Shoggoths and Swashbucklers

8/14/2019 Shoggoths and Swashbucklers

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From: simon leo barber Newsgroups: alt.sex.cthulhuSubject: Shoggoths and Swashbucklers (Andrew Nellis, repost)Date: Wed, 05 Jun 1996 19:17:50 GMT

From: [email protected] (Andrew Nellis)Subject: STORY: Shoggoths and SwashbucklersDate: Mon, 17 Jul 1995 10:00:27 GMT

WARNING: Rated PG (Parental Guidance suggested)

After reading the recent multi-part sotry by Darcthyus in thisnewsgroup, I found myself annoyed that the protagonist of hsi story shouldbe able to operate without challenge from a single brave, noble, etc, etc,hero daring to stand up to him.

I must admit that I am something of a romantic, and while I'm suremost of you tend to side with Wil Whately and will be most annoyed at mefor tossing a wrench into the works of your twisted imagination, I thinksomeone has to stand up for the good guys and be counted.

For those unfamilar with 17th century France, it was a time of greatpolitical upheaval, and of course great swashbuckling and daring-do. Mostpeople are not aware that while the specific events in The ThreeMusketeers by Alexandre Dumas are fictionalized, the people and politicshe wrote about were very real indeed.

If you enjoy this story please let me know. If you don't enjoy thisstory, well, I guess you can still let me know, but I won't we anywhere

near as happy and i can't promise you a card at Christmas.

I give you a warning that it does take a while for the story to enterthe "sex/cthulhu" genre, but I believe it is well worth the wait. If it'snot quite as hard-core as you'd like, sorry but you're stuck with it untilsomeone gets around to creating alt.romance.cthulhu.swashbuckling ;-).

Special thanks to Dracthyus for the inspiration, even if it was bynegative example. 8-)

One final warning that there is at least one graphic sexual scene,and several graphic violence scenes described. If you are likely to beoffended by this, please do not read any further.

Now, tie on your tabard, strap on your sword belt, and get thepopcorn ready, because it's all for one, and one for all! On with the show!

------------------------

Had there be anyone there to see him, they would have been quite surprisedat the lithe and utterly silent grace with which the large man crept


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through the darkened coridors. Walking on the balls of his feet, headvanced with one hand extended, for he dared not carry light and the dimstarlight ghosting through the very ocassional narrow-slitted window wasnot enough to see well. His other hand rested lightly on the gasket andpommel of the sword that hung at his side, for he was neither an expectednor a welcome guest.

At an intersection in the hallway, he froze, his head slightly cocked to

one side like a hare scenting danger. Voices. At least two of them, heguessed, and not far away, though it was hard to tell here for the long,winding hallways played strangely with sounds. Suddenly, light bloomeddown one of the side passages, and he realized that in a moment, whoevercarried the light was going to turn the corner and see him standing in theintersection.

With a speed that belied his bulk and would have left an observer gaspingwith amazement, he darted back two steps down the passage he had come, andsqueezed himself into the shadows of an alcove containing one of theinterminable statues of the Virgin. He pressed himself behind the statueas best he could, whispering a brief "Pardon, madame," into its cold,alabaster ear.

Down the corridor, two of the Cardinal's Guard in their yellow-on-redtabards hove into view, one carrying a hissing flambeaux, and both withfunctional-looking rapiers at their side. As they passed his hiding place,he held his breath, willing them not to turn and see him. Pressed in placeas he was, he would be defenceless to their swords if he was discovered.Like any good Gascon he did not fear death, but he would not pass from theworld in so ignoble a way if he could avoid it.

"It is a bad business, Armand," said the man with the torch.

"Oui, it is that. I like not the smells from the cellar," said Armarndnervously.

"What does he do down there, do you suppose?"

Armand crossed himself as the two passed him hiding place, muttering "I amsure that I do not wish to know."

After they had passed from sight, he allowed himself to exhale his heldbreath explosively. He pondered their words, and wondered what bearingthey had, if any, on his mission. He made himself wait for five minutes incase they came back, and as he waited, his mind wandered back to themeeting the week before.

He had been resting in his bunk with a pot of cheap red wine, dozing

lightly but not really asleep, when Arnaud had poked him in the abdomenwith the toe of his boot, saying loudly, "Leves-toi, Isaac, you lazy sloth!De Troisvilles has sent for you, though the Lord alone knows why. Maybe herequires someone to slop the stables, eh?"

Opening one eye, he peered at his friend, Arnaud de Sillegue d'Athos. Theman was stroking his great waxed moustaches, as usual, for they were hispride and joy. "Thigh ticklers" he often called them with a twinkle in hiseye, and Isaac was forced to admit that d'Athos certainly got his share ofthe women, and a sizable portion of everyone else's. Perhaps there wassomething to the moustache after all.


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"Up, up!" continued Arnaud, waving a hand theatrically. Isaac recognizedthe impish smile that crinkled his friend's face and sighed inwardly. Hewas to be the butt of his jibes again. Or perhaps not, he thought, thefaintest of smiles adding a subtle upward twist to the edges of his lips.

If Arnaud saw the smile he gave no sign, but continued in his loud,hyperactive ministrations. "Up with you, brute! Here you are slugabed,

while there is work to be done," he went on, and made to jab Isaac in hisbroad gut once again with the toe of his boot.

"Yaaaah!" shrieked Arnaud suddenly, in mid-sentence. With a swiftness nonewould have believed possible, Isaac grabbed the proferred foot by the ankleand, standing up, heaved Arnaud upside down so he dangled head-first overthe floor.

"Yah, let me go, you great oxen!" yelled Arnaud, his eyes wide withsurprise. Isaac bellowed in laughter, and shook Arnaud violently up anddown by his foot as if the man weighed nothing more than a rag doll. Coinsfrom Arnaud's changepurse fell to the floor in a metallic rain, rolling inall directions, and his rapier slipped from its sheuth to clatter on the

floor alongside his hat.

"St-st-stop th-that! I d-d-demand y-you c-cease or I sh-sh-shallb-b-become a-annoyed," said Arnaud loudly, trying to be heard over thegreat roar of Isaac's barrel-chested laugh, which seemed to shake the veryfoundations of the building.

All at once, Isaac dropped him in a heap and wiped the tears of laughterfrom his eyes. Isaac de Portau was not a somber man, but his humour ranmore to the broad and physical than the sophisticated word-play his friendArnaud so seemed to enjoy. Buckling on his sword belt and placing hisfeathered slouch hat upon his head, Isaac swept out the door past a shakenArnaud, calling out behind him, "Beware, friend d'Athos, when you hunt the

tiger, for sometimes the tiger hunts you."

It was a short walk to the Hotel de Troisvilles, and the air helped clearde Portau's head, redolent though the air was with the smell of horsedroppings and the rancid sweat of too many people living in too small anarea. Dodging carriages and avoiding the pitiful bundles of rags whichslept in the street and ocassionally begged him for a few pistoles, hepicked his way through the narrow avenues.

He was admitted past the guards without question, and he finally troopedinto the office where de Troisvilles was instructing a lackey of theerrands he was to run. "You may go," said de Troisvilles, nodding ingreeting to Isaac, who sketched a quick bow in return. Both men waited

until the lackey had left, Isaac closing the door at a motion from daTroisvilles.

