At the Outpost of Fate

CHAPTER 9 — BROTHERS OF BLOOD

Molly’s first impression of London, as the city skyline came into view, was of a fairy tale kingdom made real. The icons of the city — The Tower Bridge, Big Ben, Westminster Abbey — had always existed merely as intellectual constructs; something written about in books or sung in nursery rhymes. Seeing them in all their splendor was like a dream come true.

Once they were down however, the reality of London, a place that seemed shrouded in a perpetual fog, was a less mythic experience. In the cold gray drizzle, the trio from New York hailed a taxi. Hobbs supplied the driver with a street address, which the driver instantly recognized.

"Been to London before, gov’n’r?"

"It’s been a few years," the priest admitted.

"Well, I can tell you that there’s naught left at this address but a few bricks. Destroyed in a fire three years past; never rebuilt."

Hobbs brow furrowed and he glanced nervously at Hurley; the latter shrugged. "Take us there," he finally answered. "It’s a place to start."

As reported, the brick building that Hobbs and Hurricane remembered as the covert headquarters of the Trevayne Society was a scorched ruin — a dead and blackened tooth in the smile of Hyde Street. Why the structure had not been razed to make room for a new edifice was anyone’s guess, but as they disembarked the taxi and moved up to a walkway covered in moss, it seemed evident that they had reached a dead end.

"What now, Padre?"

"Trevayne has survived far worse than a fire, but I’ll admit, the trail seems to have gone cold. There’s a chance that the Vatican mission will have kept tabs on them, but as you might well imagine, there’s no love lost between the two groups. I would have preferred not to let my superiors in the Church know of my dealings with Trevayne, but it seems unavoidable."

The group moved back to the street, but to their chagrin discovered that their taxi had already driven off, leaving them momentarily stranded. Hobbs stepped to the edge of the sidewalk in order to hail another, but Hurley forestalled him. "Padre, we’ve got company."

Both Hobbs and his daughter looked in the direction of the big man’s nodding head and saw that they were the objects of scrutiny for a group of three men dressed in charcoal gray suits. Molly instinctively turned away to look for an escape route but saw another trio of men moving toward them from the other direction. Two of them stopped perhaps a dozen paces away, but the man in the center continued forward and as he did, she caught a glimpse of something metallic descending from a chain around his neck. It was a large silver crucifix.

"Friends of yours, Dad?"

Hurricane casually opened his jacket and was poised to draw his pistols if the men made a threatening move, but the leader of the group — a tall dark haired and swarthy man whose suit could not hide his muscular physique — seemed unperturbed as he strode close enough to look Hobbs in the eye as he spoke.

"No need to make a public scene," he said. His English was impeccable, but with an accent that was certainly nothing like that of the average citizen of the United Kingdom. "A lot of innocent people might be hurt."

"Not by me," Hurley growled. "I don’t miss."

"Easy, Hurricane. These gentlemen are professionals."

"Professionals or not, there’s only six of ‘em."

Hobbs offered a tight smile. "Only six that you can see. But unless I miss my guess, there are a couple more watching us through rifle scopes right now."

"Yes, at least a few," intoned the other man.

"Who are these guys?"

"The Fraternis Maltae," Hobbs answered, meeting the steely stare of his antagonist. "A group of mercenary monks that claims ancestry with the Knights Hospitaller. That crucifix is their badge. It also hides a razor sharp stiletto. They’re assassins for hire, an odd profession for servants of Christ."

A look of dismay cracked the leader’s visage, but he did not take the bait. Instead, he gestured to a pair of black sedans that were idling nearby. "Please, let’s take this discussion somewhere more private."

"Mercenary monks," murmured Hurricane. "I don’t think this is such a good idea, Padre."

"I don’t think we have a choice."

The man with the crucifix opened the door of the nearest car. "No sir, you don’t."

The two sedans made their way through city traffic and the passengers soon found themselves leaving the foggy urban environment behind for the pastoral Surrey countryside. Molly’s anxiety at what seemed almost like a forcible abduction was only partly put at ease by the calm demeanor of the men sitting on either side of her.

"First the Trevayne Society, now the Maltese whatever." She rolled her eyes to hide her apprehension. "Does everyone belong to a secret society?"

"Everyone in your father’s circle of acquaintances," Hurley quipped.

