by Adrian Cole
Mears saw movements beyond the windows, shadows shifting behind ancient doors, eyes staring from behind shutters. On the roofs, crows lined up, plentiful as seagulls, though there were none of the latter to be seen in spite of the proximity of the sea. The old port reeked of age and decay, as if it had given up any contact with the outside world. Mears smiled grimly to himself. He had read about such places in the pulps. Why should he have expected anything different?
“There’s a church,” said Riderman beside him, jerking his nerves. “It’s no ordinary church. The people here long since gave themselves up to something dark and primitive, an evil far older than man. The gods they worship have names that no ordinary mortal would speak.”
“Yes, I’d rather not know them,” Mears grunted. Though I suspect I do.
“As Fung Chang seems to have allied himself to them, it demonstrates the levels of evil power to which he aspires. What Reverence saw on his astral journey disturbs me deeply, Mr. Mears. This invasion. Lucifer himself could not dredge up a more ghastly army.”
Under ordinary circumstances, Mears would have found it hard not to chuckle. But as the houses of Dunsmouth pressed closer, like the jaws of some revolting behemoth, he could only shudder. And the gun he carried suddenly seemed like a holy relic.
Grimsfeather came back and nodded to Riderman. “The church,” he said, as if speaking a curse. As he spoke, the vehicle gave a final lurch and was still, engine ticking over. It had emerged from the street, its snub nose poking into a tiny square. Opposite was a grotesque pile, a building that seemed to have been constructed of demented angles and outré blocks of stone, carved with aquatic representations that no earthly seas could have spawned. It had a tower, a leaning steeple, ringed with no ordinary gargoyles, but more of the sea-beings, their fins and tails like wings, their open mouths gaping as if hungrily.
Mears gaped back, suppressing another shiver of revulsion. The door to the bus squeaked open and Grimsfeather hopped down on to the cobblestones. He looked about him, then nodded for Riderman to follow. The tall man did so, his rifle tucked under his arm, ready for instant use. He called softly to Mears.
Mears slipped a hand inside his jacket, fingers closing on the cold grip of the gun, ironically now his one lifeline to sanity. He passed the grinning bulk of Montifellini, who never appeared to leave his seat. The big man was nodding, a double-barreled shotgun broken over his knees. Mears stifled a gasp and went down to join Riderman. Behind him he felt the presence of Reverence and Jameson.
They spread in a tight semi-circle, studying the squashed houses and the weird church opposite them. They could discern no one, but countless eyes seemed to bore into them. Overhead, the moon sheltered behind a cloudbank, its glow insipid. Fog tendrils stroked the roofs, wrapping around the stacks, pressing in from the docks where the black waters of the bay could be heard lapping at the slipways.
Long minutes crawled by, the silence cloying like the fog. Grimsfeather made to go to the steps of the church, which led up to its wooden doors. But Riderman gently pulled him back. A moment later one of the twin doors shuddered from a movement within. Then it began to open, its rusting hinges protesting, its bottom scraping on stone. Figures emerged like ghosts. Shuddermen and — something else. Men, but what manner of beings were they? Mears asked himself. The clothes they wore were thick and muffling, but they had a scarecrow look to them, or worse, a graveyard look. The hands that hung beside these beings were like extended claws, mercifully shrouded by the poor light; the faces were half smothered by scarves wrapped tightly about them. Only the beak-like noses and eyes protruded, eyes that were abnormally huge, fish-like. And Mears saw with increasing horror that every face was the same.
The last to emerge was a young man in a crumpled suit, his face pinched, his eyes mocking as he saw the group beside the vehicle. He walked through his bizarre companions, who lined up mechanically at the foot of the steps.
“Very sensible of you to come, Sir Henry,” he said in a voice that cut through the drifting fogs like a knife.
“And just who are you?” snapped Riderman. Mears could feel the tension in him, as hot as an electric current.
“Dick Ricketts, sir,” said the young man, bowing. “I trust you have brought the required item? No trade without proper goods.”
