The Cthulhu Mythos Megapack (40 Modern and Classic Lovecraftian Tales) (109 page)

“What’s that?” Elak asked—but he had already guessed the answer.

“To sink Atlantis! This island-continent would have gone down beneath the sea long ago if I hadn’t pitted my magic and my science against that of the children of Dagon. They are masters of the earthquake, and Atlantis rests on none too solid a foundation. Their power is sufficient to sink Atlantis forever beneath the sea. But within that room”—Zend nodded toward the curtain that hid the sea-bred horrors—“in that room there is power far stronger than theirs. I have drawn strength from the stars, and the cosmic sources beyond the universe. You know nothing of my power. It is enough—more than enough—to keep Atlantis steady on its foundation, impregnable against the attacks of Dagon’s breed. They have destroyed other lands before Atlantis.”

Hot blood dripped on Elak’s hands as the wizard tore at the cords.

“Aye…other lands. There were races that dwelt on Earth before man came. My powers have shown me a sunlit island that once reared far to the south, an island where dwelt a race of beings tall as trees, whose flesh was hard as stone, and whose shape was so strange you could scarcely comprehend it. The waters rose and covered that island, and its people died. I have seen a gigantic mountain that speared up from a waste of tossing waters, in Earth’s youth, and in the towers and minarets that crowned its summit dwelt beings like sphinxes, with the heads of beasts and gods and whose broad wings could not save them when the cataclysm came. For ruin came to the city of the sphinxes, and it sank beneath the ocean—destroyed by the children of Dagon. And there was—”

“Hold!” Elak’s breathless whisper halted the wizard’s voice. “Hold! I see rescue, Zend.”

“Eh?” The wizard screwed his head around until he too saw the short, ape-featured man who was running silently across the room, knife in hand. It was Lycon, whom Elak had left slumbering in the underground den of Gesti.

The knife flashed and Elak and Zend were free. Elak said swiftly, “Up the stairs, wizard. Repair your magic globe, since you say its light will kill these horrors. We’ll hold the stairway.”

Without a word the gray dwarf sped silently up the steps and was gone. Elak turned to Lycon.

“How the devil—”

Lycon blinked wide blue eyes. “I scarcely know, Elak. Only when you were carrying me out of the tavern and the soldier screamed and ran away I saw something that made me so drunk I couldn’t remember what it was. I remembered only a few minutes ago, back downstairs somewhere. A face that looked like a gargoyle’s, with a terrible great beak and eyes like Midgard Serpent’s. And I remembered I’d seen Gesti put a mask over the awful face just before you turned there in the alley. So I knew Gesti was probably a demon.”

“And so you came here,” Elak commented softly. “Well, it’s a good thing for me you did. I—what’s the matter?” Lycon’s blue eyes were bulging.

“Is this your demon?” the little man asked, pointing.

Elak turned, and smiled grimly. Facing him, her face puzzled and frightened, was the girl on whom Zend had been experimenting—the maiden whose soul he had been about to unleash to serve him when Elak had arrived. Her eyes were open now, velvet-soft and dark, and her white body gleamed against the silver-black drape.

Apparently she had awakened, and had arisen from her hard couch.

Elak’s hand went up in a warning gesture, commanding silence, but it was too late. The girl said,

“Who are you? Zend kidnapped me—are you come to set me free? Where—”

With a bound Elak reached her, dragged her back, thrust her up the stairway. His rapier flashed in his hand. Over his shoulder he cast a wolfish smile.

“If we live, you’ll escape Zend and his magic,” he told the girl, hearing an outbrust of sibilant cries and the rushing murmur of the attacking horde. Yet he did not turn. “What’s your name?” he asked.

“Coryllis.”

“’Ware, Elak!” Lycon shouted.

