Swords v. Cthulhu

by Jesse Bullington

  His instinctive reaction to the pain was to lash out, and in doing so he rammed his spear-point into one of the monsters’ elongated necks, almost severing its head. Lwazi hopped backward and adopted a defensive posture to face off against the last of the creatures. The proud warrior did his best to ignore the searing pain in his torso, in the same way he was blotting out Rafferty’s chanting and the bone whistle’s malevolent shriek. The Englishman was now a good twenty yards from where Lwazi stood, still clutching the idol of H’aaztre to his chest as he continued his incantation. The last of the flying fiends was between Lwazi and Rafferty, and, judging by its stance, the Zulu reckoned it was trying to protect the wooden statue and its bearer… but then the thing’s hideous head swung toward the distant city and it once again let loose with its bizarre, wailing cry.

  Lwazi followed the creature’s gaze, and to his despair he saw dozens of black shapes slip free of the dark towers and soar into the yellow sky — reinforcements were on the way, far more than he could hope to overcome. But then he realized that the winged horde was the least of his concerns — some of the towers were moving. At first he thought that a cluster of about a dozen of the tallest structures had begun to collapse, but he quickly understood that they had in fact started to writhe and squirm against the horizon with an undeniably organic movement. Those towers were alive, like the gigantic appendages of some unspeakably huge nightmare that lurked just over the distant horizon — a nightmare that had now awoken.

  “The Feaster from Afar comes!” screamed Rafferty, his jubilant voice crackling with madness. “Ngh’h’yuh! Hastur Iä! N’ah Hali yaa!”

  Lwazi knew all was lost. H’aaztre’s demons would be upon him in seconds and would tear him apart in a terrible frenzy. Even if he could fight them off, there was nothing that any mortal creature could do to withstand the gargantuan horror that had begun to rise beyond the horizon — surely now there was nothing that could stop that awakened devil from passing into the realm of man and wreaking unspeakable evil across Africa and all the lands beyond. Lwazi knew he had failed, and just as Mandlenkosi had feared, the two suns would rise over Zululand.

  Yet even here, where all hope had fled, Lwazi could not countenance any course of action that did not involve him fighting with all of the strength in his mighty sinews, of selling his life as dearly as he could. The scream that burst forth from his lips was not one of the traditional Zulu war cries, but something much more ancient and primal that sprang from the core of his very being, as he spun his iklwa around in his hand so that he held the weapon with the blade pointing downward. The winged legions swooped down to attack, but Lwazi ignored them and leapt forward, toward the last of the original four monsters that had slaughtered Sizwe and the others, drawing back his iklwa as if he intended to hurl the spear rather than stab with it. The creature threw back its wings and surged forward to meet the Zulu’s charge, just as Lwazi let his spear fly. The demon jinked to one side and the iklwa darted harmlessly past its shoulder, but the evasion had been unnecessary — the monster had not been the spear’s target. Lwazi’s aim was true, the iklwa thudding into the wooden idol cradled in Rafferty’s arms and shattering the bone whistle into a hundred shards.

  The whistling instantly stopped, replaced by an even more nerve-wrenching, discordant noise — anguished screaming the likes of which Lwazi had never before heard. Lwazi had managed to block out the whistle and the chant during the battle, but even he could not close his ears to the earthshaking screams of pain and frustration that poured from the entity that lurked beyond the towers. Lwazi collapsed to the ground and wrapped his arms around his head in agony, feeling as if his brain would explode from the sheer pressure of the noise that assailed him. The flying creatures were not immune to their master’s woes, and they too howled in torment, clawing at their own faces as they fell from the sky to break upon the hard surface below. The young Zulu added his own cry of pain to the tortured chorus, but his comparatively puny voice was lost among the unimaginable suffering of a mercifully forgotten god… but then there was nothing but silence.