“And I trust you, Mr. Ricketts, have got what I have come for.”
Ricketts snorted. “Oh, yes, indeed.” He turned and muttered something to the men behind him. Two of them went back to the church and in a moment had returned, holding between them the struggling form of Annabella Fortescue.
“By the stars,” growled Riderman, “if they’ve harmed so much as a hair on her head, I’ll have this place torched —”
“Here she is,” said Ricketts with a twisted smile. Annabella was pushed to his side, but still the hands of her captors held her. Her hair was disheveled, her clothes torn in places, but her expression remained stoic. She shook her head very slightly, a warning to Riderman not to do anything rash.
“Annabella!” he called. “Have they harmed you?”
“Only my pride,” she said coolly. “Everything else is intact, though much more confinement in this antechamber of hell and I should fear for my reason.”
“No need for that,” Ricketts grinned. “Show me your goods, Sir Henry, and we can conclude our business without further ado.”
Riderman scowled, but turned back to the bus. The Barbarian was standing in its doorway. He nodded and went inside. Moments later he and Cradoc emerged, carrying the body of Bannerman between them, wrapped in a blanket.
“Bring it over here where I can see it,” instructed Ricketts.
Riderman nodded again. Konnar and Cradoc took the body to the centre of the square and set it down on the cobbles. They stood back, watching Ricketts like hawks. The latter stared at them both: if he was awed by either of them, he did not show it. Then he went to Bannerman and bent over him, gripping the pale face in his fingers, turning it this way and that. He unwrapped the top of the blanket, prodding at the flesh beneath.
“Good enough, gentlemen. It’s him.” He turned and barked something incomprehensible to the Shuddermen, who came forward mechanically and lifted the body. The air writhed with tension as Konnar looked to Riderman for a sign to act. They had all agreed to take their lead from him.
Riderman allowed the Shuddermen to get to within a few yards of the church steps. “That’s far enough!” he said. “Now let the lady go.”
Ricketts eased backwards, still grinning. “Of course.” He lifted an arm.
The group by the bus were ready to spring forward. Even Mears felt himself tensing, prepared to attack these foul beings if necessary. But those who held Anabella released her. Instead of racing across the square, she simply walked with supreme dignity down the steps, brushed aside the Shuddermen there and continued walking towards Riderman.
He lifted his gun, its barrel aimed directly at Ricketts, but the young man ignored it. “Safe journey home,” he said, turning his back altogether and motioning his servants to carry Bannerman up into the church.
The group by the bus watched as that grim company shambled from sight. Riderman swung round and leapt aboard the bus to where Annabella was already seated, face buried in her hands. He sat beside her, arm around her, talking softly to her.
Outside, Reverence was watching the buildings. “They are very confident,” he said to the Barbarian, who had drawn his sword, as if ready to go in pursuit at once. The detective put a restraining hand gently on his arm. “Timing will be of the essence,” he told him.
Konnar nodded, though his teeth were gritted. Reverence ushered everyone back on to the bus. “Come, Signor Montifellini! We must give them the impression that we are anxious to be away from here with all speed! Reverse your wonderful omnibus as if the very Devil himself were snapping at your front wheels.”
* * * *
Two long hours had passed, each minute drawn out agonisingly slowly. Montifellini had driv
en Annabella, Riderman and Grimsfeather back to Pulp City and dropped all the others two miles from the outskirts of Dunsmouth, where they had hidden themselves in a ramshackle, deserted old building that had once been a toll house. Apart from the road to the town, one other lane met it here, though it was far too narrow for any vehicle other than a small cart to pass down.
Mears and Jameson were dozing fitfully, propped up against a damp wall, but Reverence had dropped into a deep sleep, perfectly comfortable under these circumstances. “Wake me when I’m needed,” he had said nonchalantly to Jameson, who gave him a typical frown of disapproval mingled with long suffering resignation.
Cradoc had stayed on guard, his quasi-elemental ears picking up every sound, every nuance of the night. The Barbarian slept, but he was on a hair-trigger. Time and again he opened his eyes, watching through a broken window the grey terrain outside. Cradoc nudged him awake now.
