Dreaming In Darkness

by Chamberlin, Adrian

  As if in confirmation, Shadrach heard a barely human scream from above. He closed his eyes, knowing Kendall’s captain was interrogating Palmer with a malicious glee that went far beyond mere soldierly brutality.

  The taint of Nyarlathotep is not just a physical one, Hassan once told him. It corrupts the stone with which men fortify themselves, but its real power is the darkness it puts into men’s souls. It has the cunning of a wild beast.

  “So Kendall met his doom here. He thought it would be a sanctuary, a place to heal his wounds while waiting for more men to come to his banner. And now you take his place. Wear his face.” Shadrach snarled, glaring at the candles made from the rendered fat of Sir George Kendall. “ ‘Tis obvious the Taint has blinded them to who – or rather, what – you really are. They see their commander, but I see you as you truly are. You will always be the grey knight to me.”

  The Kendall creature smiled. “I will wager that you were not surprised I was nowhere to be seen upon your return to the Holy City; I did not suspect you had taken Sir Robert’s body – although the secrets I had gleaned from your Order made me wary – but I knew my companions were more interested in the material wealth of the idol than its spiritual properties. Of course I did not wait for them.”

  Another scream, this one barely human. Shadrach gritted his teeth. “But you did not return to your ancestral seat. I know, because that was the first place I looked. You hid yourself and the idol well, grey knight.”

  The captor steepled his skeletal fingers and rested the aged bone of his chin upon them. A thoughtful expression settled on his face. “As did you, little Saracen. I was not idle; I too hunted you, but I think the strange destiny of war took us on separate paths. I detect naught but a memory of Sir Robert’s accent in your speech; you have travelled and fought in many lands, have you not?”

  Shadrach’s smile was without humour. “More battles, more lifetimes than a man should know. As one ended, another would call, and all the while the dark forces were keeping you safe from my wrath, keeping me from England. Until now.”

  The grey knight’s laughter made the candle flames dance. They rose higher, the nearest licking hungrily at Shadrach’s heels as Kendall stood. “Mayhap you believe an Elder God has eased your return to the land of my birth! Nay, little Saracen. Her powers are strong; it is she who has brought you here. The last offering to Lilith – whom your Order insists on calling Shub-Niggurath – and it will be you!”

  Shadrach’s eyes narrowed at the sight of his hybrid-weapon lifted from the desk. The grey knight crept around to his captive, his shoulders hunched and his back bowed, each movement an agony he sought to hide. The glyphs in the blade momentarily darkened.

  “Almost a thousand souls have been given unto her. I have kept a very careful tally. You will be honoured to know that you are the very last she will require.”

  The blow belied the weakness of the grey knight. Shadrach’s head spun and the room tipped backwards. He smelled burnt tallow and molten fat as the candles knocked over by his fall spilled their fuel upon him. The grey knight knelt over him, swiping away the nearest candles.

  “No, Shadrach, no burning for you this time!” The blade sliced through Shadrach’s shirt and jerkin. He felt the cold air and the rank breath of the grey knight on his skin, saw the tip of the blade press the hollow between his neck and chest.

  “Now you will bow before the idol.”

  * * *

  Jethro Lewis heard another scream and his body trembled. He saw the quivering arms of Captain Palmer and the twisted ruins of his left hand. The fingers looked like broken twigs from a dead tree.

  Twigs…

  The torturer held a small, pinkish tube to the cresset on the altar, examining it in the light. A shard of bone glinted as the soldier scratched his nose with it, and Lewis remembered what he himself had done to an infantryman’s finger the day before.

  Fingers…he flexed his muscles, but felt no pain. Instead, his hands felt different. Solid, unmoving; like wood. Shadrach’s warning came to him:

  When we ride through the woods…touch nothing. Do not break any of the branches, nor the leaves, if any remain.

  Another screamed called to him. A scream from the woods outside, a cry of agony and despair that the men surrounding him seemed unaware of. A voice only he could hear, in the dead wood of his own mind.

  “Overy, ye bastard. What’ve ye done? What do ye want me to do?” His whispered words sounded alien to him, echoing in his skull.

