by Adrian Cole
Elfloq’s bulbous eyes were distending, which made them even more grotesque than usual. It seemed that Ubeggi was party to priceless knowledge. The guise of the Dark Gods, so long a mystery, was no secret to him.
The Weaver ignored Elfloq’s look of stupefaction and went on. “I oppose most things, but most of all Light. I oppose order, peace, harmony, concord. I am the sower of discontent. The bringer of chaos. The Weaver of Wars. And why is that, eh? Why should I use my powers in such a way? Something deep within me moves me to be this way. Some inner restlessness of spirit. I obey no masters, only this perverse spirit within me. Have you not felt such desires yourself, little familiar? A hunger to control all that is about you? To make turmoil of it and guide it how you will? To wrest your own destiny from the gods who would mould it, just as your infamous master seeks to win his own destiny? Ultimate freedom, unfettered will!”
Elfloq was nodding furiously.
Ubeggi laughed again. “Of course! What could be more natural? We all wish to have such power. To obey the inner voice. To control fate, and that of others. We lust for power. All the power there is. To drink every last dreg and then to indulge ourselves in a wanton spending of it.”
“What depths there are to your wisdom, divine essence,” said Elfloq.
“We are of the same mind, you see,” agreed Ubeggi sardonically.
“Darkness is blending,” added Elfloq, praying that it was appropriate.
Ubeggi was nodding. “Oh, indeed it is. While the gods of Light go their divergent ways, proud of their freedom and refusal to subjugate others, the great darkness draws in. I serve no masters and have always sought to confound whomever it pleased me so to do. But we must all participate in the battle — the war — the better to wreak havoc. This war that comes upon us is the one that all wars throughout all the histories of time have been hurtling towards. For once I am aligned with its dizzying turbulence.”
Elfloq gasped. “You are the one who shaped all this?”
“Would that I was! Such power! No, I am no more than a fragment of it. This irks me a little, for I have served none but myself, just as you have done. But in this I find that I am not my own master after all. I am no more than a footsoldier in the army of whatever shapes the omniverse. You see, little familiar, in the face of this horror, you and I are no better than each other.”
Again Elfloq could scarcely believe what he was hearing. On an equal footing with Ubeggi! The idea was unthinkable.
“As for your master, the Voidal,” went on the Weaver, “he is even less well placed. Aye, less so! For he is the pawn of Light, and in this war of wars, Light will fail. Darkness will snuff it out. I am sure you appreciate that.”
Elfloq agreed vehemently. He was not about to question a single utterance of the Weaver’s.
“So be it. You must cast your lot with Darkness, Elfloq. True Darkness, and not the sham darkness of mystery and ignorance. You must become mine.”
This, then, was the awful truth. A test. Reject the Voidal and side with evil. If Ubeggi was truly more powerful than the Voidal and his terrible masters, Elfloq was caught like a flea under a thumbnail.
“I am yours,” he said at once, trying not to make it sound too mechanical. His heart beat faster as it sensed the impending cracking of his bones.
“Really? So swift a decision? Well, we shall see.” Ubeggi turned his attention to Orgoom, who looked even more sullen than usual. “And what of my runaway Gelder?”
Orgoom grunted something unintelligible.
“I never punished you for your treacherous part in the affair with Verdanniel. Did you think you were free of me? In your heart you must have known it would be otherwise. So you were swayed by the silver tongue of the familiar and thought you would serve his master, too? Foolish, but understandable. Yet you remain mine and must serve out your time with me. Do so and I will give you the freedom you so earnestly dream of. Serve me out, Orgoom, and I will make you again the man you once were.”
It was not possible for the Gelder to radiate smiles, but Elfloq knew that he would have done so, had he been able. Ubeggi had offered him the greatest prize he could desire. The Blue Gelder’s alliance was surely lost.
“I have a single task for you,” Ubeggi told him.
“Will do it,” said Orgoom, but within himself he was thinking that it was not wise to trust the Weaver. Ubeggi freed no one.
“So you are both eager to serve me. We shall see.” He directed his unnerving gaze upon Snare. “And here is one servant who does love me and thinks only of my plans. Is it not so, Snare?”
