Lovecraft Ezine Mega-Issue 4 Rev1

by Price, Robert M.

  “Shields!” I yelled. Antonius relayed the command to the other centurions.

  The soldiers, Jove bless them, did as they were instructed, and formed a tortoise. The tactic had saved us in the past against the barbarian hordes. But against these monstrous creatures, our weapons and armour might well have been made of parchment.

  Again and again the lines broke, reformed, were split apart again. Men disappeared into those hungry maws with terrifying frequency.

  “Gaius!” Antonius shouted above the din. “We are lost!

  I nodded and gave the signal for the bugler to sound the retreat. Our troops were decimated, the mossy floor of the glen strewn with the partial remains of their bodies. The grey things did not follow us as we fled. We could hear the sounds of bones crunching behind us.

  The day’s carnage had split the legion. The first cohort was completely wiped out. The second had suffered terrible losses. The remaining cohorts had also been attacked from the sides when the grey creatures had erupted out of the foliage. We retreated to higher ground, out of the damned fog, and took a head count. We were missing a thousand men. More of the sick had also died during the battle. That meant that we had lost nearly two thousand.

  Almost half the legion, in one battle.

  “What will you do, Atticus Germanicus?” Primus asked me. The other centurions were gathered for the briefing. Behind them, the red bled into the dismal clouds.

  “We cannot go forward,” I said. “That much is clear. To do so would be suicide.”

  “Yet the legatus said we were to march north,” Antonius said. I did not mind his interruption. The penalty for dishonour was death.

  “They say Trajan is dying in Parthia,” Primus replied. “Surely that will keep Rome too busy to worry about us here.”

  I nodded. “The legatus would understand,” I said. “We will go back tomorrow to Eboracum. There are things here that cannot be fought by sword or shield. I would rather keep the fort than lose the entire legion.”

  So that was it. The decision was made. I heard no disagreement from the junior tribunes. The young officers had just had their first taste of bloodshed and found it bitter.

  That night, we saw fires on the opposite hillside. Long groans echoed though the valleys. I shuddered at the sounds and thought about my comrades lying down there. I vowed to reclaim their bodies before we left.

  “What do you make of it?” Antonius asked. I hadn’t heard him approach. I closed my cloak against the gale. Thin music, the like of which I had never heard before, sounded from the hills.

  “Why don’t we go and see for ourselves?” I asked.

  Antonius blanched.

  “Surely you’re not afraid?” I said.

  The veteran scowled. “What is to be gained from it?”

  “Perhaps we can slay their chieftain,” I said. “Bring the scouts and a handful of men. No more. I want to get a good look at these painted men.”

  “What of the beasts?” he said.

  “Ask this: why they have not attacked us since? I think they are mindless creatures. When we entered the glen, we intruded upon their territory. If we skirt around the ridge, we can get up there without staying too long in the glen. Perhaps we can still win this day.”

  With a proud smile, Antonius nodded. He hurried off to rouse the men. I was dishonoured by losing so many men. But here was a chance to go back with my head held high.

  We picked a group of eight men: myself, Antonius, Cassius Marcus Aegyptum (a centurion of the rear spears) and five others, including the Brigantes scouts. Our mood was a sombre one; I learned that Marcus Agricola had died during the night. I took two junior tribunes at the insistence of Primus. I suspect he was anxious to get rid of them. They were constantly getting under his feet as he tried to keep some semblance of order among our dispirited camp.

  We threaded our way through the silent glens. Once or twice I heard a night bird cluck, but nothing more.

  We were halfway across the glen when one of the junior tribunes yelled in horror. We clasped our hands over his mouth. Then we too saw the abomination before us, revealed by a sickly moon. Our dead hung impaled on the branches of thorn bushes: hundreds of them, their faces, limbs, and stomachs missing. Some had been gnawed upon.

  We tore our eyes from the odious sight then propelled ourselves up the steep slope of the glen, toward the flickering pyres.

  The bushes provided cover as we picked slowly toward the clearing atop an outthrust knoll. A circle of standing stones rose out of the mist. Dim figures swirled around the obelisks, dressed in animal skins with antlers perched on their heads. They held up knives, slit their own arms. Their blood ran black in the firelight.