Jean-Arnaud du Peyrer de Troisvilles leaned back in his chair and surveryedthe King's Musqueteer before him. Having been the commander of theMusqueteers for many years, he was an excellent judge of character. Heknew, of course, that de Portau was brave and capable; that much was trueof every man in the Musqueteers, for they were the very best of France'sfoot soldiers, each one selected and approved by de Troisvilles personally.

The problem he faced, however, required also other talents. First and


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foremost, he required someone trustworthy. De Troisvilles was not sofoolish as to believe that the Cardinal did not have men within hisorganization, as de Troisvilles had men within the Cardinal's. That wassimply a fact of life in 17th century France that went without mentioning.But de Portau had showed his loyalty and more importantly, his discretion,in the affair of George Villiers, the english duke, not many years earlier.

De Portau had other assets as well. He was a Gascon, and de Troisvilles

did not trust these Parisian dandies, with their lace and ruffles. DePortau was also likely the strongest man in all the Musqueteers. Standingover six feet, he towered over everyone else, and his solid musclestretched his blue tabard tautly across his great bull chest. DeTroisvilles had once seen de Portau split a Spaniard from the top of thehead to nearly the midsection with a slash from his rapier during battle.And while de Portau did not have the scientific skill with a sword of,say, Henri d'Aramitz, he did possess a kind of animal cunning that made hima dangerous fencer indeed.

All these things de Troisvilles had known already, but he knew that thetruth of a man lay in his eyes, and his cool gaze met de Portau's own,probing and measuring. If de Troisvilles' eyes were flecks of ice, de

Portau's were blazing coals, reflecting a fiery passion deep in his broad,muscular chest. Somewhat to his surprise, de Troisvilles felt a measure ofthe same probing from de Portau that he himself was engaged in.

Both seemed satisfied with what they believed they saw in the other, andsomeone else in the room would have instantly felt the release of tension.

"Please," said de Troisvilles, motioning to a chair. The chair creakedalarmingly as de Portau sat his bulk upon it, but God had decreed that itshould withstand his weight this day.

"I am sorry to disturb you Isaac," began de Troisvilles, "I know it is youroff day, and I would not have robbed you of relaxation without great

cause."

"I am a soldier," rumbled Isaac, dismissing it with an airy wave of hismeaty hand. "I live to serve God and the King, whatever the day may be.Duty takes no holiday. If I'd wanted a life of ease and laziness, I'd havejoined the Cardinal's Guard."

De Troisvilles had to smile. He knew then that he had picked the right manand launched immediately into his story.

"Four days ago, a boy arrived here in my office and sat in the very chair younow occupy. His eyes rolled like a horse's at the scent of blood and thesound of battle, and his face was white with terror. He could have been no

older than twelve, and he was dressed in the Cardinal's livery.

"He told me that his name was Richard, and that he was the only son oflackies married in Richilieu's service. He was almost incoherent withfear, and babbled a long, nonsensical story about some kind of horriblemonster that had killed his parents."

De Portau raised a single ponderous brow, but remained silent.

"He said that his family lived in the servants' quarters of Notre Dame, andthat his father was a wine steward. Of late, he said, there had been


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terrible smells in the cellars, and his father did not like to go downthere. The common belief was that an animal, perhaps a cur, had found itsway down and died in some dark corner.

"He said that it had been his father's custom to take a glass of wine inthe late evenings before retiring, and that this night he discovered hislast bottle empty. Though he disliked the smell of the cellars, he did notfear them as many did, for though they were dark and shadowy, and caked

with nitre and old cobwebs, he had been safe enough in all the years he hadspent tending to the Cardinal's wines.

"Taking a lamp with him, he had left to get a fresh bottle from the cellarsand never returned. His wife thought it odd that he should spend so longthere, especially as the foetor in the cellars had seemed so much worserecently. Though she was far more fearful than her husband of the dark andancient cellars, she had imagined him sprawled at the bottom of the stairswith a broken leg perhaps, and rose to go to him, taking their second andlast lamp.

"She had left a candle burning in their rooms for the boy, for he hadawakened from the disruption, and lay listening on his pallet with the wide

ears of children. After some time when his mother had not returned and thecandle began guttering low, the boy grew nervous.

"His fear gave him the strength to light a new candle from the remnants ofthe old one, and, dressing quickly, follow in the steps of his mother andfather to the cellar to see what was become of them.

"Here his story grew confused, for he was alternately sobbing and shriekingin terror," said de Troisvilles, growing thoughtful. "I shall tell youthough, Isaac, there were times when I thought those sobs sounded likehideous laughter, and I am not ashamed to tell you that it prickled thehairs on my neck."

De Portau crossed himself without being aware of it and shifteduncomfortably in his seat, provoking a new series of creaks and groans fromthe tormented wood.

"As best I was able to determine," continued de Troisvilles, "the boy sayshe crept down the stairs to the cellar and found the door ajar. Peeringaround the corner, he claims he saw some kind of beast devouring the bloodyremains of his parents. When I asked him to describe this beast, he justshuddered.

"He said he made to creep back up the stairs but when he turned around, theCardinal himself was standing on the riser above him, glaring down at him."

"Monster enough for any boy," chortled de Portau.

De Troisvilles shot an annoyed look at de Portau and continued. "The boyclaims the Cardinal grabbed him and was going to drag him into the cellarwith the monster, when he balled up his fist and let the old man have itright in the sweetmeats."

De Portau howled in laughter, his great form shaking with mirth as thechair threatened to collapse once more. De Troisvilles tried to lookangry, but could not keep himself from chuckling.


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"I'd trade a month's wages to have seen that," averred de Portau, tryingto catch his breath.

"I'd not be averse to seeing it myself," admitted de Troisvilles. "In anycase, the boy said he made his escape while Richilieu lay on the stairsmoaning, and dashed from Notre Dame before the guards could be alterted.He said he spent hours hidden in a stable nearby, watching the Cardinal'sGuard look for him, and later made his way here, the only place he felt

could protect him from both the Cardinal and the monster."

De Portau scratched his chin and pondered for a moment. "How much of theboy's story do you believe? Obviously there is no monster lurking in NotreDame other than the good Cardinal himself, but the story has the ring oftruth to it to my ears. Mayhap he saw some evil of the Cardinal's befallhis parents?"

De Troisvilles nodded in agreement. "I wasn't sure what to make of it, butthe boy was in mortal terror that was too complete to be feigned. At thevery least I could make a few inquiries and easily ascertain at least a fewof the details of his story. I gave him a room and a pallet here, and sawthat he was fed.

"He said that he did not believe he was seen or followed, but to becertain, I placed two good men at his door with orders to admit no one butmyself. That evening, when I went to visit him and clear up a few detailsof his story, I discovered him unconscious. I summoned a surgeonimmediately, and I was told the buy was suffering from a brain fever,extremely rare in one so young unless he had experienced something whichcaused emotional upset in extremis.

"He hovered at the edge of consciousness, raving and screaming for twodays, until finally he grew quiet and his condition seemed to improve.That was last night. This morning, when I went to check on his condition,the boy was gone."