  The reply was another scream, one that became the shriek of dead trees blasted by a winter storm. The crash of falling timber, the hissing sound of twigs rattling in the limbs that had given them life, the crunch of roots freed from hardened soil…

  He got to his feet, his legs no longer trembling. The wood of his bound hands felt cold; as cold as the granite that imprisoned them, and just as solid.

  And mebbe…just as powerful. Just as evil. His hands felt colder now; stiffer, yet with a strength that was not there before. The tremors that had possessed his body were gone from his legs; now his torso was still and implacable.

  Yet it was not a relaxant that coursed through his muscles and sinews. Here was a force he had not experienced before, a primal energy that was older than the land the Black Church stood upon, as old as the stars.

  The Black Goat walks among us…the Goat’s Young…Now Jethro Lewis knew the source of the creatures within the dead wood. Knew how their spirits languished in oak prisons, sacrificed to an entity older than time. His vision was no longer constrained by the darkness of the night and the blackness of the stone walls; he saw through the granite, through the very foundations of the monastery, to the currents of power that coursed through the land on previously invisible lines, criss-crossing the earth like myriad blood vessels, feeding it with a sustenance beyond human comprehension.

  They glowed scarlet. A light that burned as it took him. He opened his mouth to scream with the pain and the joy as the dark gift from Overy took him fully, and joined his own darkness, his own evil, to the source of power in the dead wood.

  * * *

  The grey knight stared at the bared flesh of Shadrach’s chest. The hybrid-weapon trembled in his grasp. A tattooed trio of eyes, the irises scarlet, the pupils golden, peered balefully at the grey knight. They burned, their colouring bright and luminous, in contrast to the desiccated, mummified skin upon which they had been painted.

  The stitches that secured the ancient parchment-like skin to Shadrach’s flesh were of a thread the grey knight had never seen before. Surely, no earthly twine could secure that to a mortal chest.

  “The Three-Lobed Burning Eye. Then you are indeed the last bearer of the mark.”

  “Aye, grey knight. The symbol of our Order, the symbol Solomon himself inscribed upon his seal! ‘Tis the reason the Taint never fully possessed me.” He grinned as the Damascus steel pressed the centre. “You seek to remove my protection? A mere cut will not suffice! I have borne this mark since my initiation, wore it again long after you broke me in the desert of Judah. It has protected me from the Taint of the Great Shaitan ever since.”

  The candles flickered with a fresh gust of air from below, and their light dimmed. Through the windows of the octagonal tower, Shadrach saw the stars flare.

  “How much protection do the candles give you, grey knight? The Taint is increasing, and not even your lanterns will keep Nyarlathotep’s darkness at bay.”

  The blade trembled as it carved a diagonal line through the gold stitching. Shadrach gasped, but maintained his assault. “Where his Bride goes, the Great Shaitan will follow. Did you think he would abandon her so easily? You have doomed your men and yourself.”

  “Lies!” The grey knight dug deeper. Blood washed over the inscription on Shadrach’s chest. “Her Thousand Young will be my new army, and not even Nyarlathotep will stand against me!”

  “You have deceived yourself. The Young of the Black Goat are not to be commanded; they rebel against nature b
y their very existence. What makes you think they will obey a human master when even their unholy parents cannot control them?”

  The knife hand paused. “I know they rebel, Shadrach. It is the mark of youth. All sons are prodigal. All see the light eventually; they just need encouragement. The right binding.” He traced an arc around the topmost lobe of the Burning Eye on Shadrach’s chest. “I knew you were coming, little Saracen. Your coming was foretold.”

  A scarlet curtain swept over Shadrach’s eyes and the octagonal ceiling tilted. Fresh fire flared in his chest. The curtain rose, replaced by a thin, fleshy membrane that flapped in his assailant’s gore-soaked fingers.

  “The skin, grey knight?” Shadrach barked through a sea of pain. “Is that all?”

  The torturer gently shook the excess blood from the sliced section and placed it on the desk. He turned back and said, “Not the skin, little Saracen. That is merely the start.”