  “Druithyn,” the scout mouthed. He was shaking with fear. “This is a bad place. Please, we go now.”

  I shook off his dirty paw. The figures were dancing, their chanting rising to a fever pitch. All at once, dim shapes rose out of the fog between the standing stones – it was the grey men, their obscene, headless bulks towering over the priests.

  The scouts scampered down the mountainside. “Let them go,” I told Antonius. “You cannot blame a savage for being a savage.”

  The priests waved their swords around the grey figures, uttering some command. One by one, the grey monsters tramped out of the stone circle into the fog.

  “Come,” I said. “Time to put paid to these heathens once and for all.”

  We crossed the short distance between ourselves and the Druids. They spun to face us, hissing, with black stumps for teeth. They were shaven-haired beneath their animal skins, their flesh scarred from hundreds of ancient cuts. Around their necks hung freshly-skinned human skulls on chains.

  With a cry of hatred, we struck them down and overturned their wretched altars. Each obelisk was carved with unholy images of the monstrous deities Marcus had mentioned – great creatures with hundreds of antlers upon their heads. They were depicted giving birth to malformed offspring – the giants we had encountered, no less. I watched with satisfaction as the heavy stone blocks tumbled down the mountainside into the mists. I prayed that those gods would be less powerful now their shrines had been destroyed.

  Our task ended, we trudged back toward camp. Then a long groan cut through the stillness before us, followed by terrible screams.

  We raced back across the glen – and almost stumbled into one of the grey men. The blasphemous beast peered at us with piggish, dull eyes where its chest should have been, baring yellowed fangs.

  Antonius thrust at the creature, along with the junior tribunes. It lifted one of them up and tossed him into the woods as though he weighed no more than a flea. The other tribune screeched as it caught his arm and tore it out of its socket. Antonius wounded the beast, drawing thick gouts of green blood. But his sword was stuck. He was trying to free it when the beast’s maw closed around his skull.

  All reason left me then. I fled, as a beast must flee when it senses death is near, dropping my sword. I scrambled up the slope. Through the chill mist, I heard more screams as the grey men descended upon what was left of my army. I could see no one. I was lost in the fog.

  For three days now I have been wandering. No more the proud legionary. My armour has been cast off – it was too heavy. My throat is parched. But I fear to drink from the polluted streams. Mist lies everywhere. Occasionally, I hear a groan. I believe it is nearer now than it was before. Of my comrades I have seen nothing. My honour is lost, my pride taken. Even my sword lies lost in some stinking bog. This country has robbed me of my soul.

  I do not know how long I can wander. I am lost. There is no sun to guide me. My Cassia, my darling, I love...

  The fragment ends here. How the manuscript came to be in the grave in Italy is unknown. There are no explanatory notes accompanying the text, nor do any records exist of Gaius Atticus Germanicus, or of any other person mentioned, except for Marcus Appius Bradua, who was the Roman Governor of Britain in the second century AD. The IX Legio: Hispanica did exist, and was s
tationed in Eboracum (now York).

  What became of the Ninth Legion is unclear. It simply vanished from the records. A fresh legion, the Seventh, was brought in to replace it. However, one piece of visible evidence does remain. The Emperor Hadrian succeeded Trajan in AD 117. One of his first edicts upon visiting Britain was to erect an enormous defensive line on the border of Caledonia (now Scotland), studded with watch towers and bolstered with fortresses. The remains of that cyclopean structure can still be seen today, as the ruins of Hadrian’s Wall.

  Eric Ian Steele is the screenwriter of the sci-fi feature film "Clone Hunter". He lives in Manchester, England - a very Lovecraftian setting. His first novel, the sci-fi/horror story "Project Nine" is due to be published later this year. He has also adapted a cult YA novel for the screen, and is currently writing about more monsters for a UK children's TV show . His blog about screenwriting and other musings can be found here: http://ericiansteele.wordpress.com/

  Story illustration by Mike Dominic

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  Adrift in Black Seas

  by Michael Matheson

  She lies entombed at the heart of the umbral hulk,

  drifting beyond the reach of solar bodies -

  held fast in the cold dark between the stars,

  from which we dare not take her;

  the ship itself long gone to frost entire.

