Kthudagon

KTHUDAGON
By BSKI
PART I
The fog rolled in off the sea, enveloping the East Side Docks in a billowing, white mass. Consequently, nightfall came early, driving most people (the superstitious lot that they were) indoors and leaving the streets empty save for those whose job it was to light the gas lamps.
The only other living creature abroad this night was a man who cut a very typical figure—just not for the East Boston waterfront. He wore a grey sack coat with matching waistcoat and a black ascot, all over a white button down with a turnover collar. A bowler perched atop a short cropped head, which was round with a short beard and a generous moustache. He carried a leather bag similar to that which doctors often toted.
He looked about him constantly as he walked the street. His boots clattered loudly on the cobblestones and their sound seemed to unnerve him.
After some time he paused and looked up at a faded sign, barely visible through the gathering mists. It bore a rather unflattering caricature of a rodent and the words Water Rat Inn in water stained colors. The man referred to a slip of damp paper he had curled in one hand, then ducked into the place after once again casting about himself.
Within, the smoky air cast a haze reminiscent of the fog without and the man squinted then coughed lightly. No one paid him the slightest heed. He headed through the densely populated tables, across the sticky, sawdust strewn floor and approached a corner table wherein sat a man in a dark pea coat and a weather beaten cap. He sat and placed his bag gingerly on his lap.
“Norcutt, I presume?” The man spoke in the Queen’s English.
“Ayuh. St. John-Smith?” The man in the pea coat replied.
The man with the bag sighed slightly, “It is pronounced Sin Jin Smyth, if you would be so kind.”
“Beggin’ yah pahdon,” Norcutt had a thick, Bostonian accent. His voice was tinged with distaste, ”You be wantin’ passage on the Tahn, then?”
“Discreet passage,” St. John-Smith replied, leaning forward slightly and speaking in a low tone.
“Avoidin’ Heh Majesty’s Lads, ahe we, me fine sih?”
“You will have your money,” St. John-Smith said, “With no questions asked.”
“Thah’ll be none,” snapped Norcutt, “We sail at dawn. Thah’ll be no waitin’. You’h to keep yah head low an’ yah mouth shut, or thah might just be some questions raised. Am I cleah, Mistah St. John-Smith?” Norcutt pronounced St. John-Smith’s name the way he had before, after the colonial, not the British fashion.
“Understood.” replied St. John-Smith.
St. John-Smith left without another word. It was getting late in the evening and he wished to find lodgings suitable to his tastes. The Water Rat would, of course, never suffice and so, clutching his bag, he reluctantly headed back into the fog.
As he walked he cursed his unfamiliarity with the East Boston waterfront. There seemed to be no dearth of inns, but precious little in the way of those which could afford him what he deemed reasonable privacy and safety.
Suddenly he became acutely aware he was no longer alone. The gas lamps about him were lit at distressingly wide intervals and cast only a dull, smoky light. Again he curse, but this time he condemned his stubbornness. It wasn’t the first time it had gotten him into trouble.
“Suitable lodgings be damned.” He muttered.
They emerged from the fog; low forms, large, and in no particular hurry, it seemed. The smell of old fish assailed his nostrils. St. John-Smith reached for the pistol he had concealed beneath his sack coat.
He brought it up to aim at the form before him, but as soon as he did it was knocked from his grasp by a large, gnarled fist. The shapes closed in on him surprisingly fast. He caught a glimpse of six men dressed in heavy coats and fisher caps. They slouched and dragged their feet as they walked. Then he was knocked off his feet and fell heavily to the cobblestones.
He looked up to see one of the men holding his bag. The gaslight caught his face as he pushed back his low slung hat to get a better look at his prize. St. John-Smith was appalled by its degeneracy. The man’s face was thin and grey as ash. He had large, flabby lips and bulging, watery eyes that stared unblinkingly. His nose was flat, almost nonexistent.
St. John-Smith turned at a sound behind him and saw with horror that one of the men had picked up his pistol. The man had a grin on his flabby lips.
A grunt made St. John-Smith turn back to the first man. The man had opened his bag and was peering inside. The grunt was one of surprise.
“Looky here, lads.” the first man said, and the others gathered around him, ignoring St. John-Smith for the moment. They all took turns peering inside the bag and then took turns grunting in surprise. The man who had picked up St. John-Smith’s pistol dropped it.
The man holding the bag closed it and carefully clasped it shut. Then he laid it gently next to St. John-Smith.
“Pardon us, Gov.” He tipped his hat and the six of them withdrew into the mist.
Stunned by this sudden and bizarre development St. John-Smith could only get up, dust himself off, and gather his belongings. He limped off into the mist, the stubbornness knocked out of him, determined to settle for the first inn that could offer him a private room with a door that bolted.


The docks smelled of maritime carrion and rotting wood. Beneath lay the ever-present and pervasive smell of sea salt. This, as can be imagined, was of absolutely no surprise to St. John-Smith, having sailed quite frequently. What was a surprise, however, was that the waterfront, with its omnipresent wind blowing off the sea, afforded him no respite from the oppressive heat.
He removed his bowler and mopped his brow. He had been walking about for the better part of an hour and still had not found the Tern.
“Excuse me, my good man,” the good man was a burly, stoop-shouldered longshoreman busily coiling a great length of rope, “Could you direct me to the Tern?”
The longshoreman sized him up for a moment, as if St. John-Smith had said something rather stupid or insulting, then shrugged and pointed over his shoulder.
The Tern, it appeared, had been anchored over the longshoreman’s left shoulder all this time. St. John-Smith grimaced like a man apologizing for the painfully obvious.
“Oh, I see. My thanks.”
As he approached the Tern he saw Norcutt, the ship’s First Mate, at the bow in his dark pea coat, heedless or ignorant of the sweltering heat.