  Shadrach felt the flags shift beneath him, and his scream of agony felt like it came from elsewhere, from the very bowels of the earth. The grey knight halted his progress with the blade, a frown on his withered features, and Shadrach felt grim satisfaction that his cry had given the grey knight pause.

  Then he saw the desk vibrate, the contents of his snapsack trembling. Two of the cartridges containing powder for his hybrid-weapon rolled onto the ground. A rumble of thunder, a grinding sound of stone flags shifting – then fracturing – filled the room, and pieces of masonry showered down on the men in the cell.

  The knight stood, bafflement on his face. His eyes turned to the ceiling and his jaw gaped.

  Shadrach twisted on the floor, tried to blink the masonry dust from his eyes. Surely that – and the red mist of agony – had caused the apparition? What else could those branch-like tendrils be?

  Then he saw the twisted grimace on his opponent’s face and knew it was no hallucination.

  Lewis has succumbed! Now it is time to move…

  The flags shifted once more, and the candles fell. The stink of human fat, sizzling on cold stone, filled his nostrils, and the grey knight, crying with terror, threw the hybrid-weapon on the desk and advanced to the stone circle, attempting to right the candles.

  With an effort of will he had not attempted since his encounter with the Great Deceiver, Shadrach bent forward, shifted his body and powered his legs. He stood on trembling limbs, his chest afire, and closed his eyes to blind himself to the destruction of the crypt.

  Concentrate. Find the desk. The hybrid.

  He stumbled backward, a complete fall to the ground arrested by the obstructing desk. His bound hands clasped the welcoming steel of Damascus.

  The blade’s edge found the knot and parted it easily. Shadrach’s grin of triumph became more of a grimace; fresh pain washed through his chest as he brought his hands forward. The weight of the weapon added stress to his pectoral muscles, but it felt good to have the hybrid in his hand once again.

  He opened his eyes, about to advance on the kneeling Crusader and put an end to him once and for all. He faltered, and the weapon almost slipped from his fingers.

  The grey knight had Shadrach’s patch of chest-skin in his hand. Had now placed it lovingly, reverentially, upon the obscene crown of serpents of the idol’s head. Within the protective circle of blasphemous lanterns, now fully righted, Shub-Niggurath fed upon the flesh of her last offering.

  CHAPTER TEN

  The waves of agony washing over James Palmer retreated; the tide of torture ebbed and new screams filled the black nave. Screams of others.

  He watched, disbelieving, as the torturer scrambled away and reached for his sabre to take on the thing upon the altar.

  Has it come from the woods? Surely not, but where is Lewis?

  The chancel filled with pistol and musket fire as the few remaining soldiers – panicked, undisciplined, and leaderless – reacted to the horror in a primal manner. Palmer felt detached, as though he was watching events unconnected to him, or reading of them in a military despatch. He realised Lewis had gone.

  Just like my dragoons when I met Shadrach yesterday. You don’t go guns blazing, you think first…

  It was understandable in this situation, though. Overconfidence led to a rout and defeat, but here the enemy was unlike anything the occupying soldiers had experienced before.

  The smoke did not obscure the creature; rather, the light from the diminished cressets and torches illuminated the mist of gun smoke enveloping the creature’s branch-like limbs that rose to the vaulting of the nave like shoots springing from the earth, clawing desperately for a source of light. He narrowed his eyes, blinking against the acrid smoke, to ascertain that the waving tendrils did indeed terminate in wedge-shaped heads with solitary eyes burning scarlet in the dark. The flicking of forked tongues from pale lips assured him this was no illusion.

  Another blast from a musket, this one aimed at the crown of the beast, and Palmer saw faces within the trunk-like torso, seemingly formed – or carved – from the same wood that pulsated and writhed in the manner of no earthly tree. The faces were vaguely human, but creased into expressions of inhuman loathing and fury at the assault. The lips parted and the same forked tongues of the serpent-tendrils emerged from prisons of diamond-shaped fangs, dripping black ichor that dribbled down the trio of goat-like legs the creature advanced upon, soaking the ungulate hooves which dragged the black liquid into streaks upon the dark flags.

