The Iscariot Sanction (50 page)

‘This is the most important All Hallows in the history of our people. Most of you have heard whispers of Lord Lucien de Montfort’s great experiment. You have seen for yourselves the fruits of his labours, and know that the rumours are, at least for the most part, true.’ The King paused as a murmur rippled through the congregation.

‘Recent events have caused great concern amongst our kind. I imagine that our kindred in the furthest corners of the globe have yet to hear of the great threat that has been unleashed upon the world. I have been asked to say some words to assuage your fears on this matter. I cannot do that. Even as we speak, the Riftborn spread through the south like a cancer, and the humans shall swiftly discover that they live on borrowed time. We shall, of course, endure, but not without cost. Nor, it seems, without change.

‘In the space of a decade, a mere blink of an eye for such as us, the Iscariot Sanction has gone from myth, to theory, to heresy, to reality. It is a symbol of these changing times, of our growing power. I decree that this is not something we should fear, but neither is it something we should embrace hastily. Lord de Montfort would have us bolster our race with fresh blood; to create a veritable army of highborn
wampyr
from human stock, as God created Eve from the rib of Adam. But that is not our way. That is not how we have endured the long centuries.’

De Montfort made to stand, and thought better of it. Yet his action was enough to draw the attention of all at the banqueting table, and of the King himself, who now turned to face his Majestic servant.

‘Please, Lord de Montfort. There is something that so preys upon your mind that you would consider interrupting my All Hallows address.’ The King’s voice was alone now, his choir paused, staring vacantly. His every word dripped malice, and strength. ‘If you have something to add, I would bid you do so, for all who sit at my table are equals on this night.’

If it was possible for a cold-skinned vampire to look nervous, de Montfort did now. Lillian enjoyed watching him squirm, before he seemed finally to steel himself and get to his feet. Beneath the cowl, the Nameless King cocked his head a fraction; a movement imperceptible perhaps to a mortal, but enough to show surprise at de Montfort’s audacity.

‘Your Majesty, I apologise. I merely wished to point out the risks we have taken to perfect the Iscariot Sanction. Though my eagerness is perhaps born of a personal investment in the matter, I am ever your servant.’ De Montfort bowed and took his seat once more. The King seemed to consider these words but briefly, and then turned back to the chamber.

‘I am old.’ The King’s choir intoned again. ‘All of you know the story, that I am so old I have forgotten my own name. It is true. I have ruled our kind since the earliest days. As far as I know I am the only one of our kind remaining who ever saw Judas Iscariot before he passed from this world. And in that time, I have led us with caution. I have built an empire in the shadows, immutable as stone. I have not reached so great an age, nor gathered such power, by embracing every foolish idea that has come our way. And yet, in this, my hand has been forced. The events in London, as regrettable as they may seem, will tear the world of the humans apart. By the time the Riftborn are finished, the humans will be crying out for a saviour. And they will look no further than Scarrowfall. They hate and fear us now, but eventually they shall have to embrace us.

‘Lord de Montfort’s innovations will serve us well, at least once more. But they shall serve us as a deterrent, a display of our power over the humans, rather than a crude weapon. We have ever been the knife in the darkness, rather than the mailed fist. We shall never need to issue the Iscariot Sanction, for the very threat of it shall be enough to dissuade the humans from taking up arms against us. It is without further ado, therefore, that I introduce to you the product of Lord de Montfort’s scientific endeavours. A woman who was, until very recently, human, but is now of my very blood. The first pure
wampyr
to be created in more than a millennium; a
wampyr
who bears all the power of my house, but without the terrible curse that afflicts the later generations of our kind. I give to you: Lillian.’

Go to him, slowly. Be the perfect lady, for he commands it and expects it.

Lillian stood, wondering how to act the perfect lady when, according to her mother, she had never managed it before. She walked as confidently as she dared, past the glower of Colonel Ewart, past the vampire bishop, and through the tangled mass of half-naked courtesans who sat at the foot of the table. She stopped before the King, masking her disgust at the stench of death that wafted from him. He took her hand in his enormous, wizened claw, turning her like a prized slave to the crowd.

‘Behold, the product of the Iscariot Sanction. Let no one among you doubt the truth of it. Let none among you label her “blasphemy”, nor seek to do her harm, for after this night Lillian shall be my bride. Her purity shall secure the strength of my line for all the days to come. Our greatest glories are ahead of us; this I promise.’

The applause began, softly at first, growing like a rainstorm, until it became deafening. The cheers of the vampires were little more than nauseating screeches and clicks, their vocal utterances far beyond human. Lillian felt sick. De Montfort was right—the Nameless King would make her his bride if she did not do something about it.

Take three paces back, and stand still
, de Montfort’s voice rang in her head again.

The King released her hand, and she did as she was bid. The applause died down. Lillian did her best to maintain her composure as cold, slender hands pawed at her dress and tugged at her sleeves. The vacuous, lolling concubines seemed fascinated with her, like children playing with a new doll.

‘I am sure that the human delegation at my table has not gone unnoticed,’ the Nameless King croaked, his thralls lending a many-faceted harmony to his words. ‘I am equally certain that one amongst them requires no introduction. It is my very great pleasure to welcome Prince Leopold, to extend to him the hospitality of my house, and to secure, through him, an agreement between our two peoples that is unique in two thousand years of history.’

There was a ripple of applause. The prince stood and bowed formally, though he looked sicklier than ever, and not entirely of his own mind.

‘I said that the Iscariot Sanction would be issued once more,’ the King said. ‘The recipient of this mighty gift shall be none other than Prince Leopold himself. With this one blessing, the prince shall not only have his ailments cured, but shall serve as the greatest possible symbol of the new unity between our people.’

The prince walked around the table and stood to attention before the King. Leopold was almost as pale as the vampires that surrounded him, and now did indeed look weak and sickly to Lillian’s eyes. He was dressed in his military uniform, with medals upon his breast, though such a thin, callow youth would never have the opportunity to earn such plaudits upon a battlefield. He stood before the assembled mass of grotesque creatures in their masquerade costumes. Lillian fancied that the prince fitted in well with his new bedfellows—they all pretended they were something other than they were.

‘My lords, ladies and gentlemen,’ the prince said, almost as though he were talking in his sleep. ‘It is a great honour and privilege to be accepted into the ranks of the Knights Iscariot, surely the most prestigious order still surviving today. It is my solemn promise to use this mighty gift wisely, to become an ambassador for both our peoples. I count the days until this blessing is bestowed—’

‘Enough!’

Lillian recognised Robert Collins’ voice. She did not require de Montfort’s psychic command to keep her eyes front and her demeanour composed.

The Nameless King’s eyes burned from within the shaded cowl, like coals reignited. They stared over Lillian’s left shoulder, to where Robert Collins had been seated. A low, grumbling, croak came from the King’s throat, barely audible. It was uncomfortably similar to the guttural sounds made by the ghouls.

‘As adviser to Prince Leopold, and a gentleman with a place at my table, I shall overlook your lack of manners,’ said the King. ‘If you would have words with your master, then by all means do so. But I would advise you to choose your moment more opportunely.’

Lillian still did not turn to look at Collins, but she could sense him shift uncomfortably; she could smell the fear on him, putrid and raw. He did not retake his seat.

‘Your… Majesty,’ Collins said to the King, his voice quavering, ‘I have held my peace long enough. My prince—Leopold—I must advise against this course of action. You cannot do this.’

Confusion crossed the prince’s features for a moment, and was replaced swiftly by the vacant stare. Was he drugged? Hypnotised?

Lillian heard footsteps behind her. There were gasps from the crowd, and salacious giggles too. This time Lillian did turn, for she was certain that there were no eyes on her now. Everyone stared instead at Collins, who was even now shrugging off Ewart’s heavy hand and walking around the table with some trepidation. The man looked pleadingly at Prince Leopold, though his eyes betrayed how futile he knew his actions to be.

‘Sit down, Collins, there’s a good fellow,’ the prince said.

‘I humbly beg your pardon, Your Highness,’ Collins replied, slowly approaching the prince, ‘but I cannot. I am your servant, and you may do with me as you will, but I shall not hold my tongue. It would be the ultimate betrayal of my duties if I allowed this… this madness… to go any further.’

‘Oh, don’t hide your true feelings on our account, Sir Robert,’ Valayar Shah intoned from the sidelines, a jest that was met by a ripple of cautious laughter from the audience.

Collins ignored Shah’s interruption. ‘My prince, I beg you. The Knights Iscariot have taken too heavy a price. They have killed your mother; they have opened the Rift!’

‘What is done is done,’ said Leopold, with a dreamy wave of his hand. ‘We find the world in grave danger, and it needs a saviour. I wanted the gift for selfish reasons, but now I see it is more important than me; my fate is inconsequential in the grander scheme. The Knights Iscariot shall save everyone from the ravages of the Riftborn: don’t you see that, Collins? Sit down now—you are embarrassing us in front of our host.’

‘You will not be a saviour, my prince,’ Collins said, quietly. Lillian groaned inwardly; she sensed that Collins had now pursued his pleas beyond the point of no return. ‘You will be a puppet. And these monsters shall pull your strings.’

The Nameless King moved so fast that Lillian could not follow him, for all her keen senses. He was a flurry of shadow and crow-black feathers, and appeared to not so much rush at Collins, but to coalesce next to him from thin air.

A long, painfully thin arm took Collins by the throat and hoisted him off the ground as though he weighed nothing. The Nameless King’s cowl fell back, revealing a thin, drawn face, wizened with age, blue-black in colour, and covered in horrendous scars in swirling patterns, pierced a hundred times with tiny rings of gold. The flesh of the cheeks and nose was eaten away by rot; the eyes blazed within sunken sockets; the ears were large and misshapen, with the fangs of some great beast pushed through the lobes. The King’s large wooden teeth chattered momentarily as if in anticipation of the feast that was surely to come. The head jerked upwards, revealing a long, avian neck, which began to ripple and bulge. Though Lillian’s feelings had been numbed from her own transformation, what she now witnessed filled her with a cold horror, for it was proof at last of the vampires’ utterly monstrous nature, and her own grim future.

The King’s mouth yawned open, impossibly wide, and his entire upper body seemed to grow as the cavernous mouth stretched further, until he was a grotesque mass of pulsating flesh beneath rippling black feathers. The false teeth fell onto the floor. The creature’s jaw split in twain, craning outwards, and from each corner of the petal-like maw that was once his face, four great fangs slowly extended, aimed directly at the terrified man that stared at them in dumb horror.

Collins screamed, high and mad, the sound gargling in a half-crushed throat. Every vampire in the hall smiled and hissed in glee. Prince Leopold’s expression remained blank. The Nameless King dug his talons into his victim’s neck, so that blood flowed in a great torrent. Collins bled into the hideous maw, before the King drew him close, and thrust him headfirst into the hideous, yawning gullet, like an Indian python swallowing a deer. The great fangs clamped at last around Collins’ shoulders, and the Nameless King took the wretch in an embrace that drained every drop of blood from him in an instant.

No, Lillian. Not now! It is too—

De Montfort had sensed Lillian’s thoughts, but his mental warning went unheeded. Lillian had seen enough, and seized her chance. She leapt up onto the table and launched herself at Ewart. To his credit, he almost reacted in time, but her vampire speed was too much for any mortal, and as she flung him backwards through the curtain behind him, he was missing his revolver, which was now in Lillian’s hand.

Even as the Nameless King discarded Collins’ withered husk upon the dais, Lillian’s first bullet struck his bulging throat. The second hit his shadow, which parted in swirling patterns as the bullet passed through it. The third nicked Prince Leopold in the shoulder, tearing off an epaulette and drawing a girlish cry from the addled royal.

Before Lillian could fire a fourth time, she was hoisted from her feet. The grotesque features of the King, now whole again, faced her. One massive hand was about her throat, another closed around her pistol. The gasps and cries of the vast crowd of vampires reached her ears. To stop now would be to accept death, or perhaps a fate worse than death. Her only option—her time-honoured tactic—was to attack beyond the point of reason.

Calm, Lillian. He thinks he has you under control.

The King was too strong, but he had not fully restrained her. For a second, Lillian went limp and compliant, and only when the Nameless King paused to inspect his rebellious bride did she strike. She lashed out with her foot, catching him so hard in the jaw that for a moment she saw it split apart again into two mandibles, before snapping shut. She twisted behind herself, wrenching a torch from a sconce with all her might, and thrust the flames towards her assailant.