  Not quite silence, though. As he slowly opened his eyes, Lwazi began to notice other sounds that must have been drowned out by H’aaztre’s scream. The first was his own ragged breathing and the frantic pounding of his heart. Next he realized he could hear the crackle of burning wood, the pop of gunfire, the war shouts of the Zulus, and the screams of the dying… all sounds that would have been a terrible onslaught on the senses normally, but they were nothing to that which Lwazi had just endured. That he could hear the battle at all could mean only one thing — the Zulu staggered to his feet and was amazed to find himself back in the hospital room at Rorke’s Drift. All around him lay the ruined corpses of his comrades, hacked to bloody lumps by the claws of the winged devils. When they stood before the city of H’aaztre, the four warriors had been far more spread out, but now reality had reasserted itself, the bodies lay close by Lwazi’s feet, just where they had been before the bone whistle had sounded. Rafferty too was where he had been before the statue had worked its vile magic, sitting in the linen cupboard mere feet from Lwazi. He still clutched the effigy of H’aaztre to his chest, but now the carving had an iklwa protruding from it, the blade buried several inches deep into its body. There was no trace of the bodies of the creatures Lwazi had slain, not even a splash of their purple blood. Nor was there any sign of the fragments of the shattered whistle.

  Not daring to touch the statue itself, Lwazi picked up the idol of H’aaztre using the spear, as he would meat spitted on a cooking skewer. Rafferty did not try to prevent him from taking the idol this time, for the Englishman was quite dead. Moments earlier, Rafferty’s eyes had been two balls of blazing amber; now he had nothing but two empty, bloody sockets, as if the eyes themselves had burst under the pressure of the forces that had been channeled through his mortal body. He lay slumped against the side of the cupboard, with his face still contorted by the pain that had consumed him during his final moments. Lwazi offered a quick prayer to his ancestors that whatever remained of Rafferty’s soul was beyond the reach of foul H’aaztre, and then he slipped away through the burning hospital to return to the Zulu lines.

  When Lwazi finally found Mandlenkosi, squatting alone beside one of the many night fires in the Zulu encampment, the old Sangoma barely looked up at him. He simply nodded from the thing impaled upon Lwazi’s spear to the flames. Lwazi did not need any further prompting to drop both the carving of H’aaztre and his iklwa into the fire. He then sat down beside the Sangoma to watch the accursed item burn, along with the trusted weapon that he feared might be tainted by the idol’s evil.

  “Should have done this a long time ago,” muttered Mandlenkosi. “Some of the other Sangoma insisted it was still a holy item, even if it was dedicated to a fiend like H’aaztre, and so should be preserved… not all Sangoma are wise men, eh?”

  Lwazi did not reply. He was too busy watching the fire lick around the dark wood. The flames that touched the figure’s surface danced and flickered in different shapes from those that sprang from the normal fuel — here and there Lwazi could make out shapes that resembled the impossible structures of the alien city, or flecks of ash that fluttered like the bat-winged killers leaving their lairs to spill the blood of terrified mortals. Some of the flames even twisted and writhed as if mimicking the immense tendrils of the dark god himself, reaching out to try and drag the world of men into its unearthly domain beneath twin suns…

  “I’ll fetch some more wood, shall I?” said Mandlenkosi, springing to his feet with a rattle of bones and trinkets. “Looks like that thing will take quite a while to burn.”

  Lwazi nodded. The carving would indeed take a long time to be consumed, and he was determined not to take his eye off it for moment. He would sit by the fire as long as it took to make sure that nothing remained — only then would he be confident that his foe was defeated and that the twin suns would never rise over Zululand. Only when a lonely yellow orb crested the mountains t
o the east and the effigy of H’aaztre was nothing but ash and dust did he leave the fireside.

  A Circle That Ever Returneth In

  Orrin Grey

  As you sit at your usual table in a dark corner of the Jeweled Remora in Lankhende, greatest metropolis in the West, you spy three unusual figures making their way into the establishment: a Sell-Sword, a Cutpurse, and a Doll Mage, by the look of them. They order their drinks and take a table near the hearth, though it is the Year of the Fly and the night outside is sticky and close. Perhaps they hope to disguise their voices with the crackling of the fire, for they are holding what appears to be an animated conversation, but one that their hunched postures and furtive glances show they would rather not share with outsiders.

