Dreaming In Darkness

by Chamberlin, Adrian

  Shadrach made the cuts as quickly as possible, slicing and jointing and resisting the temptation to hack at the limbs. The stone tiles were slick with blood, in which the knight’s writhing slowed, became less energetic. Without his arms he could not flail wildly; without his legs he could not kick against his torturer.

  He could only slither aimlessly, as the disembodied snakes from the Black Goat’s crown of thorns had done in the cell below.

  Shadrach allowed him to do so as he made cuts to the quivering lumps of meat that had once been the grey knight’s limbs. It was a delicate task; the skin had to come away cleanly, intact.

  I am out of practice. It has been many years since I performed this ritual…memories of the botched attempt on the Continent, in the Siege of Munster, threatened to flood him, but he forced them from his mind.

  Even though the consequences of failure this time will be more catastrophic…nay, think not on it.

  He focussed on his butchery, falling into an easy rhythm of slice, pull, discard. When he heard the sound of thick, swamp-like water lapping on stone he paused, frowning.

  Water? Up here?

  A screech from an unearthly being filled the lighthouse, crashing in great waves of alien agony and despair, and suddenly he realised.

  * * *

  “Palmer. Here.”

  Palmer took the proffered – and reloaded – flintlock without a word, stepping cautiously through the liquid Taint. Still the darkness parted and swept past him. Perhaps anxious not to touch him? Palmer suspected differently: that this entity, already imbibed with powers beyond his understanding, was conserving its strength, its destructive energy. Contact with anything living will dissipate that. But why?

  It mattered not. Palmer’s immediate concern was for his new troops. With a backward glance at the Lewis-beast – writhing in a self-contained fire – he strode purposefully towards the vestibule, hiding his fear. An illusion of confidence was necessary.

  The men were hastily reloading, spilling powder as they fed the barrels of their muskets. Two were frantically blowing on their matchcords, struggling to keep it alight, and one had his pan ready, aiming towards the beasts from the wood that had traversed the dead forest and the moat with its stew of putrefaction. Palmer narrowed his eyes with recognition: this was the captain who had attempted to break him.

  “Cease firing!” His words sounded like a stranger’s; he had not spoken with such command and authority since…

  Since never. He remembered the encounter in the wood with his dragoons who contemptuously ignored his weak plea to cease their charge against Shadrach. He smiled at the astonished faces that turned towards him.

  “See the thing behind me? That is the fate we will deal to its brethren. But it will not be done with simple powder and shot.”

  The musket-bearing captain glanced at his musket’s pan, and then turned suspicious eyes to Palmer. “Who’s to say? With a sufficient volley, we can take ‘em apart.”

  “You know that to be false, Captain. You want to survive? Then you will do as I say.”

  The captain spat at Palmer’s feet. “I take no command from a Roundhead pup!”

  “As you wish,” Palmer replied. He thumbed forward the flintlock and holstered his firearm. He gestured to the graveyard and the advancing shadows. “Be my guest.”

  The captain did not shoulder his musket. He did not look to the garden, but kept his eyes on the stone steps of the porch. The last barrier.

  “Stand aside.” Palmer ensured he pushed the captain away with his left hand, despite the pain it cost him. The captain’s eyes widened.

  The new invader was less intimidating to Palmer. Perhaps because it was not in a confined space; perhaps because he had already struck a blow against one of its brethren…

  It’s still standing, though, is it not? Inactive, but not powerless.

  …perhaps because he had seen some of the power of Shadrach’s gunpowder, and knew he had a goodly supply left.

  “Watch.” He aimed the flintlock. The trigger squeezed, the lock fell into the pan…

  …and nothing happened.

  * * *

  So, the Hated One is no more. The Great Shaitan has claimed her, and is here with me. Shadrach stared at the patch of skin he had sliced from the grey knight’s chest. The nipples were black, wizened: just like those on the idol. He placed the flap of flesh in the cresset, watched the skin shrivel and the fat bubble and melt, just as the coverings from the arms and legs had done.

