Finally, from all around the earth the serpent folk would rise from their secret cities. There would be a great Renaissance. Valusia would arise once more, and the machines of the Yiggians would direct their terrible energies against mankind. He saw cities burning, and women and children crying out beneath the indifferent lash of their reptilian masters. He could fairly feel the venerable being’s terrible delight, almost as if it were his own.
During this mental tirade, the Indian girl dragged herself across the floor to the console, leaving a bloody wake.
She pulled herself slowly, painfully up, her fluttering eyes dancing along the unfamiliar controls.
“And what about these misguided souls that serve you?” the Reverend pressed.
He saw the red serpent revealing itself to Susannah Coyle in the wilds of New York, saw her abase herself before it as the great serpent of Revelation. He saw her preaching this lie to the others, drawing them in. More, he saw the terrible crimes the Brethren perpetuated in the red serpent’s name. Saw women and girls barely of fertile age stolen from their homes, their men slaughtered. Heard their wailing as they were dragged by the white robed Brethren to the red serpent’s vile bedchamber. The cleaver rising and falling on the notched block, the grinder turning.
The corpses he had seen had been the third wave of ‘recruitment.’ Even now the Brethren were preparing another raid. They would spread further out each time, leaving the haciendas and the villages empty and silent, bearing their terrible treasure, the kicking and screaming women to be impregnated, branded, and then fed to their own monstrous progeny, until the ranks of the red serpent’s hordes were of sufficient strength to purge Yoth.
The number it required was staggering.
Susannah Coyle had received her due justice. So would the rest of the Brethren if he could help it.
Then, a sharp interrogative again directed into his brain. He saw his own metal body, the Valusian script work scrolling along the iron. The Nehushtan. Who? A voice seemed to demand. Who? Why? How?
So then he at least, was not a direct product of Yothan engineering. But what was he? Why had the angel Nisroch used pilfered technology on him? Was he an angel at all?
Just then the device at the end of the walkway began to emit a sharp, pulsing, high-pitched signal.
The serpent man hissed in surprise and whirled to look back at the console.
The Indian girl was wrenching at the knobs and yanking levers, palms desperately slapping buttons without regard to their function.
The magnetic limb holding him swung in and out and slid erratically back and forth on its ceiling track.
From the doorway, six of the Brethren in white cassocks emerged. One raised a pistol. Even as the Reverend shouted a warning to the girl, the report echoed in the cavernous chamber and she slid to the floor, another innocent he had failed to save.
But her dying hand at last cut the power to the magnet holding him. The branding iron fell and he caught it.
The Reverend fell too.
The villainous red serpent hissed up at him, coiling to spring aside, but too late. The Reverend came down fully upon its shoulders, driving the branding iron before him. It smashed through the top of the red serpent’s flat skull with a wet crunch that was as satisfying as it was sudden.
The entire metal walkway trembled with the impact and swayed over the chasm.
The Brethren paused in momentary shock at the abrupt demise of their leader. In that moment the Reverend spied his pistol sliding nearly over the edge. He snatched it up and killed two of the men in white with as many shots, then turned his back and crouched as they returned fire, the bullets pancaking against his iron hide and blowing leaks in his canteens.
The high pitched sound from the machine on the walkway was like a knife in his ears. He aimed a frustrated shot at it and was pleased when the bullet cut the keening din short.
His brief elation faded as another sound met his ears.
The room was filled with a hoarse, thunderous roaring, louder than and unlike any animal he had ever heard.
The walkway gave a tremendous lurch which would have flung the Reverend to the abyss had he not gripped the railing and righted himself.
A huge white worm-like shape, perhaps fifteen feet around and of an unimaginable length, rose from below. The Reverend scrambled towards the swaying, segmented trunk and grabbed hold as the walkway fell entirely away and crashed into the pit beneath.
To his astonishment, he found himself hanging from the edge of a sheer slab of copper plate riveted into the thing’s scaled hide. All along its length similar plates had been installed like barding. A few feet above him, there was a collar-like device similar in design to the serpent man’s diadem fitted about the thick neck (if it had a neck). Sprouting from the collar were a set of six ingeniously crafted copper and steel tentacles which writhed independently of each other, and were tipped with wicked looking drill heads that buzzed intermittently.
If it had eyes or ears the Reverend saw no sign of them. It did have a mouth, for its maw was open to allow its harrowing roar to escape. A single scimitar-shaped tooth bisected the roof of its mouth.
At first the Reverend feared the six segmented mechanical tentacles would plunge their wicked drills into him as some kind of automatic defense mechanism, but instead they simply slithered blindly, without apparent purpose.
Then he remembered the red serpent’s plan, how it had envisioned itself riding this thing, this Amphisbaen, into Yoth. The diadem it had worn had allowed their minds to communicate. Perhaps it also allowed it to exert mental control over this beast. The diadem was gone, however. The Reverend began to climb towards the back of the head.
Below, at the edge of the collapsed walkway, the Brethren held their fire in wonder. Some dropped their weapons and fell to their knees, prostrating themselves before the enormous, writhing beast.