“They’re coming,” Konnar told the others. Cradoc was scribbling something in the dirt for him to read. “Our people,” Konnar added, his white teeth gleaming in the moonlight.
Mears had the feeling that the big guy was enjoying this whole affair. But then, he’s lived with this kind of thing all his life, if what I’ve read is true!
Konnar went to the door and slipped outside. He watched the ground behind the derelict tollhouse, recognising the first of the figures as they climbed the slope, merging almost totally with the shadows. Darkwing and with him the eerie creature who had appeared with such devastating effect in the garrison, Shadow Woman. Konnar waved to them.
“Have you see them?” Konnar asked, his voice low.
“Not a sign,” said Darkwing. “Between us we covered the rooftops of the town. Right down to the quayside. If Fung Chang’s agents have left with Bannerman, they didn’t go by boat, nor over the roofs.”
Konnar glanced at Shadow Woman, though in this light she was near invisible, even at this close a range. She exuded a feral kind of power, like a human she-panther, her eyes observing him critically, as a big cat would study its prey. She seemed more spirit than flesh.
“Are the others back?” said Darkwing.
Konnar shook his head, leading them over to the building. Once inside, they found that Nick Nightmare had arrived after all, coming from another direction.
“The Black Bowman and I covered the streets. No one has come out of Dunsmouth since you were dropped here by Montifellini,” he said. “The Bowman is still out there, along with a dozen of his archers.”
“Then no one has left except us,” said Reverence, now fully awake.
“Maybe Fung Chang is in no hurry to get Bannerman to his citadel,” offered Nightmare.
“There may be another explanation,” said Mears. Once again he found himself the centre of attention. “That church is probably a doorway.”
Reverence snorted in annoyance. “Of course, Mr. Mears is right. Who knows what means those devils will have used to return to Fung Chang. Naïve of us to think they would simply take to the roads or the sea.”
“Then we’d better go back to the church,” said Darkwing. “Before the scent gets too cold to pick up. Wherever they went, we’ve got to follow them.”
Mears felt a returning chill of dread. He had a good idea where the Shuddermen and their fish-eyed companions had gone, but he didn’t want to dwell on it.
CHAPTER TWENTY SIX
Dark Descent
Dawn was still a few hours away when they came again to the outskirts of Dunsmouth. The blanket of fog that wrapped the town and the road from it had proved an invaluable ally, screening them from any hidden watchers. But they knew the night was alive with their enemies. Just how many, they had no idea. Dunsmouth was thought to have been long deserted, but there was no knowing how many of Fung Chang’s creatures now swarmed here. Or whatever else crawls or hops in this hellish zone, Mears mused. The blasted landscape, the smell from the houses, a choking reek of sea and dead flesh, the grotesque buildings, all combined to underline all too realistically the fevered writings of the horror pulps he had read as a youth. Yes, read and laughed at! But not here, by God. Not in this terrifying domain.
When they came to the first of the houses, they agreed to split up again and meet in front of the church, down in the heart of the rotting town. Darkwing and Shadow Woman again took to the roofs, branching to the party’s right, while Nick Nightmare and the ethereal figure that was the Black Bowman moved off to the left. Konnar and Cradoc led the direct approach along the main street, the Barbarian clutching his sword, eyes studying every patch of darkness, each swirl of fog. Reverence and James flanked Mears behind them, all three of them carrying revolvers. Mears had surprised himself: he would be quite glad of an opportunity now to shoot something, anything, in this godforsaken place.
They heard strange sounds from either side of them, while from above came the occasional flapping of leathery wings, too big to belong to any normal bird. But nothing and no one showed itself. Perhaps the sight of Cradoc, a monolithic shape in this writhing night fog, was deterrent enough. The sensation of being watched grew in intensity, but apart from the creaking of a shutter or the sliding of something invisible on roof slates, the group’s walk to the centre of the town went unchallenged.
Again they stood before the hideous church building. But it was deathly silent, as though no one had been here for decades.
“They are long gone,” Jameson whispered to Mears and Reverence. “That eerie sensation of being regarded has lifted like a veil, don’t you think?”
“I agree, Jameson,” said Reverence.
Mears swung round to face one of the roofs across the square. He could just discern the outline of the Black Bowman. Then from out of a side alley the private eye joined them, gun gripped like an extension of his arm. He shook his head. From across the other side of the square, Darkwing materialised out of thin air, behind him another dark shape that held back.
“This part of Dunsmouth is empty, dead as a tomb,” Darkwing breathed. “There were a few people in the houses back along the way, locked in. What do you think Mears?”
Mears jumped at the sound of his name. “I hate to say it, but we have to go in.”
They all nodded in silent agreement.
“The Bowman and Shadow Woman have got our backs covered,” said Darkwing.
“Let us try the doors,” said Konnar, already crossing the square to the steps. Cradoc followed close behind him. They pushed at the thick wooden doors, but they were firmly locked in place.
“We cased the place earlier,” said Darkwing. “This is the only way in and out. Can you hear anything inside?”
Cradoc pressed himself against the door, but after a moment shook his head.
Konnar nodded at him. “Open it.”
The group stood back while Cradoc exerted his extraordinary strength. The doors, which looked capable of withstanding a tornado, were no match for the full attention of the Mire-Beast. Iron hinges protested, wood splintered and within minutes the centre of the doors were buckling inwards like so much cardboard.
Mears watched the houses around the square, expecting someone to emerge, given the squealing and scraping of shattered bolts and panels, but the stillness remained. They may as well have been looting a tomb. Abruptly the doors burst inward, one of them crashing to the stone floor, the other swinging drunkenly on its last ripped hinge. A cloud of choking dust billowed outwards, but nothing more. Darkness beckoned.
The Barbarian spat, grinned at the huge figure of Cradoc, and went in. The others edged forward into the cold air of the church interior. The Barbarian stooped down and picked up some sheaves of paper. Before anyone had a chance to look at them, he used his blade to create a shower of sparks and set the paper alight. In the flickering glow, he saw several long candles set in rusting holders. A moment later he had lit three of them.
No one had time to comment on his initiative. They were too busy looking at the interior of this place. As they had known, it was no ordinary church
and dedicated to no recognised god. There were no windows, but in the spaces between the columns of the walls, the stone had been carved with the most outlandish designs. Grotesque shapes cavorted, hybrid creatures from the depths of some tortured artistic mind, leaping in a frozen dance of ritual madness, worshipping, or so it seemed, some invisible horror not shown in the carvings. In the guttering candle glow, the friezes almost came to life, imbuing their monstrous creations with a frightful reality.
“Good God!” cried Jameson. “What madman created these horrors?”
“Steel yourself, Jameson,” said Reverence, although he himself grimaced in disgust. “I fear there will be worse things awaiting us.”
They passed down the aisle of dark wooden seats, long fallen into disuse and riddled with worm. Ahead of them was an altar, but again, it was no ordinary one. Cut from a single block of stone, pocked as coral, its sides were etched with yet more bizarre forms and what appeared to be glyphic writing. Reverence bent down to look at it, but pronounced it totally alien to his understanding.
Nightmare pointed with his gun at the top of the stone, which was chipped and scratched, the surface stained with a deeper darkness. “You know what I think?”
Jameson put his hand to his mouth. “It’s pagan. Sacrifices.”
“Everything about this place,” said Reverence, “cries out blasphemy. What god or gods did these people bow down to? Mears, do you have any ideas?”
Mears fought the urge to flee, his revulsion like welling bile. Oh, yes. I recognise this foulness, but how can it be possible? I know this is Pulpworld, but surely to God, such things cannot exist. “Uh, yes, I’m afraid so. This is what you were afraid of, Mr. Reverence. The invasion you spoke about. It fits in all too well with what you saw in Fung Chang’s citadel.”