by Paul Crilley
“You the guy looking for information on the Jewel of Ini-taya?”
“Uh . . . yeah. Why? You know something?”
“Definitely. Come.”
He gestures for me to approach. I hesitate, then do as I’m told. This is the only lead I’ve had. I can’t just ignore it.
The man is wearing a dirty green cloak. He has a skinny face covered with patchy whiskers. He looks nervous, and I slow my steps, wondering if I’m doing the smart thing. Maybe I should go get Graves first, have some backup at hand.
The man’s eyes flicker over my shoulder. I start to turn, but even as I’m doing so I know what is coming. Someone or something hits me on the back of my head, and I fall to my knees. Goddamn it. I’m going to get brain damage the amount of times I’m getting hit on the head in this job.
I try to get up, but I experience the curious sensation of being unconscious while awake. My mind is switched off, but I can still see. I watch the steady drip of blood onto the ground. Then it runs into my eyes, and I’m forced to close them as my body catches up with my mind.
I feel the breeze against my face first, a fresh breeze that carries the faintest hint of the sea. My head throbs painfully, pounding waves that radiate out from the back of my skull to encompass my whole being.
I gradually become aware of a voice somewhere behind me.
“What am I in for? I’ll tell you! For telling stories! That’s it!”
Someone mumbles a question.
“What story? Ah. Shall I tell you and damn you all? For it is blasphemy. It is a story of the creators, those we call the Elders, who weren’t gods, but a cosmic race millions of years old. How they created their children: Cthulhu, Azathoth, Shub-Niggurath, Dagon, Yog-Sothoth.
“The story goes that one of these Elder Beings created mankind as worshippers for the Old Ones, to keep them busy, much like you or I would give our children wooden toys. Except, the Old Ones instead used mankind to fight each other, amassing followers, using us as sacrifices to gain power.
“Such were the battles between these Old Ones, such was the tremendous power unleashed, that the world started to fall apart. The Old Ones, realizing they had destroyed their world, took themselves into the void, fleeing the destruction. All except for Azathoth. He remained behind, hungry for power, hungry for worshippers.
“A cataclysm shook the earth. The world started to break apart, earthquakes split the land open, mountains thrust up from the bowels of the earth and fell again. The Old Ones had fought their wars and fled, but had destroyed the world in the process.
“But then something happened. Everything stopped. Just . . . stopped. The land was frozen in the middle of its own destruction. A spell of such power, even the Old Ones could not have done it. No, the Elder Gods had stepped in, stopping the destruction of their world, saving the creations of their own cosmic offspring. You see the results in the landscapes around you. The land eaten away, pedestals linked by half-eaten rock, the Abyssal Sea joining the world together.”
“Hey!” A loud banging shakes me where I lie. “Keep it down in there!”
I crack open my eyes. There are wooden planks immediately above me. Too low to stand up.
A shuffling sound to my right. I turn my head, see about ten men, some wearing rags, some with days of beard growth. And bars. Metal bars.
I’m in a cage. I sit up abruptly, feeling the world swim sickeningly around me. I peer between the bars, wondering how long I’ve been out. The sun is lower in the sky, but not too much. Maybe an hour or two?
What the hell happened? I remember being hit on the head, but why the cage? We’re still at the lip of the pedestal, but no longer at the docks. This looks like a richer area. Merchants with shiny cloaks and expensively tooled shoes. Drifters and other modes of transport are tethered against the air docks. Some move along tether lines, and a few are free-flying, heading out into the sky.
I try to move my feet and hear a metal sound. I look down and see that we’re all shackled together.
Wonderful.
Half an hour later we’re herded out of the cage onto the dusty stone. A small man with a waxed moustache and a sweaty bald head leads us away, crooning to us as if we’re animals he’s being careful not to startle. I find the sound incredibly disturbing, almost perverse.
“Come now, my little chicks,” he whispers. “Be good for Uncle. He will make money from you, yes? Uncle is good to you. That’s right. Keep walking.”