The gangling Snare grovelled, a display that would have done justice to Elfloq at his most obsequious. “My heart and mind are books to you, master. You read them at your leisure.”
“Always believe it. You worship awesome deities, Snare, and have become a master in their foul rituals, but I have the greater power. As I shall soon demonstrate to you. But where is the other? The fallen one?”
A figure stumbled groggily out of the shadows as if it had come direct from a dream. It was Shatterface.
“Welcome to Tyrandire,” said Ubeggi. “But what is this that you have brought with you?”
There was a sword at Shatterface’s side where before there had been none. Shatterface touched the hilt, but did not draw it, as if it were alive, a serpent not to be trusted.
Ubeggi was smiling hideously, contentment oozing out of him almost visibly. “Just as I calculated. Even the Dark Gods could not resist the temptation I set before them.”
“What do you mean?” said Shatterface. Having once been a god, he had little respect for them, for the suffering imposed upon him exceeded any further pain they might inflict.
Ubeggi was too pleased with himself to correct Shatterface’s manners. “I have been threading the warp and woof of a new scheme. You are all part of the tapestry. So, too, is the Voidal, and so are his unwitting masters, the Dark Gods.”
Shatterface fingered the hilt of his weapon. “The Dark Gods have placed this sword at my side even as you drew me here. What blade is it? The Sword of Oblivion, that I carried before? Am I to sink it into the dark man?”
“Rest assured,” said Ubeggi, “the Dark Gods do not love the Voidal. His fate is to serve them. To keep him under their sway, they must wipe his memory clean, for therein lies the key to the unlocking of his powers. Even I do not know what powers he once had. But I would not like to see them unlocked. The suppression of his memory suits me well. Thanks to the meddling of this small but significant familiar, the Voidal has recovered something of his memory. That must be changed. Therefore I will aid you, Shatterface. Even though I will be aiding the Dark Gods.”
Shatterface stepped forward. “If I succeed in this, I will win back from the Dark Gods one half of my face.”
“Succeed,” said Ubeggi, “and I will restore the other half.”
Shatterface gasped as if he had been struck. “Then by every god that listens, I will serve you well.”
“Excellent! But there is more. It is not enough for me that the Voidal has his memory removed completely. That would satisfy the Dark Gods, of course. But I have a mind to punish the Voidal for interfering with my plans on Verdanniel. By so doing, I will be showing my teeth to the Dark Gods, who prompted him in that matter. I do not fear them as others do.”
Elfloq shuddered at this. To his knowledge, no one had ever uttered such a thing before without drawing down terrible consequences.
“I want the Voidal imprisoned. Trapped and held in a place from which he can never escape, for he cannot be destroyed. I know of such a place.” And the Weaver laughed gruesomely.
Shatterface shook his head, bemused. “Can that be?”
Ubeggi ignored the question. “There are certain dream dimensions where none but the mad or unwary set foot. Strange gods go there to conjure up their wildest visions, or to send out their nightmares. There is one such god looming on its boundaries now. A god that has come from a realm where none but his own kind
dwell. Many are in chains, after an eon-old conflict. But this one has escaped the chains that bound him and plots the conquest of a universe. I have a mind to spite him. Have you heard, underlings, of the Great Old Ones?”
This meant nothing to Orgoom, who merely shrugged. Elfloq frowned for a moment in puzzlement. The name did not seem ominous. But then something at the back of his mind worked loose and he jumped as if bitten.
“Yes, I expected you to react, Elfloq. There is more knowledge stored in that junkyard of a brain than in a thousand libraries. The Great Old Ones, among the most hideous of beings in the omniverse. Certainly they are most offensive to look upon. No other gods communicate with them. Indeed, since their various incarcerations, it is not certain that they communicate with each other any longer. One of them, he that I mentioned, has cut himself adrift and lies semi-dormant at the edge of the dream dimension. His name is Ybaggog, the Devourer.”
“What has this vile being to do with us?” said Shatterface.
“Everything,” replied Ubeggi tersely.
Snare, silent until now, had visibly paled. “Ybaggog is spoken of in hushed tones only, master. He is said to rival Azathoth in power. Few of the crawling minions that serve these abominations dare speak his name.”
