Dreaming In Darkness

by Chamberlin, Adrian

  What man would have his quarters here?

  The door stood ajar. The light grew brighter, and Shadrach squinted, tried to get his eyes used to the light after being accustomed to the unnatural darkness above. He glanced at his companion and raised a quizzical eyebrow.

  “In,” the soldier said in a quavering voice. Shadrach grinned, would have touched the brim of his hat in salute if his hands were free, and pushed the door open with his shoulder.

  The source of the light was a circle of candles: thirteen fat, tube-like church candles that would hold a flame for hours, maybe days, if the wicks were trimmed and the flames left undisturbed. They were positioned on sconces on the stone flags of the floor, casting flickering pools of luminance upon the moss, accompanied by the lesser light from a multitude of sconces carved out of hollows in the walls: these littered the bookshelves that had been cleared of any tomes before the vellum mouldered and the pages disintegrated. The smell caused Shadrach to frown. It was not the scent of tallow and wax, but something meaty, like rendered pork fat.

  Shadrach blinked in the fierce glow, then saw what lay in the circle of candles.

  On a plinth of ancient rock – similar to what formed the octagonal tower – was an idol. An all-too familiar beast of nightmare, carved from a rock that was far older than the stone forming their surroundings. A rock as black as the darkness coating the interior walls of the monastery’s nave.

  To an untrained eye it would appear to be nothing more than a nightmarish fusion of a goat and the Beast from Revelation: the Templar Knights had been accused of worshipping a similar idol, that the Papacy named Baphomet. It sat, cross-legged, the six breasts and the opening in its nether-regions proclaiming it to be female. But what creature would dare venture there? The lips of the vagina glistened with moisture, seemed to quiver with anticipation – or delight – at its new visitor. The diamond-shaped teeth hiding within the vaginal lips glinted.

  He looked away, into the face, but what he saw there was worse. The head of the goat-like beast was surmounted by a crown of thorns; a parody that went beyond mere blasphemy, for each twig and thorn was carved into the likeness of a serpent. Their rears did not terminate in the crown, but stretched downwards, thinner, curled around the shaggy fur of the beast’s hind-quarters until they ended

  …began…

  in the idol’s vagina. Each snake faced forwards, so that Shadrach found himself glared at by a multitude of tiny, ruby-red eyes. A thousand eyes.

  The souls of serpents…the Thousand Young of the Black Goat of the Woods. It is as I feared, and much worse.

  For the last time he had gazed into its face, half a world away and many lifetimes ago, no Young had emanated from its vagina. There was no crown of serpentine thorns.

  She has bred.

  And then Shadrach saw the deliverer of the horror. Beyond, in the far corner of the cell, the figure hunched over the makeshift desk was painfully thin, judging by the wrists and trembling hands protruding from the short sleeves of the habit. Its head was masked by a cowl, and as Shadrach walked around the candle circle, avoiding the burning tubes of fat, the hood lifted, but the face remained in shadow, as though the light rejected it.

  Before the seated figure lay the contents of Shadrach’s snapsack. The Damascus steel of his hybrid-weapon glittered seductively in the candlelight, and Shadrach felt it call to him, a burning desire to reach over and snatch it from this mysterious captor. The tightness of his bonds cruelly denied the wish.

  But it was not just his firearm. The cloaked figure caressed the silk pouch containing the powdered fragments of ancient stone – even older than the walls of the monastery, and older than the stone from which the Black Goat had been carved – and then stroked the pages of the books.

  “Leave us, Captain. Question the prisoners, find out when their relief is coming,” it said in a deep, familiar voice filled with both weariness and rage.

  “Yes, Sir George.” The door closed quietly, gently, and the candle flames flared once more. The sound of fast-moving footsteps thudding on stone risers echoed softly, and then all was silent. The hooded man gestured to a stool before his desk. Shadrach sat down.

  It was a stool that the monks of old would have used to copy and transcribe their manuscripts. Shadrach wondered what holy works had been completed by the previous occupants, and what they would have thought of its occupant now.

  He heard what sounded like the grinding of mill wheels, and resisted the temptation to look behind him, lest he see what he feared: the head of the carving turning to face him.