  Just as my skin and flesh was consumed by the Great Deceiver’s wife.

  He placed his hybrid-weapon on the tiles and stood. Far below, Shadrach heard the screaming of soldiers and the crashing, devastating assault of the Black Goat’s Young. The family must be reunited: father, mother, and rebellious children. All must be at One. All must go from whence they came. And there is only one certain method to ensure this.

  It was time for the Long Chant.

  Nyarlathotep’s Bride was returned, joined unto him. But to banish both…that could only happen if the correct incantation was used. If only to open the portal, and allow the Great Old Ones to take the Great Shaitan and his Betrothed back to beyond the stars. He took a deep breath. He had memorised the Long Chant many lifetimes and many years ago, but had never dared speak it. Even Hassan had never done so.

  But the Order had never had need to. Now, there was no choice.

  “Be opened, the Mouth of Mystery,

  Be called, the Wings of the Winds,

  Appear, the Burning Flames…”

  The black pool had entered the lighthouse. Rivulets spread across the tiles, fingers forming which gently caressed the cooling corpse of the grey knight, the man who had originally summoned Nyarlathotep. The touch was one of respect as well as contempt, for here lay a mortal man who had summoned the Great Shaitan not for earthly powers and possessions, but for love.

  “In the name of the Creator,

  Him that is Fallen,

  Steward of the Dark Throne…”

  To be cuckolded by a mortal? An insult, a challenge to the Elder Gods, yet also a compliment. Nyarlathotep had spent more time on this plane than all the Elder Gods, and understood human motivation.

  “Iä Nyarlathotep!

  Artisan of Azathoth,

  I swear obedience,

  To the Great Work,

  The harvest of human souls,”

  A lie, yet an acceptable one. The soldiers who had fallen to his hybrid-weapon…who was to say where their souls went? As the men fell, dismembered and bleeding to the ground, they doubtless died secure in the knowledge their souls went to the God in whose name they fought. Perhaps he was a harvester, felling men to feed their souls to hungry Outer Gods, or mayhap he was a plain instrument of war, of human folly and malice. It mattered not, in the grand scheme of things.

  “To winnow the wicked,

  To root out the Beast,

  To beautify the ground,

  Polluted by the Virgin Bride,

  Who became a harlot,

  Ark of wormwood,

  Clothed in the souls of serpents and the stumps of men.”

  The light of the fire flickered, the flames dying with the hiss of the Dark One. His jealousy knew no bounds, yet he was discomforted by a mere human labelling Shub-Niggurath as the whore she undoubtedly was.

  “Now, reclaim her as your Rightful Bride,

  And leave this plane,

  By my name, skin, and blood,

  For I am servant to the same god as you,

  For I am of him that liveth forever.”

  The last of the grey knight’s mortal covering flared and bubbled in the cresset. The flames rose higher, and the black smoke roiled, as foul-smelling as the candles with which the Crusader had sought to keep the Taint of Nyarlathotep at bay, and Shadrach bowed his head in obeisance.

  For I fed his Bride with my flesh, marked by the Three-Lobed Burning Eye. Albeit unwillingly, it was my bodily material that allowed his Bride the opportunit
y to come to full life.

  Now, only appeasement. The knight who would cuckold the Great Shaitan had been slaughtered, and offered according to the Old Ritual.

  But is that enough?

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  The Young’s snake-headed tendrils were even longer than those of the Lewis-beast in the chancel of the Black Church, soaring higher than the octagonal tower, raised to the moonlit heavens as if challenging God Himself.

  Palmer checked his flintlock. The pistol was primed, the powder dry. What was wrong?

  He fired again. The flintlock struck the pan. Still nothing.

  “Easton!” he roared. “What have you done?”

  The young infantryman shook his head frantically. “It is primed as you commanded! I have no idea what has gone amiss!”

  “Young Roundhead bastard!” the captain interjected. “Full of hope and false promises, eh? Ye’ve no better solution than my –”

  A flare of light to the east, followed by a roar of thunder and a splinter of timbers. The Young before him hissed, and its snake-headed tendrils writhed, turned en masse to the direction from which the blast had come.

