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

by Anthology

  Elfloq drew back, appealing to Drath. “Tell him to stand aside.”

  Drath came to them. “I understand little of what is happening, but I spoke for you just now, familiar. Perhaps I was atoning for almost letting the cats have you. Now I am curious about your master, this Voidal, whom so many people wish to inconvenience.”

  “He is all-powerful. He will destroy Ybaggog, and after that, the Weaver himself. The Gelder is foolish to think Ubeggi is stronger.”

  Orgoom’s face was set. “We wait.”

  “You wait,” said Elfloq. “I wish to leave.”

  “Why?” said Drath. “Since the Voidal is your master.”

  Orgoom nodded. “You said he would be my master. I meet him and see.”

  The door opened yet again. Elfloq hopped back with an inadvertent squeak as the new visitor stepped forward. It was Shatterface. His steel helm gleamed, only the hellish eyes visible, his tall body encased in linked mail.

  “You are expected,” said Drath. “If you can do the things that your servant here promises, all Ulthar should welcome you, demon or otherwise.”

  Shatterface turned his mask upon the man. “Where is Snare?”

  “This is not my master,” said Elfloq, trying to inject a great deal of meaning into his voice, and indeed, Drath was quick to understand. This, he guessed, must be the last of the black envoys that the familiar had spoken of to the travellers from the South.

  “Snare prepares way,” said Orgoom.

  “Quite,” said Elfloq. “Why not sit and take wine?”

  Shatterface did not answer, but he sat.

  “Voidal coming,” said Orgoom.

  Shatterface turned to him like a hound at bay.

  “Invoked already?” He wrenched out his sword, and it sang evilly as he pointed it at Elfloq. “You’d like me to wait, wouldn’t you, familiar? I’ve not forgotten how your interference once cost me my prize, the restoration of my face. I should cut out your vitals and feed them to you—”

  “Better to go!” Elfloq cried. “Ubeggi’s plans will come to nothing if the Voidal arrives and finds you.”

  Shatterface lowered the frightful weapon. “The Dark Gods have put this blade in my hands. It is the Sword of Madness. When the time is ripe, familiar, I will have your head for a lamp.” He got up and marched away into the night.

  “Strange company you keep,” said Drath. “Who is he?”

  “He was once a god,” said Elfloq. “The most beautiful god of all, but vanity undid him. The Dark Gods punished him by destroying his face and by dispersing one half of it throughout the omniverse. Once they promised him they would return it if he helped them to destroy the Voidal. He failed them—”

  “You were involved?”

  “As a mere onlooker,” Elfloq said modestly. “But I fear that the Dark Gods have given him yet another chance to strike at my master, with the Sword of Madness.”

  “Then if the Dark Gods and Ubeggi are united against your master,” said Drath, “the odds would not seem to be very good, wouldn’t you say?”

  Neither of them had noticed the deepening shadow in the corner of the inn furthest from the embers of the fire. The cats stirred and arched themselves at something there, and Elfloq knew at once what had happened: the summons of the Asker had not gone unanswered. Orgoom drew back, more fretful than the cats. In a moment the darkness cleared a little to reveal a man sitting at the table, his attire blacker than that of the sky outside. Drath shuddered, recognising at once the power locked inside that form.

  “Master!” cried Elfloq, hopping to the side of the Voidal.

  “Elfloq? Have you been working your trickery again?”

  “You wrong me, master, as always.”

  “Indeed? How did I come here? Where is this place?”

  Drath came forward. “You are in Ulthar, the city of cats.”

  The Voidal nodded, though this meant nothing to him. He stared at the unhappy visage of Orgoom. “I know you.”

  The Blue Gelder was shivering, shaking his head.

  Elfloq grinned. “Orgoom, master. You once saved him from Ubeggi’s wrath. For which the Weaver has not forgiven you, but for which Orgoom repays you by going back to that vile heap of—”

  “Yes, I recall some of my past. It is more of a dream. Orgoom is a renegade? Was it you that summoned me, Gelder? If so, you may have cause to regret it.”

  “It was me,” interrupted Elfloq at once.

  The Voidal scowled at him impatiently. “Silence, imp. Who was it?”

