by David Brian
We moved two abreast. Young George taking the lead, a rank of his compatriots making a line down our left flank, putting a boundary between our few survivors and the still distant, unnaturally tall thing awaiting us. Roz was behind me, with Cathy and Peter at her back, and Joseph, still wielding a heavy candlestick, protecting their flank.
The forward progression took us closer to the light. Its eldritch glow threatening to devour us as we pressed forward, consuming everything within its stifling warmth and shielding us from the raging wind blowing in torrents at our backs.
The George who walked alongside me looked as though he had just finished a shift down a coal pit, his dark jacket and tan coveralls as stained as his features.
I tapped his shoulder and pointed ahead, shouting so as to be heard above the gale. “Are you sure whatever that is, it’s a bad thing?”
He pulled at his collar, turning it up against the wind, and offered a solitary nod as reply.
“This doesn’t feel so bad,” there was hope in Peter’s voice. “It just feels strange.”
“I’m sure it’s fine,” his mother encouraged.
“Let’s just keep sharp, okay?”
“Joseph is right,” I said. “We don’t know yet just what any of this means.”
Coalman George turned and looked me square in the eye. “This ain’t good, sir. In fact, it’s as blooming bad as things could get!”
His face was blackened with coal dust, but I would swear that beneath this mask he had paled with worry. It was a revelation stifled any hope I had allowed myself.
“Do as Joseph says, and let’s stay focused,” I urged the line. But then, as one, we stopped in our tracks.
Whatever I say now, it cannot do justice to the creature as we saw it clearly for the first time, the light at its back being drawn – like water down a plughole – back into the rift.
Though still hundreds of feet ahead of us, it was impossible not to recognize how unnaturally tall he was. A swirling tendril of gray mist whipped and lashed about him, an obscuring fog moving as rapid as storm tossed waters, giving an impression that his lower body was below the surface of a tidal pool. Nevertheless, the swirl of motion couldn’t obscure his height; he stood at least fifteen-feet tall, or maybe more. I remembered my childhood, and being forced by overzealous parents to attend Sunday school. I was never keen, although there were certain phrases from those Testaments which stayed with me. And suddenly it all seemed to make sense: There were giants on the Earth in those days.
He was thin beyond reason, and yet this gauntness did not hide the fact that here stood a deceptively powerful creature. His skin tone reminded me of the darkest of those Egyptians I encountered during my service days, and his long slender features offered semblance too, as did the sallow robes hanging limply on boney shoulders.
If this giant figure was a representative of what the Smokes’ referred to as the Son of Chaos, then it seemed to present a conundrum; the creature stood gangly and wan, and yet there was no doubting the aura of dominance radiating from its lanky form.
The new arrival sniffed, derisively. “What is this gathering of the flock? Do you seek to deny Him?”
Once again, our personal escort replied in unison. “We would take these few. Whatever else games you wish to play, we have no intent on interceding.”
“Intercede?” His laughter was cruel. “Pray tell, how might you intercede, lost one? You do not belong here. It is a courtesy the Ancient of Days allows you to remain.”
“We have no quarrel with you,” they answered.
“Then be gone, lest I smite thee.”
“We would just take these few.”
“And what is this affront?” His left arm gestures toward the distant glow of torches.
“It has no meaning for you.”
“No meaning, you say? You are as insane as he you turned from.” He pointed a bony finger toward the dark mansion. “I have no interest in Sister’s little games. But she too serves at the Father’s command…and she serves Him well. You should not have interfered here.”
“Just these few,” echoed the Georges.
“No!” His cry was accompanied by a rising sweep of the arm. It seemed an innocuous movement, and yet it was an action that drew forth a tempest storm which battered and tugged at our troop, forming tendril fingers of icy wind which unaccountably separate the members of our group as easily as wheat from chaff.
Our band of escapees were easily overcome, some felled flat on their backs, others, such as Joseph, the bird-woman and I, struggled to our knees, stunned by the abhorrent vision of our band of George Smokes hurtling skyward on storm winds, only to then be discarded as the currents subsided with a flick of the gangling devil’s spindly fingers.
