Johannes Cabal: The Fear Institute

standard by which to gather them. He settled on pasta. ‘What is this “bavette“ of which you speak?’

‘It’s a form of spaghetti.’ Cabal could see the answers to Oleander’s next questions were in all likelihood going to be ‘Pasta’, ‘Italy’, and ‘A country’, so he cut sharply past such quizzical distractions with, ‘Of no importance at the moment. Action, however, is. The creatures are defenceless and vulnerable – you will never get such a good chance to kill the slavers again.’

Finally, the captain’s wits had their standard by which to regroup. The black galleys had long been distrusted among many of the races of men in the Dreamlands, but never before had their true nature been so publicly exposed, and never before had the opportunity for vengeance upon them been so advantageous. This would be a time of righteous glory, with a decent prospect of looting thrown in. It was too magnificent for any man with blood in his veins to resist. Oleander’s blood was red and hot, and he had a strong, no, irresistible urge to see what ran in the slavers’ veins. With a shout that overrode his crews’ terrors, he rushed forward at their head, throwing grappling lines to draw in the nearest galley, a vessel that so recently they would have done anything to avoid.

Cabal didn’t know what their chances were. If they died, at least they would be distracting the slavers as they did so, allowing him and his two remaining charges some precious time to make good their escape. The few inhuman guards scattered about the wharf were as fascinated and discommoded by the destruction of their home cities as the slavers, but how long that would last, he could not say. Neither did he care to bet his future safety against it being more than a few minutes. An alternative presented itself; if they got on to the northern harbour wall, they could follow it around until they were on the mole, then cut across and circumnavigate the edge of the city wall. Yes, there was a tower to protect the city against invaders performing exactly the reciprocal manoeuvre, but with luck they would be staring skywards with gormless expressions upon their pasta-like faces long enough. It was a gamble, but a lesser one than hoping to make it all the way through the city unchallenged.

Corde was staring fixedly at the hull of the black galley that had been torn open by its neighbour. Exposed within lay folds of brain-like tissue into which the shafts of the oars sank, secured with collar plates riveted directly into the living mass. It was screaming, a thin, ululating whine like an unappreciated shaman, but in such volume that it set the teeth on edge. Between the flesh and the shattered wood of the hull flapped thin leaves of a metal that seemed like lead one moment yet glistened with a rainbow of colours the next, colours not to be found anywhere upon the electromagnetic spectrum. The thin layer of metal had been placed there to keep the galley thing’s compartment hermetically sealed; now that it was exposed to the air, its flesh boiled and melted, and the creature screamed endlessly without pause or attenuation.

Cabal quickly surmised that shaking Corde to gain his attention was too time-consuming, too likely to fail, and would involve spending far too much time within his personal space, so he just went directly to his tried and tested supplemental plan. It was more of a punch than a slap, but it proved as efficacious as it had with Oleander, dragging Corde back from the slippery slope of cosmic horror while simultaneously allowing Cabal to alleviate some of his growing frustration with the situation.

‘Come along!’ Cabal barked at Corde, as if he were a recalcitrant schoolboy on a day trip. ‘No time for dawdling.’ Without waiting for a response beyond an expression of outraged astonishment, he ran to Bose’s side and pulled the sobbing man to his feet.

‘Where’s Shadrach?’ demanded Corde, as he followed.

‘Mr Shadrach’s dead,’ said Bose, in a pitiful, small voice. ‘It got him. It killed him. He fell into the water.’

Corde tried to say something, but it failed in his throat.

‘It was an arm,’ added Bose, pathetically and parenthetically.

Cabal looked at Bose, his expression entirely neutral. Then he said, ‘Herr Bose is correct. Shadrach is dead. The loss of the money he carried may present a problem later. Currently, however, we do not have time to discuss that, or what a splendid chap he was, or whatever other reason is making you stand there impersonating a guppy, Herr Corde. We must be gone immediately.’

The wind was rising, and both the Audaine and the galley to which she was grappled were being driven to the lee shore, close by the end of the wharf and the start of the sea wall. All they had to do was wait a couple of minutes, and they would be in position to jump ashore and make off. Corde started for the quarterdeck, but Cabal stopped him, and instead they went into Oleander’s cabin, a much shorter jump from its bow windows down to the shallows. It also meant they didn’t have to watch Oleander and his men engaged in a loathsome, nightmarish fight with the inhuman slavers, a fight rich with blood and ichors, desperation and despair. Finally, Cabal’s plan furnished him with an opportunity to repair their financial misfortunes by breaking into the captain’s strongbox and stealing a quantity of gold coin.

Corde watched him with evident disapproval, but did not stop him. He only said, ‘The captain’s been good to us. He’s out there right now, fighting for his life.’

Cabal finished stowing a heavy purse in his Gladstone, and said, ‘He will shortly be dead, and won’t care. Or he will have defeated the slavers and will be in a position to loot their ship, in which case the loss of this footling quantity of gold will be galling but hardly devastating. In either event, our need is greater than his.’ He paused as the ship shuddered, and grated against the pebbles of the harbour beach. ‘Ah-ha. Our cue to run away like cowards and thieves.’

The great escape was miserable, wet and tiring. They trudged to freedom. Bose and Corde walked with their heads bowed, the better to ignore the torn sky and the wounded Moon. It seemed that lunar cities had decent fire- fighting arrangements, as the red dots grew fewer by the minute. Presumably even as the three men waded through the shallows by the sea wall, and marched with squelching steps up the mole, bloated white Moon toads in brass helmets were hosing down their predictably Cyclopean buildings. They would have to do it themselves, as it was hard to believe their slaves would be in any hurry to help. They would be standing by with space marshmallows on sticks, having the one and only good time they could expect as thralls of the toad things.

Cabal kept his head up and disregarded the heavenly apocalypse as easily as more mundane folk might disregard an unremarkable cloud. He had seen inferno and tempest, and had not only looked into the abyss but the abyss had looked into him, and then made disparaging comments. Some charred troposphere and a smoke- damaged Moon were hardly worth a footnote.

The guards in the watchtower were not of the same liver – should they have livers at all, which seemed unlikely – and were howling skywards with their facial tentacles in sinusoidal agitation. As a race, it seemed they were not used to suffering reverses, and would probably be sobbing into their beer analogue for many months to come.

Cabal’s party followed the path around the outside of the wall, then stayed close to it until they came to a tumble of rocks that gave them cover to break away and head into the countryside. Even when they got a safe distance from the wall, however, they did not speak, Bose and Corde because they were subdued by what they had so recently experienced, and Cabal because he was Cabal and felt little need to jabber incontinently for the sake of conversation.