  “But it was me!” insisted Elfloq.

  The dark man looked at him with mounting annoyance. “It could not have been you, Elfloq. I told you once before that if you ever summoned me, it would be your undoing.”

  “Yes, master. Indeed you did. But it was me.”

  The Voidal stared at him for a long time. He knew that Elfloq was lying, for he understood clearly the complete terror in which the little familiar held him. Elfloq would never have invoked him, under pain of a dozen grim deaths. They had shared too many dark deeds. No one knew more than Elfloq of the dark man’s powers. The Voidal assumed that Elfloq, therefore, was hatching yet more schemes and lying for a deliberate reason. For the time being he would pretend to accept this. “It was you?”

  “Quite so, master.”

  “I see. Then I am bound by the laws of the Dark Gods whom I serve to obey your wishes. What am I to do for you?”

  “I will tell you,” came the voice of Snare, grating along the walls of the night. He stood by the door, slick with sweat, panting with exertion. “Elfloq takes my commands.”

  Elfloq was at that moment sorely tempted to command the Voidal to destroy Snare, Orgoom, Shatterface and Ubeggi, but remembered barely in time that as he had not himself summoned the Voidal, he had no power to command him. Instead, Elfloq nodded meekly. “Yes. You must obey Snare. That is my wish.”

  The Voidal knew that this gangling, insect-like man, Snare, had not summoned him, but still he played along with Elfloq’s ruse. There would be time to find out its twists—after all, the familiar sought power, but in the past had unearthed useful secrets for the Voidal. What news would he have for him this awakening? “Very well. What am I to do?”

  “I have prepared a place, Voidal. I have opened the walls of the dreamscape and made a place. There is to be a Mass of sacrifice. Elfloq and Orgoom are to be the neophytes. I am to be the priest.”

  “And what will you sacrifice?” said the Voidal.

  “You will see. Let us go to the prepared place.”

  Drath watched them leave: Snare, the two small figures, and lastly the dark man, who had made no move, no sign of refusal, as if he had no real interest in the fate that the strange group had prepared for him. Was this enigmatic being going to be the saviour of Ulthar? If this could be true, then he was a man to respect. Drath had no respect for the hideous Snare, nor for the Blue Gelder, but had instantly taken to the triple-tongued familiar. He had taken the small one’s side, and it had been the familiar who had come and warned them of the grim harbingers of the Dark Destroyer. Perhaps it would not be a bad thing to keep abreast of the activities of the party. Drath spoke to several of his many cats, and they slunk out into the darkness of Ulthar on silent feet, as fleeting and intangible as dreams.

  II

  Snare had chosen his place of sacrifice with great care. Some miles from Ulthar was an open plain, called simply the Mutterings. It was dusty and sparsely dotted with scrubby plants and heather, as though the rocks spurned the advance of the woods around the city. In a natural hollow that faced the open plain, Snare had set up his half moon of spells, daubing rocks in his own blood, and in the centre of the chosen place he had sorcerously erected two huge monoliths and had set upon them a third block for a lintel. This gate, splotched in heiroglyphs and grotesque figures, faced outwards, an eye upon the plain. Those whispering creatures that Snare had invoked to help him prepare this place had withdrawn back to the grim regions from which he had conjured t
hem, so that now all was silent, drenched by the bright glow of Ulthar’s staring moon.

  Into the hollow came the party. Snare went to the centre of the place and turned to the Voidal, who had made no attempt whatsoever to forego coming here. He seemed either bemused or intrigued and Snare wondered at his apparent obedience. Snare also wondered at the thoughts of Elfloq, who had as yet done nothing to hinder him. Ubeggi had warned him that the familiar was no more trustworthy than Ybaggog himself—the Weaver had told Snare to destroy Elfloq when the working was done.

  “All is almost ready,” said Snare, who had now opened a pack and brought out a robe made of skin, embroidered with the same frightful things that were on the gate.

  “There is one particular ingredient missing,” ventured Elfloq. “The…uh…the sacrifice.”