Ubeggi nodded. “Quite. I want the Voidal imprisoned inside him.”
Elfloq felt himself swaying, but gripped his reason tenaciously.
Ubeggi laughed again. “It should be a perfectly digestible meal for a god capable of swallowing universes.”
Snare looked aghast. “But, master, how?”
Ubeggi was staring at the sword of Shatterface. “Draw out the Sword of Oblivion, for it is doubtless that blade. Plunge that into the Voidal and he will be helpless. Simple enough to give the dark man to Ybaggog after that. You, Snare, have been a high priest in the rituals of these dreaming gods. It should be a simple matter for you to perform a mass of sacrifice to Ybaggog. And who better as neophytes for your ritual than Orgoom and Elfloq?”
Snare was clearly troubled, but he bowed. “The Old Ones know me.”
Shatterface had slowly drawn his blade, but was gazing at it in surprise. It seemed curiously alive and from it there issued bizarre sounds as if a veritable host of mad demons muttered and whispered, trapped within its steel, if steel it was. “This is not the Sword of Oblivion.”
Ubeggi’s wide eyes studied the weapon carefully. But then he gave a cry of pleasure. “No, indeed! It seems that we are truly aligned to the Dark Gods in this venture. It is the Sword of Madness. Plunge that into the Voidal and he will be truly undone. Evidently the Dark Gods have no further use for him. What do you say to that, Elfloq?”
“It must be as you say. The Voidal has served them well. Now his time is over. And he cannot be freed.” Elfloq was thinking frantically. Why? Because, he answered himself, the Dark Gods are afraid that the Voidal will regain his old powers, and they fear that more than anything else in the omniverse. Then, he further mused, he must be inching nearer his goal for them to reject him. Otherwise they would never aid one as deceitful as Ubeggi.
“So,” said the Weaver, “you now have no further reason to serve this dark man, nor indeed, to fear him.”
Elfloq agreed at once.
“Then we are united. Let us begin.” But Elfloq knew that it was not going to be quite that simple.
“Where are we to go?” asked Shatterface.
“To the dream dimension. One of its ancient towns will be an ideal place to meet. Snare, conduct Orgoom and Elfloq to Ulthar. Return them to me when the sacrifice is over and Ybaggog has been fed his unique meal.”
Snare bowed low. “To Ulthar, lord.”
Shatterface sheathed the Sword of Madness. “To Ulthar.”
Elfloq’s terror welled anew. The town of cats was about as unwholesome a town as any other he could think of.
“And Elfloq,” said Ubeggi casually, “I have a specific task for you. Remiss of me to overlook it in my enthusiasm.”
“I would be honoured.”
“I am glad you think so. Well, as you now have no need to fear your master that was, you’ll have no fears either of the various curses and spells surrounding him, which will soon be dissipated for all eternity. You agree?”
“Why, yes, ultimate one. Who should fear a madman locked inside the gut of a dreaming god?” Elfloq heard himself laugh flippantly.
“How well you put it. Before we can achieve anything, it will be necessary to bring the Voidal to Ulthar. Therefore, once you arrive there, I charge you with the simple, and now harmless task of invoking him.”
Elfloq went rigid, but managed to twist his face into an ingratiating smile. Invoke the Voidal. The phrase repeated itself inside the tiny cranium of the familiar many times like an echo that would not die away. Once before he had had the audacity to invoke the Voidal, but it had been in Cloudway, the astral haven where it had been uniquely safe to do so. Yet the dark man had warned him never to invoke him again, otherwise the awesome penalty would be extracted in full.
“Snare will see that you discharge this duty,” smiled Ubeggi.
Elfloq screwed up his courage and spoke. “But surely, divine one, if Snare is the high master of rituals, he would be the perfect one to summon my mas — uh, the dark man.”
Ubeggi made a show of considering this. “Possibly. But it would make you superfluous. In which case, having no use for you, I’d have to cast you loose, with no master. I doubt if you’d survive long. Unless, of course, you would like me to make you a Blue Gelder?”
Elfloq shivered with nervous laughter. “No, no, you mistake me, most generous and gracious of gods. How could I not desire to serve you? I will be happy to summon the dark man in Ulthar.”