  Shadrach was at eye level with his captor, but the shadow cast by the hood masked Sir George’s features, resisting the illumination of the candles. The hands pushed the book forward, the brass hinge scraping on the pitted wood. Shadrach did not look at it.

  “All copies of this tome have been destroyed. Or so I thought. I myself was witness to the burning of the last work of Abdul al-Hazred many years ago. And now I find myself in possession of a copy, and its bearer.” A low chuckle that sounded like the chittering of overfed rats. “You come too late, stranger. You think you can halt what has been set in motion? The process is almost complete. Nothing can stop me.”

  Shadrach pulled against his bonds. The rope was too tight, but if he could keep the man talking, slip from the stool at the right moment and bring his hands under his feet…

  “It matters not,” Shadrach replied. “I have memorised the key incantations and spells. The Long Chant is as familiar to me as the Lord’s Prayer was to those who used this holy building for nobler purposes.”

  A bony fist slammed on the desk. The hybrid-weapon rocked, the light reflecting murderously on its blade. “You underestimate the Black Church. Why do you think it was untouched during the Dissolution? This was never holy ground, stranger; the monks who built it knew its true purpose.”

  “I know full well why it is called the Black Church,” Shadrach said evenly. “The legends of Satanism and witchcraft have their basis in fact, but it is for a far more literal reason this monastery received its name.” He lifted his head, indicating the nave above. “The darkness that taints the stone is not of human origin. It is the Taint of Nyarlathotep, as real and physical as the Black Death, and more lethal.”

  A hiss from beneath the hood. “So you know the Great Enemy. Not that it will do you any good. It is time for introductions, stranger. What do they call you?”

  Shadrach smiled. He bent forward and said, “I have been called many names. But I answer only to Shadrach.”

  “Shadrach,” the hooded man said. “A misnomer, I suspect. The Old Testament tale is hardly appropriate to you! Were you saved from the fires of an earthly Hell, Shadrach? Was it an angel who saved you, a reward for your faith, for refusing to bow to the idol?” The figure laughed. “Nay, little Saracen. I know you. And this time, no one will save you from the fire. This time, you will bow down to the idol!”

  Shadrach gave a curt nod. “You recognise me, then.”

  “The Al-Azif made me suspect. But this confirmed it.” The hooded man lifted the hybrid. A calloused finger stroked the inscribed characters along the blade. “I recognise the steel. I know the sword it came from, and why you had these glyphs inscribed.”

  “And you call yourself Sir George Kendall. Why do you not reveal your true self? Why hide behind the name of a dead Royalist commander?”

  Silence greeted Shadrach’s words. He detected a momentary hiss, a sharp inhalation of breath, but that could have been the sound of sea water slapping against a distant tunnel entrance.

  “You think you know me, little Saracen? Do you truly know what I am now?” Then the hooded man lifted his hands and raised the cowl.

  * * *

  Palmer stared at the wall. It must have been fatigue or the after-effects of the encounter in the woods, or a trick of the light…but what light?

  The darkness was increasing. The fires of the cressets and torches had not diminished – indeed, one of the troopers ha
d fed fresh fuel to the flames – but their illumination did not spread far, and appeared to be retreating, as if even the fire was afraid of the darkness that coated the monastery walls.

  There were no clear patches of unmarked stone within the nave or chancel, but wherever he looked, the blackness seemed to intensify, as if another coating of the strange substance was applied by invisible means. He turned and pushed his bound hands against the wall, expecting to feel some slimy, pitch-like substance.

  As he did so he saw Lewis and shuddered. The swelling in the sergeant’s hands had worsened, and now his wrists were twice their normal size. The tight binding was agony to him, and the flesh around the rope had turned white, then darkened.

  He will lose his hands once the bonds are cut, Palmer thought. He had seen men die when freed from crushing injuries, and the surgeon had told him toxins built up when flesh was without circulation for too long. It became necrotic, doomed.