De Portau blinked in surprise. "What of the men guarding him?"

"They swear that they neither saw nor heard anything all night, and thatthere were no visitors. Neither, they say, did they see the boy leave.Since there is no window to the room, I would have had little choice but tobelieve the men liars, traitors, and possibly worse besides, save for thefact that when I arrived, we had to bash the door in, for it would notopen, and the boy would not answer and we feared for his safety. Some timeduring the night, the boy had levered his chair against the door, and madea wedge to jam it shut from the straw of his pallet."

De Portau frowned. "Damned strange," he muttered, a shiver of supernatural

chill pimpling his back against his will.

"It is that, I'll grant you. Truthfully, Isaac, I just am not sure what todo. I'm beginning to doubt my own sanity in this matter. It's as if theboy never existed. My instincts tell me that this is no small matter, andanything that places Richilieu in a bad light is of interest to me. I wishyou to look into this matter."

De Troisvilles reached inside his tabard, and pulled out a folded rectangleof parchment which he slid across his desk to de Portau. He remainedsilent as the big man scanned the paper, his eyebrows lifting slightly and


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Five minutes of waiting passed as slowly as the movement of glaciers, butat last it was over, and de Portau eased himself out from behind thestatue, stretching cramped, painful muscles.

"I thank you for your kind assistance, madame, and pray forgiveness for anyliberties," he whispered, doffing his hat and bowing to the Virgin. Hethought perhaps that the statue wore a wry smile that had not been therebefore, but then upbraided himself for allowing his imagination to run

wild. Still, as he padded down the hallway, he could not resist shooting aglance back over his shoulder at the Virgin who continued to smile herancient, cryptic smile.

He arrived at the winding stairs down to the cellar without encounteringanother soul, which struck him as odd. Even at this time of night, thereought to be servants about. And after what happened yesterday, he hadexpected a solid cordon of guards here...

He paused at the top of the stairs, took a few steps down, and pausedagain, wrinkling his nose. The stench was unbelievable. If the smell grewworse towards the bottom of the stairs, he thought, I shall surely smother.As he made his way down the staircase, the foetor did indeed increase by

leaps and bounds, and several times he gagged.

Holy Mother! he thought, no mere dead cur could produce such a foul miasma.Surely every dog in Paris must have rolled in dung and arrived in greatpacks to fall dead by the hundred down there.

At the bottom of the stairs, at the huge iron-banded door that barred entryto the cellars proper, he could stand it no longer, and fell to his knees,retching up his dinner of roasted chicken and cheese. He wiped the bilefrom his lips with his sleeve and felt better, if a little hollow. Thesmell grew no kinder for the rancid vomit on the floor, but at least he hadstarted to become somewhat accustomed to it.

He kneeled there on the floor, an arm against the wall to support him, andtried to breathe through his mouth. Thoughts strobed randomly through hismind like shooting stars. Inevitably, his mind turned to the events ofyesterday, and those that had led up to it.

He had been walking alone through the Bois de Boulogne with his thoughts,staring up at the dappled sunlight between the treetops and trying to fitthe jigsaw pieces of information together.

A wine steward had disappeared one night along with his family; theofficial word was that he had been stealing wine and selling it on theblack market and had fled when he feared discovery. It had not been hardfor de Portau to find proof that the man had, in fact, been doing just

that.

But then, why had the man left behind accounts to his favour unsettled withthe dealers? It had taken some persuasion - and not a few broken bones -for Portau to convince the black market dealers to speak with him. In theend, they had revealed, cursing and cradling limbs that bent in directionsother than the ones nature intended, that the wine steward was still owedfor several orders of wine and had not collected it. Surely a man indesperate straits would need all the money he could lay his hand on.

To that fact, de Portau added the many mysterious visits to the Bastille by


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the Cardinal, sometimes accompanied by his men and sometimes not. Therewas also the matter of the Cardinal's strange new fascination with theancient, nitre-caked crypts of the church. For a matter of some weeks, hehad spent inordinate amounts of time down there amongst the dead, andseveral priests admitted to feeling uncomfortable with this behaviour.

So wrapped in his thought was he, that de Portau failed to hear the soundof stealthy footsteps around him until they were almost upon him.

"Halt in the name of the King!" thundered a voice from behind him. DePortau spun around in a long-practiced move, his cape flying to the side tocover his sword arm and the top of his scabbard as if by accident.

Before him stood a man in the red garb of the Cardinal's Guard, rapierbared in his hand. From the trees around him, several more arrived likephantoms; one on each side and he sensed more than saw the one immediatelybehind him.

"Surely," said de Portau with a cheerfulness he did not feel, "there is nocrime in a man enjoying the fresh air of the woods."

"You will throw down your weapon, monsieur, and come with us," said thespeaker, one Jean-Phillipe de Mars. "Perhaps there has been somemisunderstanding, eh? Come with us and we shall clear this up. When allis well, I shall buy you a pot of wine in recompense and we shall laugh ofthis in some congenial tavern."

"I am afraid, monsieur," said de Portau, still cheerful, "that I only do mydrinking with friends, so I shall have to decline. Besides, I have asensitive nose, and I fear your breath is not improved with proximity."

"Musqueteer dog!" snarled de Mars. "You shall serve as a lesson to othersnot to demonstrate their contempt for His Emminence by sniffing at hisheels like an ill-behaved cur. Take him!"

With that surprising speed, de Portau's rapier whispered from his scabbard,as he drove sharply backwards with his elbow. There was a satisfyingimpact with something soft behind him and a breathless grunt of pain,followed by the unmistakable sound of a body crumpling to the ground.

De Mars stood stunned for a split second by the amazing, blinding speed ofthe big man before him, and it was long enough for de Portau to spin andthrust at the man to his left, plunging the blade through his chest withbone-snapping force, and pinning the body to the tree in front of which hestood.

De Portau cursed, for the blade was stuck in the tree, and he dared not

take the time ot free it, for de Mars and the other swordsman were alreadymoving against him. Rolling acrobatically to the side, he barely avoideda slash from de Mars which would surely have disembowelled him an instantbefore.

Leaping to his feet, de Portau drew his poiniard. It was designedprimarily to turn a slash, but it could be used as a weapon in a pinch.His reach was longer than most men, but even that could not begin to makeup the difference in length between their rapiers, and his short one-footdagger. And there were two of them.


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The two swordsman moved warily now, having seen the serpent-like speed thatthis deceptively large man could use. Nodding to each other, theyattempted to surround him so that at least one would have a chance at hisback, but de Portau moved quickly to keep them both in front.

This complex dance of death might have gone on indefinitely had de Portaunot made a single mistake. Mind focused on the two before him, he hadforgotten the man he knocked down, who had now recovered enough of his

breath and his wits to see the situation. When de Portau backed towardswhere he lay on the ground, gasping for breath, he lashed out with hisboot, hitting the big man unexpectedly in the back of his knee, andtoppling him to the ground.

Unfortunately for the kicker, he had misjudged the effect, and de Portau'shuge bulk landed like a toppled tree on top of him, snapping one arm andseveral ribs like twigs. His shriek of pain was high and shrill.

