With that, Gorrim reached up again with his right hand, grasped Krella’s haft and effortlessly withdrew the weapon from the solid rock wall. The axe-head came free with an appalling screech of metal on stone, its luminescence restored as soon as the undamaged blades left the rock. He leaned forward, waved Krella in Juleptsu’s direction, and winked. “You see?” he laughed. “I was just pretending. I really am a very amusing dwarf.” He stopped laughing and his visage grew cold, vicious. “Now,” he whispered as the Spider God shook and hissed, “it is I who shall begin.”
Juleptsu moved, not waiting for the dwarf’s attack. With his shattered limb flopping uselessly before him, he used the seven good limbs remaining to him to launch himself to the nearest vertical surface. He hit the gently curving wall lightly at more than double Gorrim’s height from the ground, and scurried up, his speed only slightly diminished. He charged around the circular chamber, his movements erratic, in an attempt to fool Gorrim’s keen eyes in the darkness. But the dwarf was used to the world beneath the surface of the Black Earth, and his eyes, keen though they were, became secondary to his other senses, grown sharp from years inside the mountains. His hearing was extremely acute, as was his sense of smell.
Juleptsu could not keep from the air of the chamber the taint of his own poison or the foulness of the ichor which flowed within him. Nor was he used to coping silently with the flaming agony of the damage Gorrim had inflicted in shattering his foreleg.
From his vantage point high on the wall above the dwarf, he saw the dwarf inhale deeply, could hear the beating of the dwarf’s heart as it pumped fresh, red blood through Gorrim’s veins. He sensed the dwarf’s breathing change, sensed the dwarf’s energy coalescing, focusing inward in some strange manner he did not fully grasp. Gorrim tilted his head slightly to one side, his eyes blank, as if listening to a voice only he could hear. The vast muscles in his arms appeared to relax, and he held Krella loosely in his grasp, standing in a pool of tranquillity defined by the light of that cursed axe. Juleptsu did not relish the prospect of Krella’s kiss, god though he might be.
With a good deal of pain-inspired caution, Juleptsu now descended slowly and silently from fresh webbing above the dwarf, cursing to himself with each spastic movement of his shattered limb. He no longer wished to play with his prey; he no longer wished to risk further injury by ending the dwarf between his powerful mandibles, especially as the socket that had housed his missing fang ached insanely, interfering with his control. Instead, the chitin on his back split open, and he extended his stinger—a curving ten-foot reticulated column of chitinous armour tipped with a hollow, hooked appendage through which he was capable of pumping large quantities of lethal poison into his prey. It was to be hoped, he thought to himself, that Gorrim would not know he possessed this weapon, would have no plan to resist it, focused as he had been on Juleptsu’s mandibles as the spider god’s primary weapons.
Gorrim, for his part, was simply waiting. He found himself in a strange state of calm readiness, despite the fact he could no longer see Juleptsu. It didn’t matter; the smell of the Dark Ancient pervaded the chamber, but it was slowly growing stronger above him, and slightly to one side. He could hear, faintly, the friction between the broken pieces of chitin on the shattered foreleg. He leapt to his right, spinning left to face the spot he was sure Juleptsu would hit the ground and raising his shield arm.
He was almost in position when Juleptsu’s stinger lashed forward out of nowhere, piercing through the dwarf’s shield at the leading edge and deep into the back of Gorrim’s clenched hand where his gauntlet had slipped forward to expose flesh. He howled with agony, his features contorted and his face grey with the shock of the wound. Juleptsu laughed and ran back up the wall to enjoy the dwarf’s agonizing death from a safe vantage point.
Throwing the pierced shield, Gorrim fell to his knees, senses reeling. Clinging desperately to consciousness, he grasped Krella far up on the haft, near the blades, and forced his envenomed hand against the ground. He knew what he must do, or Juleptsu’s venom would surely carry him to the afterlife. Without time for thought or breath, he roared his anger as he brought Krella down with tremendous speed and force upon his wrist, severing his hand before Juleptsu’s venom could spread within him. So great was his stroke with the rune-graven axe that the heat and pressure from the blade sealed the wound as Krella passed through flesh and bone to sink a blade into the solid stone of the floor.
