Distant Worlds Volume 2 Read online

  They were about halfway to the statue when Surizaki’s motion tracker screamed to life.

  Santego saw the corporal look down at the device just as a huge figure burst out of the water beside him and tore him in half.

  It moved too quickly to make out through the night vision sensor, but it stood twice the height of a man. Karasov wheeled around and hit it with a burst from the flamer before it finished ripping the corporal to shreds. The flare compensators dimmed Santego’s display as the fireball washed over the creature, preventing him from getting a better look at it. Nothing could have blocked out the thing’s scream, however, which filled every inch of the room before being answered from every direction by similar shrieks. When Santego’s display normalized, he saw similar monstrosities rising from the water everywhere he looked.

  Ichthymorphs.

  Somewhere between the creatures’ screams, he heard Dutton’s voice.

  “Light ‘em up!”

  He took aim at the nearest horror, but Typhon got to it first. The shogg snared its legs with a mass of tentacles and sliced its head off with a single swipe of his bone-bladed arm. He reshaped his other arm into a studded club to stave another monster’s skull before turning toward Santego.

  “Watch your back!”

  He turned to find two of the fish things rising from the water behind them. They were smaller than the others, only a bit taller than a man, but their thick, muscular limbs looked more than capable of breaking every bone in Santego’s body.

  A single, sustained blast from the flamer incinerated both of them. More and more of the creatures joined the attack, and Santego soon found himself sweeping the flamer back and forth like a hose, torching everything that moved in a torrent of superhot napalm.

  The ichthymorphs’ dying cries quickly became deafening. When he chanced a look over to the rest of the team, Santego saw a great writhing mass of limbs and tentacles swirling around a plume of fire. The flare compensators made it difficult to make out details, but even if he could have seen perfectly, he doubted it would be possible to determine who was winning or losing.

  Before Santego looked away, he caught a glimpse of something else. Beyond the conflagration, a huge figure flickered in and out of sight. It came into full view only once, a winged terror perched atop the great statue like the monstrous lord of some alien kingdom. When the wretched thing blinked into view, a rush of psychic energy flooded the room. Santego felt a million tiny daggers stab into his skull, and he fell to his knees screaming.

  A rush of images flashed through his mind. He saw Karasov’s liquefied brain running out through his nostrils, saw Dutton turn her flamer on herself rather than let the squid-faced giant take her in its grasp. Rahab’s last tenuous link to his humanity snapped, and he raged as a powerful, invisible force ripped his morphing body apart molecule by molecule.

  For a moment, the high priest of Great Cthulhu, a spawn born off the horizon of some unfathomably distant and ghastly planet, seemed almost irked by their presence.

  Then Typhon and Echidna fell upon it, and the timbre of its psychic barrage changed.

  Annoyance gave way to alarm.

  And then to fear.

  The pain in Santego’s head intensified as the shoggs clawed, bit, and rent the monstrously alien being with such fury that the building threatened to collapse on top of them. He tried to force his eyelids open, but the psychic assault overwhelmed him. A cold, shivering shock raked down his spine and he lost consciousness.

  Heavy drops of water splashed against Santego’s face, slowly dragging him out of his stupor with their stubborn insistence. He opened his eyes to find himself beneath the open sky, far removed from the dark confines of the stadium’s interior. His head still felt ready to burst open and his body ached all over. Fighting both pain and fatigue, he sat up and tried to get his bearings. He seemed to be on a rooftop some distance from the stadium, which crouched menacingly several blocks away.

  “Thought you’d never wake up.”

  Santego turned toward the familiar voice.

  Typhon knelt just a few feet away from him. Beyond him, Santego saw Echidna standing near the edge of the roof. There was no sign of the rest of the team.

  “What happened?” Santego asked, rubbing his still aching head.

  “Found you passed out in the water,” Typhon said. “Brought you to the extraction point.”

  “Karasov? Dutton?”

  “Dead. Rahab too. But you already knew that.”

  Santego lowered his head and nodded. He’d seen it all in those brief mental flashes. Part of him hoped it might have been a hallucination.

  “What happened in there?” he asked.

  Typhon stood up.

  “More than any of you could handle. Echidna and I took care of it.”

  Echidna stepped away from the edge of the roof to join them.

  “Lander’s two miles out,” she said. “We need to get moving.”

  “What are you talking about?” Santego asked. “We’re already at the extraction point.”

  Typhon looked at Echidna.

  “You go on. I’ll catch up.”

  Echidna nodded, then ran to the edge of the roof and jumped off the building.

  Typhon turned back to Santego.

  “We’re not going back with you,” he said.

  “What?”

  “Back to cold storage until you need us to kill something you can’t handle yourselves? No thanks. I’ll take my chances out here.”

  Santego shook his head.

  “If you wanted to skip off, why not just leave me in the temple?”

  Typhon smiled.

  “Because maybe I’m not ready to let go of that last bit of humanity yet?”

  “What am I supposed to tell command? They’re not going to take kindly to a pair of shoggs on the loose.”

  Typhon shrugged.

  “Tell them whatever you want.”

  “They’ll want to track you down.”