Elak turned to see the little man’s sword flash out, shearing a questing tentacle in two. The severed end dropped, writhing and coiling in hideous knots. The frightful devil-masks of monsters glared into Elak’s eyes. The children of Dagon came sweeping in a resistless rush, cold eyes glazed and glaring, tentacles questing, iridescent bodies shifting and pulsing like jelly—and Elak and Lycon and the girl, Coryllis, were caught by their fearful wave and forced back, up the staircase.

Snarling inarticulate curses, Lycon swung his sword, but it was caught and dragged from his hand by a muscular tentacle. Elak tried to shield Coryllis with his own body; he felt himself going down, smothering beneath the oppressive weight of cold, hideous bodies that writhed and twisted with dreadful life. He struck out desperately—and felt a hard, cold surface melting like snow beneath his hands.

The weight that held him down was dissipating—the things were retreating, flowing back, racing and flopping and tumbling down the stairs, shrieking an insane shrill cry. They blackened and melted into shapeless puddles of slime that trickled like a little gray stream down the stairway.…

Elak realized what had happened. A rose-red light was glowing in the air all about him. The wizard had repaired his magic globe, and the power of its rays was destroying the nightmare menace that had crept up from the deeps.

In a heartbeat it was over. There was no trace of the horde that had attacked them. Gray puddles of ooze—no more. Elak realized that he was cursing softly, and abruptly changed it to a prayer. With great earnestness, he thanked Ishtar for his deliverance.

Lycon recovered his sword and handed Elak his rapier. “What now?” he asked.

“We’re off! We’re taking Coryllis with us—there’s no need to linger here. True, we helped the wizard—but we fought him first. He may remember that. There’s no need to test his gratefulness, and we’d be fools to do it.”

He picked up Coryllis, who had quietly fainted, and quickly followed Lycon down the steps. They hurried across the great room and into the depths of the corridor beyond.

And five minutes later they were sprawled at full length under a tree in one of San-Mu’s numerous parks. Elak had snatched a silken robe from a balcony as he passed beneath, and Coryllis had draped it about her slim body. The stars glittered frostily overhead, unconcerned with the fate of Atlantis—stars that would be shining thousands of years hence when Atlantis was not even a memory.

No thought of this came to Elak now. He wiped his rapier with a tuft of grass, while Lycon, who had already cleaned his blade, stood up and, shading his eyes with his palm, peered across the park. He muttered something under his breath and set off at a steady lope. Elak stared after him.

“Where’s he going? There’s a—by Ishtar! He’s going in a grog shop. But he has no money. How—”

A shocked thought came to him, and he felt hastily in his wallet. Then he cursed. “The drunken little ape! When he slashed my bonds in the wizard’s palace, he stole the purse! I’ll—”

Elak sprang to his feet and took a stride forward. Soft arms gripped his leg. He looked down. “Eh?”

“Let him go,” Coryllis said, smiling. “He’s earned his mead.”

“Yes—but what about me? I—”

“Let him go,” Coryllis murmured.…

And, ever after that, Lycon was to wonder why Elak never upbraided him about the stolen purse.

DARK DESTROYER, by Adrian Cole

A
Voidal
Story

In those scattered dimensions that comprise the chaotic omniverse, there are legends that speak of the one who walks in the void, a terrible being who can be summoned to work power, but at a grim cost to the one who calls him.

And there have always been those whose jealousy of this Voidal’s power has led them to seek his downfall, his eternal imprisonment, where madness will chain him.

One such envious god was Ubeggi,
1
the Weaver of Wars.

I

In Ulthar, the city of cats, two swarthy men sat at a table in an inn, talking softly and looking out through the window at the buildings of the city that dropped away below them. In the distance, moonlight fractured the winding river Skai and beyond that the shifting enigma of the dreamscape pushed forward silently, tonight oppressive and alive with evil portents. Things flapped across the sky darkly and silently: the dreams of the inhabitants of Ulthar were not pleasant ones.