  You are not just any outsider, however, and Nathor of the Guild once said that your ears were keen enough to detect a flea breaking wind. You edge closer and cock one of those impressive ears toward their conversation. You are not disappointed.

  They speak of a treasure, a jewel. They call it something that sounds like the “Shining Trapezohedron,” but you’re unsure what kind of stone Trapezohedron is, so it’s possible that you may have misheard. Regardless, it sounds quite rare and, as rare things often are, quite valuable. It seems that each of the three possesses one portion of a riddle, map, or clue meant to lead them to the jewel, but there is some disagreement as to how these tidbits should be shared. Each one believes their portion to be the most pertinent and therefore of the most value, which in turn should, to their thinking, award them the greatest share of the bounty.

  Fortunately, before the conversation can turn violent enough to draw the attention of the entire tavern, the Sell-Sword dashes her drink to the floor, calls her compatriots some choice epithets, and all three of them angrily go their separate ways. Sensing a rare opportunity, you slip out of the Jeweled Remora and into the smoky streets of Lankhende after them.

  If you follow the Sell-Sword, refer to passage I.

  If you follow the Cutpurse, refer to passage II.

  If you follow the Doll Mage, refer to passage III.

  I

  The Sell-Sword has made her camp in the swampy mangrove forests that surround the walls of Lankhende. Though you keep a safe distance and stay in the shadows, still she must detect you, for she stiffens and places her hand on the sword at her hip as she calls you out. Knowing when you’re fairly caught, you step out with your palms held toward her, to show that you’re unarmed. “You don’t look like much, and you came alone,” she says. “You’re either very brave, or very foolish.”

  “Any reason I can’t be a bit of both?” you ask.

  After digesting that for a moment, she laughs a surprisingly unguarded laugh and tells you to start a fire while you explain why you’re following her. Once a couple of lizard-bats are roasting over the embers, you tell her that you know she seeks the Shining Trapezohedron — saying a silent prayer to all the gods of Lankhende that you pronounce it correctly — and that you know of someone who can help her to find it, if she’s interested in sharing the wealth.

  She is, and she tells you her name is Vlana. You tell her your name, and lead her to the lair of the Seer with Many Faces, in a ruined temple high atop Mount Grond, the strange lone peak that stands to the south of Lankhende.

  At first glance, the Seer appears to be a statue of greenish stone that sits atop a raised dais, human in shape but with numerous arms radiating out from the trunk of its body, its head carved with faces on three sides, the one turned toward you as you enter contemplative, serene. Each of its many arms has an upturned palm, and in each hand rests some strange object: a golden carving of the sun, the skull of a bird, a trio of ordinary pebbles.

  Seeing that you haven’t completely misled her, Vlana places before the Seer a scrap of faded leather or hide onto which someone has drawn — or more likely tattooed, for on closer inspection the scrap appears to be of flayed skin — a portion of a map. For a moment there is silence in the temple, and then there is a sound like the grinding of ancient machinery, a loud clank that is equal parts metal and stone, and the Seer moves, each arm switching positions slightly, and the head atop its trunk rotating so that a facade of terror is suddenly presented to you.

  “I know what it is you would seek,” the Seer says, its voice an echo coming from somewhere deep in a cave, “and on your life I warn you to turn back.”

  Neither you nor Vlana can be dissuaded, and the Seer seems to sense it, for there is another grinding clank, another repositioning of arms and head, and now the visage that faces you is a mask of wrath. “Then go, but fairly warned. Your path will take you through the city of ghouls, to the throne of the Yellow King. There you will find your prize, and though you will return to Lankhende time and again, it will not be in your grasp.”

  The road to Ghulende is a long one, and on the way Vlana teaches you the art of the sword. Her own blade is longer and of finer craftsmanship than the short one that hangs on your belt. She tells you that it is named Heartseeker, and that she forged it herself, as all warriors of her tribe must do before they can truly enter into adulthood.