  Buried under ice

  her face is multifaceted. Kaleidoscopic.

  As we, beneath her titan's gaze,

  breathe vapour into ancient air,

  and tread softly in the ocean of her stillness.

  There are no emotions to her features -

  pale, caught in sleep

  like living death;

  rigid as though pulled from

  arctic tides that danced in biting wind.

  The groan of old metal reverberates

  in the cathedral vault wherein she slumbers -

  the only sound in the ghost ship

  at the centre of which she waits,

  living and not living.

  Woman and not woman;

  glimpsed 'neath frosted blue -

  her limbs that are not limbs.

  Too long. Too lithe. Too many.

  In whole a thing of unearthly beauty.

  We, each of us, hold a collective breath

  in that derelict place

  where rime and hoarfrost

  have made themselves to home.

  Waiting in darkness lit by icy hue.

  Her voice - unspoken, and beyond words -

  shatters the stillness; burrows abyssal deep.

  It called across the gap of distant worlds

  and dying stars. Brought us here.

  Begging for bodies and for warmth.

  Brought us here in our own long sleep like death.

  But we came with so few bodies; so little warmth.

  We fall to our knees before her,

  ashamed of our meagre offering.

  As her voice scours through us. Hollows us out.

  In the etheric light of that other world,

  caught between dream and waking -

  between flesh and what comes after -

  we offer homage to a forgotten god

  seeking sustenance at the cold heart of the universe.

  There is no kiss. No waking ritual.

  There is only the crying of old ghosts,

  husks beyond measure and forms beyond count,

  littering the dead metal of that encrusted place

  long blue with the rime of ancient frost,

  adrift in black seas.

  Michael Matheson is a writer, editor, and book reviewer based in the urban wilds of Toronto. He also spends his time working as a submissions editor for Apex Magazine and a marketing/editorial assistant with ChiZine Publications. Sometimes he writes things. Sometimes they sell, including to publications like Ideomancer, and anthologi es like Future Lovecraft, Fractured, Dead North, and Chilling Tales 2. Find out more at michaelmatheson.wordpress.com.

  Story illustration by David Felton

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  The Eldritch Force

  A Cthulhu Mythos Round Robin

  By Peter Rawlik, Glynn Owen Barrass, Brian M. Sammons, Bruce L. Priddy, Robert M. Price, Rick Lai and David Conyers

  Introduction

  by Pete Rawlik

  When it comes to Lovecraftian Horror there is a strong history of round-robins, the most famous being The Challenge From Beyond by Lovecraft, Moore, Howard, Long and Merritt. Others have appeared since including three Herbert West round robins (Though as I understand only two were ever published). The idea for this round-robin came my love of comic books and the Cthulhu mythos. I grew up reading the X-Men, and some of my favorite stories are those that dip into Lovecraftian territory including the N'Garai and the Brood. Similarly, I've often considered the Celestials and even Galactus as evidence of a strand of anti-anthropcentricism running through comics. So it comes as no surprise to me that one day I came up with an idea to write a Lovecraftian superhero story, and doing it as a round-robin was a bolt of inspiration. I assembled my dream team, and it took us longer then it should have. Like all good hero teams some members fell out, new members joined. In the process the vision I had of what we were doing and how this would look changed as well, but I suspect that is the nature of round-robins, and collaborations in general. What you have now are a set of reluctant heroes as created by some of the finest, up and coming writers out there, guys who know how to build characters, tell a story and leave you wanting more. One of the writers even found a way to tie the whole thing together with the venerable The Challenge From Beyond. So here you go boys and ghouls, submitted for your approval, I give you Eldritch Force.