Immediately, his head began to clear, though the pain of the amputation was staggering. But he was a dwarven master warrior, and no conventional wound save a lethal blow could keep him down for long. He had acted before the venom had spread; he would have known were that not the case because he’d have been dead or dying by now. He took several deep breaths, and slowly got to his feet, picking up his severed hand as he did so.
Juleptsu, meanwhile, had scuttled back down the wall, sure the battle was his. He regarded Gorrim, disbelieving–the wretched creature was standing, and strongly at that.
“That was a good trick. You deserve a reward,” said Gorrim, tossing his severed hand into the spider’s face. The creature’s hiss of outrage was deafening in the chamber, and it scuttled back momentarily. Gorrim immediately took advantage, bending and wrenching Krella free of the floor in a single, fluid motion.
They charged at each other with mortal intent, the sound of their impact explosive. To Juleptsu’s outrage and growing alarm, Gorrim did not get knocked back when they clashed together, nor did he stagger. Hissing wildly, he bit madly at the dwarf’s handless arm, only to find that kithrandyr was, as it had ever been, much stronger than it looked, and the fiery acid of his own venom burned between his jaws. Gorrim, not even flinching, began hacking away with Krella where Juleptsu’s loathsome head met his body. His chain was indeed protecting him from death by poison, thank the gods, so Juleptsu’s bite brought only pain—an intense and ugly pain that galvanized him, prompting him to swing Krella with even greater fury, the fey blades unequalled in all the world.
It only took three more vicious, single-handed strokes before Krella penetrated the spider god’s natural armour, and Juleptsu began spurting black blood and vile green ichor. Immediately he released the dwarf’s bloody left arm and scrabbled back in a vain attempt to put distance between them.
Gorrim would not be denied. His axe swung one final time, severing half of Juleptsu’s head in a veritable explosion of ichor, dark foulness and exploding arachnid brain.
The Dark Ancient was dead, yet his body driven by arcane impulse, convulsed and writhed. The corpse began to twist onto his back. Gorrim kept hacking wildly at the spider, each strike imbedding itself in Juleptsu’s lesser armoured underbelly. After twelve axe strikes, Juleptsu ceased to move, and Gorrim paused for breath, exhaustion finally beginning to take him. He looked coldly into the spider god’s faceted eyes, now dim and lifeless. The stench of the foul liquids pouring from the corpse was unspeakably vile.
Gorrim glanced around the dark chamber, swaying from pain and blood loss as he did so. The female presence he felt before grew. It was beneficent, he knew, and powerful—very powerful. It seemed stronger than ever, and grateful. The purple torchlight flickered and then strengthened, changing to a normal and vibrant orange. The walls began to crumble around him. The ground shook from the force of falling stone, though not a single fragment touched him, and Gorrim’s gaze drew wide as the falling obsidian debris hit the ground and immediately became dust. The carcass of Juleptsu hardened, turning white, and then to stone. A thin smile emerged behind the dwarf’s long red beard. One final time, he brought down Krella upon the stone carcass, shattering it into thousands of pieces.
The black stone pillar in the center of the room shed its obsidian skin, as if by fire, revealing a large glowing crystal. Gorrim fell to his knees before it, humbled, knowing he had rid the Black Earth of a dark, ancient magic. Could it be…?
“Earthmother,” he began cautiously. “Is it You, truly? After so long? Your fool
ish son before did not dare to believe…” He could sense assent, forgiveness, and unaccountably, a trace of amusement. “For too long have You been under this poisonous curse. Thank You for helping me to set You free.” He paused, and then suddenly smiled. “As one of your children, I am not usually this modest.” The sense of amusement intensified, but it was tempered with deep and abiding love, and a profound gratitude.