Unified cries fill the air as the limp bodies of those who had sought to save us begin plummeting to the earth, sickening thuds accompanying the sounds of breaking bones; those who fought for our freedom instead met their demise on the hard ground.
Emotion overtook me, and I closed the short distance to where a trio of bodies, including that of Young George, lay grounded. Incredibly, he was still alive, though broken in so many ways his consciousness defied logic. His left arm, twisted behind his back, so far out of joint that his forearm rested over his right shoulder; likewise, his left leg too had been displaced, the limb bent to such an angle that his foot was positioned against his chin.
“Jesus fucking Christ!”
He actually managed a laugh at my blasphemy. It was an action which furthered the expulsion of blood from his mouth.
“This isn’t good.” He spits, and a bubble of bloody snot ballooned from his nose. “I think I broke something.” Further globules of blood run from the corner of his mouth. “I’ll probably need to see a doctor.”
“No shit, Sherlock,” I said, wondering how this man could be attempting humor. He was dying, and I was sure he knew it.
“Holy Christ!” It was Joseph who arrived at my shoulder. What can we do?”
I shook my head. “I don’t know. Something? Anything?”
I remained vaguely aware of the rumble of cruel laughter carrying on the dulling breeze.
“That thing…whatever that thing is, it’ll come for us next.”
“I know, mate. George, what can we do for you? What should we do?”
Young George placed a hand on my forearm. It was an act which pained him. “You’ve got to make it to the sigil, lad. All of you need to get there. And you’ll need to make sure that at least one George Smoke makes it there, too.” Blood bubbled from his mouth with each word spoken. “Anyone fare any better than me?”
I carried out a quick headcount of scattered bodies, and could only identify five of the Georges. I guessed the others had been discarded a distance away.
Roz and the avian woman knelt beside Coalface George. He lay on his back, mouth open wide. The women’s reaction suggested he had just breathed his last. I turned to the dying man in my arms, my face painting a picture. “There’s only you, George.”
Young George grimaced up at Joseph. “Then it’s down to you, big fella. You’re going to have to carry me.”
“If I move you, it may do real damage. It could kill you!”
George grunted a laugh and flecks of crimson spattered my shirt sleeve. “I’m dead already. I’m just too stubborn to accept it. Get me to the sigil. It’s the only way I can help get you away from this place.”
“Frank!”
Roz’s cry alerted us to Baal Hadad’s actions…
The archon was scribing a finger through the air in elaborate patterns as though drawing images on the atmosphere. Slithers of black smoke trailed from his hand, yellow sparks of lightning squalling violently before settling into bizarre ciphers within the stars of what appeared to be an inverted pentagram.
“We need to go,” Joseph urged.
Between us we managed to lift Young George’s mangled body into Joseph’s strong arms. Pain claimed George and he slipped from consciousn
ess, though not before he spat a torrent of abuse at the torments assaulting his senses.
“Pappy!” Peter was pointing in the direction of Baal Hadad, or, to be more precise, at the seething pentacle he had painted into existence.
“Everyone! Move! Now!” Our group responded to the urgency of Joseph’s command. The bird-woman hung back, recovering a number of the blades which had been discarded during the initial assault. Then, handing weapons to Roz, Joseph, and a short but stout fella whose name I did not know, she persisted screeching excitedly, making those same vrooott noises and with such urgency I began to suspect she had knowledge which might have proven of value. Unfortunately, it was only Young George who could translate, and he was in no state.
Cathy scooped Peter up in her arms, and even as I reached for my wife’s hand, the first archon appeared through the Chaos Lord’s finger-scribed vent. Surprised as I was to see this orb appearing from within the smoking pentagram – and also the pair which followed, crashing onto the lawn – splattering to form livid pools, I realized what was happening. Though in that same moment, my mind was distracted by Baal Hadad’s rambling pontifications.