"The Fraternis Maltae is not a secret society," Hobbs replied after a few moments consideration. "Not in the traditional sense; no secret handshakes or mystical rites. Their existence isn’t widely known, but there’s nothing secret about them. They take vows and live a cloistered life, just like any monk."

"So they’re a part of the Church?"

"They were. They emerged from the Crusades, a splinter fragment of the Templars." Hobbs frowned and gazed out the window at the greenery flashing by. "Once upon a time, the Church had a use for a blunt tool such as the Fraternis Maltae — a weapon, really — but that age ended centuries ago. They are a relic of an era best forgotten."

"A weapon? We’re being kidnapped, aren’t we?"

"I don’t know."

"I’ve still got my guns," Hurricane observed. "Maybe they just want to talk to us."

"About what? We’ve only just arrived."

"I expect we’ll find that out when…" His voice trailed off as he craned his head forward to gaze through the windscreen. "Looks like some sort of accident."

Indeed, the road ahead was blocked by a delivery truck, turned sideways and streaming a column of dark smoke. A constable stood in the center of the macadam and as their driver slowed the sedan to a halt, the policeman strode over to the passenger’s side.

The dark-suited man — the leader of the group that had accosted them — lowered his window. "You must clear the road," he snarled. "We need to get through."

The policeman leaned closer, then looked past him to the trio seated in the rear of the vehicle. “Of course, sir. Right away. But first…"

Molly’s eyes grew wide as the constable thrust a gun through the open window. Hurley drew his own pistols in a flash, but not before the interior of the sedan was filled with thunder. The pistol discharged point blank into the passenger’s exposed torso, then again and again; three shots that ravaged the man’s chest and splattered the windscreen with gore. The driver attempted to wrestle a gun from a shoulder holster, but three more shots slammed into him before he could even get his jacket open. The constable then quickly raised his hands and pointed the smoking weapon skyward in the face of Hurricane’s hand cannons.

"Don’t shoot!" the policeman cried. "I’m here to help."

Hurley did not lower his weapon. "We don’t need help from a murderer."

"Murderer? What do you think they had planned for you? We can discuss all of this later, but right now we need to be moving along. Please."

"Who the devil are you?" Hobbs asked, his voice pitched so low that Molly could barely hear him over the ringing in her ears. She was still reeling from the unexpected act of violence; her upbringing on the wild African frontier had not completely inured her to such savagery and the sudden brutality hit her with a wave of nausea.

The constable offered a grim smile. "You were looking for the Trevayne Society, weren’t you? Well, you’ve found us. Now, if you’ll just follow me, we can go somewhere safe and all your questions will be answered."

Molly’s eyes were drawn to the pair of motionless corpses in the front seat. "Are you going to kill us too, if we don’t come with you?"

"If I wanted you dead, I would have let that lot take care of it."

Hurley glanced over at Hobbs then shrugged as he eased his finger off the triggers of his pistols and holstered them.

As they got out, Molly saw two more constables standing on either side of the second black sedan and realized that the rest of the assassin-monks of the Fraternis Maltae had met the same fate as their leader, but their new escort did not allow them to linger at the scene of carnage. He strode quickly to the rear of the wrecked delivery truck and opened the rear doors. "Into the lorry."

"Dad, are you sure this is a good idea?"

"I’m not sure of anything, Mol." Hobbs offered a hand and helped her climb into the sheltered cargo area of the vehicle. "But the man is right; we came here looking for the Trevayne Society. I just didn’t realize we would end up in the middle of a war."

"A war is exactly what it is," intoned the man in the constable’s uniform as he got in and closed the door, after which the truck immediately lurched into motion. "Dirty work, that. My apologies for the rather unconventional greeting. Trent Baylor of His Majesty’s Yeoman Warders at your service."

"The palace guard?"

"My day job." Baylor laid a finger alongside his nose and winked knowingly. "And who, might I ask, are you?"

Hobbs and Hurley exchanged a confused look. "You mean you don’t know?"

Baylor shook his head. "Our watchers saw the Maltoes pick you up in front of the old Trevayne House. Common tactic of theirs; grab anyone who comes looking for Trevayne and spirit them off to their den of wolves. Thus my question: Who are you and what’s your interest in the Trevayne Society?"

Hobbs briefly introduced them and it did not escape Molly’s notice that he omitted his credentials as a Catholic priest. "I worked with some of your colleagues years ago — perhaps you know of the incident in Dunwich?"