  Chapter 1. Ashes to Ashes

  by Pete Rawlik

  Fear stalked the streets of Berlin. The city had always known fear, lived with it in all its myriad forms for centuries, but this was an unfamiliar fear. It was a kind of dread, a gnawing ache that clawed at a man’s soul and left him with the feeling that something was not right, that something had come undone, and been misaligned. Many blamed the Russians, others the French or the British, a few blamed the Americans, but none of the residents of the occupied city bothered to blame themselves. The things that stalked the streets at night, that chased children off the streets, that clawed at windows, and took the old and the sick: whatever they were, it was the Allies that brought them. It was the Allies who must deal with them. Or so those of Berlin thought.

  Beneath Berlin, however, there was one who thought differently. He was known to those above, but spoken of in guarded whispers, for he was everywhere, in every shadow, in every darkened doorway, in every unlit tunnel. He was a legend, an urban myth come to life. The English and Americans called him the Night Mayor, but those who had grown up in Berlin, the police, the criminals, those whose occupations or desires took them out into the night, they called him by what he left behind, by the material that covered his victims, and filled their lungs. To those who feared him he was simply Asche!

  Asche knew the secrets of the city, had known them for ages and seen the changes that Imperialism and then madness had wrought on both the metropolis and the people who lived there. Through the wars and the time in between he had tried to stay apolitical, tried to concentrate on crime, but it had not been easy. Too many times what he saw as malfeasance had actually been government-sanctioned violence, and he had retreated into his secret home, and waited for the madness to subside. But in those years the network of sewers and subways had changed. Officially, Hitler’s government had made no expansions to the U-Bahn; unofficially a labyrinth of tunnels had been carved out and laid with rails for the sole use of the Nazi elite. Built by military engineers, the city managers knew nothing about it, and so neither did the Allies. But that didn’t change the fact that they were there, and still in use. Asche used them to move about the city unseen, and track the thing that n
ow stalked Occupied Berlin. Whatever had come with the occupation, the Allied authorities seemed reluctant to do anything about it. They waited, huddled in their barracks with their guns, hoping that whatever it was would soon settle down and go away. Asche held no stock in that notion; he had been idle for too long, something was killing the people of Berlin, and he was capable of doing something about it.

  The thing that had terrorized the city had taken to using the tunnels as well. Many were collapsed, blocked, damaged by the shelling, but they were still passable, if one were determined enough. Asche stood before the mass of stone and steel that blocked the tunnel before him. The tracks he had been following - there had been no attempt to disguise them - had led here. Whatever it was had wormed its way through the rubble, past tangles of wire, broken concrete, shattered bricks and crumbled masonry. Asche could see the way through, but he had no need for it. The air around him grew still, there was a sound, like paper crumpling, and then Asche ceased to pretend being alive, and became what he truly was: the ashen remains of his long dead body.

  The cloud of ash held a vaguely human shape for a moment, but only a moment, and then it moved. It moved like a cloud in the wind, penetrating the rubble, seeping through it. There were a thousand ways for dust to move through the blockage, and Asche used them all. He flowed through the debris like water, following the paths of least resistance whilst finding dozens of dead ends. As he poured out of the far side of the wall he reformed, arms first and then a torso. He pushed against the rubble, dragging the myriad particles of himself out and free, rebuilding himself bit by bit by bit. It took longer to reform his mask of humanity than it did to shed it, but in under a minute he was back to his shadowy self, trenchcoat and wide-brimmed hat included.

  “You smell like the dead.”

  Asche spun around to confront the voice, but caught the full force of a punch across his jaw. He fell back, rolling with it, letting it carry him out of reach of the thing that slunk out of the shadows. In the dim light that seeped in from a storm drain Asche could see that his opponent was a monstrous thing. It bore some semblance to a man, but with arms and legs that reminded Asche of a hairless, gray ape. The arms were longer than they should be, as were the fingers, which ended in wide, thick pads. The legs had an extra joint, and the prehensile toes were longer than the fingers. There was something canine about the monster’s head: the eyes were predatory, the jaw was long and two great fangs rose out of the lower jaw like tusks. When the thing spoke its voice was like rocks tumbling in a tin pail. “You shouldn’t be here, it is unseemly for the dead to walk amongst the living.”