The Dark Horde
Authors: Brewin
Published in Great Britain in 2012 by Ignis
An imprint of Polybius Books
Copyright © Andrew Drage 2012
The right of “Brewin” to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise), without the prior written permission of the publisher. Any person who does any unauthorised act in relation to this publication will be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination, or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales, is entirely coincidental.
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
ISBN 978-0-9565880-7-4
eISBN 978-0-9565880-8-1
Cover Design by Arati Devasher,
www.aratidevasher.com
Cover Photo by Jake Lowe,
www.jakelowephotography.com
Typeset by Elaine Sharples,
www.typesetter.org.uk
Printed and bound in Great Britain by
MPG Biddles, King’s Lynn, Norfolk, PE30 4LS
This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
Some things can lie dormant and hidden, festering for an apparent eternity, before eventually manifesting into reality... Such has certainly been the case with
The Dark Horde
! I wish to thank the following for making this book possible:
Adam Kolczynski, for giving me this opportunity, for editing and direction;
Barbara Brabec, for advice and making this possible;
Jill Brewin, for your endless love, support and guidance;
Margaret Clark, who started me on the journey of writing books for publication over twenty years ago, when this very story was first imagined;
Jake Lowe, for your amazing photography and Arati Devasher, for your brilliant artwork;
Luke Lakeman, Neil Cheney, David Ranson, Trevor Evans and Trevor Pillinger, for expert forensic advice,
Also Lee Cheney, Anita Bell, Maria Foster, John Marsden, Matthew Reilly, Clive Barker, Clark Ashton Smith, August Derleth and Howard Phillips Lovecraft, among many others for advice, support and inspiration;
And finally,
you
the reader;
Thanks and Cheers to you all!
“Come Dark Horde remember, your journey with me,
A journey of spirals, turning to infinity.
Spiralling through all that was, and ever will be,
Come Dark Horde remember, as one are we.
Great is your power, great was your reign,
Great is your age, yet great is your pain.
Held in contempt, and abandoned in shame.
Hunted and tortured, and put to the flame.
But no more shall this be, I release you to create.
All paths are open now, you are free to control your fate,
To inherit the earth, to inherit eternity.
Come Dark Horde, remember, and once more be!
We are as one, as many are we,
Become one, once more be.
We are as one, as many are we,
Become one, once more be.
We are as one, as many are we,
Become one, once more be...”
After many hours of semiconscious chanting, I was startled awake by a sharp crack in front of me. Before me stretched a black void with depths beyond comprehension. A nauseating stench fell over me and I saw that within the nebulous darkness was a pair of eyes: red convex slits. They were a short distance away and staring directly at me, my mind naked before their gaze...
My God, what had I done?
Contents
9
th
April 1989
SUNDAY 12:13
AM
His mind struggled...
His boot tapped the floor, his teeth gnawed his nails. Finally, with a great sigh, he made his decision. The other two players were relieved: their patience had already washed away with the amber fluid of a slab of beers.
“Faaarm,” Barney announced, placing a single ‘F’ chip alongside the word ‘ARM’ on the worn scrabble board.
‘Farm’ was all he could think of. It was this place where he lived alone and all that he owned. Here he was host to Frank, his twenty-four year-old son and Henry, a mate of Frank’s whom they hadn’t seen much of since he moved down to Melbourne five years ago. Barney’s ute had broken down during the week, so it was welcome relief to have visitors, although Henry’s visit this evening was a surprise.
Barney rose to go to the toilet, leaving the others to have their turns. That was when the doorbell rang, singing its merry ding-dong tune that had always irritated Barney.
“Who the bloody hell is that?” he said. “It’s bloody quarter past twelve!”
Henry and Frank looked up a moment, but showed no sign of moving. Already out of his chair, Barney grumbled, “I’ll get it.” He dragged himself over to the door.
Henry tried different combinations of letters on the board, striving through intoxication to determine which would score him the most points. Frank leaned against the fireplace by the window, drinking homemade whisky and coke because there was no beer left. He seemed oblivious to all except his drink and something out of the window.
Barney’s voice drifted down the corridor, “What the fuck?”
Then there was a ripping sound followed by a dull splatter.
Henry and Frank both looked up and heard the morbid resonance of something snapping. Then a huge, hairy, dog-faced figure stepped into the lounge, its upright two-and-a-half metre frame stooped against the ceiling, Barney’s decapitated head hanging by the hair from one of its twenty-centimetre rakes for claws. It glared at them with red, hate-filled eyes the shape of swollen slits, as its bloodied snout curled to reveal a chaotic array of sharpened teeth. The beast tossed the severed head onto the scrabble table, scattering the pieces over the wooden floor.
Frank stumbled drunkenly to scoop a plumb-axe by the fireplace, but Henry could still see reality through a haze of alcohol and knew that this beast meant only death. The creature stood in the doorway to block that exit, so he retreated into the liquor cellar via the trapdoor by the opposite wall. The beast ignored him, its attention upon Frank with deadly fixation.
Frank leaned against the brick wall of the house with one hand, as he fumbled to ready his weapon in the other.
Wish I wasn’t so pissed.
The beast strode forward, hurling aside the table in its path with a flick of its wrists. A curdled mixture of blood and saliva dripped from its wolfish snout in long ropes.
It grinned.
Frank let out a desperate scream as he swung the axe at the creature’s neck, but his swing was stopped short, as the beast effortlessly caught the blade in its hand.
The beast tore the axe from Frank’s grip and whilst it still held the blade, smashed him over the head with the wooden haft. The blow’s incredible strength drew a shock of blood and sent Frank sprawling to the ground.
The room spinning before him, Frank fought to control his senses. Then he was lifted by his shirt-back. His vision struggling into clarity, he saw dagger-teeth bared to rip his throat out.
Frank lunged at his attacker with two gouging fingers. Determination steered his aim into those piercing red orbs that regarded him with lust to kill. He felt his fingers rushing past their soft flesh as the beast roared in pain and fury. Instinctively, it covered its wounded eyes and Frank slipped free.
He sprinted out of the front door and into the empty driveway, crazy with terror, frantic to remember where he had parked his car. His eyes struggling to pierce night’s blanket, he followed a dark outline of trees around a corner...