  As you draw nearer to Ghulende, the land becomes drier, the trees short and dead and twisted. Gravestones line the road on every side, canting off at odd angles. They are memorials from every era of the world’s history, and every nation with which you’re familiar — and many with which you aren’t — and you wonder if they’re drawn to Ghulende like iron to a lodestone.

  The city itself looks as if some great metropolis like Lankhende was dashed to pieces by a giant hand. Gone are the cyclopean walls, the towering buildings with their many windows for trysts and burglaries. Here the walls lie in rubble, the towers rise a few stories and then terminate abruptly. It is a ruin, and what better place than a ruin for ghouls to dwell.

  You have never seen a ghoul, though the old ladies in your village told you tales of them when you were a child. They were said to have skin and organs so translucent as to be virtually invisible, so that they appeared as living skeletons. They were also said to eat only human flesh, and that while they were generally content to feast upon the dead — for dead flesh was considered by ghouls the more succulent — they were more than happy to render living flesh dead, should the opportunity arise.

  Before you have a chance to ask Vlana if she has ever seen a ghoul, you are suddenly presented, from every rubble-strewn alley and leaning doorway, with vivid evidence of the truth of your elders’ tales. At a glance, the ghouls that surround you, clutching in their bony fists odd weapons of blackened iron, would look exactly like human skeletons up and wandering about. The only thing to mark them out — besides their ambulation — is that instead of the white ivory shine of human bone, their skeletons are the green of tarnished copper.

  One near the front of the pack barks something at you in what you assume must be Ghulese, but to you is simply nonsense. You glance at Vlana, but while she registers no more comprehension of the words than you do, she seems to understand the situation perfectly, for Heartseeker is already in her hand.

  If you stand and fight, refer to passage IV.

  If you turn tail and run, refer to passage VII.

  II

  Though you believed that you knew Lankhende like the palm of your hand, no sooner are you out the door of the Jeweled Remora than you’ve lost the trail of the Cutpurse. You have ducked into a dark alley to collect your thoughts, when you feel the cold kiss of a dagger pressed to your neck.

  “Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t slice your throat,” the Cutpurse says from behind you.

  You tell her enough to convince her that you know what she’s looking for and can help her get it, and she agrees to take you with her. She says that her name is Samanda, and that she has in her possession a clue that tells her where to seek the Shining Trapezohedron. There’s only one catch: in order to reach her destination, she has to travel to the bottom of the Western Sea.

  You lead her to the strange hut of the Seer
with Many Faces, built high in a tall tree in the swampy forests that surround Lankhende, accessible only by climbing a series of rickety platforms. As you both scale the trunk, you marvel at Samanda’s agility, her sure-footedness never wavering once, even as you ascend the highest and most precarious ledges.

  The Seer sits in the dark, where an owl, a bat, and a toad also crouch. Shrouded from head to foot in tattered robes that prevent you from seeing what sort of body it might possess, the only defining traits of the Seer are its iron claws and the masks that float in a circle around its hooded face. They pass before it in a slow dance, first one and then another, now the snarling face of a devil, now the leering expression of a lecherous old man, now the innocent visage of a child. When you tell the Seer what you seek, a voice speaks to you from the mouth of the owl. “You should return to Lankhende,” the voice says. Then another voice speaks from the lips of the toad, “No good will come of what you seek.”

  But neither you nor Samanda can be dissuaded, and the Seer seems to know this immediately, this time speaking from the mouth of the bat. “If you insist upon pursuing your quest, then you will need a way to survive the ocean floor. Take these two stones,” it says, and one of the iron claws reaches out, presenting two unremarkable-looking pebbles, “and hold them in your mouth. So long as you have them, you will have no need to breathe at all. But I warn you, lose them for even a moment, and you will be lost.”

  Before you step into the ocean, you each pop one of the pebbles into your mouth and try to hold your breath, but realize immediately that, just as the Seer promised, you no longer feel the need to breathe at all. Your lungs no longer inflate and deflate, you no longer feel any tightness or pressure in your chest. You simply are.