“I serve as His right hand. I give considered council and just rule, and all I demand is that none question His will. Yet I am betrayed, forced to intervene on His daughter’s behalf. This fallen one seeks to deny her…and in so doing he seeks to deny the Ancient of Days. Be careful Old One, for you are not as once you were. You choose to walk these dark paths, in these deepest of pits; existing amid the lowest of forms.” The bone thin giant seemed all but oblivious to us, his arms sweeping elaborate gestures as though to demonstrate the value of the points being raised. His sallow robes became a thing alive, diminishing in physical structure to form a swirling, crawling mist, which drifted about his frame as he orated. “Tell me, Old One, how did you imagine a simple binding could keep sealed this most esteemed of dominions?”
It was then, as the first of the hoggish began pulling itself from the pool, I realized what was going to happen here. Baal Hadad could have ended us with a click of his fingers, but he intended on some sport. Watching the hoggish take us down, tearing us to pieces. They were to be his hellhounds.
Moments later the third archon appeared directly over our position, panicking our band into further haste as the fiend unleashed a half-dozen lashing tentacles, intent on slicing and ensnaring its intended prey. But we had been through too much to ever surrender. And so, as the orb moved to position itself for a lethal strike, those of us carrying weapons reacted as a unit.
We lashed out, slashing and chopping at the fiend’s flailing limbs. It emitted a screaming fizz which sounded like a cry of rage, though may just as likely have been a realization of pain – I prayed the thing was hurting.
I suspected our success would prove fleeting, for even though we appeared to be containing its assault, surely the archon would quickly change tactics, and move to assimilate our numbers in a messy death. As it turned out, I was wrong to doubt the strength of our reserve, and I had forgotten the extraordinary abilities of our plumed companion.
Without prior warning, the feathered-lady took a step forward and then launched herself upwards, powerful limbs making a leap that carried her into the air, to a position directly alongside the orb. Wielding her blade with two hands, slicing its cold steel deep into the membrane of the pulsating egg, the archon fizzed and banged like a firework trapped in a drum. The orb dropped to the ground with the force of a mortar round.
The violence of the impact knocked us off our feet; the ruptured egg leaking to form a volatile pool which I suspected would birth some further unpleasantness.
Young George remained in a bad way, though thankfully had gathered his wits. He was aware that the danger hadn’t passed, and urged assertive instructions to Joseph. “Quickly, big fella, throw me into that mess.”
“What?” Joseph and I balked in unison.
“Trust me, fellas. Hurry now!”
Joseph flashed me a doubtful look, and I cocked a quizzical brow before giving an affirmative nod.
Joseph grunted under the strain of hoisting George’s crippled body. “You sure, about this?”
“I’m sure.”
Joseph took a couple of steps forward then heaved George into the heaving liquid. There was no discernable change to the volatile flow, and I’m certain we bore the same expression. What the fuck did we just do?
Our concerns remained unvoiced as a scream rang out behind us. The brunette for whom I had no name, she was meeting a violent end, even as she screamed for Paul to aid her. Her slender torso was gored on the huge tusks of a white furred monstrosity. The squat fellow, with a frame suited to a power lifter – and who I quickly realized was the Paul to whom she appealed – was striking venomously at the creature. His eyes blazed with desperate fury, and yet, although his blade cut deep with every slashing blow, he could do nothing to deter the hoggish. The pig-monster was bleeding profusely from numerous wounds, but remained solely focused on its own cravings. The beast pulled greedily at her torso, loosening sinew and bone, and spilling a gray snake of intestines on the grass as it pursued its intention of feasting on the woman’s finer organs.
“Leave it!” I urged the stout fellow. “There is nothing more to do for her.”
His face was a red mask as he flashed me a look of derision. I shouted again and he glanced down at the feasted upon corpse. He took a step away from the savaged woman, though never once did he take his eyes from the depraved monster banqueting on his companion.