Make money from us? So, not Nyarlathotep then. Or the ICD. I’d be dead by now if it was them. That’s something, at least.
On the other hand, it sounds like I’m about to be sold as a slave, so not ideal. Swings and roundabouts, really.
The man leads us to an open square and onto a raised wooden platform. He padlocks us to an iron pole and then leaves. The heat of the day hasn’t lessened. In fact, it seems even more humid. Sweat drips down my back and face, and my head throbs painfully.
An hour later, the slaver arrives back from his lunch break or wherever the hell he disappeared to. He staggers slightly, his cheeks and nose touched by faint blossoms of red. I feel a surge of jealousy. The bastard’s been in the pub. I want to go to the pub. I want to drink cool, chilled beer. Instead I’m about to be sold as a slave. Life sucks, man.
The sale begins. There’s no show, no pomp and ceremony. The slaver simply walks down the line and points to each slave in turn and waits for the bids to come. If none do he simply mutters, “One for the mines,” and a young boy makes a mark on a piece of paper as he follows behind.
All but two are sold before it’s my turn. The slaver hits me in the chest with his cane and yawns, staring enviously down at those in the crowd buying beer from an enterprising old man pushing a heavy cask around on a wheelbarrow.
No one looks ready to bid on me. I scan the crowd, noting the disinterest. What the hell? I’m a prime specimen. Why isn’t anyone bidding on me?
The slaver waits another ten seconds, and is about to move on when a cloaked figure pushes his way through the crowd and lifts his hand, holding four fingers up. The slaver looks around to see if there are any better offers, then nods at the cloaked figure and moves on to the guy to my right.
Now that it’s done, outrage resurfaces. Just like that? Now I’m someone’s property?
The bidding finishes, and I’m finally unlocked from my chain. A smaller length is attached to the shackle, and the slaver hands it to the person who bought me. Money exchanges hands, and I’m led off the platform. Another bunch of slaves arrive. I give them a once-over with my newfound expertise. They’re a sorry-looking bunch that will probably all end up in the mines.
I study the figure who purchased me as he leads me along the rim of the pedestal. He doesn’t look too strong. I think I could probably take him. I tense, ready to yank the chain from the man’s hand.
“Don’t even think about it,” he says in a low voice. A low, familiar voice. I hesitate, frowning.
“Graves?” I ask incredulously. “Is . . . is that you?”
The hooded face turns toward me. A hand reaches up and lowers the hood, revealing the grinning face of Havelock Graves.
“Didn’t take long for you to get into trouble, did it?” he says.
I fight down the rush of relief, summoning up outrage and fury instead.
“Why the hell didn’t you tell me it was you?”
“I just did.”
“Before!”
Graves shrugs and fishes a key out of his pocket, using it to unlock my shackles. “Thought this way was more fun.”
The shackles fall away, and I resist the urge to punch him in the face yet again.
He sets off, striding through the crowds.
“Did you at least learn anything?” I ask.
“Yes,” says Graves. “That we need to leave this city.”
“Why?”
“Two reasons. One, because it’s ruled over by priests of Azathoth. In fact, this whole country is, and they’re not the nice
priests. They’re the kind you like.”
“Evil priests?”
“Very evil. Sacrificing–human beings evil.”
“And two?”
“Two is that the jewel we’re looking for is on a pedestal a few hundred miles away called Roflake. Held at the headquarters of the Priests of Azathoth. Apparently, it’s a holy relic.”
“Wonderful.”
“There’s more. A group of robed strangers came through the city yesterday. New priests, some of the people thought. But wearing different colored robes. They were asking about the jewel too. And there were strange sounds in the city last night. Howling. Hissing.”
“The Hounds of Tindalos.”
“Exactly. And they were asking about passage to Roflake.”
“Right. So . . . I guess we’re going to Roflake?”
“Unless you have a better plan?”
“No—”
We’ve been walking while we talk, the crowds providing a constant background hubbub, a comforting accompaniment to the afternoon. But all of a sudden the sound falls away, a circle of silence spreading outward, with us at its epicenter.