Ubeggi nodded, smiling a most wicked smile. “Snare will see to it that you do.”
“Be assured,” said Snare.
“I am,” replied Ubeggi. “I am indeed.” Thus he dismissed the company. Moments later he had put them from his mind, together with the simple formalities that comprised their tasks. He turned his attention instead to far more engrossing matters, namely the pitting of the mad hordes of Zillraat the Ninth with the Howling Mages of the spellworld, K’nam-Paxl, which promised to be a war of devastating dimensions, affording the Weaver immense enjoyment. And it would no doubt thread more black strands into the gathering gloom that threatened the omniverse with its coalescence.
PART FOUR: DARK DESTROYER
In his strange travels, the Voidal visited many unholy realms and nightmare regions. There were reasons for this, which I will explore more fully as the history unfolds.
I have written already of Phaedrabile, a dimension of singular horrors, but in the conflict with Ybaggog and that repulsive god’s inner terrain, lies a truly disturbing creation. Even more terrifying is the knowledge that it is but the edge of an entire pantheon of lunatic gods and their grotesque outpourings.
Many are the writings and annals concerning this most blasphemous of Powers, and in recording their histories, more than one devout scribe has succumbed to the insanity that permeates their very breath.
No one should consider himself or herself immune, least of all myself, but what follows needs must be written, no matter how deranged I may seem for having penned it. There are, I promise you, unexpurgated versions, but I have been guided by a need to balance the facts with a degree of restraint.
—Salecco, who believes himself not to have lost his reason, though there is no one at hand to confirm this.
In Ulthar, the city of cats, two swarthy men sat at a table in an inn, talking softly and looking out through the window at the buildings of the city that dropped away below them. In the distance, moonlight fractured the winding river Skai and beyond that the shifting enigma of the dreamscape pushed forward like a silent bank of mist, tonight oppressive and alive with evil portents. Things flapped across the sky darkly and silently: the dreams of the inhabitants of Ulthar were not pleasant ones.
The first of the men wore a strang
e hat (as a priest might) and upon his cloak were sewn unusual figures with human bodies and the heads of varying animals — cats, hawks, rams and lions, marking the man and his colleague as travellers from the far South, whose mysteries were famous in Ulthar, where cats are sacred. In this high inn where the men sat, no one had spoken to them, and indeed the few patrons had already left, while all the cats that lived here — and there were many scores — gathered around them, purring and fussing like servants anxious to please. From time to time one of the men would reach down and dig with gentle fingers into the fur of an animal, or stroke its sleek coat. The silent innkeeper, Drath, was a little uneasy, but pleased, knowing that it was through these Southern wanderers that Ulthar had become a shrine to cats.
“There are signs here, too,” said Umatal, taller of the men. He sipped at the strong Ulthar wine. “Everywhere.”
“Just so,” nodded Ibidin, his stockier companion, turning from the table to study the lower town. “Ybaggog’s dreams are a far-reaching curse. Such dreams as flit about these skies are poisoned by this awesome god. I heard in the market today that seven men across the river were found dead in their beds, killed by the grim nightmares that beset them. It was unquestionably the doing of Ybaggog. These dreams are not confined to this realm, Umatal. They spread. It is murmured in hidden places that even the priests of the Old Ones are afraid for their gods.”
“Say nothing of the Old Ones,” replied Umatal. “Even in Ulthar, their ears catch every breath.”
“How are we to be rid of the Dark Destroyer? What possible means are we to employ to thwart its purpose?”
“Its purpose! Pah! How can we comprehend its purpose?”
“Enough to know that Ybaggog is called, Devourer of Universes.”
“We may have to sacrifice universes to kill him.”
They said no more for a while, knowing that their own gods (and indeed, all gods that they knew of) went in fear of Ybaggog. Ibidin nervously chinked the silver coins in his pocket; he had not earned many this season, for few people in Ulthar wanted the benefit of his fortune telling. As the men subsided into their grim thoughts, more shadows crossed the moon. The men jerked up, a symptom of how afraid they were, for such nocturnal things were common in Ulthar and not usually worthy of concern.