Dark Tales Of Lost Civilizations (11 page)

“They will make us welcome in their halls, and feast us like gods,” he said, forcing a companionable grin.

The priests, gluttons both, were much pleased by the idea. “It’s good you managed to learn some of their heathen tongue before that woman died,” one said.

Quetzalcoatl looked forward to killing them.

=[]=

They feasted. Quetzalcoatl and Moctezuma sat together and talked, far from the invader’s prying ears. “There is a sickness spreading among my warriors,” Moctezuma said. “I feared that we had displeased you.”

Quetzalcoatl shook his head. “The sickness comes from the invaders. I will use their blood to burn it away.”

“When? My men are dying.”

“We will move on them tonight.”

Moctezuma bowed his head. “Thank you, Lord. It shall be as you wish.”

“We will sacrifice the priests upon my altar. I want to taste their hearts. The others, we will allow a choice.”

“That is most generous.”

“Generosity is important in a good ruler.”

Moctezuma had the grace to blush. “As you say. I will strive to be more . . . generous.”

=[]=

The battle was easily won. The invaders were drunk and overconfident, and they trusted him. Quetzalcoatl seized the two priests and dragged them to his altar by their hair. He bent one backwards over the stone and cut his heart out with a single slash of his obsidian knife. The other chanted slurred Latin that broke into sobs as Quetzalcoatl brought the heart to his mouth and consumed it. Flesh-warm blood ran down his face. The other priest followed the fate of the first, his broken Latin no defense against sharp glass.

Quetzalcoatl turned to the rest of his host’s men. “I am Quetzalcoatl. Will you follow them,” he waved a hand to the mutilated priests, “or will you follow me?”

Bernal Diaz stepped forward and spat on his cheek. Quetzalcoatl admired Diaz’s spirit . . . and his heart was delicious.

The remaining Spaniards converted, cowering at his feet and offering prayers for mercy.

Quetzalcoatl placed a hand against the stone altar and felt the power of the sacrificed blood pulse inside him. He closed his eyes and willed a change in the world. He could feel plagues that the invaders had carried to his land spreading among the warriors around him and beyond. He destroyed the threat with a thought. He turned to the men surrounding him. Already, some were standing taller.

“I will lead you to glory greater than you ever imagined,” he said.

It only took a few months for Quetzalcoatl to teach his people everything his vessel had known about the invaders and the way they fought.

He led them to Cuba. They stained the sands red with their enemy’s blood, and even more invaders knelt and prayed at his feet.

Then Quetzalcoatl strode onto the deck of one of their beautiful sailing ships and looked east. The sunrise painted the ocean the same blood-red as the sand. The invaders had gold that would make fine tribute . . . and he longed for a taste of fine Spanish wine.

=[]=

Jamie Lackey
attended
James Gunn’s Science Fiction Writer’s Workshop
at the
Center for the Study of Science Fiction in 2010
. Her work has appeared in
The Living Dead 2, Bards and Sages Quarterly
, and
Stories from the Heart: Heartwarming Tales of Appalachia.
She works as an assistant editor on
The Triangulation Annual Anthology Series
and she reads slush for
Clarkesworld Magazine
.

C. Deskin Rink

=[]=

This next selection really encompasses two lost civilizations: The brutal and short-lived Nazi war machine, and also what they discover deep under the arctic earth. It is a chilling tale of uncovering slumbering evil and the consequences for such ill-considered desecration. C. Deskin Rink takes you into the world of the ancients; the not-unfamiliar realm of green soapstone and eldritch metal. Madness and death await in the
Königreich der Sorge
.

=[]=

April 17, 1939

Herr Generalfeldmarschall Wilhelm Keitel:

Please convey my sincerest apologies to the Führer for tardiness of this message. Industry has been our sole determination for these last six days to the near exclusion of all else—including at times food and drink. I have so much wondrous news to impart that I scarcely know where to begin!

Major Holtz and I waited five days for the rest of our men to finally arrive in Nazyvaevsk—a truly squalid little town if ever there was one. Why the Soviets extended their railway network to that filthy little nook of the world is quite beyond me, I assure you. No more than two score of the most toothless, boil-encrusted wretches to ever walk the earth make up its entire citizenry.

Thereafter, we requisitioned sufficient yaks to convey ourselves, our possessions, and our equipment, then set off overland for the village of Marblehead.

We made good progress during this leg of our trip. The spring thaw ensured that snow never truly hindered our passage except in the few instances where slushy ground forced us into lengthy circumnavigation. On midday, April 3, we arrived at the tiny village of Marblehead—quite ahead of schedule, I might add. I found the villagers to be, on the whole, amicable—if somewhat given to the usual stoicism and taciturn demeanor common to non-Aryan peoples living so far north. However, to be utterly honest, they do not seem entirely wholesome to me. True, they are dour, but that is not the reason they bother me so. When I chanced to observe the interiors of several of their households, I saw little shrines arrayed with blasphemous figurines and grotesquely carven idols. I must confess that, despite my disquiet, I felt a certain thrill upon recognizing a few members of that loathsome pantheon: Hastur the Inscrutable; lifeless yet ever-living Xan; hermaphroditic and ophidian Xethogga; Ihmapheses or The-One-Who-Waits. I recognized them from the cache of occult books confiscated from that gypsy-wizard the Einsatzgruppen rounded up back in 1935—particularly the images betwixt the rotten pages of the largest tome, the
Torzul Balceor
.