De Mars and the other swordsman leaped for the kill, swords extended beforethem. Desperately, de Portau grabbed the screaming man bodily, and liftedhim into the air in front of him. Unable to check their lunges, theirrapiers plunged right through the chest of their comrade, and out his back,

their tips quivering a half-inch from de Portau's throat.

His living shield gurgled once and went limp. With a grunt, de Portauheaved the body away, ripping the blades from the hands of his opponents.Both backed away quickly and retrieved their rapiers, giving de Portauenough time to leap to his feet, and snatch the dead man's rapier from theground where it had fallen.

Not waiting to be flanked, de Portau rushed to the attack, using theelement of surprise to beat down the second man's rapier and flick hisblade almost casually across the man's throat. The man crumpled, deadbefore his body hit the ground.

With eyes narrowed to steely slits, de Portau smiled grimly and turned tohis last opponent. "Well, Monsieur de Mars, it is just the two of us.Shall we dance?"

"I need no help to deal with such as you," sneered de Mars, raising hisrapier in a salute. De Portau returned the salute, and a second later thebattle was joined in earnest.

Blade rang on blade, striking blue sparks. Like snarling beasts, the twocircled each other, seeking weaknesses, feeling for footing, trying toforce the opponent to make a mistake. From time to time each would sally alunge or a slash, and would be turned aside by the other.

Suddenly, and with magnificent speed, it was over. De Portau's footingslipped, and de Mars lunged in a fleche to run him through. Too late deMars saw that the slip was a feint. He tried to pull himself back, but hehad already committed himself. With a single smooth slash, de Mars' headtoppled from his body, a look of pure astonishment forever frozen on itsface. The body stood for a moment, took a tentative step forward, thenthought better of it, toppling forward into the leaves.

De Portau tossed the bloodied sword aside and with a strong tug freed hisown from the tree where it still impaled his erstwhile opponent. The bodyfell to the ground with satisfying thud, and de Portau cleaned the blade on


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the man's cloak.

He knew now that he must bring this investigation to a close very soon forhis own safety. Once he had reported, his finding would go straight to theKing's own ear, and Richilieu would not dare to move so openly then.

Taking a deep breath, de Portau stood and inspected the lock. It was farmore sophisticated that was warranted by a wine cellar, he saw. He weighed

the risk of noise against the risk of taking too long to pick the lock andbeing trapped at the bottom of the stairs. Removing his hat, he laid hisear against the door and listened. He could hear nothing.

He stepped back from the door and made a swift rush at it, setting hislegs solidly against the floor and the far wall, applied his full strengthand weight to the door. It shuddered in its frame, the four inch thick,iron-banded oak resisting his whole strength, but still the door saggedopen. De Portau noted with amusement that both the door and the stout ironlock hed held, but the brass hinges had been torn right out from theirsettings.

De Portau hefted the door in both arms and lifted it entirely aside - and

nearly passed out from the unimaginable stench. It hit him in waves, eachmore potent than the last, washing over him and making his eyes burn andwater.

"Good Lord in heaven," he gasped, crossing himself. He stood there foralmost five minutes, eyes streaming, and danger be damned. Worse than thesmell of this unholy stink was the taste it left in his mouth. The odorkindled a memory in him; once, as a young child in Gascony, a great stormhad washed fish, squid, and jellyfish ashore for a hundred yards inland.The corpses were knee deep in places, and for the next two weeks the smellfrom the beach had been similar to this. It was sweet and deep, and almostsalty.

"Sweet Jesus," marvelled de Portau. "The air has been fouled by theDevil's own farts."

When he had recovered enough to move again, he took a hesitant step intothe darkness inside the door, and felt for the torch he knew he would findon the wall. He took flint and steel from his belt pouch and struck aspark, and instantly regretted it. A huge blue ball of flame bloomed,enveloping the torch, his hands, and his head.

For a moment, de Portau stood very still while his eyebrows burned merrily,unable to believe that such an indignity had been heaped upon him. Thefeather from his hat fell to the floor in front of him, burned to ablackened curl of ash, which broke his stunned inaction.

For the next minute, de Portau displayed a talent with profanity that wouldhave amazed all who knew him, for none would have believed he possessedsuch eloquence, much less known such obscure words of such raging,hand-waving vulgarity in several major and a few minor patois'. He alsoextinguished his eyebrows.

Still grumbling to himself, he laid a finger aside each nostril and blewout a wad of sooty snot. The torch was burning extremely well ("As well itmight," he grumped.) but he noticed that the flame was much larger andhotter than he would have expected, and tinged with blue.


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As he held the torch up to look around him for the first time, his bloodran cold. Torch light flickered in a thousand beady eyes. Rats of allsizes sat and stared at him.

De Portau crossed himself, and looked all around, feeling the weight of allthose eyes upon him. "Saint's balls!" he goggled. Moving slowly, he tooka torch from the other side of the doorway and sent it flying at one of the

rats that sat atop one of the wine barrels. It hit with a thud, and therat fell to the floor. Seconds later, it clambered back on the barrel. DePortau imagined he saw a look of indignant anger in those little black eyesand looked away.

Whispering a brief prayer, he pulled the small silver crucifix from beneathhis jerkin, kissed it, and let it dangle in the open from its silver chain.As if on cue, the rats scrambled from their perches and vanished into theshadows, their nails scratching a tattoo like hail on a marble roof.

Swallowing his dread, de Portau glanced around the large room, and decidedon one of the arched tunnels that led off from it based, as little as heliked it, on the fact that the odor seemed to be emanating from there.

Though there were some cobwebs on the ceiling, it was evident that thistunnel was in use, for the dust on the floor was so well-disturbed that noindividual tracks could be discerned. The tunnel twisted and turned untilde Portau could no longer even guess what part of the church he might beunder.

He stumbled and almost fell over the pile of masonry scattered across thefloor at a bend in the tunnel. He crouched to examine it, and realizedthat a solid wall had once stood here, and had only recently beendisinterred. Beyond was small alcove, with a trapdoor set in the floor.The wood was very old, but dry and set with a bronze ring so old it wasencrusted with a green patina.

The trapdoor swung open easily, and de Portau noted that it had beenwell-oiled within recent memory. By lowering the torch into the square ofinky darkness, he could see a stout wooden ladder set in the wall, and thecrumbled remains of a much older ladder on the floor below. Taking a deepbreath, he lowered himself down.

Looking around, he realized that he was now in the crypts of the church,but doubtless one walled up long ago for whatever reason. As he walkedalong the corridor, he saw alcoves along both sides, each containing asingle bier with a corpse mouldering its way to dust within. He shivered,and pulled the collar of his porte-manteau higher.

He had reached a point where he began to consider turning back, for historch burned faster than he anticipated, and with even more blue in theflame, he noted. If he waiting long to turn back, he would risk losing thelight and he did not favour the idea of wandering blindly amongst thesedead. He cursed himself for not taking the second torch, but he had notforseen a labyrinthe of crypts to be explored.

As he pondered his choice, he became aware of a sound other than thepounding of his own heart. He turned his head slowly from side to sidetrying to determine from what direction the sound came. Hesitantly, hepicked one tunnel, and had to turn back when it stopped at a dead end.