"Ah, that old rubbish; ghosts and demons and whatnot."

This earned an uncharacteristic frown from Hobbs. "Has the mission of your society changed? Perhaps we made a mistake in seeking you out."

Baylor waved dismissively. "Forgive me, Mr. Hobbs, I’m a bit of skeptic, but there are still a few old souls on the senior council that worry over such things. I take it your reason for coming here involves something…ah, uncanny?"

"That is something I would prefer to discuss with one of those ‘old souls.’"

"Hah. Touché, sir."

Hurley cleared his throat. "Pardon my interruption, but would you mind telling me what just happened back there? What’s going on with you and the Fraternis Whatsis?"

"A vendetta; we’ve made more than a few enemies through the years. The Maltoes are just hired guns, but that doesn’t stop them from targeting innocents. Trust me when I say you lot would have been thoroughly questioned and then made to simply disappear." He craned his head around and peered through the windscreen. "Ah, we’ve arrived."

From where they sat in the rear of the lorry, it was difficult to see anything of the world outside, but the abrupt change in the light level indicated that the truck had pulled into a garage of some sort. A few minutes later, the driver opened the rear doors. Molly saw that they were now in the cramped interior of an old automobile repair shop. A few overhead lamps cast islands of light in the shadowy enclosure; the windows had been rendered opaque with spray paint. Baylor waited for the group to disembark, then guided them to a door at the back of the garage.

"You’ll have to pardon our cloak and dagger games. Unfortunately, the threat from our enemies is very real. Over the course of the last three years, they have managed to identify and assassinate several of our key leaders."

"Did the Fraternis Maltae burn your headquarters building?" inquired Hobbs.

"That? No, they are fairly new to the game. The enemy employs a variety of weapons; that one was the work of an Irish Republican bomb." His tone softened to barely a whisper. "Cost us dearly."

"I wonder if any of our old chums are still around," Hurley murmured as they passed through the door and into a hallway that was similarly wrought of coarse and decaying masonry.

Baylor ignored the doors that branched off to either side and advanced instead to the blank wall at the end. Molly wasn't surprised at all when a section of bricks moved smoothly out of their setting and slid away to reveal a secret passageway and beyond it, a cramped stairway descending into the depths of the earth. Their guide took an electric torch from a shelf on the wall and directed its beam into to darkness.

"After the attack on our headquarters, we had to take our operation underground — literally, as you see." Baylor’s voice sounded funereal in the tight enclosure and as she took her turn in the line, Molly had the sensation of stepping into a crypt. The claustrophobic descent seemed to take longer than it really did, but when their guide opened the ordinary looking door at the distant end, the feeling of being in a tomb quickly evaporated; the subterranean lair of the Trevayne Society was more a palace than a dungeon.

Every square inch of the spacious antechamber into which they passed had been richly appointed to resemble a gentleman’s club. The walls were adorned with green velvet wallpaper and oak crown molding, the floors were covered by an enormous and elaborate Persian rug and the room was furnished with oak tables and plush leather chairs, a few of which were occupied by well-dressed men who sat reading newspapers and engaging in muted conversations over snifters of brandy. A couple of the men inclined their heads toward Baylor by way of a greeting, but no one approached the group as they continued through the sitting room and passed through one of the many doors leading out of the salon. Molly watched as her father scrutinized the faces, but if he recognized anyone, he gave no indication.

The adjoining room was nearly as large as the first, but its walls were lined with bookshelves and a roaring fire crackled in the hearth of an enormous fireplace on the wall opposite the entrance. "If you’ll just wait here," Baylor directed, gesturing to the semi-circle of chairs arranged around the fire, "I’ll fetch Sir Reginald. He’s our resident ghost chaser."

Molly hastened to one of the overstuffed chairs. She felt exhausted from the whirlwind journey that had begun with their abduction from the scene of the old Trevayne building and ended here deep beneath the city. The fireside setting was a welcome relief even if she did not entirely trust their savior. Hurley settled in beside her and calmly lit one of his fragrant hand-rolled cheroots, while her father began inspecting the contents of the bookshelves.

The wait was brief. Baylor returned within minutes, unaccompanied and beckoned them to follow. "Sir Reginald has requested you join him at the dig site," he explained as they returned to the main salon and then passed through a different door into and found themselves once more in the rough-hewn subterranean world.

