seduce the young and send them out to learn one of Azathoth’s idiotic spells.”
Azathoth. One of the words of the chant. Laura tried not to show recognition, but the Lord of Manhattan smirked.
“Azathoth. Goddamn blind demiurge, the size of a star. The awesome daemon-sultan, that sits and does fuck-all at the center of the universe. Destroys everything he touches, doesn’t even know what power is all about. What the hell is your idiot god going to grant anyone? The power to drool and shit themselves? Dornier backed a second-rate loser, not even a contender. Your spell doesn’t do anything, you stupid bitch.”
Laura concealed a relit spark of hope. The chant did something, even if she didn’t know what. And if the Lord of Manhattan didn’t know what the spell was, it would take him by surprise. She looked at the sky.
Two fish-men grabbed her and took her away. It didn’t do any good to struggle–they had hands like steel. They wrestled her into a cell at the Lord’s castle. The door was too strong for her, the walls unforgiving stone.
Now she knew the despair that Monica felt. Tomorrow she would go to the tower, and sometime later, a fish-man baby would tear its way out of her. If she survived the first one, there would certainly be another, and then another until whatever luck or strength had sustained her gave out. Would the spell work if she was dead? She thought about the Lord’s jibe about Dornier and the chosen one. He was a liar.
She watched as the clouds slowly broke up, revealing a fine red sunset. Daylight turned to darkness, and no one bothered her, not even to feed her. She paced in the nearly-blind dark, the stars remote and uncaring. Did she have it in her to escape from the fish-men?
She curled into a ball for what might have been hours in the timeless, trackless cell, sick with fear and failure. Almost imperceptibly, darkness gave way to a faint green luminescence. She looked up. Beyond her tiny cell window, the sky was a roiling, inverted pot of boiling green water. She marveled, dumbfounded, before realizing what it meant. The time had come. Dornier was calling for her and everyone who knew the spell. She chanted. Somehow, she had imagined doing so surrounded by many people, the women and children she had taught, their voices joining up into a triumphant, ascending chorus. Instead, she pressed her face against her cell’s filthy bars, chanting alone, her words echoing off stone walls. Nothing happened. The hot spark flew up, but that was all. Was that it? She started again.
And then she heard a reply, off from the distance. First one voice, then many. Women’s voices, and then more, men now, men angry with the Lord of Manhattan. Laura sang it, stronger now, exulting in the sound of the people around her, all chanting the same spell. After two inconclusive tries, they were suddenly all saying the same words at the same time, clamped together by some force greater than all of them. When the last syllable was said, an invisible hand pulled her tongue out by the root.
Laura collapsed, hands at her mouth. When she moved them, there was no blood. Her tongue was numb, her teeth scorched and blasted. Somewhere deep inside her was a dull ache. The green churning had vanished from the sky, leaving once again the moon, and remote stars. Nothing had changed. She measured time by the painful throb of her body. Laura wept. She hadn’t been good enough, or strong enough. Not enough people had chanted, and their single opportunity had been wasted. They were defeated, the Masters had won.
When she glanced up, a strange new light was filtering into her cell. Hope surged, and she pressed herself against the bars of the window. The sky had turned a tainted red. A tremendous new object dominated the horizon, nearly touching the zenith directly overhead, somehow behind the moon.
Laura stared, her mind numb with fear at the sight of the impossible, seething monstrosity of
Azathoth. One of the words of the chant. Laura tried not to show recognition, but the Lord of Manhattan smirked.
“Azathoth. Goddamn blind demiurge, the size of a star. The awesome daemon-sultan, that sits and does fuck-all at the center of the universe. Destroys everything he touches, doesn’t even know what power is all about. What the hell is your idiot god going to grant anyone? The power to drool and shit themselves? Dornier backed a second-rate loser, not even a contender. Your spell doesn’t do anything, you stupid bitch.”
Laura concealed a relit spark of hope. The chant did something, even if she didn’t know what. And if the Lord of Manhattan didn’t know what the spell was, it would take him by surprise. She looked at the sky.
Two fish-men grabbed her and took her away. It didn’t do any good to struggle–they had hands like steel. They wrestled her into a cell at the Lord’s castle. The door was too strong for her, the walls unforgiving stone.
Now she knew the despair that Monica felt. Tomorrow she would go to the tower, and sometime later, a fish-man baby would tear its way out of her. If she survived the first one, there would certainly be another, and then another until whatever luck or strength had sustained her gave out. Would the spell work if she was dead? She thought about the Lord’s jibe about Dornier and the chosen one. He was a liar.
She watched as the clouds slowly broke up, revealing a fine red sunset. Daylight turned to darkness, and no one bothered her, not even to feed her. She paced in the nearly-blind dark, the stars remote and uncaring. Did she have it in her to escape from the fish-men?
She curled into a ball for what might have been hours in the timeless, trackless cell, sick with fear and failure. Almost imperceptibly, darkness gave way to a faint green luminescence. She looked up. Beyond her tiny cell window, the sky was a roiling, inverted pot of boiling green water. She marveled, dumbfounded, before realizing what it meant. The time had come. Dornier was calling for her and everyone who knew the spell. She chanted. Somehow, she had imagined doing so surrounded by many people, the women and children she had taught, their voices joining up into a triumphant, ascending chorus. Instead, she pressed her face against her cell’s filthy bars, chanting alone, her words echoing off stone walls. Nothing happened. The hot spark flew up, but that was all. Was that it? She started again.
And then she heard a reply, off from the distance. First one voice, then many. Women’s voices, and then more, men now, men angry with the Lord of Manhattan. Laura sang it, stronger now, exulting in the sound of the people around her, all chanting the same spell. After two inconclusive tries, they were suddenly all saying the same words at the same time, clamped together by some force greater than all of them. When the last syllable was said, an invisible hand pulled her tongue out by the root.
Laura collapsed, hands at her mouth. When she moved them, there was no blood. Her tongue was numb, her teeth scorched and blasted. Somewhere deep inside her was a dull ache. The green churning had vanished from the sky, leaving once again the moon, and remote stars. Nothing had changed. She measured time by the painful throb of her body. Laura wept. She hadn’t been good enough, or strong enough. Not enough people had chanted, and their single opportunity had been wasted. They were defeated, the Masters had won.
When she glanced up, a strange new light was filtering into her cell. Hope surged, and she pressed herself against the bars of the window. The sky had turned a tainted red. A tremendous new object dominated the horizon, nearly touching the zenith directly overhead, somehow behind the moon.
Laura stared, her mind numb with fear at the sight of the impossible, seething monstrosity of
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