by G R Jordan
Leaving the dank, grey building by the front door, the small party proceeded down a small avenue of gorse bushes before emerging into a great expanse. The sea was visible on all sides, and the wild grass at Austerley’s feet, poking out like the sole survivor through the snowfall, ran up to the edge of a cliff. The cliff was horseshoe in shape and approximately a quarter of a mile wide, with the over-emphasized tips of the horseshoe pointing at each other. The drop down was only some hundred feet but it was sheer. All along the cliff were amphibians, some with instruments, some with staffs and tiaras, but all dressed in colours once bright and gaudy but which now looked like over-washed hand-me-downs.
With Farthington in the lead, Austerley trudged behind feeling like an escaped mental patient in his ill-fitting clothing. From his studies he recognized everything around him, but he now saw it through a different lens. Horror had truly found its place in his mind. No longer did he see misunderstood beings with superior intellect. Rather, he saw the drive for power and the merciless removal of all standing in the way. Neither was he immune to seeing this as a human trait, one brought on this world by these degenerate spawn of Innsmouth.
They stared at him as he approached the centre of the cliff-side. Not with the evil eyes from the pub, but now with hope. The trepidation and excitement of the creatures was infectious, and he was starting to tense up. Snow continued to fall and he felt he was in a black Christmas celebration. The elements were all there: bunting, tinsel, decorative signs and symbols; but all were torn or worn down, devoid of their birthday colours.
At the centre of the horseshoe there was an immense diving board. Yes, thought Austerley, like the ones the cliff-divers use, wide and sturdy with no flex whatsoever. Except this was no sporting apparatus but rather a stage.
“There is your marker, Mr Austerley,” said Farthington, “a prime platform with which to welcome our new master. Follow me.”
Austerley walked out onto the platform with Farthington and immediately felt dizzy at the height of it. A strong wind was blowing; he felt the need to stay in the middle of the board, giving himself some five feet on either side.
“As you can see, Mr Austerley, we have quite a gathering today. From wide and far they have come to celebrate with us. Your name will be held high for years to come as the one who opened the gateway. I suggest you get past your moral difficulties and embrace it!”
Austerley looked gingerly beyond the board out to sea. There were things out in the sea. Dark shadows there hinted of a tentacle or an arm. Maybe a flipper, possibly sharp teeth and slimy backs. The perversion of the sea was before him.
“Nearly show time, Mr Austerley. I suggest we retire back to the cliff-side and proffer you a cup of tea. We don’t want those vocal chords failing on a night like this.”
“There’s Indy!”
“Okay Cally, stay down. It’s not going to be easy to get close to him. Especially at the moment. There’s nothing to draw anyone’s attention.”
“Can you hit from this distance?”
“In this wind? Not a chance.”
“What if we took out a couple of frog-men and…”
“There’s no way I am sticking my head back up in one of those again. For flips’ sake, Cally. It’s not anything I want to think about.”
“So how do we get closer, then?”
“There are humans about too. Have a look for some with clothing that hides the face. Anything with a hood.”
“Okay.” Searching the night, they found the dark shapes too indistinct until a sudden revelation of the moon brought them luck.
“There, Churchy! By that building. Looks like the toilet block.”
“Good, time to move. I don’t see it being long if they have Austerley here already.”
Stars From the Deep
Two black figures were not seen disappearing into the gentlemen’s toilets. Neither were they heard dropping onto the tiled floor of the urine-smelly facilities. Two figures then walked out dressed in brown robes with large cowls covering their heads. Emblazoned on the robes were marks associated with Dagon and his order, but the only thing that was bothering one of the figures was the smallness of the shoulders.
“Damn it, Cally. If I open up with my arrows in this, the back’s gonna rip apart.”
“Are you sure the stomach fits?” Calandra was teasing and he knew it. She’s nervous, thought Kirkgordon, probably more like petrified underneath. Probably best to find a gap somewhere with not many about and prepare for the show. The closer the better, though. It’s going to be hard to hit Austerley in this wind. If I have to. Please God, make that a no!