Gorrim’s arm began to tingle. He looked down, eyes growing wide. Before his eyes, in but a moment’s time, his left hand reappeared, uninjured and unblemished. It tingled more intensely, as if it had merely fallen asleep for a time. A tear rolled down his cheek as he clenched his new hand for the first time.
“My gratitude, Earthmother, for this, and all Your blessings, now and ever.” He had no more words, and of course, the Presence did not speak. But he knew Its love, gratitude and protection would be with him. Always.
There was no barrier to his departure. Slowly, painfully, he made his way back to the corridor, through the outer chamber, and thence through the long and convoluted caverns to return to the mortal world above. The Black Earth was a vast terrain, littered with demons and other fell things that dwelled below and above the surface, but as the sun rose to crest distant mountains with its majesty, Gorrim knew the Earthmother had been given back a small piece of her great dominion. The thought made him smile.
Cosmic Horror
The Riddle Master
By Ernest Cunningham Hellwell
It is with great trepidation that I create this memoir. But it occurs to me it might be a way to rid myself of the demons of my mind. When the uncertain aspects of life become overwhelming I resort to the pen. And a master of the pen I am indeed! I am an author by profession… but to my continual discomfort, not a wealthy one. And it appears that in times like these I not only resort to the pen but also the elixirs that help blur the pain of my suffering soul. It is my opinion that such evils have brought me to where I am today and I must breathe these words onto this parchment to exorcise the wicked dreams that have been wrought upon me. For I find myself looking over my shoulder, reeling from the shadows of my own thoughts.
The weaving of this web of a tale begins at a pub that I frequent from time to time in Baltimore called Ryan’s. I had stopped in that night with my dear friend, Mr. Frederick Thomas, to confer upon some business matters. I was not in the best of moods for I was deeply discomforted by my financial situation. And this was to be the topic of which I would return to several times during our conversation that eve.
Not long ago I had published my second public effort, a book of poems of my own creation. It was originally published while I was in the Army where I managed my way up to the rank of Sargent Major of the Artillery, which is the highest rank an enlisted man can achieve. To my displeasure my name did not even appear on the book as its author. I procured an early discharge from my army unit so that I could enroll in West Point Military Academy. This I did in July 1830 but was discharged from the academy in February of 1831. It was through the help of some of my classmates at West Point and other friends and family that I raised enough money to publish the book of poems again. This time I added a few more poetic tapestries, but most importantly, the book was published with my name upon it.
Unfortunately neither one of these publications made me any money to speak of. So I have resorted to working as an editorial assistant here and a journalist there with different publications. I had entered four short stories into a contest at the Philadelphia Saturday Courier to no avail. Not only did my stories not win the contest but the devil of a publisher saw fit to go ahead and publish my stories without paying me anything. It is a foul world, this business of writing and publishing, for since I submitted the stories to the contest the publisher announced to me that they were now the property of the Philadelphia Saturday Courier and that they could do with the stories as they pleased. There should be laws to protect the writer from such criminal thievery.
Ryan’s is not a place one would acquaint with the higher classes. For that matter it was more of a putrid place but it was one of the few establishments that I was not indebted to. I had most recently acquired the taste for absinth, and Ryan’s was a pub that had no qualms serving such libation. Mr. Thomas and I were seated at a table in the back corner of the pub. I must admit to having many drinks, putting myself in a fairly blurry state of inebriation. I was getting a might boisterous as the night lingered on, with my howling about unfair business practices by the publishers and the fact that I seemed to have chosen the most difficult of careers to make a suitable living at. I remember blurting out something in the manner of “I would give anything to prove to the world what a literary master I am.”
It was at that moment from a table across from us that a gallant-looking gent with jet black shoulder-length hair and a dark complexion rose from his seat. He had a finely trimmed mustache and the eyes, oh, the eyes were like green emeralds peering at me with an intensity that chilled my bones! Finely dressed was he with a black suit and red shirt under a vest with gold embroidered paisley patterns. He was tall and looked formidable in physic. He approached our table and with an eerie, deep voice he spoke, “So it would be anything that you would give to have this wish?” He spoke with a foreign accent of some sort. It was not something I could place but it sounded European. Now having lived in the coastal regions of the eastern part of these United States, I was very familiar with the accents of immigrating Europeans, but this man’s accent was not completely discernible to me.
