went to the door and hammered firmly upon it. There was no reply. She tried again, and went to the window once more to see if she had stirred movement within. Not a soul was to be seen.

  She stooped and took up a handful of grit, and cast it against an upstairs window. After a second, the curtains twitched, and she was sure she spied a face within.

  ‘Please,’ she shouted up. ‘Let us in. We are in urgent need.’

  The face retreated; the curtains fell back into place.

  Lillian scowled. This time she picked up a larger stone, and threw it at the window, smashing a hole through the bottom corner of the pane with a satisfying crack.

  ‘Let us in, in the name of the Queen!’ she shouted.

  Quick as a flash, two internal shutters were slammed fast, making further attempts upon the window pointless.

  Lillian at once returned to the door, and pounded on it even harder. Before long, a muffled male voice floated from the other side.

  ‘Go ’ome! There’s nowt for you ’ere.’

  ‘Will you not help two strangers in need?’ Lillian shouted. ‘We are injured. My friend is close to death. Please, where is your Christian charity?’

  ‘This is not a Christian land, miss; not any more. Move on now… I’ve a gun, and I’ll use it.’