Figures were gathering along the cliff-edge, three to four deep in places. Kirkgordon and Calandra walked along the rear of the crowd, eventually coming to the tip of an encompassing arm on the south side. The view of the platform in the middle of the natural arena was quite clear as the crowd was more dispersed here.
“Okay. Will this do?”
“Tough shot, but yes. Not much of an escape route, though, for when we have to get out.”
“I doubt we’ll need one, Churchy. I think this is a last stand whatever happens,” she whispered into his cowl.
He nodded. Before his mind’s eye flashed first his kids. The last they had known of him were the screaming nights, his churning mind and drained body, without sleep and covered in sweat. He hoped they could remember the times before, prayed that they weren’t too young. And then Alana. They’d been so young when they’d first met, but she’d gripped him from the start. Every woman he’d seen since had only reminded him in some way of her. His unfaithful lapses formed a spiral that always came back to her. Surprisingly, he felt no pain at losing her but thankfulness for what had been. Here, facing the cold draught of an unbeatable evil, he instead tasted a warm summer beer. Familiar, fresh, wholesome and without compare.
The striking-up of music brought him back to his senses. On the far side of the arena, Kirkgordon could see a mass orchestra tuning up, producing dreadful tones. They were a mass of frog-men, fish-men, humans and other creatures he tried not to study too closely. Dilapidated music stands and folders, many inscribed with the legend EOD, littered the far side in a haphazard arrangement. Strings, brass, woodwind, percussion – all were being warmed up.
As if cued in by the orchestra, the crowd started to push closer to the edge to see the party who would mount the platform. The surge was so great that a few creatures fell forward off the cliff, down toward a fate that was beyond Kirkgordon’s sight. A buzz of babbling and croaking rose up. Here we go, thought Kirkgordon, and he gently touched the edge of his habit, feeling for the solid line of his concealed bow.
Austerley nervously drank some of the tea offered to him. It tasted like it had come from an urinal, but then the water round here must be polluted, with this scum running the show. In the distance he could hear the orchestra starting up, each instrument running over their little piece from Zahn’s music, one more key in the calling forth of Dagon.
He had often wondered where Zahn had got the manuscript from, since it was clearly not his own composition. What being from far-off worlds had, at one time, come to that street? Why had Zahn taken up rooms there? Why had he never run? Austerley knew why. That same burning intrigue that had hooked Austerley for so long, until the real vision of these “better” creatures could be seen.
“The time is upon us, Mr Austerley. If you would kindly step forward and take up the elements of calling forth. And remember, I have her close if anything goes wrong.”
Held by the wrist, Calandra was huddling her blanket around her, occasionally struggling against Farthington’s strong hold. Tears welled in Austerley’s eyes and he tried to focus as a small bag was placed in front of him.
Opening it, his eyes examined the items for the ceremony. All had on them old inscriptions in a language only a few living people knew. Austerley was one of these people and, although he chastened himself for being only the third-best authority, one of the others was a
wraith. It mattered little. He knew the order, deciphered from a nearly forgotten text. He had read it in a cemetery high in the Andes, some ten years ago, yet such was his mental agility back then, he had committed it all to memory. A memory that had failed him until Farthington had extracted it from him. And on recovery from that mental abuse his mind had held on to the necessary details.
He watched Farthington lead Calandra ahead of him. She stared at him with her pale face, begging for release. There was no need, thought Austerley, for him to drag her around in that state of undress, modesty protected only by that tatty blanket. When this was done, he would make Farthington pay.
Farthington, on the other hand, was reasonably happy that preparations were just about complete. Despite Austerley’s apparent romantic attachment to Farthington’s frog-man bodyguard, he seemed to be ready for the ceremony. The music was starting to waft into the air. That lamentable, grotesque, off-rhythm sonata he had heard time and again in preparation would only require one more play. Yes, all was going according to plan even though they had been unable to locate Kirkgordon, the girl and that government man.
