“Name your price. You want a challenge. I am empowered to offer you something unique. Not eternal life, but certainly a lifespan far in excess of what you can currently expect. Or perhaps you would like your own personal demon, a slave to service you in whatever manner you desire?” The visitor managed to imbue his words with what he doubtless thought to be just the right degree of lasciviousness.
Wormdark squirmed in his seat, as though trying to form words, but unable quite to express them. “Your masters have their own library, I assume. It must contain countless tracts and grimoires. Even the wonderful collection housed at the Miskatonic University must pale beside it. What you want from me is utterly priceless—but if I were to be permitted access to your masters’ trove…well, that would be a prize worthy of the exchange.”
The Visitor smiled. “I am sure such a thing could be arranged.”
Wormdark appeared to be chewing the offer over mentally for several long minutes, but it was clearly evident that Vermilion had stirred up a whole nest of emotions within that tiny chest. As if losing a battle with his desires, Wormdark at last said, “In which case I will search for the guardian’s identity.”
“Excellent. Let’s seal this bargain.” The visitor threw back his cape and unbuttoned a shirt cuff, rolling back his sleeve to reveal an eerily white arm around which curled the brightly colored hues of a dragon tattoo. To the eyes of Wormdark, the painted creature seemed to writhe slowly as though capable of detaching itself. The visitor used one of his long, scalpel-like fingernails to open his flesh and draw blood. With his other hand he pulled a blank sheet of parchment from his pocket and allowed a pool of blood to form at its base. Wormdark used a tiny paper knife to draw blood from the ball of his own right hand and he, too, let blood drip into the pool on the parchment.
The visitor used another fingernail to dip into the blood and write the words of the bargain. Satisfied, he signed it and drew back. Wormdark duly signed.
“I’m afraid you will have to give me a few days to undertake some research,” he said. “I may have something for you then.”
“My masters will be counting on it,” said the visitor, rising. He made it sound like a threat. Shortly afterwards he was gone again into the night, leaving Wormdark to consider how best to resolve this undoubtedly tricky situation.
The bar was a run-down joint, buried a couple of flights of steps down under the streets and avenues of the city, its interior dark and dingy, not aided by the watery light, and the air was thick and cloying. A first class dive, and stuffed to the gunnels with clientele, most of whom were as drab and careworn as their grim surroundings. As far as Wormdark was concerned, the place was perfect.
He’d spent a couple of days weaving his way in and around the labyrinthine alleys and backwaters of this part of the city, here meeting an old contact, there talking to an informant, busy as a little bee in summer time and so active that if anyone had been trying to follow him, they’d have found it impossible. He didn’t trust the visitor he’d had, Vermilion, or more specifically those he served. Now, confident that he wasn’t being spied on, he’d come down here into the gloomy, festering pit of this bar, where he met the man he really wanted to see.
In a cubicle at one end of the bar, in as private a spot as you could get, Wormdark sat with Oil-Gun Eddy. Eddy was dressed in his usual leathers from head to boots, old riding goggles hung round his neck. He must have been roasted alive, Wormdark thought, but Eddy showed no sign of discomfort as he downed a beer, shoved the glass aside and pulled the next of three towards him. The smell of grease and oil wafted across to Wormdark, who would have conceded that he himself resembled a small troll in a cave. Neither of them appeared to have attracted any attention and the raucous, noisy crowd went about its own business.
“So—what’s this all about?” said Oil-Gun Eddy. He set his huge hands on the table. They were, appropriately, mechanic’s hands, the dark stains of his trade ingrained into them, the nails coarse and broken, and they looked to Wormdark as though they would be strong enough to throttle a rhino. “You got something nice and obscure for me?”
Wormdark not only searched for rare books and manuscripts, but also hunted down equally elusive comics and graphic novels, something close to Oil-Gun Eddy’s heart. The mechanic had his own garage business, and somewhere in its rambling confines there was a store stuffed with such goodies. Wormdark had never seen the place, but he’d provided more than a few gems of graphic literature for Eddy in the past.