  “After what you saw today, do you think that scares us?”

  Santego shuddered at the memory.

  “No. No, I guess not.”

  Typhon stepped away from him, black eyes glistening.

  “A word of advice,” he said. “Sooner or later the rest of the shoggs will get the same idea. Some of them might not be so accommodating. When you get back to the ship, you should either burn them all or turn them loose.”

  “But how are we supposed to take anything back without them?”

  “Take what back? Look around you. This place isn’t meant for you any longer. Every day your numbers dwindle while things decay a little more. Without us, you might already be gone.”

  “No,” Santego said. “We’re not done yet. We can reclaim cities like this. We can—”

  A tendril snapped out from Typhon’s collar and wrapped around Santego’s head. It twisted him around to gaze out over the devastated cityscape.

  “Take a good, long look, kid. This world is a corpse. Maybe the world that comes after will be worth fighting for, but humanity will never get to see it. The sooner you accept that, the better off you’ll all be.”

  Typhon withdrew the tentacle and jumped off the building, leaving Santego to stare blankly at the ruins.

  By the time the lander swooped out of the clouds and closed on his position, he was no longer sure if Typhon had done him a favor by not leaving him for dead in the temple.

  Where Gods Fear to Tread

  Originally published in Swords Against Cthulhu (Rogue Planet Press, 2015)

  This is one of those stories that I often forget about for some reason. Originally written for a historical Cthulhu anthology, it made it to the final round before getting rejected. The bad thing with writing for anthologies is that you often end up with very specific stories that are difficult to place elsewhere. Luckily for me, another publisher was taking submissions for a similar theme (probably thinking to scoop up rejections like mine). As a historical Cthulhu Mythos story, I wanted to set t
he story in a time period and location we don’t see very often. I’m not sure I’ve ever seen anyone else using 8th-9th century Central Asia, so it seemed like a novel choice. This was a fun story to write and I’ve always been quite fond of it. While it’s easy to dismiss it as another Robert E. Howard imitation, it’s probably the best of my attempts to channel that classic sword and sorcery pulp style.

  They came across the hut just before nightfall. Nestled in a deep gorge at the end of a narrow defile that snaked through the rocks, the place provided a strong defensive position against roving bandits and wild animals.

  No doubt that was why the apostates chose to make camp there.

  Bahadur waited for cover of darkness before leading a group of men down the steep western slope. He chose the surest footed among their company: three of the Arabs and the Berber, Abd al-Qadir. The others he left to approach by way of the winding trail to the south. Ceren, the Turkish woman they’d hired to guide them up the mountain, covered them from the opposite slope.

  The apostates hadn’t bothered to set out a watch aside from the three men guarding the trail. No one noticed Bahadur’s group scamper down the rocks and surround the hut. Bahadur climbed atop the roof and positioned himself above one of the hide-covered windows. After the others took their places, he whistled, doing his best to mimic one of the mountain birds common to the area. He placed one his daggers between his teeth and counted to ten. When he reached the end, he swung over the roof and went feet-first through the window.

  He landed next to a bewildered man eating a bowl of soup. In one motion, Bahadur took the dagger from his mouth and drove it into the man’s throat. The others, six of them gathered around a small fire, stumbled over one another as they dropped their food and reached for their weapons. Bahadur drew his curved longsword and slashed the nearest one across the chest before the rest of the attackers burst inside.

  The battle was brief and bloody. Two more apostates fell before they had a chance to fight back. The rest found themselves surrounded when Abd al-Qadir kicked the door in and joined the fight. He split one man’s skull with his axe while the Arabs overwhelmed the others.

  None of them attempted to surrender.

  Bahadur wiped the blood from his sword as he examined the fallen bodies. The face he sought was not among them. One of the men yet lived, though his arm was badly cleaved. He would be lucky to last five minutes after losing so much blood.

  Sliding his sword back into its sheath, Bahadur knelt beside him.

  “Shahid ibn Zahir,” he said. “Where is he?”

  The apostate grinned, blood dribbling from the corner of his mouth.

  “He is beyond your reach. Both of you and your false gods.”

  Bahadur turned to Abd al-Qadir.

  “Cut out his tongue. Then stake him out for the wolves.”

  The Arabs exchanged uncomfortable glances.

  “Apostate or not,” one of them said, “this is still a man of Arabia. It is up to Allah to decide his fate.”

  “Allah can do whatever he likes with his soul when he gets ahold of it,” Bahadur said. “Until then, I’m not taking the chance that his master taught him to lay a curse upon us.”

  The warrior scowled, but led the other Arabs outside without further protest.

  “You are right to fear the apostate’s sorcery,” Abd al-Qadir said. “There is no heart so black as the one that has known Allah for a time and then rejected Him.”

  “Make it quick.”

  Bahadur left the Berber to his work and stepped outside. The moon shone brightly enough for him to make out the band of men walking up the trail. He counted seven of them in all. Asad ibn Musin led the way, wiping the blood from his sword.

  “Shahid?” Asad asked.

  “No, but these were definitely his men. Looks like they’ve been here for a while, judging from the look of things inside.”