“It’s coming!” shouted Roz, pointing across the lawn to where the final hoggish had succeeded in pulling itself into this realm.
“May I borrow this?” It was a strong hand which wrestled the blade free of my fingers even as he asked the question.
“What the fuck?” I heard myself ask. I was aware of others uttering similar quizzical profanities.
Young George Smoke winked at me and relieved me of the weapon.
Then he broke into a sprint across the lawn.
Not only had Young George somehow recovered from the wounds which – moments ago – looked certain to end him, he actually appeared more physically capable than ever. Always a big man, I could swear George Smoke had grown by at least a couple of inches. His jacket was drawn taught over his frame, muscles rippling as he wielded the iron blade above his head.
“What the hell is going on?”
“No idea, Tub.”
“Is that the same George –?”
“Who minutes ago was on the verge of death? Yeah. At least, I think so, honey.”
Peter was literally bouncing in his mother’s arms. “George is back, George is back!”
As Young George closed on the porcine figure, I caught Joseph’s eye. I pointed toward the imminent clash, and then swept an open hand cutthroat gesture across my throat, nodding at Peter as I did so. Joseph realized my warning and moved toward his daughter, just managing to position himself so as to block the youngster’s view of events.
Young George met the racing porcine head on, jumping ninja-like into the air just as they were to collide. He brought the blade down with a measure of force which seemed impossible, his blow splitting the creature’s skull asunder with a single strike, and then drawing the blade on down in an action that opened the hoggish to its sternum. Roz screamed with horrified repulsion as the bipedal fiend spilled its turmoil of red, gray, and white; the jelly-mess of shattered bones and brain matter sliding to the ground, settling to resemble a formation of rocks amid a storm tossed red sea. The hoggish’s incised body stood rigid for a moment, before falling backward onto its ass; its ruined torso wavering like an open flower on the steady breeze.
Roz’s hand was at her mouth. “Jesus Christ! Oh my God, that is disgusting!”
Cathy’s eyes flitted from the ruined creature to her son, and then back to the creature. Her abhorrence was obvious, though perhaps somewhat assuaged by the relief her boy had been denied witnessing the act.
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nbsp; “Dad…” cried Cathy, realizing what was about to happen as she spied Young George closing behind the hoggish feasting on their fallen companion.
“It’s okay, Cath.” Peter was wriggling in his grandfather’s arms, intent on seeing what was occurring. But Joseph kept his hand pressed to the back of the child’s head, and then turned his own shoulder so as to deny the boy a view of the brutality.
Young George approached from behind the grounded hoggish, and with a singular sideways swipe succeeded in removing the beast’s head. The blow was struck with such venom that it sent the creature’s skull careering toward Baal Hadad. A geyser erupted from between the slain beast’s shoulders, painting Young George to look like a refugee from a cannibal holocaust.
“Enough of this!” boomed Baal Hadad, the severed head of his servitor rolling to a stop just yards in front of him, its pig eyes frozen with a look of fatal realization. “What are you doing, Old One? You think you are anything like these specks you seek to champion? You who has walked the wine dark depths, and alighted in gardens beyond the Golden Expanse; you should rise above such foolish whims.”
Young George stood with his back to us and yet, drenched as he was by the cast offs of the hoggish’s demise, still gripping the battle stained blade in his hands, he looked and sounded formidable.
“Whatever the words you use it does not matter, less still which mask you wear. It is the Demiurge you serve, and hence will always work toward his purpose. But know this, I have faith that the occasion will happen when these children can fan the flame, and it shall be enough for them to rise above His will.”
“And who will instigate such a thing? You think it is He who will stop this? The Sleeping God does not care. You know this best of all. So then, I ask, will it be you who attempts a stand? Look upon yourself, cousin. Father has already broken you, and was satisfied to have done so. But now, through your own actions and choices made, you have doomed yourself.”
“If you are so confident of success, then allow me these last few. After all, you are Baal Hadad, the Storm Lord, so what purpose this handful of souls? Are you so required to appease Anat?”