  Palmer squinted into the distance. The dead wood had thinned, spread out around the monastery gardens – he knew the waving of the branches was not due to the breeze – and that allowed him to see the row of black mouths that spewed fire into the wood. He grinned, and looked at the captain who had tortured him earlier.

  “I did not lie, sir. I had no inkling a relief was coming. And certainly not so soon!”

  The captain spat again. “Wipe the smirk from your face, youngling. I will wager they have just as much success as we.”

  Palmer’s smile froze. He turned again to the row of ordnance, saw fast-moving shadows feed the hungry black mouths and retreat to the safety of rear lines.

  Another flash; this time a continuous volley of fire. The rumble of thunder reached him seconds later, and the ground shook.

  Yet still he knew the captain was correct. Wood splintered, trunks exploded, and branches flew like men’s limbs in the maelstrom of cannon fire.

  And still the Young advanced, barely heeding the artillery barrage from Boughton’s promised relief force, not even facing it, disdaining it as an unworthy enemy.

  The Young of the Black Goat had only one aim, one destination: the Black Church of Fairlight.

  The nearest Young beast exulted, a roar of triumph accompanied by the screech of serpents. Now its tendrils lowered, questing as the snakeheads of the Lewis monster had done. They traversed the ground, slimy with the soup of the moat, wreathing through the fallen grave markers. A tendril came close to the captain’s foot, its jaws opened and the ruby eyes of the serpent head hissed in delight before striking with lightning speed at the captain’s musket.

  The loaded firearm discharged as it fell from the struck captain’s grasp, the barrel spinning before it struck the ground.

  Palmer heard a scream as the tendril whisked the captain away from them. He bent his head, ignoring the cries and the meaty thump of a human body dragged through the markers of the graveyard.

  What is wrong with the pistol? Perhaps it was Shadrach’s powder after all. A flash in the pan, he thought, and dismissed it, knowing Shadrach would not appreciate the joke.

  Trust to God and keep your powder dry. The powder was dry, was it not?

  “Easton. The cartridges.”

  “Sir?”

  Sir. Well, that was a first. And now, perhaps the last. “Give them to me. Your snapsack also; and all spare powder and shot.”

  Easton stared.

  “Now!”

  The young infantryman hastened to obey. He went to the vestibule and retrieved his sack. Palmer did not watch him; he heard the sound of powder and shot falling into heavy cotton, knew the soldier was doing as he was bid, while he watched the Young drag the battered, lifeless body of the captain through the graveyard.

  It is not feeding, not consuming him. It delights in mere destruction. That chilled him more. Is that all that drives these monsters? What hope is there for us now?

  “Here, sir.”

  Palmer took the snapsack, glanced inside. “Good. And the last of the cartridges?”

  Easton tore the parchment of the tubes apart, and poured the powder into the snapsack. When they were empty, he paused, and then tossed the ripped material inside.

  “I suspect, sir, that the words on the cartridges have just as much power as the powder itself.”

  “You may be right, Easton.” Witchcraft, pure and simple. Shadrach does not ride with the angels after all. “Now, your tinderbox.”

  Easton handed it to him. His fledgling Adam’s apple rose and fell as he swallowed and sought words, while Palmer hoisted the snapsack over his shoulder.

  “Captain Palmer, I now know what you do. Know this: it has been an honour to fight with you. Mayhap…mayhap this is a sign from God – that we are wrong to fight amongst ourselves. When an enemy like this cares naught for either side’s allegiance…well…”

  Palmer clapped Easton’s shoulder. He smiled. “Aye, lad.” Lad? He is a mere five summers from my age! “We will learn to fight against the one true enemy…one day.”

  He dropped his pistol, turned, and raced into the graveyard.

  The lych-gate. Past that, then into the heart of the dead wood. And then…a fire to remember me by.

  The Young did not notice him as he raced past.