  Asad sheathed his sword and scratched his beard.

  “We must not delay, then.”

  He looked ready to give an order when something next to the hut caught his attention. Bahadur followed his gaze and found Ceren standing there, her recurved bow still at the ready. She gestured to the small stable behind the hut.

  “He was here.”

  Asad nodded to Bahadur, then turned to the group behind him.

  “Petros. With us.”

  A slender man shuffled by the others to stand alongside Asad. Instead of weapons, he carried a large satchel filled with scrolls and books. A large cross dangled from a leather cord around his neck.

  The three men followed Ceren to the stable, which was too small to house more than a single mule. Ceren had left the gate ajar, but Bahadur could have guessed what was inside from the smell alone.

  Asad pulled the door open.

  “Merciful Allah…”

  Dried blood covered most of the ground, with partially frozen entrails and organs scattered about haphazardly. A latticework of human bones, partially suspended from the ceiling by threads, formed an archway large enough for the tallest among them to walk through.

  Bahadur no longer wondered what became of the hut’s original occupants.

  “What do you make of it, Petros?” Asad asked.

  “Madness. But madness with purpose.”

  Asad spat upon the ground.

  “Blasphemy, that’s what it is.” He reached for his sword.

  “No! Do not touch it!” Petros said. “We cannot know what evil we might unleash.”

  Bahadur looked at the bloody ground. If he focused intently enough, he could almost make out a pattern in the entrails and organs.

  Almost.

  He shook his head and backed away, wanting nothing more than to put plenty of distance between them and that accursed site.

  “There’s nothing more to be done here,” Bahadur said. “We should move on.”

  “Aye,” Asad said. “Tell the men to take nothing from this place.”

  They made camp a mile up the trail. A few of the men wanted to light a fire to fend off the bitter mountain cold, but Ceren warned them that the light would be visible for miles. Discouraged, they wrapped themselves in heavy blankets and huddled close to one another on the hard ground.

  Bahadur took the first watch. After an hour, Petros got up and shuffled over to join him. Although the two men had travelled together for some time, they had never spoken away from the company of the Arabs.

  “You should be resting,” Bahadur said.

  Petros shook his head.

  “I find it difficult after seeing that bloody business below.”

  Bahadur shared the sentiment. Tired as he was, there was a reason he’d volunteered for the first watch.

  “A foul thing, no doubt. And one best forgotten.” He spoke the words with certainty, but he doubted his ability to heed the advice. The grisly archway loomed over his every thought. Sometimes, he saw the ghost of a figure flutter across the threshold.

  “Truly,” Petros said, “but such evil has a way of lingering in the mind long after it passes from our presence.”

  Bahadur saw him fidget with the cross on his necklace.

  “You think your god unable to protect you?”

  “The Lord no longer holds sway over this place. There is a heaviness in the air, some dreadful presence. The Arabs sense it too, even if they will not voice their doubts. I expect even a heathen such as yourself can feel it.”

  In truth, Bahadur had felt uneasy since they first entered the mountains. He hadn’t seen a fire temple since they passed through the villages east of Samarkand three weeks ago. Although he’d never been especially devout in his faith, Bahadur didn’t like the thought of travelling through unfamiliar land with no sacred flames to keep the darkness at bay.

  “Even the Turks have little love for this country.”

  The wind picked up slightly as Bahadur spoke. Petros shivered.

  “Small wonder.”

  “This Shahid ibn Zahir,” Bahadur said, “did you know him?”
/>   Petros shook his head.

  “He abandoned the faith before I arrived in Merv. Asad sent for me to decipher the writings he left behind. He knew of my familiarity with the Sasanid heresies of old.”

  “What did you find?”

  A sharp gust of wind swept through the encampment. Bahadur raised his arm to shield his face.

  “Strange things,” Petros said. “There was a great deal of correspondence with a relative of his in Damascus, an Abd al-Azrad. It seems this relative possessed an uncommon interest in ancient things best left forgotten. At some point, he sent a rare book to Shahid written by a Greek officer in service to Alexander I of Macedonia. Shortly thereafter, Shahid used his political sway to secure a military position in the Transoxania campaigns.”

  “What’s in the book?”

  Petros shrugged.

  “I cannot say, but I know of only one copy in existence. He took it with him when he renounced his faith and fled Merv. The correspondence made repeat mentions of a key and a citadel built long before the Greek invasion. I do not know if the two are related, but he surely means to find at least one of them here upon this peak.”

  The wind picked up again, this time swirling around them and disturbing the fallen snow. Bahadur felt something brush past him, something more substantial than a mere gust of air. Spinning around, he reached for his sword and scanned the surrounding area intently. He found no sign of intrusion, but a faint odor hung in the air that had not been present moments earlier. It smelled like wet ash.

  “What is it?” Petros asked.

  Bahadur sighed and rubbed his eyes. The wind died down a bit, but still seemed to pick up in irregular gusts that came from different directions each time.

  “Nothing. Gone too long without a good night’s rest is all.”

  Petros chuckled.

  “As have we all. Now that we follow in Shahid’s footsteps, I do not expect us to sleep soundly until long after he is dead.”