I responded to my inquisitor with a rather unfriendly tone due to my disposition at the time. “Would there be some reason, albeit unknown to me, why I should share my wishes with an uninvited stranger?”
He stood tall at our table looming over me and with that strange low voice he spoke again. “It is possible that I can help you attain that which you seek, my good sir.” And then he bowed to me almost like an Oriental would. Even though I was disturbed by his presence I found him extremely intriguing. As he rose erect from his bowing gesture he asked, “May I join you gentlemen? I would be honored to purchase the drinks for the length of our conversation.”
Considering my financial stress at the time and the fact that Frederick had purchased most of the drinks so far that evening I decided to entertain this odd man. So I stood and introduced myself and Frederick and then politely offered him a seat at our table. He bowed again and then introduced himself to us as Mr. Leviat as he took a chair at our table.
“That sounds like a French name, my good man!” I exclaimed. “Where do you hail from, sir?”
He replied back with an indirect answer to my inquiry, “I am from many places. A shore does not exist that I have not set foot upon. My travels are vast and I have been exposed to all cultures around this world. It is because of where I have been and what I have learned that I can support the claim of being able to help you with your… let us say, predicament.”
Our newly found acquaintance raised his hand and motioned to the barkeep to supply the table with another round of drinks. “So you are a writer, yes?” His question almost sounded more like a statement and he really did not supply me with sufficient time to respond. “It is an admirable profession but not usually a lucrative one. I could not help but overhear your conversation about the difficulties you have encountered so far in your field of endeavor. May I be so bold to ask… are you good?”
Before I could speak Frederick came to my rescue as any good friend would, I suppose. “He is not just good. He is a rare poetic talent that the world has never seen the likes of before. I have faith that he will be recognized for his literary genius one day and I myself will do anything I can to help him become discovered.”
The tall dark man spoke abruptly. “So you are his agent?”
“Uh… no,” Frederick replied. “I am just a good friend that believes in the stroke of this man’s pen.”
The man leaned back in his chair. “So there is no agent but avid desire I feel. Ah… our drinks
.”
The barkeep appeared with a tray carrying a bottle of absinth and two glasses, one of which he placed in front of me and the other before our newfound acquaintance. I did not even see the dark man reach for his money but he produced a more than ample amount for the barkeep. Our server’s eyes opened wide and as he retreated he exclaimed, “If there is anything else you need, good sir, you have just to call. My name is Ryan.”
Before the innkeeper could utter another word Mr. Leviat said with a bit of an aristocratic air, “Yes, yes, if we have need of thee you will know. Now begone, for my friends and I have business to discuss.”
At that moment I actually began to like this mysterious man. He was obviously a man of means and was willing to treat those beneath his level as such, a trait that I considered impressive. As the barkeep humbly exited back toward his counter our new drinking comrade reached inside of his jacket and produced a small bottle of dark liquid and looked at me. “I see you too appreciate the effects of a stronger drink than most.” I would not really call this an astute observation from our newfound companion but a truism none the less. “May I have the honor of sharing something with you that will enhance the absinth to an even higher level?” He pulled the small cork from the mouth of the bottle and started to act as if he was going to pour it into my drink when Frederick pulled my glass back and we both looked deeply into those green eyes with concern. “Oh… how rude of me!” exclaimed the dark man. “I will show you it is safe.” He began pouring a bit of the dark substance within the bottle into his own drink. “You only need add a touch and the effects are quite wonderful. It is called laudanum and is derived from the poppy… poppy tears as it is sometimes called, lachryma papaveris, Papaver somniferum. I will drink first so that you may understand that it will be of no harm to thee.” He downed his glass and then gave me a questioning gaze waiting for my approval to let him add the elixir to my own. I gave him a nod and extended my glass, as did Frederick, but with much more hesitation than I.
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