  Snare laughed unpleasantly. “I have not forgotten. But first, there are places for you and Orgoom by those stones. Go to them.” He pointed to some flat rocks at either side of the hollow and the two smaller figures went to them, both looking over their shoulders this way and that, as though from the hill behind them would arise any amount of demons and unsavoury acolytes of the evil Snare. Orgoom, whose face was so ugly to look upon that it was impossible to read real emotion there, appeared to be accepting this all even more indifferently than the Voidal. Elfloq doubted that his own nerves would hold out much longer, and wanted to scream his desperation to escape.

  Snare stood beside the dark man, evidently cautious of him. “You deserve an explanation,” he said sarcastically.

  The Voidal shrugged. “For some time now I have accepted that I am not moved by chance. There is no reason for me to quit your rituals. For the moment, I am curious.”

  Snare frowned deeply. “You are willing to help?” It did not seem possible.

  “My will has no weight. The powers that move me will force my arm.”

  Snare turned suspiciously to Elfloq. “Is this so?”

  “Indeed,” the familiar said, with a bow. “I have only to command him. And as I am utterly in your power, lord, just as he is in the power of the Dark Gods, your will is to be obeyed.”

  The Voidal enjoyed this odd speech from Elfloq, who was telling him—quite clearly and implicitly—what was expected of him, even though there was no truth in what he said. But why in the omniverse, thought the dark man, should I trust the little monster? In spite of the sinisterness of their situation, the dark man would like to have laughed. But who, he pondered yet again, did summon me?

  “I ask only one thing of you,” said Snare. He pointed to the gate. “When the moment is right, you must walk through that gate.”

  Again the Voidal shrugged. “As you wish.”

  Snare stared at him for a while, but then moved away. He had donned his robe and soon had started to chant something. At once the air hummed. Snare looked at the outcrops of rock behind the hollow. Somewhere out there, Shatterface would be waiting. Snare flung up his arms and stood before the gate. He looked vulnerable to Elfloq, who would love to have seen the Voidal attack him, but he dared not tamper with whatever forces were at work. He felt certain Vulparoon must be somewhere hereabouts, intent on bringing ruin to Snare and his schemes.

  Around them the darkness throbbed and heaved. Out on the plain there was a rippling movement and as the chant of the priest grew in volume, earth and night sky merged as though a huge window had been opened to infinity. Elfloq gasped, for he could see through the gate, which looked out not across the Mutterings, but into the pitch darkness of deep space. A few tiny points of light dotted it. Around the gate the Mutterings had become obscured by a pink mist, and from this miasma issued far sounds, dreadful grunts and groans as of a multitude of souls in dire torment. Elfloq could also hear the rumblings from under the ground. He was trying to catch the words of Snare, but they were meaningless, as though created for a tongue that was not altogether human. Snare’s body was gyrating, twisting and turning as if his bones were made of liquid, and grey bolts of light—terrible black spells—shot out from the arena formed by the hollow.

  By now the appalling sounds from out on the plain had swirled close and surrounded them all. The ground shook and cracked. Up from the rocks came weaving shadows, and long sickly fronds and curling tendrils rose there, each tipped with a puckered mouth, like starving predators about to feast. The stench rose like that on a bloody field of battle when the vultures feed, and the sounds from these visitors grated on the very soul. Yet the Voidal studied this spawning of chaos calmly, apparently unmoved. He had seen far more terrible things than this. Yet it seemed to Elfloq that Snare had wrenched the Mutterings out of the dreamworld and plunged it into the void of its own universe.

  Snare called out to the things in the night, his bestial face contorted by a hideous smile of triumph and lust, so that the beings he had drawn up from madness came lurching forward. In all his foul speech, Elfloq recognised one word—‘shoggoth’—and knew then that these unspeakable entities were Snare’s servants, harbingers of the feared Old Ones, whom even the gods shunned. Elfloq saw also, by the light of the moon, that the mouth of the priest had become pendulous, a miniature of the frightful mouths of the things he had invoked. The shoggoths swarmed, forming a half circle, pressing forward in their scores, sickly pale and blotched like fungi, limbs wriggling at the moon as if they would tear it from the sky. Some distance from the Voidal and the mad priest, the shoggoths stopped, the sounds issuing from them disgusting and mind warping.

  Snare turned to face the gate into darkness and began a new incantation. Slowly, one by one, the shoggoths gave voice to the same incantation, so that it swelled obscenely, and it seemed to Elfloq that the sounds were being eaten up by the gateway, as though it drew them to it as a hole draws water. Out into that pit rushed the chant, and as it did so, the stars beyond flickered and flared, until one of them grew and burst, showering the darkness there with red embers. Snare’s incessant chanting changed pitch, forming itself into one word, long and drawn out in a stentorian voice that could not have belonged to a mere man, as if a god spoke through the priest. The word, twisted and inhuman, was ‘Ybaggog’. The shoggoths added to the sound, so that the name crashed out like the weight of a world, rocking the gate and reverberating outwards into the deep vault beyond. The fabric of that darkness now rippled like a silk curtain then broke as something incomprehensibly vast drifted across it. Ybaggog had been awakened.

  The priest reeled back from the sight of the approaching monster, face slippery with exertion, hands by his side. His eyes were wide, for there was no disguising his terror. What he had drawn up was possibly the most evil entity in the omniverse. He was beside the still impassive Voidal. “Ybaggog comes. You must destroy him.”

  “Is that why I am here?”

  “Yes. Go through the gate. Destroy him before he devours everything.”

  The Voidal felt no divine, irresistible compunction to do this thing. He looked at Elfloq, who was gibbering with terror behind the rock on which he was supposed to be standing. Could the familiar really have imagined that the Voidal would benefit by doing this?

  “I command you!” snarled the priest, his fear at its limit. Behind him the shape of the Dark Destroyer thickened and solidified, a gargantuan being, alive and thrashing in the black universe in which it bathed.

  The Voidal did nothing. He stood, defying Ybaggog and defying the shoggoths, which now writhed, delirious with pleasure at seeing their lord coming. They began to press forward as if eager to kiss that awesome thing, so that Snare drew back, trapped between their squirming wall and the gate. The Voidal fought to control his own mind, for this extremity of madness in which he found himself threatened to engulf even him. Yet he must see which way the Dark Gods would move. He retained his will, knowing that had he sought it, he could have cut a way through the shoggoths and left. Who had summoned him, and why? Elfloq knew, but he and Orgoom were flat to the ground, faces buried in the dust in fear.

  At that moment, the shoggoths parted to al
low someone through and the figure that stepped into the arena to face the Voidal was a familiar one to the dark man. “Shatterface,” he said. “But even you would not have called me, knowing the price.”

  “No, I did not call you. Your hand of death will not reach for me!” cried the figure, pointing to the right hand of his adversary. Shatterface pulled out the weapon that had been given to him. “Through the gate!” he screamed, swinging the blade. It sang with the hate of a thousand maddened voices, and the Voidal jerked backwards, no longer unmoved. He knew the sword, for it was the Sword of Madness, and he had every reason to fear it. So this was the answer to these riddles—the Dark Gods wanted the blade in him, for it would rob him of everything that he had won back from them. This was the fate they had planned. He pulled his own sword out from its scabbard, but it was a mere tool, cold steel without supernatural power.

  Shatterface saw this and laughed. He came forward with a cry. “Through the gate!” he shouted again. “Go to your appointed prison!”

  The Sword of Madness swung down, but the Voidal was nimble and slipped past its frightful bite. Elfloq took to the air, but could not move far away from the scene of the battle, gripped as he was in the spells of the priest. Snare watched the two swordsmen nervously, knowing that Ybaggog would soon be at the very portal. Beyond it now an immense mouth had opened, an Abyss into infinity, and from it issued the most overpowering stench, as of a thousand rotting hells.

  The Voidal was now no more than a few yards from the lip of the gate, and Shatterface knew that in a moment he would have his prize. He thrust forward and the Voidal’s sword shattered like glass into a million splinters. Shatterface prepared for the critical blow and as his blade came screaming in, a blur of movement from the left of the Voidal caught them unawares. Orgoom had lunged forward and his sickle fingers caught and turned the Sword of Madness, so that shrieking sparks flew into the air. Snare cried out in fury as Orgoom was flung to the very lip of the gate. A splinter of the Sword had lodged in the Gelder’s hide, and his eyes bulged as the evil in it seeped into him.