The question was on everyone’s lips, but Molly spoke first. "Dig site?"

"One of our many projects. I’m not really qualified to explain it, but you’ll see presently."

The passage transitioned through a ragged hole into a dark open area that Molly quickly recognized as a subway station. A single trolley car waited empty at the platform. Baylor continued his monologue. "This is a decommissioned tube train stop. We use it to get around the city in discreet fashion."

Unlike the train station, which although finished showed obvious signs of decay, the lone trolley was as richly appointed as the salon had been; the members of the Trevayne Society evidently liked to travel in style. After the small group boarded, Baylor shut the doors and invited them to help themselves to refreshments at the liquor cabinet, then went forward to operate the controls. The car pulled smoothly away and was swallowed up by darkness.

At some point, they joined with the main line of what Londoner’s colloquially called "the Tube," and passed through a number of working stations. Molly could not discern if the locals were surprised to see the elegant private trolley rolling past; the train raced through those stations so quickly that the expressions of commuters standing on the platform were a blur.

A squeal of brakes heralded the end of the journey, not at a station, but rather in the endless night of the tunnel. Baylor secured the controls and then joined his passengers. "We have to walk from here."

In the glow of their guide’s electric torch, they saw that the smooth cylindrical tunnel continued on well past the place where the parallel rails abruptly ended. "This dig site you’re taking us to," Molly said, putting two and two together, "is here underground, isn’t it?"

Baylor’s shadow bobbed against the tunnel wall as he nodded. "The tunnel boring machine uncovered it and eventually the Society was contacted. We arranged for all work on the new line to be postponed until we finish excavating the area for other relics. Not much further now."

True enough, a light appeared at the end of the tunnel. At first it was only a dim gleam, like a distant candle, but after another hundred yards, they saw that the dig site was in fact brightly lit by generator-powered electric lights. Unlike the smooth curved walls of the subway tunnel, a large haphazard cavern had been created as diggers had probed outward in every direction. One wall was damp and a pool of seepage had accumulated at its base, where a sump pump drew the water off and piped it back down the tunnel. Several men were working with hand trowels and other small digging implements in various other locations throughout the chamber, but only one of these — an older gentleman who would have looked distinguished but for his soiled and rumpled coveralls — left off his labors in order to greet the new arrivals.

"Bless my soul, if it isn’t Hurricane Hurley and the Padre. And where is Captain Falcon? Ah, but where are my manners?" He extended a grubby hand, then thought better of the offer and withdrew it. "Reg Christy."

Hobbs scrutinized the other man. "I’m afraid I don’t remember working with you, Sir Reginald."

"Oh you didn’t. I joined the Society long after the Dunwich incident. I doubt you’d recognize anyone here nowadays. The events of the last few years have created something of a void at the top."

"But you recognized us," Hurley protested.

"Ah, that." Christy blushed guiltily. "Truth be told, I’m something of a fan of your exploits. Never miss an episode of The Adventures of Captain Falcon—"

He curtailed his comments immediately when he saw a pained glance pass between the three visitors.

Hobbs finally broke the uncomfortable silence. "Sir Reginald, let me come straight to the point. We are looking for information regarding the Child of Skulls prophecy."

Christy nodded slowly as if in the grip of a dawning revelation.

"You don’t seem too surprised by that," Molly observed.

"Lately, nothing surprises me." He beckoned them to follow. "Let me show you something."

Ignoring Hobbs’ pensive expression, Christy strode to the edge of a large pit, easily twelve feet deep, which occupied the center of the cavern and pointed to the object around which it had been dug. Molly was the first of her group to join him and as such the first to see the artifact.

The object, which appeared to be nothing more than a cylinder of metal, about twenty feet long and almost two feet in diameter, lay diagonally across the pit. At first, Molly couldn’t understand why the discovery had warranted the attention of the mysterious secret society, but her father's shocked expression — which for Hobbs was a barely noticeable widening of the eyes — prompted her to take a second look. “What’s so special about it?"

"Do you recognize it?" Christy asked.

"It looks quite a bit like the Iron Pillar of Delhi," Hobbs observed. "A column of almost pure iron dating back to the fourth century. Yet despite nearly sixteen hundred years, it shows no signs of corrosion. It's one of the world’s most interesting metallurgical curiosities. Thought to be one of a kind, until now. You found this here? In London?"