I stop walking and look around. We’re still walking along the edge of the pedestal. Piers jut out from the rocky lip, some of them holding drifters, others empty.
I hear Graves swearing softly beneath his breath, and I turn around.
Nyarlathotep stands in the center of a rapidly emptying plaza. Six Hounds of Tindalos stand around him. I’ve never seen them this close, in daylight. They don’t quite seem real. Their shape is almost geometric. Every time they move it’s like an optical illusion, like parts of them fade in and out of reality. The only thing that stays constant are their mouths, snarling, filled with black teeth.
Nyarlathotep smiles brightly. “Hi there. Nice to see you again.”
“Hi yourself,” says Graves.
“I hear you guys are asking about the Jewel of Ini-taya?”
Graves straightens up. “We are, yes,” he says with a wide grin. “My son is doing a class project. Find out what you can about scary religious artifacts.” Graves rolls his eyes. “He was supposed to do it weeks ago, but you know how kids are. Always leaving it to the last minute.”
“Funny.” Nyarlathotep cocks two fingers and points them at Graves. “I like you. You seem like you’d be a really cool guy to get drunk with.”
“Oh, I am.”
“Listen, I’m a nice guy. I believe in the sanctity of life and stuff. I’ll give you one chance. Stop searching for the jewel. Get out of our way, and you can live.”
“For how long?” asks Graves.
“What?”
“Well . . . you’re going to free the Old Ones.”
“Ah, yes! I see what you’re saying. Good point. A few months, tops. But it’s better than nothing, you know? Like I say, you seem like a groovy dude, and I’m happy to let you carry on if you get out of our way.”
“Sorry,” says Graves. “I mean, I am. Truly. Even more so now that I heard you use the word groovy.”
“It’s an amazing word, isn’t it?”
“Spectacular,” agrees Graves. “But the problem is, it’s my job to stop nutjobs like you.”
Nyarlathotep frowns. “Nutjob? Hey, come on. That’s hurtful, man. I’m just doing my job, you know? I’m like you. You have any idea how long I’ve been serving the Old Ones? Millions of years, that’s how long. I mean, sure, they can get a bit much sometimes, but the universe is rightfully theirs, you know? Mankind is just sort of . . . a parasite. Sucking the blood out of everything.”
“And what do you get if you free the Old Ones?”
“A holiday,” says Nyarlathotep promptly. “I haven’t had a proper holiday in millennia.”
I stare at Nyarlathotep in amazement. “You’re going to wipe out humankind so you can have a holiday?”
“For sure. Cthulhu promised me a world of my own. All beaches and islands. Tropical climate. Apparently cocktails grow on the trees there. Can you imagine?”
“As lovely as that sounds,” says Graves, “I still can’t let you get away with it.” He shrugs. “Sorry.”
“Oh, no apology needed. I expected as much. My hounds? Attack!”
The hounds howl and leap forward. Graves whips aside his cloak and brings up his gun, firing at the closest. But the hound is fast. It bursts into black smoke, then reforms a few feet farther on. The bullet misses, hitting a sandstone building in the background and crumbling it to dust.
Graves turns to me. “Run!” he shouts. He takes his own advice and sprints toward a drifter tethered to a pier.
I run after him, the hounds close on my tail. Graves is already untying the mooring rope as I throw myself through the opening and grab hold of the wheels I’d seen Jacob operating.
Graves lands at my feet as the drifter lurches away from the pier and drops through the air. I grab the support rail and turn around. I can see the edge of the pedestal above us through the drifter’s opening.
Nyarlathotep and the hounds appear, peering over the edge. I lock eyes with the priest. He looks slightly irritated.
“You can’t escape!” he shouts. “Once the hounds have your scent, they’ll follow you wherever you go!”
Then he shoves one of the hounds over the edge. It falls the short distance to the drifter and lands on top of the gas sack. There is a soft bang, and then the drifter drops and sways sickeningly.