  It paused, its advance frozen, as a further change occurred. The sound of metal discs rang on the stone flags; flattened lead musket balls, the missiles denied entry, now fell to the ground like so many sixpences. A fresh opening in the trunk, but no face: this time, a jagged hole opened, like a fissure, and spilled forth an unearthly yellow light that momentarily blinded the panicking soldiers.

  Palmer averted his eyes, and the roar that followed had him sinking to the floor. Before him, the black coating of the flags writhed like molten pitch, or a multitude of blowflies, as if even this dark surface was afraid of the beast’s light.

  The ground shifted, and the roar of the creature was accompanied by the shattering of flagstones and the thudding of moving earth. Fragments of masonry rained upon him, followed by the groaning of ancient stone, the walls of the monastery writhing like the beast’s tendrils.

  A voice hissed through the chaos of rumbling masonry and alien cries from the beast. A human voice, one he had forgotten.

  He felt tugging on his hands and froze, fearing the brutal captain had returned to wreak more pain upon him before the beast destroyed them all. Then his hands were free and he was dragged to the relative shelter of the open doorway of the stairwell.

  “I do not know what your friend has done, but time is short.” A pistol was thrust into his right hand, and the young soldier glanced at Palmer’s ravaged fingers. “I have primed the pistol, seeing your left hand is ruined. You have one shot – go! Kill Kendall, and bring Shadrach here.”

  * * *

  The trembling of the ground was forgotten as Shadrach’s chest-skin melted on the idol. The thin layer of fat bubbled and melted, decorating the crown of black serpent-thorns with viscous yellow. The rubies shone, sparkled, and the skin with its carving of ancient glyphs crackled and burned. Smoke rose to the low ceiling.

  Shadrach’s chest burned as its former protective covering melted and burned to nothing on the Black Goat’s crown. The protective sigils flared scarlet before vanishing into smoke and imparting their power to the physical representation of Shub-Niggurath. He cried out with fresh pain and the grey knight turned. There was a smile of triumph on his withered features; features that shone with new energy, revived.

  Rejuvenated. The knight’s arms reached for the idol and held it in a loving embrace. The stone serpent-thorns pierced his forehead, and blood ran down in rivulets, joining the molten fat of Shadrach’s chest. Then the grey knight bent down and pulled the idol’s left arm, side-stepping backwards as he did so.

  The terrible visage of the Gre
at Shaitan’s Betrothed faced Shadrach. The carved expression was one of inhuman triumph and the anticipation of a hunger that would soon be satisfied. The knight’s gleeful smile was just as triumphant, and just as inhuman, for there was a healthy pink colouring in his cheeks and forehead, which before Shadrach’s eyes filled with youthful, plump muscles and fat. The wrinkles were gone, and an unmistakeable bulk replaced the skeletal frame beneath the monk’s habit.

  “See, little Saracen!” he said with a voice that was no longer the thin, scratchy piping of an old man, but the booming thunder that had greeted him so many years ago in the Desert of Judah. “See how she rewards me!”

  Shadrach leant back on the desk, his hybrid-weapon pointed to the floor. He did not have the strength to level it at the grey knight; every movement was agony, and the weapon felt heavier with each passing moment.

  Her physical presence is nearing full strength. I cannot resist her now…he closed his eyes and imagined the pistol lifting; his arm strong, his hand steady…it was no use.

  It was too late. His eyes opened to face a fresh horror, one devastating because it shattered all hope.

  The black stone of the idol shone, gleamed like ebony. Then glistened like the sweat-drenched black skin of the tribes that came far from the south of Jerusalem and Thebes. Shining with moisture. Shining with life.

  Living, breathing, organic life. The abdomen of the Black Goat pulsated, a rhythmic expansion – then contraction – of abdominal muscles, as lungs expanded, filled with the air of the crypt, then deflated with a deathly hiss that matched the chorus of serpentine breathing above. They grey knight’s face was hidden by the writhing, triumphant dance performed by the snake-thorns of Shub-Niggurath’s crown. Their eyes were no longer inset rubies, but living orbs filled with a scarlet light. Only the vertical slits of their pupils remained dark, a blackness that was more than a match for the Taint of Nyarlathotep.