In answer to their cries of adoration, it whirled on them and darted its huge head forward, biting one of the supplicants clean in half and almost throwing the Reverend clear.
The others shrieked in fear and turned to run for the stairway, but the huge creature snatched them up two at a time as they crowded together to fit through the doorway.
By that time the Reverend had managed to reach the base of the thing’s neck.
He straddled it as best as he could, and drove his broken iron arm into the base of its skull, plunging through thick leather flesh and glancing bone. At the same time, he dug his iron heels in with all his might and threw back his human arm, riding the Amphisbaen like a jaripeo he had once seen do in a charreada show south of the border.
The snakeworm screamed and twisted to throw him, but the Reverend was as inextricable as he had been while magnetized. He held on, hollering back at it.
Finally it lurched and drove its great head at the rock ceiling. The tentacle drills snapped to attention, perhaps responding to some impulse in the thing’s crude brain. The Reverend realized then that their purpose was to augment the Amphisbaen’s natural burrowing ability. He hugged the thing as it swiftly bored through layers of rock and dirt like a whale seeking the surface.
He gasped and clenched his eyes shut against the choking rush of dust and stone for what felt like an eternity before it finally broke into the sunshine and air with a shrill roar.
It swayed for a moment like a massive cobra over the settlement. Below, the New Valusians scattered, screaming at the sight of the subterranean horror that had burst without warning into their midst. In the creature’s fissured wake, several structures collapsed inward, including that abominable Nesting House with its vile nursery and abattoir.
The Reverend, in an uncontrollable burst of righteous mania, laughed darkly as the roof of the house collapsed inward. There would be no more raids by the Brethren. He drove his heels in deeper, sinking them into the hard flesh of the beast, steering it through the gardens and homes of the community, crushing these infidels, these stealers and murderers of women and blasphemers
of God beneath its tremendous bulk, even scooping them up into its terrible, insatiable maw as it went.
When the dust settled, nothing moved in New Valusia but the thrashing worm. Not a structure remained standing except for the windmill and adjoining shed.
He chuckled at his next thought and urged his monstrous mount toward the windmill. He drove its great head down and directed it to wend up the scaffold, brass harness glinting in the sun, drill headed tentacles twisting in confusion, a grand Nehushtan making its way up the windmill to the fan.
At the last moment he pulled his arm and his legs free of the thing and fell to the earth with a heavy thud that sank him partly into the soft ground.
Above him, the Amphisbaen undulated and roared, tangled in the reinforced strut-work. Its metallic tail, nearly indiscernible from its faceless head, thrashed and shook the ground.
The Reverend picked himself up and went to the control shed. He kicked open the door and stared at the blinking controls and pressure gauges, whose needles seemed to tremble at his entrance.
To his satisfaction, there was a single leather-wrapped lever in the center of the complex device. He pushed it until it locked in place next to the label which read, in intricate brass scrollwork, ‘ACTIVATE.’
Outside there was a harrowing cry from the writhing creature as its metal components suddenly ripped free of its flesh. True to Susannah’s warning, the Pacifier Field flung its barding plates out across the desert in all directions, trailing gory segments of the Amphisbaen behind. Its massive head separated from its slithering trunk as the collar component with its swirling drills was wrenched apart.
What was left of the Amphisbaen squeezed and bent the windmill supports, bringing the whole structure crashing down with a groan in its violent, colossal death throes.
Gore and bits of metal coated the ground for a good six miles from the epicenter of what had once been New Valusia.
The Reverend stepped out of the dripping shed and putting one mechanical foot to the side of the shaky structure, delivered a steam-powered kick that knocked it flat.
He unscrewed one of his undamaged canteens and drank deeply, replenishing his depleted boiler tank and surveying the total destruction he had wrought.
The ruins satisfied him, but only momentarily. Much of what the red serpent had said weighed upon him. He looked at the strange markings on his iron skin in a new, troubled light.
He didn’t know where the Amphisbaen had come from. Likely it was the product of the serpent’s vile manipulations. Certainly its handiwork was all about the thing. It had been a cruel, abominable amalgamation of monstrous nature and cold science…very much like himself, he realized.
Satan and his minions lied, the Reverend knew, yes.
But the truth?
Only the Lord and the angel Nisroch knew it for sure.
Shadrach Mishach Abednego Carter, the Reverend Mr. Good-works, had only his faith. What remained of it.
He drained another canteen, set his goggles on his eyes and tucked his muffler over his face against the blowing dust.
He stomped off into the desert, back in the direction of the railroad.
Carnacki – The Island of Doctor Munroe
By William Meikle
The card of invitation arrived on Tuesday afternoon. “I have a new tale,” was written on it, and that was more than enough encouragement for me to rearrange any plans I might have. On Friday evening I arrived at seven prompt at Carnacki’s lodgings in Chelsea at 427, Cheyne Walk.
Carnacki took my coat and motioned me inside where I found the three others already there. It was not long before Carnacki, Arkwright, Jessop, Taylor and I were all seated at the dining table.
I was immediately thankful that I had only taken a light lunch, for Carnacki had surpassed even his own high culinary standards, treating us to some perfectly cooked grouse with mashed potatoes and turnips, all washed down with a particularly fine claret.