"Right where it sits." Christy gestured to the damp wall. "This tunnel is less than a hundred yards from the Thames. Over time, the river has changed course due to floods and the buildup of sediment. Our current theory is that a ship transporting the column up the river might have foundered on this spot. Then as the sediment covered it over, if effectively moved the shipwreck onto dry land."

"That kind of geological process takes centuries, even millennia."

The Trevayne expert nodded. "It’s an enigma to be sure."

In a display of uncharacteristic excitement, Hobbs climbed down one of the wooden ladders tilted up against the sides of the pit and began scrutinizing the ornate end piece. "The cap is different. The Delhi pillar is capped with an idol of the Chakra. This one is… different."

Indeed the top of the pillar featured a sculpture that looked to Molly’s eyes like a coiled serpent with a spherical object caught in its jaws; a closer look revealed it to be a skull.

"The snake and skull isn’t your traditional Indian motif," Christy supplied. "But we think it may be representative of the goddess Kali."

"Kali," Hobbs echoed. "The devourer."

"Devourer of what?" grunted Hurricane.

"Everything."

"Is that the connection with the Child of Skulls prophecy?" asked Molly.

"Connection? I don’t know that I’d call it a connection; more an interesting coincidence."

"If it ain’t a connection," murmured Hurley, "then we’re wasting our time here."

The Padre seemed chastened by the comment and took a step back from the artifact. "Quite right. Sir Reginald, our purpose is quite urgent. We need to see all the records you have that concern the prophecy."

"I’m afraid it’s not as simple as all that. You see, only a fraction of our archives survived the firebombing of our old headquarters building. The information you seek was destroyed." Hobbs sagged under the weight of this revelation, prompting Christy to hastily augment his statement. "All is not lost, however. Edward Winterbourne, the man who chronicled the original event, is still alive and living in London."

"You must put me in contact with him," pressed Hobbs.

"Ah, well there’s the rub. You see, he long ago severed all ties with the Trevayne Society. He remains an honored figure and we respect his desire for privacy—"

"Privacy be damned! Our situation is grave."

"I understand. But as I was about to say, in addition to respecting the man’s wishes, there is the matter of his safety. Our enemies are targeting anyone who has affiliations with the Society. To approach him now would certainly put him in dire peril."

"The whole word will be in dire peril if the prophecy is fulfilled."

Christy’s shoulder sagged in resignation. "Is it really that bad?"

"An agent of the Child of Skulls has already struck the first blow. He has stolen an artifact of incredible power and I believe he intends to use it as a stepping stone to achieve his ultimate goal of world domination."

When he mentioned the theft of the Staff, something clicked in Molly’s head. Her eyes flashed toward the crater where her father stood and she saw the strange metal column in an entirely new light. "Dad—"

She never got to complete the sentence. At that very instant, the subterranean stillness was shattered by the staccato pops of gunfire.

"Bloody hell," gasped Christie. "They've found us!"

Baylor and the other workmen reacted like soldiers on a battlefield, diving for cover and producing automatic pistols from the pockets of their work clothes, but their unseen attackers already had the upper hand. Two of the diggers were down, writhing in agony on the ground and the rest of the defenders remained pinned down, unable to find a target much less return fire.

Hurley’s reflexes were similarly swift. He swept Molly up under his arm and glissaded down the nearly vertical earthen wall and into the relative safety of the pit, while the unarmed Christy scrambled down one of the nearby ladders. A shower of dirt kicked up by the impact of bullets on the edge of the crater sprayed over them.

"Stay down," Hurricane roared, drawing his twin Browning semi-automatics. He pushed Christy aside and was about to clamber up one of the ladders, when he heard Molly gasp. From the corner of one eye, he saw her frantically pointing toward the place where Hobbs now crouched, hunkered down behind the strange metal column…and then he saw it too.

Beneath the priest’s hands, the dull metal had begun to shimmer like quicksilver. Hobbs himself was unaware of the change until he saw their amazed expression, at which point he recoiled as if stung. The transformation however only intensified.

In a matter of seconds, the shimmering spread up and down the length of the pillar, culminating in a brilliant blue halo of static electricity — like St. Elmo’s Fire — on the serpentine image at its apex. And then, something truly unbelievable began to happen. The coiled metal snake began to move.