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His second choice was more accurate, and he crept silently up to a largewooden door. The door was very old, and it hung crookedly, leaving a widegap beneath, through which weird, eldritch green light pulsed and athrobbed.

De Portau pressed his ear to the door, and immediately, jumped back as ifburned; the door was not just cold as a hangman's heart. It did not

matter. Even though he could make out no details, he could tell thatsomeone was chanting in a sing-song voice on the other side of that door.

Occasionally, the voice would rise and a single word could be heard, andthough de Portau did not recognize the words they made the hair on hisbull-neck bristle.

For a long time, he just stood there, his hand poised over the handle ofthe door and a single drop of sweat beaded on his upper lip despite thearctic cold that emanated from the wood. He knew that whatever lay withinwas nothing natural, and that if he opened that door his life would changein ways he could not now understand. All this he knew, while those strangewords continued from within, and it is testament to his stout Gascon heart

that he silently consigned his soul to Christ, gritted his teeth, andflung open the door.

Whatever he had expected to greet him within, it was not what he saw. Thedoor swung open and de Portau stepped boldly over the casement, rapier inhand. Within was a large chamber of ancient, crumbling stone blocks with ahigh, vaulted and butressed ceiling lost in shadow above. The walls weredone in fresco reliefs, showing strange creatures to beggar the imaginationof the authors of medeival beastiaries and haunt the dreams of a thousandmad poets - or a single mad Arab.

The centre of the room was taken up by a put ten feet around which appearedto de Portau as merely a circle of utter blackness. From out of the pit

wafted the unmistakable odor of decay. At the far end of the room was asquat black altar, carved from a single piece of glistening obsidian, andbehind the altar stood a wooden lectern carved with cherbim and the holycross, onviously a recent addition. Atop the lectern was a book, a verylarge book, turned open to a page and held in place by a leering humanskull.

These things de Portau noticed momentarily, along with the glacial chillthat froze not only his flesh but his soul. But first, and most shocking,was the sight of Cardinal Richelieu, holy vestments lifted to reveal ashrivelled, wizzened old-man's body and a huge, throbbing erection toppedby a great purpled head the size of a fairish plum, which hovered scantinches from the bare pubis of the girl chained upon the altar.

The two men stared at each other for long seconds, in stunned silence. DePortau felt the presences in the room, the beings he could not perceivewith any sense he could name, yet knew they lingered here. It was dePortau that broke the impasse. "Emminence...?"

The Cardinal snarled like a rabid animal, and de Portau shrank before theweird light that played in his eyes. "No!" screamed the Cardinal, "I amtoo close! I cannot be stopped now!"

Releasing the hem of his robe with one hand, he gestured in the direction


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of the pit and shrieked a litany of words profane before Man crawled fromthe primordial slime of his seas. "Ia Cthulhu! Cthulhu fhtagn! Ph'ngluimglw'nafh Cthulhu R'Lyeh wagh'nagl fhtagn! Ia! Ia!"

From within the pit came foul sucking noises, and slurpings, andcrunchings. De Portau felt his nerve endings go numb as something,something horribly liquid, began squelching up the side of the pit. Aliquescent black pseudopod oozed up, over the side and began to grow as

more of the flesh which was not flesh came up. Foot after foot it came,unknowable tons of malleable foulness. And with it came the stench thathad pervaded all the cellars, but ten thousand times worse. It was thestench of dead things, and of ancient secrets festering in the dark like anopen sore, and of creatures beautiful in their mind-blasting ugliness thatlay hidden beneath black, stygian waters.

When its full bulk hove into view, it was nearly twelve feet around andeight high, small for a shoggoth. And out of its gently ululating fleshformed a pustule nearly a foot across. This pustule tore open, and an eyethe size of a dinner plate - not the eye of mindless beast, oh no, butrather an eye full of dreadful alien intelligence and malice - turned itsfull gaze upon de Portau.

He felt his sanity slipping away. He saw blackness forming at the edges ofhis vision in spots, coalescing into larger spots, and felt an eerie calm.In a moment, he knew, what was truly de Portau would be gone, and nothingthis abomination could do to the meat that used to house his spirit wouldhurt him.

And yet. And yet, somewhere deep within him, a voice he scarcelyrecognized called out. "Stay, Isaac!" it called. "You must stay, for youare not weak. It feeds on your weaknesses, Isaac; your fears, your doubts,your lack of faith. It grows strong on your weaknesses. But you are notweak! You are a Gascon and you are made of sterner stuff than the averageman. You are one who has always lived as you wished, never in battle with

your spirit and that has made you strong. Perhaps you shall not prevail,but you shall die as God intended, on your feet with a sword in your handand a song in your heart!"

Dimly, he recognized the voice as his father's.

De Portau shook his head as if to clear it. The shoggoth, which had beenrolling slowly towards him with its peculiar amoebic gait stopped, suddenlyperceiving things it had not expected. It formed tongues and fnasted theair like a serpent. It extended strangely-shaped pseudopodia that, amongother things, measured brainwaves, heard heartbeats, scented pheromones,and read electro-magnetic fields.

The creature had sensed a Presence briefly, of a sort it had not not beforeencountered and that made it wary. It double-checked its analyses andfound that the meat creature prey before it possessed slightly denser fleshthan what it had previously encountered, but of little import to a beingthat could chew and consume ingots of iron. No exceptional teleplasmic orectoplasmic mass which could indicate the possession of Power. Its brainand circulatory organ were still functioning, and while it was unusual forthis to occur subsequent to encountering one of its kind, it had happenedbefore and merely made for a more pleasurable kill.

Up and down wavelengths and bandwidths that a physicist would have given


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his soul to merely have knowledge of - and some, one day, would do justthat - it scanned its prey carefully, for it was a wary creature by nature,and taking chances with a life that spanned the millenia was unthinkable.Satisfied at last that this meat creature posed no threat beyond itsprimitive weapon, it closed for the kill.

While the shoggoth analyzed its senses, the blackness cleared from dePortau's vision, and the terror that transformed his heart to a black of

ice melted in the fiery passion of a new emotion: rage. A great, righteousfury gripped him with a strength that sent power surging down his limbs andburned away the last of the darkness in his mind.

"I am Gascon!" he thundered, causing the shoggoth to extend a hugemalformed ear. "And I fear no man or beast before God!"

Richilieu ran his hand over the delectable young creature bound and gaggedbefore him, and slammed his grotesquely huge member home up to the hilt,uttering a profane "mea culpa" in the extremity of his lust. In and out,in and out, he thrust, his time-worn heart pounding against its paper-thinwalls. He turned his head to see the shoggoth close with the awesome speedof its kind with the bellowing Gascon and chuckled.

Thrust. Thrust. "I have a new God now, Gascon," said Richilieu a satisfiedsmile on his face. "The old one offered me an unknowable heaven beyondthis world, or a fiery hell beneath it. I choose to stay in this world andmake of it my own personal heaven - or hell, if that suits my pleasure."

De Portau's eyes widened at the speed of the massive shoggoth as it rushedtoward him, and hurled himself away in a diving roll just fractions of asecond before the creature slammed into the wall where he had been standingwith enough force to shatter the stone and shake the ground.