  Now the burly sergeant sat huddled by the dais – its altar long since purloined – seemingly unaware of his surroundings. His head was tipped forward and tears of pain ran over his drenched beard and spattered on the black flagstones, forced to the ground by the shuddering of the big man’s body. Palmer closed his eyes and tried to tell himself it was not the Black Church that was the undoing of Lewis.

  His fingers brushed the wall. Nothing. Cold and clammy to the touch, but not unusual in an ancient stone building that had succumbed to the dank miasma of this stretch of coast.

  “The Black Church,” he muttered, grimacing at the childlike cry of terror that came from Lewis. “Why choose this as a regrouping post, Trooper?”

  The young soldier shrugged. “ ‘Tis Sir George’s wish. We were told the position would make it easily defendable to those who would attempt a siege…and the legends of devilry would make the common soldier think twice before assaulting Fairlight.”

  “Indeed,” Palmer replied. “But surely there are more suitable buildings for the purpose. How –” He cocked his head and heard the sound of ascending footsteps from the doorway to the stairway. Only one pair…

  The soldier who had accompanied Shadrach closed the door behind him and stared at Palmer. He tried not to flinch at the hatred in those eyes, noting how tightly the captain grasped his sword hilt. The knuckles loosened, and the captain’s fist reverted to a raised hand, a finger pointed at Palmer’s chest.

  “Time for some questions, little soldier,” he spat. He drew himself to his full height, looming over Palmer, and seemed to become a part of the surrounding darkness.

  Palmer took a deep breath and forced himself to remain calm. “Good. I have need of answers.”

  The darkness temporarily retreated as a spinning cartwheel of stars filled Palmer’s vision. He sagged against the dais, unable to breathe as blood poured from his broken nose. Another punch from the occupying captain, and this time Palmer felt teeth loosen in his jaw. The stars spun in the canopy overhead, pinpricks of light in the Black Church.

  The stars are right…

  “Easton. Keep an eye on the big one.” The captain flexed his fingers and created a fist again. “His mind’s gone, no good for questioning. But I don’t want any interruption.”

  Palmer’s cheek rested on the dais. Blood bubbled in his nostrils with every exhalation. He saw the young soldier Easton step out of sight, pistol cocked, heading for Lewis. The captain came into view, crouched down, and pulled his head back.

  “It is you who will supply the answers, little one.” He wrenched the Royalist sash from Palmer’s waist, crumpled it into a ball and wiped the blood from his fist with it. “Little Roundhead bastard. Did you think to fool us this way? Is the Launceston leadership so foolish? Of course not. They knew what they were doing, sending you pathetic bastards here. Reconnaissance?”

  Palmer did not answer, but the recognition of Smythe’s and Boughton’s order flashed in his eyes. The captain grinned.

  “Yes. Gather intelligence on the numbers within, then they are free to launch their attack. The woods will not harm them in daylight, and even so, they will bring ordnance and fire. So, how large is the army that you think will relieve you? How many men, how many cannon?”

  Again Palmer did not answer. He raised his head and fixed the spinning head of the captain in his view. Then he spat blood and phlegm into the soldier’s face.

  The captain did not even blink as he wiped the mess from his cheek. He smiled without mirth. “Very well.” A boot lashed out, drove into Palmer’s ribs with the force of a hammer. Palmer groaned as he felt something in his chest crack.

  “Numbers, Captain Palmer! I want the total number of men and the full tally of weaponry they will bring!” Another kick, this time to Palmer’s knee. He writhed face down on the floor, spewing a mixture of vomit and blood onto the black flags. His cheeks burned, and he felt the very floor was afire.

  The Royalist captain paused, waiting for Palmer’s retching to turn to dry heaving. Then he asked again, “How many? Infantry and artillery alone? Or will there be cavalry?”

  Palmer twisted onto his right side. He raised his head from the floor. “Go to hell.”

  The captain knelt beside him, grabbed his shoulders and roughly pulled him back to his face-down position. He grasped Palmer’s bound hands and pulled at the fingers of the left one.

  Palmer felt as though rats were crawling over his hands, sharp claws piercing the meat of his palms and the knuckles of his fingers. Then he felt pressure; a tugging, then pulling, of his little finger. A wet crack followed, like a badly primed musket firing on a damp battlefield, and his hand filled with agony. His vision blurred and the cartwheeling stars returned.

