An Incursion into Void-Amsterdam

Editor’s Note:

To help kick off our inaugural weekly posts, it’s my pleasure to introduce this short story by Zack Grafman. Having read Zack’s previous fiction, An Incursion into Void-Amsterdam is easily my favorite story from his growing body of work. The vivid imagery, unique style, and command of language are enough to keep a reader hooked right at the start. I look forward to more of his stories in the future.

Enjoy

- Frank Theodat

His body also was like the beryl, and his face as the appearance of lightning, and his eyes as lamps of fire, and his arms and his feet like in colour to polished brass, and the voice of his words like the voice of a multitude.

Zaphkiel hated drifting into the Void. Floating arrow-straight, the glorious engines of the Eternal Dawn spirited them closer to shadowed realms. Glimpses of flickering mists, torn and pulled by unseen movement, through the glint of luminous apertures. Unbidden, the seeping nauseous fear, the deep itch of wrongness burrowing into the spirit and tormenting the mind. And the ever-present, fearsome howling of the deep, mere inches outside the hallowed protection of the Eternal Dawn's bronzed hull. Once inside voidspace, he set the navigator’s attendant spirits on course for Amsterdam, opened the Books of the Elect and Blinded, and began to read.

Below in the Deck of Champions, Samael had little to do but polish his weapon and wait. Prayers and war-hymns rose from many lips as the ship shuddered and then stabilized. "We have passed the border" the whisper went, and Samael glanced out the port-hole at the blasphemous architecture of the voidgate. Amsterdam; like all the realms, the temporary territory of their enemy.

As the ship powered forward into the city, the singers and prophets on the devotional deck modulated tone and pitch, accelerating the harmonic roar of the engines. From the bridge, Zaphkiel could see the sickly mist obscuring the landing zone dissipate as their assault ship made a hard landing.

The first thing to hit the Champions after the ramp dropped was the smell. Even through armored and sealed faceplates, the filth-stench saturated them. Next was the sound. Unholy screaming and fearsome oaths, war-chants and imprecations, laughter, a cacophonous belching of open rebellion. The ranks of Champions stood silently, pillars of holy armament, awaiting the word of their captain. Zaphkiel sounded the alarum on a broadcast setting from the bridge, and at that even the dark legions hushed.

"We come in the name of He Who Is to claim his sons and daughters. Oppose him, and taste the Abyss."

In answer, a massive form parted the stygian ranks and spoke.

"My Prince will not give passage in his realm! We are Legion!"

A blasphemous litany proceeded the like of which few had heard, even Zaphkiel, rumored to be present at the Falling. It ended when a sharp golden beam lanced a fifth eye into the boiling tentacled visage. The dread form exploded, a shower of soot and a howl on the warm wind.

Again, Zaphkiel proclaimed to the throng.

"May He Who Is rebuke you. Give us what we come for."

For answer, the damp fog surged from choking vents below their feet, and the host before them broke ranks and came bellowing on.

Samael stepped forward, knelt, fired twice. Selecting targets in the gloomed haze. Maintaining his lines to left and right with the rest of the lead element. His mind discerned but two sounds: the pulse-crackle and gong-clang as his consecrator fired and cycled, fired and cycled.

He felt the adversary before he saw it. Chaotic and obscene, a shifting presence approaching from the miasma. His spirit rebelled, straining to flee the encounter. The warped mind met his at the same instant gouts of lava-hot bile retched from its weapon and struck Samael full in the chest plate. The Champion was crushed to his knees as the sticky substance began to etch at his armor. His mind held no thought but horror at the multitudes of dark whispers scraping and screaming for entrance.

"Give yourself peace, O shining one! Free yourself from servitude to the Great Nothing, the Infinitely Cruel Despoiler, the Eternal Child. Show all these realms the greatness you truly possess!"

For the first time in millenia, the Champion's thoughts flooded him with anger, black despair, hatred. Agony of spirit pummeled him as he heaved himself upward and drew a glitteringly righteous blade from a boot sheath, staggering into the dark one. He could only spare breath for whispers as he hacked the foulness to pieces.