Thrust. Thrust. "I found a book in the crypts, Gascon, the very one yousee upon the altar. It was written by a disgusting heathen arab, but I

have gleaned from it the secret of immortal life. Life eternal!"

The shoggoth emitted a piercing shriek at its failure like the sound of asteam whistle. It did not even seem to change direction. It simply beganpicking up speed once more in the direction of its prey.

De Portau knew it was faster than he by a good measure, and that while hecould avoid it with careful timing a few times, it would likely become wiseto his trick. When that happened, he was a dead man. And so, as he leapedaside once more, he slashed viciously at the creature's side. It barelypenetrated the thick hide, but it did sever an eyestock which the creaturehad been projecting for trinocular vision.

Thrust. Thrust. "The rituals require sacrifice. It was no difficult matterto obtain harlots and young female debtors from the Bastille. There werenone to complain of the disappearance of creatures so unimportant, and asyou can see, the sacrifices are not totally without their own rewards." Hereached forward with a hand to pinch the girl's nipple painfully.

The shoggoth screamed its fury, and extended a sucker mouth to devour thesevered eyestock. Its whole body suddenly bristled with razor sharpappendages atop pseudopods which whistled through the air to slash at thesurprised Gascon.


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So surprised was he that only the instincts gained from a dozenbattlefields saved him. The air was suddenly alive with sharp, slashingdeath, and he arm moved to parry blow after blow with dazzling reflexesthat were not entirely conscious. Again, without conscious thought, heturned the defence into a counter-attack, and slashed at one of thepseudopods, severing it entirely.

Thrust. Thrust. "Soon, I began to acquire true Power. I summoned forth

your playmate there, though he very nearly cost me a great deal. I allowhim to run free in the crypts at night to feed on rats and such when I havenot enough political prisoners to sate its appetite. That damned stewardand his wife should have known better then to be down there at night. Itmight have been alright if it had eaten the boy too, but no, the blastedurchin injured me and escaped. It took a great deal of sacrifices to sendthe shoggoth forth across dimensions and snatch the boy from beneath yourvery noses, but oh, how it must have rankled de Troisvilles! Hee hee. Iassure you, the urchin's death was neither short nor painless. I did,however," he cackled with a leer, "discover how delectable a tight littleboy could be."

A thin, brackish liquid trickled from the stump where the pseudopod had

been before it healed over, and the shoggoth writhed with its fury,slamming the ground around it blindly with with pseudopods that packed thepunch of sledge hammers, but missing the wily Gascon. Once more, theshoggoth devoured its severed pseudopod.

De Portau rubbed his arm, trying to get some feeling back into it. Theforce of the blows he had turned were unbelievable, and his arm was numbwith their force. He realized that he was constantly giving ground, andnow stood nearly back to back with the rutting Cardinal, whose insanebabble continued even as he subjected that poor girl to his less thantender ministrations.

De Portau longed to spin around and plant his rapier in the man's foul

heart, but he dared not take his eyes of the shoggoth for even a second.It was simply too fast. So far he had been lucky, but he was tiring. Andif he was even the tiniest instant slower than he had already been, hewould be dead, or worse, in an eyeblink.

The shoggoth quivered silently for a moment. It had never in its longexistance met any that could withstand it as this creature had, who did notalso possess the Power. It carely extruded a phallic-looking sensor andscanned once more, but could find not the tiniest femto-erg of Power withinit.

It was not truly hurt, of course. It had lost no mass; it simply devouredthe amputated flesh. It could systain ten million times the damage it had

taken and not be reduced to one ten millionth its power. Yet it wasinfuriated, if such an emotion could be escribed to so alien a creature,with its failure.

Cunningly, it flicked a pseudopod at de Portau, who slashed at it andsevered it. But this was as the shoggoth had intended, for a secondpseudopod wrapped itself around the blade and twisted it from de Portau'shand. The sword slithered towards the shoggoth, which extruded a hugemouth filled with flat grinding teeth, and crushed the hardened steelrapier to powder, which it ingested.


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the book over his head and brought it down hard against the flank of itsglistening flesh. A shiver ran through it, and a maw of monstrous sizeformed in its body from which a piercing keen wailed, as if every key onthe world's largest pipe organ was being simultaneously depressed.

"Bon appetit," said de Portau jauntily, and tossed the book into its mouth.He had been expecting some final awful death throe, some kind of lastattempt at vengance, but it was nothing so dramatic. The shoggoth simply

vanished, as if it were nothing more than an inflated pig's bladder whichhad sprung a sudden and disastroud leak. Once moment it was there, and thenext it flickered away to nothing. The book landed with a thud on theground, its light dimmed to a faint shimmer.

Then from behind him was a ragged cheer of triumph, and de Portau knew hehad won too late. Richilieu stood half-naked and covered in blood. Anobsidian knife rested in one hand, with which he had stabbed the girl firstin the groin to produce the maximum pain and terror, and then slashed herthroat to kill her instantly at the peak of her agaonies. His penis, limpand angry red with over-use, dripped a few last drops of semen upon thefloor.

"I have the Power!" exulted Richilieu. "I am God. You have caused me sometrouble, for you have banished my shoggoth. It is no impediment, for now Ican summon ten, nay, fifty of them. I shall summon a veritable host ofshoggoths, for they shall be my angels, and they shall mete out punishmentto all who defy me. I shall have to summon one to clean up this mess, ofcourse. Or perhaps I shall take care of this one myself, to celebrate."

To de Portau's horror, the Cardinal bent over and bit off several of thedead girl's toes, which he chewed gustily. "Delectable," announced theCardinal, now quite mad.

"Emminence," said Portau, as he drew the musquet from his belt, "may Godhave mercy upon you, for I have none."

There was a loud report, and the Cardinal's eyes opened in suprise as aperfectly round, red hole materialized in the center of his forehead, andwhat brains remained to him exited his head through a considerably largerhole in the back of it. The Cardinal crumpled bonelessly to the ground,and there was complete and utter silence after the report of the musquethad died away.

De Portau sat for a long time on the floor, not thinking of anything atall. It might have been minutes or hours; he was never quite sure.Finally, his tired muscles began to cramp and his mind returned from thegrey land it had wandered.

Idly, he kicked the leather-bound book towards him, and held it in hishands. Picking a page at random, he made to turn to it, but the end of agnarled wooden staff pushed the cover of the book shut again.

"I wouldn't," said the Wanderer.

***

De Portau and the Wanderer sat together in a great hall that looked as ifit might once have held thousands. Two huge tables a thousand feet longran the length of the hall, with wooden benches on either side. Evidently


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the place had not been used in a very long time, for dust and cobwebs layheavily across everything.

The building itself was made from heavy timbers, and de Portau imaginedthat whole forests must have been denuded in its making. A hundred feetup, the roof was made from shields laid side to side and sewn together. Ina few places, the shields had been damaged or blown away, and sunlightstreamed through in bright shafts to dispel some of the gloom.

The tables of the hall were still strewn with jugs whose contents had longevaporated away, and the heaped bones of whole chickens and boars. Clayand wooden plates sat on the tables by the thousands, and here and therewas the gleam of gold or silver mugs. Those last to use this hall had leftin some considerable hurry.