“I’m afraid it’s business, this time,” said Wormdark. “I’ve had a visitor. A representative of rather dark forces. You may not have heard of him. He calls himself Vermilion.”
Eddy shook his head, sipping at his beer more steadily.
“He is run by an organization I know as the Dark Army.”
It was evident to Wormdark from Eddy’s expression that the name had gone home, like a barbed arrow.
“Sounds pretty dire,” grunted the mechanic.
“And some.”
“What did he want?”
Wormdark told him, re-living the interview he’d had a few days before with the emissary of darkness.
Eddy leaned back, wiping beer from his lips on the back of a leather sleeve. “The Malleus Tenebrarum,” he breathed. “It’s not the first time those scum have tried to find it. Some friends and I had a brush with them not long back. Nasty business, but we beat them back.”
“This Vermilion character wants me to lead him to the Book.”
Eddy scowled and for a moment he looked about as demonic as anything from the other side. “You didn’t tell him who I was? About me being the guardian?”
“I’m not that stupid, Eddy. However, he does know a guardian exists. I told him I’d try and find him. Don’t worry, we’re not being overlooked. I’ve taken enough precautions.”
“So what the heck do you want from me? You want to trap this guy? Kill him? Okay, bring it on. Let them try me. I’ll give the bastards something to think about—”
“It won’t be that easy. He’s not human, that’s obvious. It’s also very clear that the Dark Army are very determined to try and get hold of the Book. They’ll stop at nothing and, to be honest, they will find it. It will be better if we fight them with guile. I have a suggestion.”
In spite of himself, Eddy grinned. “Same old devious Wormdark. Go on, then, surprise me.”
“Let me report back to Vermilion that I’ve found the guardian and persuaded him to pass his secret on to me. I offered you some vast reward and you accepted it, glad to be free of the terrible burden and so forth. I’ll tell Vermilion that I’ll lead him to the Book. He and his masters will believe that, in giving the secret to me, you will have lost all memory of the Book, as is the nature of guardianship.”
“Are you nuts? You want to lead this guy to the Book?”
“If you like, you can shadow me without him knowing and when the time comes for confrontation, you can strike. You must have access to any number of supernatural weapons—the Book would tell you the best of them for the occasion.”
“You think I’m crazy enough to open it and read it! I know where it is, but I’ve never as much as looked at it. Don’t want to, neither.”
“This Vermilion creature will only get one shot at this, Eddy. The Dark Army blood their servants carefully. If he fails—when he fails—it’ll be a long time before they try for the Book again. Now, don’t tell me you don’t have access to some choice weapons. I was talking to our mutual friend, Nick Stone, or should I say, Nick Nightmare, the private dick, recently. He mentioned in passing something rather disturbing, a weapon known as the Dancers of Ruin.”
Eddy looked out into the crowd as though Wormdark had shouted an obscenity, but there was no reaction from the boisterous mob. “Keep it down, fellar. You oughta know better than to speak names.”
“Sure, Eddy. I leave it up to you, but you get the drift. I lure Vermilion in and you deal with him. He won’t know what hit him. Want another be
er or two?”
The creature who called himself Vermilion leaned up against the brick wall, blending in perfectly with the shadows of the alley. He watched the glare of the avenue as its evening rush subsided to the first of the night life, stubbing out a cigarette and checking his watch. Earlier in the day he’d visited the book hunter a second time and the old man had given him directions to meet here. It was almost the appointed time. He was due to show any minute.
Vermilion heard a cough behind him and turned, lithe as a cat. The old man was already there in the alley, as if he’d emerged from one of its faded doors. The alley was narrow, cluttered with garbage bins and spilled heaps of newspapers. It stank, ill-lit and offensive.
“This way,” said Wormdark, waving Vermilion to him. The latter paused to take a last look back into the city canyon, eyes—and nose—searching for any hint of a trap, or the suggestion that anyone might be following. Convinced that Wormdark had come alone, Vermilion went into the alley, following the old man, who looked even more hunched and smaller in this appalling light.