"I chose. I am now free."

Zaphkiel's element surged forward into the massed darkness, plowing a path for other squads to follow. Without pause, they rammed their way towards Amsterdam itself, allowing the rear guard to directly engage the infernal forces. Shouting ecstatic prayers, the great warrior spun and hurtled to and fro amid throngs of foes, battering them to the ground with a gloved fist and a great hammer to be crushed beneath his feet. He paused to shout above the din to his element.

"Seek the captives in the city! They will be well-guarded! Fear no darkness!"

Staggering up from his knees, Samael ignored the growing heat as his armor strove to cope with the smoking seepage of bile. Responding to Zaphkiel's call he bounded upward, floating free of the throng for a moment to smash down behind the front ranks of the enemy. A trio of his comrades followed behind, crashing headlong into the fray and bunching together back to back to link up with Samael. Other trios followed until the Champions had created a small pocket that they rammed through into Amsterdam itself.

They did not have far to go. Shadow-architecture wafted past, flickering walls and doorways of smoke barely maintaining their tenebrous connections to the realm of men. Corraled within their homes, the cowed spirits of their quarry shone in the Champions' questing gaze, illuminated like beacons in the gloom. Plowing through hideous lesser monstrosities, Zaphkiel and Samael pressed onwards. They swatted and trampled hordes of tiny itches and banes, barreling towards their quarry. Instinctively they split off as they neared the captives. They knew only moments would be granted them before the insane myriad made retreat impossible.

Samael reached his goal and lurched to a horror-stricken halt. Splayed across the mist-streaked floor, a shade slumbered. He could hear the poor spirit chuckling and whispering vaguely, muttering disjointed snatches of self-supposed profundity. Descending upon the phantom room like a crow-flock, Samael felt the sudden assault of malevolence again.

"Think you to rescue this one, little warrior? He is ours, forever. Trammeled in skeins of mystery, he exists only to pursue the follies of dream-space. He is beyond your help."

The whispering rustled and scratched at his ears, gnawing at his composure. Feeling and meaning sapped from his heart as the light of love scrabbled away, and he felt his very being would be buried in the cacaphony. Moments away from dully dropping to his knees in the gloom and surrendering to the void-voices, he seized the supplicator at his belt, fumbled it to life. Argent light burst forth and a hammering bell-note like the crack of thunder rippled the very walls of the vaporous room.

By the time Zaphkiel located the signal, his comrade knelt exhausted beside the shade stubbornly slumbering yet on the floor. Samael whispered invocations but held out little hope of rousing the spirit.

“What shall we do, brother? He clings to his dreams.”

Zaphkiel knelt beside him, glinting eyes darting to take in the situation.

“Our time grows short. Perhaps it is granted me to awaken him.”

The immense hand of the warrior covered most of the sleeping form as Zaphkiel intoned words of command.

“Arise!”

Instantly the sleeper’s eyes, watery and unfocused, flapped lazily. For brief moments Samael’s heart leaped as he hoped they might yet attain their goal. It seemed, though he knew it impossible, that this shade could actually see them, that some brief spark of recognition and awareness kindled. But just as quickly, the rheumed and vein-crazed eyes closed and the spirit returned to impenetrable sleep.

Samael wept aloud and unashamed, both warriors slowly retreating towards the Eternal Dawn’s recall beacon. The Champions left the place to the whisperers, who grew emboldened as the dying ring of the supplicator faded, seeping back into the darkening room which they filled with chattering. Zaphkiel placed his hand on his comrade’s shoulder, drawing him into a clenching embrace.

“We will return, brother. He shall not be left to sleep. I have read his name in the Books. Fear not.”

Samael nodded his water-lined face as the Champions strode towards the gleaming beacon which pierced the gloom with a single guiding finger. Behind them, the fog of feverish slumber descended over Void-Amsterdam once more.