As usual talk was confined to inconsequential gossip until we retired to the parlor for after-dinner drinks and the telling of Carnacki’s latest adventure. By the time we all got our glasses filled and our smokes lit we were on tenterhooks, most eager for the tale of his latest escapades.
He did not keep us waiting.
***
“As you chaps know,” he began. “I have been in Scotland for some days. Indeed, this latest tale starts on the very morning after our last evening together.
“You will remember that the weather was beastly? It had not stopped raining all night, and I resigned myself to a Saturday spent indoors going over some research on a particularly obtuse passage in the Sigsand mss. I had just finished breakfast and was on my way to the library when there was a knock on the front door.
“On answering I found a small bedraggled chap standing there, looking most damp and forlorn. I ushered him in to the parlor, made him some tea, and we each got a pipe going before I even got as far as enquiring after either his name or the reason for his visit.
“He started by handing me his card, which told me little beyond that he was Doctor John Munroe, from Inchlannan in Argyllshire. He offered no further information at that point, and I was starting to worry that I might have to resort to opening the Scotch.
“It soon turned out he was going to be forthcoming all of his own accord. I quickly found out that Doctor Munroe was one of those voluble Scotsmen who seem to enjoy the sound of their own voice above anything else, and he wasted no time in assuring me of the importance, nay, the necessity, of his visit.
“‘Let me just start by saying that I am a scientist, Mr. Carnacki,’ he said. ‘I do not hold any truck with all that mumbo-jumbo nonsense about haunts and bogles.’
“He held up a hand before I could question his impertinence.
“‘There was no offence intended. I have heard nothing but good things about your particular expertise, sir. Indeed, I have come to implore you to accompany me on a trip to Scotland, where I think I have stumbled upon something that will interest you greatly.’
“As you are aware, I am an inquisitive cove at the best of times, and I was already of half a mind to join him before he went on to explain further.
“‘You see, Mr. Carnacki, I am something of an inventor, dabbling in one of the more esoteric branches of science, the transmission of signals through the aether. I hope in the near future to perfect a method of wireless transmission of images. Indeed I have already started to have some small success.’
“‘Very admirable, I am sure,” I replied. ‘But I cannot see how that concerns me?”
“Once again he held up a hand.
“‘As I said,’ he continued. ‘I have been experimenting with sending signals into the aether. What I have neglected to tell you is simple, but I believe may be of the utmost importance.’
“He took a sheet of paper from his pocket and handed it to me.
“‘I have started to receive replies,’ he said.
“As I read, I realized I knew exactly what I was looking at. Below a set of three pentagrammic circles was a transcribed inscription.
“Ri linn dioladh na beatha, Ri linn bruchdadh na falluis, Ri linn iobar na creadha, Ri linn dortadh na fala.
“It was the very same ancient chant I have used several times to enforce my will on the denizens of the Outer Darkness, and I can tell you it gave me a bally shock to see it on that sheet of paper. I have never before seen it written outside the Sigsand Manuscripts and indeed I have long thought that I might be the only person to have ever used it for the purpose for which it was written.
“‘I see you recognise it,’ Munroe said with a grim smile. ‘I was hoping you would. Now do you see why I have come to you?’
“I was starting to understand and, despite my apprehension, was more than a tad curious as to how he, an avowed scientist, came to be in possession of such a piece of arcane wisdom. I agreed there and then to accompany the man, and early the next morning we set out for the West of Scotland.”
***<
br />
“The journey proved to be somewhat tortuous, involving as it did a train journey to Glasgow, a shorter, suburban, journey to Helensburgh and then a lengthy carriage ride through Argyll. At least my companion was amiable enough, if a tad inclined to speak too highly of himself when recounting his many achievements.
“We spent that night in a hotel in Tighnabruaich, where the venison was good and the Scotch better. I noticed that my companion did not speak to the locals beyond the basic needs of ordering our food, drink and sleeping arrangements. I thought at first it was the reticence you sometimes see in scientific coves when confronted by non-learned members of the public, but I soon came to see that, rather than him shunning the locals, it was in fact the other way round. None of the patrons of the hotel so much as looked in our direction and when one, an elderly gentleman, finally did so, it was to show us, with forked fingers, the old sign against the evil eye.
“‘Ignore them,’ Munroe said when he saw me looking. ‘It’s just fear and ignorance at something their tiny brains cannot comprehend.’
“I was coming to like my traveling companion less and less with each passing hour, but I was too intrigued as to the origin of the transcription of the old chant to give up the chase at that point. Would that I had, for it may have saved considerable grief further down the line.
“As it was, I was relieved to get to my bed, and get some respite from the good Doctor’s constant self-praise; an affliction that seemed to me to border on delusion.
“I was not, however, given much chance to rest, for scarcely had my head hit the pillow than came a soft knock on my room door. When I opened it I was somewhat surprised to see the elderly gentleman I had noticed in the hotel bar. He gave me no time to speak.
Steampunk Cthulhu: Mythos Terror in the Age of Steam Page 9