Wormdark shuffled through the debris to the end of the alley, a blank wall, its bricks chipped, the cement that bound them crumbling. He waited for Vermilion to join him, pulling a set of three keys on a large ring from inside his grubby jacket. Vermilion nodded as the diminutive figure inserted the largest of the keys into what must have been a hidden lock in the stone. Immediately a section of the wall ground open, enough for the two figures to slip through.
It was dark beyond, a brick tunnel illuminated by several weak bulbs in its curved ceiling. At its far end, Wormdark once again used the large key and let them out into an open courtyard, enclosed claustrophobically by buildings that soared up into the night sky. While Vermilion looked around at the blank walls in complete silence, Wormdark locked the door. He came over and grinned.
“We have come through,” he said, seemingly superfluously. “No one will follow us here.” And certainly none of your agents, he added mentally. We are on our own.
“Where exactly is here?” said Vermilion. Tonight he seemed to Wormdark to be far more aggressive, far colder, than he had at their previous meetings. Reversion to type, he thought.
“I’d rather not say,” Wormdark replied with another lop-sided grin, which made him appear to his companion as though he was suffering from indigestion. “It’s none of the worlds you are familiar with. It is, however, where we will find the Book.”
Vermilion nodded. “Good. Let’s get on with it.”
“Stand beside me,” said Wormdark, placing himself in the exact center of the courtyard, a quadrangle that looked as if it was regularly swept and kept free of dirt and rubbish, almost scrubbed.
Vermilion stood as close to the old man as he could, still braced for treachery of any kind. Moments later he felt the stone beneath them shudder, then begin to move. A circular section of the floor was slowly sinking, like an elevator. Vermilion kept perfectly still as the darkness below swallowed him and his companion. They sank deep down for several minutes until the movement ceased.
They appeared to be in some kind of crypt. Whatever light sources lit it—in a baleful greenish light—were hidden. The low ceiling overhead was upheld by a small forest of thick pillars, like something that would be found in an old monastery, or a vast hidden wine cellar. As far as Vermilion knew, there was nowhere like this in New York, and nothing so old. Wormdark led his companion through this maze, as though he was well familiar with his whereabouts, although there was nothing to distinguish one pillar from another. There were no signs of life or occupation, nothing but the seemingly endless pillars. Finally they debouched into a wide area, a small man-made cavern with a domed ceiling, hung with ancient iron fittings. Several candles had been lit up in its arch, as though the two visitors were expected.
Vermilion’s whole demeanour suggested wariness and he studied the place intently. In its center there was a huge catafalque, a solid stone block extravagantly decorated with glyphs and sigils, many in languages unknown to Vermilion. Indeed, it was so large it could have provided support for a score of sarcophagi, but instead there was only one item resting on it.
“Ah,” said Wormdark. “The Malleus Tenebrarum.”
Vermilion stared at the volume, his thin lips drawn into a cruel line. He swore vehemently. The Book was immense, like a massive granite block—clearly it would have required a small army to move it. This had to be a trick. He glared at Wormdark.
“You knew the Book was this large? You trying to make a monkey out of me?”
“It has to be large. It contains incalculable knowledge, the work of worlds over many ages.”
“Then I’m going to have to employ supernatural agencies to move it.”
Wormdark shrugged. “I didn’t say that it could not be moved.” He again took out the large key ring and selected one of the two smaller keys, holding it up so that it gleamed—unusually brightly—in the light. “Would you like me to open the Book and arrange for it to be moved? After all, that’s why we are here, is it not?”
Vermilion nodded suspiciously. He knew that the old man had a deep desire to obtain access to the library of the Dark Army, enough to bend him to this task of giving up the Book. He’d do a lot to satisfy that craving. “Open it,” he told him.
Wormdark went over to the catafalque and used its embossed stonework to scramble awkwardly up it until he was able to stand on the book itself. Dust whirled up in thick clouds as he crossed it until he was able to bend down and insert the key into the cover’s lock. He hopped back as the door swung open, almost as large as a portcullis. A cloud of darkness poured outwards like thick smoke. Wormdark scrambled away and dropped back down into the well of the chamber.