I checked my map and instruments before we set out the following day to discover that we had passed beyond the sixty-sixth parallel and were now within the Arctic Circle. From the rough maps the gypsy-wizard had drawn, I could tell we were getting close.

After two more days of travel, we discovered a collection of unusual stones protruding betwixt the patches of brittle grass that dotted the hard earth. These stones were of an unusual, soapy texture and green complexion. They were each approximately four meters x three meters x six meters and arranged in such a manner that I could scarcely doubt they had ever been anything but masonry blocks.

Digging in the area revealed nothing, but as we traveled further north we encountered yet more of the curious stones. They were badly worn by innumerable years, but on the surface of some I could make out the barest hints of nigh-effaced sigils or runes. I need not explain the thrill I felt when, upon closer examination, it became clear that they bore striking similarities to certain scrawled hieroglyphs within the pages of that accursed
Torzul Balceor
.

We tarried only long enough to make accurate sketches before pressing onward—since by now, I knew that something must lie just beyond the horizon. Three days later I was proven correct. Right where the old wizard’s map indicated—right where it was supposed to be—a ruined city built in some long forgotten age! I could not help but wonder: Is this the place? The fabled place which the ancients whispered about betwixt hours of night and nether night? The place which the mad author of the
Torzul Balceor
mentions only obliquely—the place which he calls “The Kingdom of Sorrow”?

Unfortunately, what remained of that place was precious little indeed. It was quite clear that all the edifices had long since tumbled down, long since been reduced to their foundations. Only half-buried chunks of the strange masonry remained: arranged in accordance with floor plans that completely defy my ability to comprehend.

Immediately it was also clear that someone else had been here before us. We found hastily abandoned digging apparatuses, tools, the remains of tents, and partially collapsed pits that could hardly be anything else except the sites of excavation. Though we inferred the truth long before we saw any evidence of it, examination of the materiel showed it to be of Soviet origin.

That the Soviet camp was hastily abandoned for an unknown reason is readily apparent but, given the state of disrepair that we found it in, I can only conclude that it was abandoned at least two years ago. This is, of course, in accordance with what the SS decoded from certain intercepted pieces of Stalin’s personal correspondence.

The remains of the Soviet camp proved quite a boon since we found several wooden structures they had erected to be still standing. Repairing them took only half a day and saved us the trouble of logging enough trees to build new shelters—a process which could have taken over a week.

After setting up our own camp, we spent the next few days digging amongst the ruins. Although much of the Soviet equipment has been rendered useless, that which is still in working order has proven invaluable: particularly the hoists and counter-weighted troughs. Pity that the petrol-powered shovel is badly damaged as it would be of great help. It may be possible to repair the shovel, but not without the correct replacement parts.

Most of the stones are nondescript, either because they are smooth by design or have been rendered that way by the ceaseless grind of wind and snow. We uncovered a few pieces which evince worn sigils, but such is their sorry state that attempting to read them is a fool’s errand. However, we did uncover a couple smaller pieces which appear to be the remains of some sort of bas-reliefs. Although worn nearly to the point of unintelligibility, it is still obvious that they depict horrific creatures which I am at a loss to categorize amongst all the known types of fauna—or flora! Exactly what these creatures look like—or what ghastly pursuits they are engaged in—is best not described. Indeed, my eyes hurt when I look upon the plaques, and the men refuse to look upon them at all.

As I conclude this letter, I must confess that I am in a state of considerable excitement. Just this morning some of the men, whilst rooting about some of the more complete foundations, discovered a large area of loose dirt covered by a pile of flagstones and other debris. Curiously it seems that the flagstones had been laid there somewhat recently and in a manner that seemed to suggest an attempt at concealing or covering up something beneath. We spent the better part of the day removing the flagstones until we revealed a mighty trapdoor composed of the same soapy green stone and bearing a metal ring so large that only Major Holtz possessed strength enough to lift it even the tiniest bit. Tomorrow we plan on constructing a large lever or other sort of apparatus in order to lift the door.

Before I go on, I must state that I am not a man given over to superstition or childish belief in spirits, specters, or ghouls. There is nothing I have ever encountered throughout my many wondrous travels that cannot be explained through, rational, scientific means—no matter how supernatural and terrible it may appear at first. That being said, there is something about this door that fills me with a nameless dread which I have hitherto never known. Perhaps it has something to do with the large, metal brackets that seal it shut. These brackets can be nothing other than arcane locks—although they bear no place for the insertion of a key. Perhaps it has to do with the monstrous images carven on the door, leering faces and writhing figures which I am glad that time and erosion have worn away to near the point of complete obliteration. Perhaps—perhaps it is the fact that I am doubtless the flagstones had been laid in haste by none other than the Soviet expedition two years ago. Did they see something down there that made them abandon their anthropological efforts?

Yet despite my trepidation, despite my dread, despite it all, I cannot help but feel a certain thrill at considering what lies beneath that hideous trap-door. Wondrous treasures of long-lost civilization! Atlantis! Lemuria! Catrazzarr! Mu! Their secrets lie so close! What antediluvian cycle birthed this nameless city? If I listen close enough, I can hear the cold winds whistling over that nighted trapdoor—I can hear the cold winds whispering of the secrets lying just below our feet. Tomorrow we construct a mighty lever to pry the trapdoor open. I doubt that this night will find me asleep for even an instant, such is my state of anticipation.

Your Ob’d Servant

Dr. Werner von Eichmann PhD. M.D.

April 26, 1939

Herr Generalfeldmarschall Wilhelm Keitel: