Lazarus targeted the monster’s face, hoping to catch one of its eyes with a bullet. There was something about the creature that struck a chord in his memory — specifically the female scientist’s reference to ‘Jack-In-Irons’ — but he didn’t have the time to dwell on it. His normally unerring accuracy failed him on this occasion and the bullet instead bounced off the monster’s left tusk.
The creature, whom Lazarus was now thinking of as Jack-In-Irons, kicked out with a foot, catching Eun and knocking him hard into Morgan. The two men lay on the ground, unmoving. Samantha continued her barrage of bullets, until she had exhausted her supply of ammunition.
The towering figure glared down at Lazarus, its eyes twinkling. “I know you, Lazarus Gray. You were prominent in the mind of the human called Walther. He feared you and I covet your power. Will you serve me?”
Lazarus tossed aside his own pistol, which was now empty. He drew out a dagger and held it at the ready, though it was obvious that the blade would do little good against the giant. “Never.”
“I will show you my power, and give you an idea of what I will do to all your enemies if you swear your soul to me.” Jack-In-Irons twisted his torso and brought the massive club down upon the head of Walther Lunt. The Illuminati foot soldier, who had been the bane of Lazarus’ existence for so long, was killed instantly. His body broke apart like kindling, sending bone, blood and gore flying in all directions. Jack-In-Irons straightened, a look of triumph on its awful face. “Now do you see? Bow down before me and pitiful wretches such as this will no longer trouble you. I will give you gold. I will give you women. I will give you life immortal.”
Lazarus was still reeling from the shock of seeing his old enemy killed so quickly. He forced himself to move, running forward with blade in hand. He stabbed at Jack’s legs, the blade barely penetrating the thick skin. He yanked the knife back out and was about to try again when an oversize hand shot out and brushed him aside. He rolled over the ground like a stone, his vision growing dark. The last thing he saw before his consciousness faded was the giant reaching down to lift up Murder with one fist.
Ravenmaster David Copeland held his black hat in his hands, his fingers tightly gripping the brim. He was no stranger to pomp and circumstance, having served 22 years with the Royal Marines before beginning his service at the Tower of London, but he still felt strangely out of place standing before the Prime Minister. Particularly with this kind of news. “They're all gone, milord. Even the ones whose wings I clipped myself.”
“And how can that be?” Prime Minister Stanley Baldwin inquired. “I though the clipping process rendered them incapable of flight.”
“Not quite true,” Copeland explained. “Trimming the feathers under one wing just means that they get less lift on that side. Means the best they can do is fly in an arc… But you're right in that they shouldn't be able to fly away like this.”
“Maybe it's the work of hooligans, stealing the birds or driving them away. Or maybe there are wild animals getting loose in the area. Dogs, perhaps?”
“They don't seem to have a taste for ravens, milord.” Copeland cleared his throat before continuing. “All but our clipped ravens began to disappear early last week. They would fly within a mile or so of the Tower and then turn tail. It was almost like they didn't like the smell of the place. Then, one by one, our clipped ravens began disappearing. We haven't found a' one of them.”
Baldwin sat back in his chair, his eyes flickering briefly towards the window. A storm was brewing. “What do you think it means?”
“I… To be honest, milord, I think it's something unholy. Everyone's felt it since, a chill in the air that wasn't there before… a sense of an impending storm, even when the skies are clear.”
“You make it sound like the end of the world.”
“You know the old legend, don't you, milord? It says that when the ravens leave the tower, that the White Tower will crumble and the commonwealth will fall. That's why we keep the clipped ones around. So that the day of legend won't ever come.” He swallowed hard, unable to hide his fear. “But it's here. Now.”
A sudden crack of thunder made both men jump. Though it was only late afternoon, the sky outside had darkened considerably and thick sheets of rain began to fall. They struck the windowpane like rocks, echoing loudly. Baldwin glanced at the ravenmaster and saw terror reflected in the man's eyes. “I'll pour us a stiff brandy, shall I?”
Chapter X
Jack-In-Irons
Doctor Thomas Hancock enjoyed his association with Assistance Unlimited. Though it required him to be on call 24/7 and frequently forced him to deal with obscure illnesses or even cases that challenged his worldview, Hancock loved feeling like he was a part of the team. Assistance Unlimited did good work and paid well — it was a combination that proved very satisfying for one of Sovereign City’s top physicians.
Dr. Hancock took a small step back from the patient bed on which Lazarus Gray laid, a smile touching his lips. “All the tests seem fine. There don’t appear to be any lingering problems related to the concussion.”
Lazarus sat up and reached for the shirt that lay nearby. His toned physique was etched with the scars of a hundred battles and Hancock had never inquired about how some of them had come to be. “Thank you, Doctor. The others check out, as well?”
“Everyone’s in fine shape. The German got the worst of it but a few stitches to the back of his head and some pain medication have him resting comfortably.”
“I appreciate you coming so quickly.”
“It’s my pleasure,” Hancock said with sincerity. He began packing up his supplies, putting them one-by-one into a black leather bag. “Anything else I can help with?”
“I think that will be all.” Lazarus shook hands with his physician and then strode down the hall, ducking into one of the many libraries that dotted his headquarters. This one was filled with books on folklore, collecting every unusual account of fairies, ghosts or supernatural beast from throughout Europe.
After a few moments of perusal, Lazarus pulled an ancient volume off the shelf. He blew dust off its cover and set it on a table, gently turning the pages until he found what he was looking for.
On the left side of the page was a woodcut of a creature that closely resembled the monster they’d fought in Locust Mountain. There were a few differences but overall, the image was quite recognizable. Scrawled beneath the image were the words “Jack in Irons.”
After studying the image for several minutes, Lazarus turned his attention to the facing page, which was handwritten with a shaky script:
Jack-In-Irons is a giant who haunts the Yorkshire roads. He is a giant of disputed height and he wears the skulls of his victims. His name is given because of the chains that cover his tough flesh, which has led some to believe that he is or was some sort of prisoner. He wields a large, spiked club and has been known to stare in silence at the night sky, particularly on full moons. The differing physical descriptions of Jack-In-Irons has led some to surmise that he is not a single entity at all but rather a family of beasts.
Lazarus closed the book, his mind running through all of the facts: there was no Counter-Earth at all, which meant that the story contained in Stanford’s journal had to be looked at in a new light. It described messages coming from Counter-Earth but now it was apparent that they were actually from the true Jack-In-Irons, who was trapped in a planet-like prison. Unfortunately, that probably did not bode well for the continued survival of Doctor Metropolis and crew. When they had arrived on Antichthon, they would have discovered the beast… Even assuming that Jack-In-Irons had been unable to harm them as long as he was trapped there, it seemed reasonable to assume that the rocket ship used by Metropolis might not have in shape for a return trip.