  * * *

  Shadrach was spent. The Long Chant had drained him, and now the exertions and trials of the flesh were about to claim him as well. He sank into a corner of the tower, breathing heavily.

  I can do no more. The ritual is performed, the Long Chant has been spoken. The darkness steadily pooled around him. Globules chained together, formed arms that rose from the dead pool, hovering over the cresset and its unholy fuel, swaying like the Black Goat’s crown of serpents.

  Expectation. Something else was desired. But what?

  Who…are…you?

  The question, formed from words that did not pass into his ears, but slipped into his mind as smoothly as a worm into the flesh of the dead.

  “The Great Shaitan does not know me?”

  Who…are…you?

  Shadrach was puzzled. “We have met. In the oasis, where you assumed the form of my master, Hassan ibn-Sadak.”

  Who…are…you?

  The voice was different; before, it had assumed the very voice of Hassan, as well as his mannerisms and appearance. Now…now it was something else.

  Something lost. Like me. Who am I, indeed?

  Despite his weariness, his exhaustion, he stood. “I am the last surviving Member of the Order. I am Massoud.”

  Who…are…you?

  He frowned. Then he realised. That was who he had been. His identity now…even that was a mystery to him. He had adopted the name of Shadrach as soon as he re-entered Jerusalem, in another man’s body, with another purpose.

  I am Shadrach.

  What had the grey knight said? Saved from the furnace of execution by an angel as reward for devotion to God. Were you saved from the fires of Hell, Shadrach? And was it an angel who saved you?

  A name he took in honour of his dead Master. But a name: nothing more. Still an empty vessel, filled with naught but rage and a desire to fight, answering every summons to war.

  Until now. Until he was called from the Continent, to the land of his current body’s birth, for a purpose he could not define.

  Because the stars are right.

  Because he had been summoned, by powers greater than him. Greater even than Shub-Niggurath, greater even than the Great Shaitan who was her betrothed.

  Who…are…you?

  “I am Shadrach. And I fight for all mankind.” He stared at the result of this battle: a knight who had wronged him and his Order so many years ago, ritually slaughtered and offered to Nyarlathotep, but not before Shadrach – Massoud – had exacted his own vengeance first.

  Devotion to God save
d you from the furnace of the Judean Desert? Were you saved from the fires of Hell, Shadrach? And did an angel save you?

  “Angel or demon…or djinn? It matters not. I was saved from fire, from the inferno of the desert, and the Hell you wished to claim me to!” He stared at the fires in the cresset, felt the heat that had surely increased since the grey knight had fed the flames.

  “Yes. This is what you desire, Nyarlathotep. You wish to take me, to burn me! Shall I prove to you that is not – was never – my destiny? Come, Dark One, Great Deceiver! Let us embrace in the fires. Let the Greater Powers decide if these are the fires of Hell…or purification and rebirth!”

  No. There is no need. I have my Bride. I am…content.

  Shadrach felt the flames lick at his blood-soaked shirt. The smell of burning cotton and sizzling blood filled his nostrils. The fire scorched, the flames burned.

  And the Taint, the Crawling Chaos that was Nyarlathotep, was summoned to the flames also. Tendrils reared, flailing against a force that compelled it to join the man it had marked so many lifetimes ago; to no avail. The shifting, semi-liquid pool of darkness, was drawn to the cresset.

  Shadrach held his arms aloft, his eyes on the ventilation hole in the apex of the octagonal tower. Through it, through the smoke, he could see the stars.

  The stars are right. He stepped into the cresset, felt the fire of the beacon lick hungrily at him, taunting – or maybe tasting – him – before they fed.

  And the physical presence of Nyarlathotep, the Great Shaitan, was compelled to join him. The tendrils of darkness writhed, a dance to the music of the stars, as they embraced the last member of the Order

  The Long Chant had been spoken. The portal was opened. And Azathoth – or mayhap his insane courtiers, whose duty is to dance to the music of the spheres, and ensure all other entities follow the tune, purely for His entertainment – ordered the dance that had been interrupted five hundred and forty three years ago.