The first of the men wore a strange hat (as a priest might) and upon his cloak were sewn unusual figures with human bodies and the heads of varying animals—cats, hawks, rams and lions, marking the man and his colleague as travellers from the far South, whose mysteries were famous in Ulthar, where cats are sacred. In this high inn where the men sat, no one had spoken to them, and indeed the few patrons had already left, while all the cats that lived here—and there were many scores—gathered around them, purring and fussing like servants anxious to please. From time to time one of the men would reach down and dig with gentle fingers into the fur of an animal, or stroke its sleek coat. The silent innkeeper, Drath, was a little uneasy, but pleased, knowing that it was through these Southern wanderers that Ulthar had become a shrine to cats.

“There are signs here, too,” said Umatal, taller of the men. He sipped at the strong Ulthar wine. “Everywhere.”

“Just so,” nodded Ibidin, his stockier companion, turning from the table to study the lower town. “Ybaggog’s dreams are a far-reaching curse. Such dreams as flit about these skies are poisoned by this awesome god. I heard in the market today that seven men across the river were found dead in their beds, killed by the grim nightmares that beset them. It was unquestionably the doing of Ybaggog. These dreams are not confined to this realm, Umatal. They spread. It is murmured in hidden places that even the priests of the Old Ones are afraid for their gods.”

“Say nothing of the Old Ones,” replied Umatal. “Even in Ulthar, their ears catch every breath.”

“How are we to be rid of the Dark Destroyer? What possible means are we to employ to thwart its purpose?”

“Its purpose! Pah! How can we comprehend its purpose?”

“Enough to know that Ybaggog is called, Devourer of Universes.”

“We may have to sacrifice universes to kill him.”

They said no more for a while, knowing that their own gods (and indeed, all gods that they knew of) went in fear of Ybaggog. Ibidin nervously chinked the silver coins in his pocket; he had not earned many this season, for few people in Ulthar wanted the benefit of his fortune telling. As the men subsided into their grim thoughts, more shadows crossed the moon. The men jerked up, a symptom of how afraid they were, for such nocturnal things were common in Ulthar and not usually worthy of concern.

“Something approaches,” said Umatal, drawing back. Around him, fifty cats arched their backs and hissed in unison. Ibidin pulled a short, curved knife from his belt, lurching up from the table. Presently a small, squamous figure alighted on the windowsill and peered in with huge eyes. It was not unlike the frightful night gaunts, but was too squat and small, and a few moments were all that were needed to outline its evident trepidation.

“Begone!” growled Umatal, as if chasing off a wayward crow.

“Your pardon, masters,” came the reply. “But is this the inn of Drath, sixth cat master of the northern heights?”

A figure had come out of the shadows behind the table, holding and stroking a cat, and with a smaller one perched on its shoulder. All the cats in the inn had subsided, purring softly again and gazing dreamily at the odd visitor. “Aye,” said Drath. “What do you seek here?”

“I am Elfloq,” said the figure, hopping in a frog-like way on to a table, narrowly missing a jug of wine. “Are these two lords your only guests?” He appeared to be searching out more guests with those bulbous, saucer-like eyes, though there were only the cats, creatures of which he did not approve. One of them extended an exploratory claw and came close to hooking it into the scaled hide of the familiar. Elfloq opened his wings in readiness to flit upwards to the rafters.

“We are not lords,” said Ibidin. “But by the beard of Ozmordrah, what are you?”

Elfloq seemed relieved. “Then I am first.” He kept himself out of reach of the cats, sitting birdlike in the windowsill, poised for flight if need be. “You must listen to me, for there is little time before they come.”

“Who?” said Drath.

“Evil ones. Dreadful forerunners of an even greater evil. Dark and dire, foul and hideous to look upon—beings who will work frightful misery upon Ulthar and all the cities of the dreamworld.”

“You babble, little frog,” said Umatal. But his smile was very thin. “Who are these devils you speak of?”

“One is half-man—fat and blue-skinned, with hooked talons for hands and feet, and the face of a devil. He is shifty and foul-lipped—smelling of the gutters and with the eyes of a madman—”

“It seems to me,” chuckled Drath, “that this description would easily fit yourself, apart from the hue of your skin.”