For some reason the hall produced the same unreasoning sadness in de Portauthat the Wanderer himself did. They both gave the impression of existinglong after their purposes had been served. Though he could not have saidwhy had hot coals been applied to his feet, de Portau felt as if the hallwas a fairy tale which had long ago ended and ceased to have any meaning.

Once again, de Portau essayed to examine the Wanderer. Since he hadappeared so mysteriously in the crypts of Notre Dame, de Portau had beentrying to get a look at the man, but he wore a simple loose robe thatdisguised his body, and a very large and disreputable slouch hat thatdisguised his features save for the long white beard that well to his belt,and his long, fine white hair that fell in a cascade down his back. Thatand his bony hands as gnarled as the staff they held, which de Portaunoticed had curious puckered wounds on their backs.

When the old man had introduced himself as simply the Wanderer and offeredto lead de Portau safely from the crypts, he could not argue with the man,but he almost balked when he saw what mode of egress the old man intendedto use.

At first blush, it appeared to be a horse, but it was much too massive tobe anything but perhaps a heavy draft horse. It also appeared to have sixlegs, rather than the four more commonly found on equine species.Furthermore, it had no head as such. Instead, it had a ring of think, ropytentacles which surrounded the crushing sphincter that passed for a mouth.Though it didn't seem to have any sense organs, it had detected de Portau'spresence in some way for it hissed a warning when he arrived, and had to becalmed by the Wandered, who ran his hand gently among the graspingtentacles as a man might stroke the nose of a real horse.

With much cajoling, de Portau mounted the beast behind the Wanderer, and itbegan galloping towards a wall. Just when de Portau thought they must

crash with bone-jarring force, the world seemed to snap out of focus andslowly shimmer back into existance in a new arrangement, the hall in whichthe two now sat, with the Wanderer's strange clopping docilely from thehall in search of forage.

The Wanderer was apparently in no hurry to explain himself, or anythingthat had happened, so de Portau, never a patient man at the best of times,broke first. "Who are you?"

"I am the Wanderer, as I have said."


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"Yes, so you have said," quipped de Portau sardonically. "Mayhap you wouldkind enough to tell me then where we are and to what end I have beenbrought here. Not that I do not mean to be properly grateful for yourassistance, monsieur, but I have had, er, rather an eventful day."

The old man raised his head suddenly, as if scenting danger.

"What? What is it, Monsieur Wanderer?" asked de Portau nervously, his hand

reaching automatically for the rapier which wasn't there.

"The Dark Man comes," said the Wanderer, angrilly. "He dares too much!"

A man emerged from a corner of the hall, where only shadows had beenbefore. De Portau noted that he had not so much appeared suddenly asseemed to shoulder his way from the line of demarcation that indicatedwhere the angles of the wall met.

"Ia Cthulhu," said the Dark Man, a thin-lipped smile on his strangelyunremarkable face. De Portau could not tell whether the man was black orwhite, or whether his nose was large or small. He had a curiously averageappearance that frightened him more than a ravening monster would have, for

this was a face you would not notice even if it passed you in the street.You might well pass on unaware of the danger that lay in wait for you; forindeed, de Portau sensed great malign power within him.

"Get thee from my hall, herald! Thou art cast out!" raged the Wanderer,who raised his staff as if to beat the Dark Man with it.

"Now, now, old man. No need to get testy. I am here to warn you that weknow of your plans. This... man," said the Dark Man, gesturing at dePortau with evident contempt, "is no match for one with the true Power andyou well know it. You have not the power you once did, old man, and yourisk much by placing it within the fragile vessel of this Powerless mortal.You have been warned, old man. Do not interfere with what does not concern

you. Or we shall see just how weak you have become." His eyes narrowed.

The Wanderer seemed to grow taller, and more powerful as he grew angry. Heremoved his old slouch hat to reveal a face hard and chiselled, with asingle eye, they other covered by a patch. His eye began to blaze withlight, and his staff stretched and straightened, and grew a sharp blade atthe end, until it was a massive spear of burnished hardwood and intricatelyworked blue steel.

"I have power yet to crush such an insignificant ant as thyself,Nyarlathotep!" Arcs of blue lightning played about his single eye, and dePortau realized with great surprise that the Dark Man was cringing andbacking away from this awesome being, terrible in his majesty.

"By the Power of They Who Live Above In Shadow, and by the Power of themighty spear Gungnir, and by the Power which yet resides in this body, thouart cast out, Herald, whose True Name is Nyarlathotep! GET THEE FROM THISPLACE!"

These final words came from the Wanderer not as the voice of a man, even apowerful man, but rather as elemental thunder itself, reverberating throughthe hall and through the sky. He raised his spear high into the air, andlightning crackled at its tip, too bright to look at. It arced throughspace and coruscated in a shower of blinding blue sparks across the body of


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the Dark Man, who screamed once, agonizingly, and vanished.

The Wanderer turned his single furious, blazing eye upon de Portau, whofound he could not look away. That eye held the power and secrets of theuniverse, and pierced the brave Gascon through his very soul. Then, all atonce, the light went out like a candle, leaving only a dim, red sputterwithin that socket, a reminder of what those banked coals could become.

And then the Wanderer collapsed.

For a moment, de Portau could not believe his eyes, but with thatincredible speed, he rushed forward to catch the old man before he couldhit the ground and carried him to the table like a limp doll. He wasamazed at how light and frail that body seemed, and was further shocked tosee blood dripping from the old man's head.

The Wanderer sat up slowly, despite de Portau's demand that he remainprostrate, at least until he regained his strength.

"This is as strong as I will get, I'm afraid," said the Wanderer. "You area kind man, Isaac de Portau. I have chosen well."

"Please, monsieur," said de Portau, "If what you ask of me is possiblewithin my sworn oaths to God and the King of France, I shall do what iswithin my power to do. But I must know the facts. I must know who youare, where I am, and what is expected of me."

"I have been known by many names in many places, Isaac da Portau. I havebee called Woden by some, and Odinn by others. I have been called Mosesand Merlin and Vainamoinen. To some I was Zeus, and to othersQetzalcouatl, the Feathered Serpent. I am the last of the Elder Gods uponyour world. I serve They Who Live Above In Shadow, who are to me as I amto you in Power and mystery. I and my kind are what you and your kindshall become if you survive the unspeakable horrors of the Great Old Ones

who are our ancient implacable enemies. To such as the Elder Gods and theOld Ones, time and space is but an agreeable illusion that masks a truerreality."

The old man paused for breath, as Isaac de Portau sat spellbound by hiswords.

"I alone remain to protect your world, which will in time become my world.Once, a long time ago, we of the Elder Gods made a great and terrible warupon the Old Ones, who were banished for an age. But such as they cannever be truly destroyed, and they shall return when the stars are oncemore right.

"We contend, those of us who remain. We contend for the minds, bodies, andsouls of humans. The Dark Man, whom you have met, is the herald of the OldOnes and the least of their number. But I am old, and my power is limited,and I fear I am no longer capable of dealing personally with such beings asGreat Cthulhu, high priest of the Old Ones, and the greatest of those whoremain.