I fall to the floor. Graves grabs hold of a wheel and tries to stay on his feet. He yanks some more levers, trying to even out the drifter’s flight, but I can hear the hiss of escaping air.
“The hound punctured the sac!” I shout.
The hiss grows louder, and a moment later I hear a howl as the hound slides from the drifter and tumbles into the air.
The drifter drops again, but this time it doesn’t stop. I hold on for dear life as Graves tries unsuccessfully to steady our descent with spins of the wheels and the venting of gases.
I stare out the opening as it spins through cycles of sky, then sea, then the rock of the pedestal’s vast pillar. Over and over again. I can’t help noticing that every time we spin around, the pillar of rock is growing closer and closer.
I turn to warn Graves, but he’s already staring through the opening, sweat dripping from his face as he concentrates.
The pinnacle draws closer. We’re going to hit. This is it. Strawberry jam smeared all over the rock.
Then Graves’s face clears, and he twists a valve hard. The drifter picks up speed and drops violently.
I twist around and suddenly the rock is right in front of us. But just before we hit, Graves turns off all the valves and we plummet straight down the side of the cliff face.
And stop.
In midair.
But not for long. Whatever we land on has a lot of give, and we bounce back up again. This is repeated a few times until we eventually come to a complete stop.
I breathe a sigh of relief and slide toward the opening. I poke my head out and see the ocean thousands of feet below me through the crisscross pattern of rope.
Graves has landed us in some kind of safety netting attached to the pinnacle walls. Broken boxes and other pieces of detritus lay caught up in the net.
Graves steps off the drifter onto the thick rope, straightening his clothes and looking around with satisfaction.
“Not bad,” he says.
“Not bad?” I look at him, amazed.
“We’re alive, aren’t we?”
Before I can say anything else, Graves sets off toward the cliff face, the net bouncing with his movements.
“There’s an opening here,” he calls. “Leads into some sort of tunnel.”
I follow. Nothing else I can do, is there?
Chapter Fifteen
I follow Graves as he walks into the dim interior of the spire, moving along a wide, roughly carved passage through the rock.
“Shouldn’t we be running?” I ask, looking nervously over my shoulder.
&nb
sp; “Relax. They can’t get down here. The overhang is too wide. The hounds would just fall into the ocean. We’re safe. For now.”
After about ten minutes of walking the path opens up into the hollow center of the pedestal. My steps falter, and I look around in awe. The sense of space and size as our surroundings recede away into the echoing distance is . . . immense.
I walk forward, coming to rest against a rock balcony that overlooks the huge central shaft. All around the walls, easily two miles away from our position, I can see hundreds of living levels, thousands of lights twinkling in the space. I lean over the balcony and stare into the depths. The shaft drops below me, narrowing to a pinpoint miles below.
“Close your mouth,” says Graves. “You’ll attract flies.”
I wave helplessly around us. “How can you be so . . . blasé? Look at this! It’s amazing!”
“My friend, I come from an alternate with dragon gods. I’ve seen people resurrected from the dead. I’ve seen gods torn apart by magic. What we are currently looking at is a hole dug in a mountain. Forgive me for not falling over in amazement.”
I study our surroundings again. There are people everywhere, and they’re short, like . . . hobbits. Or dwarves. But they’re not mining for gold, as far as I can see. Most seem to be farming. Whole levels are given over to growing crops, while some of the lower levels hold markets and shops, lit by flickering torches.
Lifts and winches carry the dwarves up and down the shaft. Some of them are nothing more than one-man baskets that look incredibly flimsy, while others are made of wood and easily thirty feet square. Graves walks toward one of these larger lifts, pulling open the gate and stepping inside.
The lift operator looks up from the book he’s reading. He does a double take when he sees us, then heaves himself to his feet.
“All the way down,” says Graves. “We have an appointment with the barge clans.”
“Who?” I ask.
“Not now, Priest.”
The lift operator holds out a hand. “One sterini.”
Graves scowls at him and turns his back, fishing around inside his shirt for a small purse hanging around his neck.