Elfloq ignored this remark. “The other is tall, bent over and like a lean wolf with eyes that burn and hands that would rob the dead. His very presence fills the air with darkness, and he is a priest of the most abominable gods. His mother, they say—”

“Enough!” snarled Umatal. “Here, my friends, is yet another victim of the mad dreams that permeate this realm. He looks much like something from a bad dream himself! Away! Go out and annoy a street hound or one of the little wharflings on the Skai waterfront.”

“I cannot leave. I am forced here by sorcery. I must wait for them,” persisted Elfloq. He shuddered as he thought of the words of Ubeggi, the Weaver of Wars, from whom he had recently come. That meddlesome god had sent him here, warning him that if he did not do his bidding, Elfloq’s fate would be incalculably horrible. “But you have little time. I speak of real evil. These terrible ones are the slaves of something infinitely more vile. I speak of Ybaggog, the Dark Destroyer.”

Umatal’s hand shot out and gripped Elfloq by the throat, pulling him across the table. Cats screeched and leapt back, leaving fur dancing in the air. “Ybaggog!” snarled Umatal. “What do you know of him?”

“He sends his envoys here. They must be eradicated.”

“How do you know of this?” said Ibidin.

Elfloq wriggled, but was caught like a hooked fish. “Ah—my master. He is a great sorcerer. He is engaged in a tumultuous cosmic struggle with Ybaggog, dedicated to wiping out the Destroyer’s minions.”

“Who is this master of yours?”

“He is known as the Voidal.”

The travellers from the South glared at each other.

“Who?” they said in unison, baffled.

“Have you not heard of him?” piped Elfloq, struggling for breath.

Umatal and Ibidin shook their heads.

“That is because he shrouds himself in mystery and legend, so that he is not taken by his enemies, chief among whom is Ybaggog.”

“There are a thousand sorcerers on every world. What makes your master so powerful?” asked Umatal suspiciously.

“Should you meet him, you would know at once.”

“And where is he?” said Ibidin.

“Ah,” said Elfloq, with what he intended to be a theatrical pause. “He waits without. Ready for the summons.”

The men turned to the inn door, but Elfloq shook his head. “Not in this realm. He walks in the void between universes.”

“Indeed?” said Umatal sceptically.

“Then call him,” said Ibidin. “If he can help us, call him!”

Elfloq masked his terror at that particular thought, and shook his head. “I cannot, sirs, as I am his slave. It is I who do his bidding, not he mine. He would not obey me.”

Umatal’s eyes narrowed. “Why should I perform a convocation rite about which I understand nothing? I know of men who have summoned up demons and of the prices they have had to pay.
You
summon him.”

Elfloq tried not to look as though some great beast were about to devour him. This was not working out at all well. Ubeggi had charged him with coming here and summoning the Voidal, but Elfloq was terrified of the consequences. He must trick someone else into doing this. “Very well, release me.” They did so, and at once he flew up into the rafters.

Ibidin cursed and flung his knife, but in the darkness the blade lodged in a thick beam some feet from Elfloq’s membranous wings.

“Send the cats after him!” said Umatal, pulling shut the window. Drath was loath to do as the tall man asked, but he did not argue. He ignited a number of candles, which threw a shimmering and vast shadow of Elfloq on the upper walls. Drath spoke and the cats uncurled. As one they gazed up at the familiar, anticipating an unusual meal.

“No!” cried Elfloq. “You are unwise to distrust me! I mean only to help you. Bring my master here. He will save you all. He will save all Ulthar—all the dreamlands—everything!”

Umatal nodded to Drath, who whispered something. At once the cat horde began leaping up on to tables, flowing out to the shelves and clawing for the beams that would lead them, by stages, to the trapped figure above.

“I will give you a last opportunity to prove your good intent,” called Umatal. “Summon your master yourself.”