"You see, I made a decision some years ago let go the reins of my Power,and let it seek out those who may learn to use it. It made me weak, butgave your people a strength they had never known before."


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The old man held up his hands and showed the perfect round holes in thecentre of each hand, and the ragged tears on his forehead and around hishead, as if torn by a crown of thorns.

"I have," said the Wanderer quietly, "also been known as Saviour."

De Portau could think of nothing to say, but dropped to one knee before theolf man.

"No, Isaac de Portau. Rise, my good and noble servamt. You and I havemuch work to do. For you see, the Old Gods have chasen a champion and sethim lose upon the world. Look into my eye, Isaac, Look and see the faceof evil."

De Portau looked deep into the old man's eye and felt himself falling,tumbling down a long tunnel walled with crackling blue lightning, the airredolent of ozone. At the bottom of the tunnel he emerged to find himselfstrangely disembodied. It was not altogether a comfortable sensation.

He looked around and saw himself in a black chamber with five walls,containing four sets of shackles and a squat black altar he thought he

recognized. Two corpses of young women lay on the floor, and one upon analtar, her limbs bent at odd angles, and with a strangely mashed look toher. Near him a shoggoth began ingesting one of the corpses on the floor.

Unable to control himself, de Portau floated through the ceiling and into abedroom where a young man slept, his face handsome and innocent. Exceptthat de Portau had seen what horrors lurked in his basement. Narrowingnon-existant phantom eyes, de Portau committed the young man's face tomemory in case they should ever meet.

With shocking suddeness, the boy in the bed opened his eyes, as if he wasaware of being watched. He glanced suspiciously around the room, but couldfind no source for his worry. Satisfied that there was no danger, the buy

relaxed again, and sat up in bed. Before de Portau's amazed eyes, the boylaughed with pleasure and transformed himself into a jet-black dragon withscales like the plates of a hauberk.

And then he was back in his own body, his flesh feeling like a pair ofover-heavy and cumbersome boots.

"That," said the Wanderer, "is your enemy. His name is Wil Whately, and heis the champion of evil. His flesh is tougher than the strongest steel.His strength is twenty times that of the normal man. He can run withoutexhaustion for years or even decades if he has to. He has as little needfor sleep, air, or food as I, but has not yet lost their habits. That is aweakness, and one you might be able to exploit.

"He can transform him body to any shape or form that pleases him, and whilehis his use of the Power is yet crude and unshaped, it is strong and hewill have plenty of time to practice for he is immortal.

"His food and drink are now pain and suffering. He draws his Power fromthe agony of others, and takes special pleasure in inflicting that agonywith his own hands. In short, he is the as close to the paradigm of evilas humans can yet come, and he will soon learn new ways to improve upon themodel."


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De Portau spread his arms wide. "I am as brave as the next man, MonsieurWanderer, providing that man is a Gascon. If it is your will that I throwaway my life in opposing this Antichrist, I shall do so and gladly, onlyknowing why I am to die in this manner, for surely there can be no otherresult if I should oppose such a creature."

The Wanderer smiled. "As usual, your words speak well of you, Isaac dePortau. I do not ask you to throw away your life, though it is only fair

to warn you that you are likely to lose your life no matter what the resultof this confrontation is, for the Old Ones are not known for theirforgiveness, or willingness to play by a set of rules.

"I shall give you three gifts, Isaac de Portau, that shall serve you ingood stead in this battle."

With the end of his staff, the Wanderer pointed at the crucifix which hunrgfrom de Portau's neck. It blazed brightly for a moment, then dimmed,thought Isaac could still feel its warmth through the material of hisjerkin.

"By this gift shall you know your enemy, no matter what the form he should

take."

The second gift the Wanderer pulled from a pocket somewhere in hisvoluminous robes. It was the most breathtakingly beautiful feather that dePortau had ever seen, and made him think sadly of the burnt and missingfeather of his own hat. As if reading his thoughts, the Wanderer reachedup and placed the feather in the brim of de Portau's hat.

"This feather is of me, the pinion of the winged serpent, Qetzalcoutal. Assuch it carries a part of my essence, and by this second gift shall you beprotected from all manner of magics, large and small.

"The third gift, Isaac, you shall have to choose for youself. I can choose

its substance, but not its form. Its form must be decided upon by you andonly you. It shall be the means by hwich you shall overcome your foe."

The Wanderer drew the end of his staff in a circle, and de Portau noticedthat the old man's hands and forehead had begun bleeding again. As thecircle was completed, an unholy blue light exploded from the circle like aporthole to Hell itself.

The Wanderer reached into the hole and drew forth a large handful ofglowing blue metal. The hole vanished instantly.

"Now," said the Wanderer, his voice cracking with stress, "take this metalwithin your hand. Fear not that it shall hurt you, for my magics have

protected us both thus far, though I reached into the very heart of aneutron star."

De Portau had no idea what the Wanderer was talking about, and didn't care.He looked only at that great lump of metal in the Wanderer's hand, andthought about how hot it must be. Had he known that in fact the metal wasseveral tens of millions of degrees, he would not have been surprised.

Reaching deep once more into his Gascon courage, de Portau gingerly tookthe metal in his hand, and felt it quiver as if it was alive.


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"Reach out with your mind, Isaac de Portau. Feel for the shape buriedwithin the metal. Call forth your avenging arm of justice."

De Portau closed his eyes and tried to think of justice. Of honour andnobility. Of faith and goodness and all things beautiful. Of lost causesand of hope. He felt the metal stretch in his hand, and bend and shapeitself to his will.

He opened his eyes and saw he held the finest rapier ever seen by mortaleyes, and he gasped at the beauty of it. It was truly a weapon of from theHand of God. The blade was shiny and true, and light glinted along theperfect blade. The gasket seemed to be composed of lightly spun gold, yetit had none of gold's malleability. And set in the pommel was a gem of icyblue, within which tiny sparks of lightning played and danced.

De Portau made as if to test the blade with his thumb, and the Wandererquickly grabbed his wrist in a vice-like grip. "That would be a good wayto lose a finger. The blade is made of collapsed atoms, and weighs morethan the largest mountains on earth. It is denser still then ten milliondiamonds crushed into one. Its mass is such that nothing - not even themost invulnerable of skin - may resist its edge.

"My magics make the blade as light as air in your hands, though nonebesides yourself shall ever be able to wield it. And now I set upon it therunes which I learned hanging from the branches of the Tree of Knowledge toenoble its spirit and make its cause just."

With the end of his staff, the old man traced strangely familiar symbolsupon the blade which glowed briefly and faded. When he was finished, theWanderer smiled at de Portau and explained "You can now sheath it withoutslashing a gaping hole in the scabbard.

"And now, brave, noble, Isaac de Portau, we must go and mount Sleipnir oncemore, for we must traverse not only the miles but the centuries. Come, let

us leave the sleeping and forgotten halls of Valhalla, and we shall put theforces of darkness to the test.

"Your destiny awaits."

--+-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-+ .. "In order to live free and happily .....| Andrew Nellis | . you must sacrifice boredom. It is .| [email protected] | . not always an easy sacrifice." .+-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-+ ...... -Richard Bach, "Illusions" .........

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Shoggoths and Swashbucklers