  The stars are right…Shadrach, what are you doing? Are you being tortured as I am?

  Another crack, louder this time, and he felt the broken fragments of his index finger twist and rub against each other through the weakened sheath of skin and flesh.

  “I do not need steel to tear you to pieces, little Roundhead.” The captain tossed the severed finger before Palmer, the ragged edges of the pink meat testament to the physical strength of his torturer. “I was a farm labourer before the war began. I slaughtered sheep, oxen, chickens with my hands. Fine training for what I do now to the enemies of His Majesty. Unless you wish to join the horses in the moat, piece by piece, you would do well to tell me what I wish to know.

  “The attack, Captain. When is it coming?” This time Palmer’s thumb broke, and the scream escaped his lips before he could stifle it.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Shadrach stared in horror at the face revealed to him. He was no longer in the monastery of Fairlight. He had been taken back to a time long ago, to a burning desert in the land of Judah, a battleground of swords and arrows rather than a permanently damp land of musket fire and cannon ball. But the atrocities were the same, the despair and misery similar, and the same face that had leered over his broken body and left him for dead grinned with unholy delight at him now.

  The grey knight sat before him. The Crusader who took the idol, who vanished into the burning fires of the fallen Jerusalem – al-Quds as he knew it then – never to be seen again. Now here, in an England tearing itself apart.

  The knight no longer had the huge physical build with which he had ridden to the Holy Land. His skin was grey, sagging; the tell-tale sign of muscle and flesh wasted to nothing, the skin naught but a premature burial shroud. The eyeballs were yellow with jaundice, red-rimmed, yet the silver grey of his irises still burned brightly; a stone-cold glare which shone as ominously now in the candlelight of the Black Church as it had in the furnace-glare of the Judean desert.

  A skeletal hand reached out and lifted Shadrach’s chin. A low chuckle rumbled in the cell as the grey knight examined the white tracks of the scars on Shadrach’s throat.

  “The marks of death and rebirth. You have changed, little Saracen.” The timbre was different, the booming baritone gone, but the mockery and threat of casual cruelty remained. The jaundiced eyes narro
wed. “Hassan ibn-Sadak, the master of your Order. From Sadak to Shadrach; a fine way to honour your friend and Master. A noble sentiment. Of course, ‘tis not just the name you have Anglicised. You have grown, little Saracen.” He released Shadrach’s jaw.

  “You recognised the face of your companion – or rather, fellow criminal – in Christ. I flatter myself that I have put his body to better use than he did.”

  A harsh laugh, as raw and chilling as the cries of vultures that stalked the desert of Judah. “And yet ‘tis only human. I fear you have been in too many wars, fought too many battles, for it to last.”

  Shadrach grinned. “It has performed admirably well so far. And it has aged far better than yours.”

  “A temporary affliction,” the grey knight said. “The stars are right, and I shall be renewed when she arrives.”

  Shadrach shifted in his stool. The grey knight was aware of his discomfort and took pleasure in it. Shadrach took a deep breath, then spoke.

  “Still you labour under this falsehood. All these years, all these generations spent appeasing her, and still you know naught of her true nature. Look around you! Look at the lights you surround yourself with to prevent the Taint of the Dark One! You must know the Great Shaitan will not surrender his Bride so easily!”

  “Pah! The Taint of Nyarlathotep? ‘Tis nothing. Easily held at bay, little Saracen, if you use the correct materials for the light.”

  Shadrach stared, uncomprehending, then remembered the strange smell of meaty fat which burned in the candles. A wave of nausea enveloped him and he rode on its black wave as his vision blurred.

  “Do your soldiers know? Did they not question the candles?” The minute the words left his lips, he knew the answer.

  Of course they did not know. The grey knight would have rendered the human fat himself; it was an essential part of the ritual. And the haunted, laconic faces of the soldiers were proof that the Taint of Nyarlathotep had already done its work on Sir George Kendall’s men. Despair, fear, and apathy on some; brutality and cruelty on others.