Elfloq knew that he had failed, and worse, knew that he could not skip on to the astral realm as he would easily have done under normal circumstances. The spell of Ubeggi bound him to this inn until the Weaver’s other servants came. But where were they? Elfloq felt doubly trapped: as soon as they got here, they would force him to invoke his master. The situation was not an auspicious one. The cats were already up on the beam and crawling along it upon eager bellies. There were many of them.

At that moment there came a heavy knock on the inn door. The men below cursed and Drath looked to them for instructions. The travellers looked up at Elfloq, who shrugged. The cats were motionless, all staring fixedly at Elfloq. Again the hammering on the door came, and then it opened to reveal a tall figure in a scarlet cloak and hood, a man who seemed to appraise the strange situation at once. He shut the door and bolted it, and as he came into the room, the cats drew back from him as if he were a wolf. They began to howl in their awful fashion, and nothing Drath could say would still them.

“You have chosen a bad time to visit this inn,” said Umatal.

“You should thank me,” said the stranger in a hard voice, one that was used to giving commands. He hissed something at the cats and they flattened themselves and amazingly were silent, a uniform movement that brought gasps of shock from the men of the South. Drath looked even more disturbed.

“Thank you?” said Ibidin. “For what?”

“Had you succumbed to Elfloq’s wish and summoned the Voidal, you would doubtless have perished unpleasantly, along with this furry tribe.”

“Then you are not the familiar’s master?” said Umatal.

The scarlet-robed man shook his head. “No.” He looked up at Elfloq. “Come down from that ridiculous perch, Elfloq. The cats will not harm you while I am here.”

Elfloq obeyed. He knew the man to be a Divine Asker, a spokesman of the Dark Gods, those who used his master and who kept him chained to their own grim causes for whatever crimes he had once committed against them. It was not wise to dissemble with an Asker. But what in the many dimensions could one of them want here? Still, it had indeed been a timely intervention.

The familiar stood before the Asker, gazing up at him uncomfortably. Amazingly, the Asker put a hand on the familiar’s shoulder in an almost affectionate way. He turned to the innkeeper and his guests. “Elfloq is known to us. He has a silver tongue, and I know how you value silver.” The Asker took from his blood-red cloak a heavy bag and tossed it on to a table. It thudded down, the coins inside clinking. “Here it is in abundance. Take it.”

Neither Umatal nor Ibidin moved, but their eyes filled with hunger.

“Am I not right in assuming that Elfloq would have been trying to inveigle you into summoning his master?”

“Your esteemed fountain of all holiness does me wrong,” began Elfloq, but the tightening grip on his shoulders silenced him.

“My advice,” went on the Asker, “is to take the silver and go back to your caravan. You are at liberty to remain if you wish, but be warned—those who next come in will not be kind. They are all the familiar said they are, and more.”

Ibidin reached for the bag of silver, but Umatal snatched his hand away. They grunted their goodbyes to Drath and in a moment had left. The Asker went to a table and called on Drath to bring him wine. The cats shifted like grass before the scarlet robe, and soon were hardly visible at the extremities of the room. “Be easy, Drath,” said the Asker. “None of this night’s work need concern you. Elfloq! Sit upon the table here. I have matters to discuss with you.”

Elfloq obeyed. Where were the others? “Master—”

A raised hand stilled him. As he sat before the Divine Asker, he saw the eyes for the first time. They had a sadness about them, as if a good deal of the original hardness in them had gone. “We have a little time before the others come.” The Asker sat forward with a sigh. Elfloq was puzzled. This was not the way in which the Askers behaved—something was certainly amiss with this one.

“I think perhaps, Elfloq, you must have won a special place in the minds of my fellow Askers. Darquementi, our Principal Questioner, has spoken of you more than once. Does this surprise you?”

The Asker could hardly have got a more shocked reaction from Elfloq had he dipped him in boiling oil, but the familiar covered his distress. “Yes, indeed, master. Darquementi is held in great esteem.” Elfloq recalled his brush with the terrifying personage all too clearly.