Vermilion’s eyes never left the dark cloud. It was coalescing, thickening, taking on substance with every passing moment. He recognized it for what it was—a protective demon of some kind, set inside the Book to guard it from theft or other abuse of its secrets. Vermilion had expected something like this and took from around his neck a chain from which hung a blasphemous image, a horned being cast in the obsidian of a different age. His masters had imbued it with dark powers, terrible enough to resist whatever threats this demon might wield.
“Don’t be disconcerted by his size,” said Wormdark as the demon completed its transformation into solid form. It was now bloated to a height of some ten feet, with elephantine musculature which spoke eloquently of the thing’s superhuman strength. “He needs to be as he is for good reason. He will carry the Book. If you desire him to.”
Vermilion studied the demon. It had a huge head and no neck, its shoulders disconcertingly large. Its face, a huge moon, was hung with a bland expression, as though the thing had barely woken from what must have been a long sleep. Those dreamy, deep green eyes, regarded him with the indifference of a cat, partially dozing. For all its immensity, it did not seem hostile.
“You know what I want,” said Vermilion. “The Book must be conveyed to my masters.”
“As you wish,” said Wormdark. “There is a ritual to be followed, as you would expect. These matters are never simple. The Book has to be moved to a temporary new location, where it can be re-protected and sealed before being transported to its final destination. It cannot be re-sealed in this place. There is too much thaumaturgical disruption in the atmosphere here, now that we have disturbed it. You don’t want a swarm of gremlins accompanying you to your destination and complicating matters.”
“Spare me the verbosities,” said Vermilion. “Just get on with it. Do what is necessary. Command the demon to move the Book.”
“Just so.” Wormdark said something and the huge figure cocked its pointed tufts of ear. In a moment it turned, flipped the cover of the book shut, removed the key and tossed it casually to Wormdark. The demon then flexed its rippling banks of muscle, bent down and lifted the mighty volume, which it swung easily up on to its back, holding it in place with a grunt of exertion, but otherwise no less inconvenienced than a pack
horse or mule about its daily task.
“Things may get a little tempestuous,” Wormdark told Vermilion.
It proved an accurate prediction. The demon raised its huge head, opened its mouth and let out a howl fit to raise the dead. It was as though a storm wind had suddenly been unleashed and at the same time, the chamber was plunged into darkness, the wind buffeting the three beings, swirling about them like a whirlpool, the occasional star flashing within it. For some time the sound and fury of the storm swirled around them. When it ended, as abruptly as it had begun, they were in a different chamber.
This one, hewn from what seemed to be subterranean bedrock, had a high ceiling that was almost lost to view above them. Moonlight seeped down from invisible sources up in those stone arches, and water dripped down the walls, which seemed to sweat in the stifling humidity. The floor was slabbed, various designs set in it and the three visitors found themselves standing in some sort of pentagram, stained into the slabs in a deep red ochre.
The demon set down the Book and stood behind it, arms folded, motionless as a statue, eyes apparently closed.
Wormdark slapped at his coat, dust clouding around him, the motes dancing in the strange light. “There. We won’t be disturbed here. One last duty to perform and the Book is yours. And the secrets of your masters’ library shall be mine.” He held up the set of keys. “Perhaps you’d like to open it so that I can do what’s necessary. The smaller key opens the inner section, if you’d like to look at it. Satisfy yourself that it is the Malleus Tenebrarum. I wouldn’t want you to think I was palming you off with a fake.”
Vermilion took the keys and selected the one he had seen Wormdark use to open the cover. He leapt up on to the huge tome and inserted the key in its lock, leaning back as the central rectangle of the thick cover swung upwards, leaving Vermilion standing on its border, looking down into the poorly lit space which had originally housed the demon. Its floor was a second cover, with another lock.
The Tales from the Miskatonic University Library Page 4