The small party stepped up to the edge of the large board and waited a moment. A hush descended over the watching mass of monstrosity. A single discord was sounded by a guitar-equivalent, followed by some off-key blaring from a number of loud trombones. Then silence. Farthington turned to Austerley, nodding to indicate he move forward into position.
What Austerley saw, however, was Farthington nod grimly and hold Calandra by the neck to indicate her fate if he did not proceed. Bastard, right to the end. I will destroy him, whatever happens.
Austerley walked onto the board and the watching horde cheered wildly, an array of croaking and babbling and violent splashing in the sea. Taking the bag with the objects for the ceremony, he removed them one by one to arrange them in a circle around him. Lifting his hands in the air, he cried out in a language unheard for over several thousand years. His voice was not his own, but deep and rasping, with a malevolence never before seen on his face.
“Churchy,” whispered Calandra into his cowl, “is he okay? That’s not him. Is he in control? Is that him doing this?”
“How the hell should I know? I mean, does any of this look normal?”
“So what do we do? How do we know?”
“We just ride with it. See what happens. But if you see a hundred-foot demon-god with wings, take it that it’s going badly.”
The orchestra was in full swing with its unholy cacophony of sound which grated at Austerley’s nerves. He focused by throwing surreptitious glances towards the object of his affection. After first calling out to the far reaches, the ceremony proceeded to the creation of the portal. Into the sea were thrown three stones, each in order and according to their inscription, words that only Austerley could read.
There was movement beneath the board, as a whirlpool began in the water and a faint glow formed. As the water spun faster so the light grew stronger. The assembled mob started to dance and chant, forcing Kirkgordon and Calandra to join in lest they be discovered. The shrieks, jabberings and deep-throated croaks nearly split the ear drums, and Kirkgordon was reminded of a Middle Eastern funeral mob he had once been caught up in. The same wildness with unified purpose, common to all such gatherings. It had scared him, and even more so his protectee, but at least that mob had been human.
Austerley picked up a few of the small bags around him containing elements of a non-Terran nature. Of the five bags, he knew two of the elements well, having been able to collect them in the past. Pickman had always been a useful acquaintance. As for the other three, yes, he did know their names, but where they had been sourced he had not the least idea. They were things of legend, although the book had been very specific about their uses.
Standing on the edge of the board, he deposited the contents of the bags in the required order and watched the whirlpool below. The water frothed within the pool and the light changed from white to a deep blue. Slowly, there appeared small twinkling lights in the depths. One by one they appeared, in a variety of intensities, until the whole whirlpool had a night-sky backdrop. Austerley stared deep into the depths looking over every piece of the image. It was the sky map from the book.
The snow was still falling but it was melting about ten feet above the whirlpool. Steam was coming off the water and it started to obscure the previously brilliant image. Farthington stood on the edge, smiling, amazed at the power displayed beneath.
“Good, Mr Austerley. Now is the time. Fulfil the ancient book’s tale of woe. Unleash the Master. Unleash him!”
Austerley, teeth gritted, stared at Farthington and at the poor figure of Calandra beside him. She was crying, the blanket blowing in the hard wind, exposing her white flesh. Anger flowed through Austerley, coupled with frustration, and he grimly returned to his task.
Farthington wondered why Austerley was so fascinated, and indeed so angry, at the frog-man standing alongside. Ah, who cares, he thought. Another ten minutes and he could cast Austerley into the whirlpool.
There was a good view of the whirlpool from the south side. “Cally, do you recognize that sky?” shouted Kirkgordon over the hubbub.
“No. It’s not from any galaxy that I’ve ever seen.”
“Me neither. Cally, I think it’s the portal!”
There were three pieces of rock remaining on the board. Each was about the size of a fist and singularly unimpressive. Yet they had cost so much to obtain. Farthington looked at his purchases being picked up by Austerley. One had cost a million and had been obtained without the US government’s knowledge. The second had required an archaeological dig conducted at night, deep in the Andes. The last had required a visit to a grave Austerley was familiar with, one which had kept the rock’s secret for over a thousand years. But it had been worth it. This was no megalomaniac’s dream, this was a change in the order of things. This was the return of the gods of chaos, and Farthington was going to milk them for all they had to give. Every overseer requires a fixer. And fixers can make the rules.
One by one, Austerley dropped the rocks into the whirlpool. Each was greeted with a sharp explosion. Chanting long-forgotten and non-earthly incantations, Austerley stood on the edge with his hands outstretched, beckoning to the deep. He was one of the first to discern the shape.
Four triangular peaks were seen rising through the steam. They were spaced out but had a symmetry. As they started to rise, the outside peaks revealed jet black sheets beneath them. The central formations rested on a circular base.
“What the hell is that?” said Calandra.
“No idea, but it can’t be good.”
“Churchy, look! Eyes!”
Two red eyes were emerging, attached to the central base which was being revealed as a head. The outside sheets now showed talons on their edges. The half-head was already ten feet high and growing. A mouth with sharp fangs was revealed next. The gathering was in a frenzy.
“Austerley, no! No! Dammit! God preserve us! God help me!”
“Churchy, don’t!”
Kirkgordon’s robe was off and his bow drawn with an arrow aimed at the figure on the board.
“That’s Dagon, Cally! That’s your evil god rising. Austerley, you stupid shit!”
To Kill an Austerley
With a lack of hesitation he found surprising, Kirkgordon let his arrow fly. In the wind and snow, the shot was a difficult one. Add to this the updraught from the whirlpool and Kirkgordon knew that if he hit the board it would be a good shot. As he watched the arrow arc down, his hopes were raised. It was in the vicinity.
Austerley was in full chanting mode, performing the final rites of passage that would allow the evil to break through to this world proper. The corner of his eye saw a shape coming at him from above. Instinctively, he leaned back. A screaming pain formed in his right foot but, knowing that any break now in his concentration would cause the whirlpool to collapse, he forced himself to ignore his foot and continue.
> “Damn! It’s too far to be accurate, Cally!”
“Never mind that,” cried Calandra, dropping her habit and bringing her staff to bear on a nearby frog-man who had decided he was not amongst friends. “Just fire and I’ll do what I can. They’ve clocked we’re not fans!”
A pair of wings flashed out from Calandra’s back and she raced into the crowd of frog-men beside them. The surprise of her attack meant she had laid several to the ground by the time they could rally. Using her wings for balance and ignoring her gammy leg, she spun her staff and gleaming white light emanated from its tips.
Kirkgordon didn’t hesitate; another arrow was on its way.
Farthington had heard the thud from the arrow and was scanning the arena for its source. He grabbed the frog-man beside him and sheltered, peering from behind. The arrow came into view approximately half a second before impact and he ducked behind his guard. He heard the thud and his guard croaked a half-scream before toppling away from Farthington and off the board. Looking at the falling frog-man, Farthington could see the arrow deep in his neck.
Austerley was in pain, but it was something else that stopped his chant. Farthington had just dropped Calandra off the board into the whirlpool. He watched the blanket blow about in the wind as her naked form fell down towards Dagon himself.
“Farthington! I’ll send you to hell!” Starting to chant a new phase, Austerley was wild with rage. His arms waved as he roared out his new song. Then the two menacing red eyes on the twenty-foot-wide head of the demon came into view. And it howled right in Austerley’s face.
Austerley was brought back from his drug-induced dream into a dark, fearsome reality. He looked into the depths of evil, his mind spinning at the indescribable horror of the face of Dagon. Screaming aloud, he felt his mind being invaded with a force he had never known possible. It was like witnessing every possible inhuman act all at once. The gut-wrenching churning, the deep-seated terror, the chill running through every bone of your body, all of these and more. Sometimes he had wondered if he had a soul; now it was like it was being ripped apart deep in its core. Bile ripped up through his throat.