“Good mohnin’ to you, Mistah St. John-Smith,” Norcutt said in a congenial affectation, “Welcome aboahd. We’ah ‘bout ready to cast off. Jimmy boy heah will see you to yah cabin. Jimmy, lad, take his geah.”
A boy, perhaps fourteen, with sun-bleached, wind tossed blond hair reached for his bag. St. John-Smith recoiled.
“That won’t be necessary,” St. John-Smith said quickly, seeing the confusion in the tall, boney boys eyes,” It’s a light bag and I can easily manage.” He glanced back at Norcutt as Jimmy led him away and saw the First Mate eyeing him with dark concentration.
His cabin turned out to be a tiny room with a hammock, a small wall locker without its lock and precious little else. It was in the aft section of the ship, near the steam engine chamber.
It would be, thought St. John-Smith, a hot, noisy and uncomfortably long voyage. It would also be a guarded one. Norcutt was not the kind to be trusted—not after the way he had greedily eyed St. John-Smith’s bag. Curiosity and covetousness was a combination that begged trouble. Dejectedly, St. John-Smith resigned himself to spending almost the entire length of his journey in his cabin.
After Jimmy had left, St. John-Smith took out his pistol and examined it. It was fully charged and loaded—he hadn’t had a chance to fire it the previous night. Its many brass fittings were scratched from the manhandling it had taken, but it was otherwise whole and sound. He checked the safety then laid it on the hammock, covering it with a blanket.
The rayzer, as it was befittingly called, had an egg-shaped, ribbed cylinder and a bronze grip. The barrel snapped out from the cylinder, six inches long and as thin as a pencil. It fired tiny radium pellets that formed small, green streaks as they left the barrel. The pellets sliced easily through flesh and, on solid contact, left deep, neat puncture wounds.
He had fired such a pistol several times before, but never at another human being. The thought of doing so did not please him, even at such an obvious scoundrel as Norcutt.
St. John-Smith peered out the porthole of his cabin as best he could through the filth covering it. The morning sun shown brilliantly, but it failed to buoy his spirit. He was utterly exhausted.
After his encounter with the previous night’s atavisms he had wandered shortly before rooming in an inn of dubious quality. He had slept very little and, at dawn, he had left, rebuffing the matronly owner’s offer of breakfast and a cup.
St. John-Smith wondered why the atavisms had let him go. A very unlikely band of thieves, they were, deigning to take his only two possessions of value.
Through the smeared porthole he could see they were far out to sea. Boston Harbor was barely a line on the horizon. He flung open the porthole and was accosted by the salty-spray of the open sea air. He hoped the wet and chill would revive him but his exhaustion was complete.
Bolting the door of his cabin he threw himself on the hammock, pulling the thin, woolen blanket around his ears and holding his pistol across his chest.
He awoke to the undeniable throbbing of steam engines in full stoke. For a moment his fog riddled mind did not register the meaning of the throbbing, but gradually the cries of sailors pierced the haze and he realized something was wrong.
When he had retired to his cabin they had been at full sail with a brisk wind. He had left the porthole open so he knew the wind was still with them and he could not see why they had fired up the engines. Why the disheartening cries of the sailors? Were they sinking? They didn’t seem to be riding low or listing.
St. John-Smith tucked his pistol into his belt, buttoned his sack coat and grabbed his bag. He needed to find out what all of the excitement was about.
He emerged from below to find a mad scramble of crewmen running about and Norcutt barking orders in a strained voice. He saw Jimmy and grabbed him by the shirt as the boy ran passed.
“Here now, Jimmy, what’s all this about?” he asked.
Jimmy’s face was as white as a high moon,” Pirates, sir. Pirates! We’re all done for. We’ll all lose our heads, we will! Oh, me poor mother! I should have never left her side. She didn’t want me to go. Stay home where you belong, she said! Now she’ll never see her poor Sonny-Jim again!” He broke free of St. John-Smith’s grip and was lost in the mad rush of things.
St. John-Smith turned quickly to look astern, then leeward. He looked fore and aft, but saw no sign of another ship. Then he cursed and looked to the sky.
In the distance, aft, high in the deep blue sky a great, dark, oval bulk came into view. He could just barely make out the low-slung, elliptical-shaped basket beneath the envelope. It was a great airship, and it was gaining fast.
A strong voice rang out above the chaos, “Evasive action, Mr. Norcutt!”
“Aye, captain,” responded the First Mate.
The Tern swung about slowly, sloppily, luffing a bit and losing speed in the process. The airship came straight on and was gaining with incredible speed.
St. John-Smith could see it clearly now; its belly grey, its top an olive drab. Those were warship colors, he thought. We are being stalked by airship pirates!
Many tense minutes pasted as St. John-Smith stood transfixed, staring at the approaching airship while chaos swirled all about him.
“How stand we, Mr. Norcutt?” bellowed the captain.
“We stand at Flank, Sir!” Norcutt’s voice held a helpless strain. St. John-Smith was no seaman, but he knew enough about nautical terminology to understand this meant the Tern was at top speed. Their top speed was steadily losing ground to the airship.
The captain stood silent for a while, gazing at the closing airship. As he watched it raised its flag—a great black squid on a blue background.
Someone near St. John-Smith, Jimmy perhaps, called out hoarsely, “Saints preserve us, its Quarrel’s Kraken!”
This seemed to galvanize the captain, “Ready the cannon. Gather the rifles. Mr. Norcutt!”
“Aye, captain?” Norcutt scrambled to the captain’s side. Even from a distance St. John-Smith could see he was white-faced and trembling.
“Take hold of yourself, man.” The captain himself seemed stunned, but appeared resolute enough to keep his wits about him,” Prepare to club haul Her. Hands at lee bower anchor, Mr. Norcutt. Hard to port on my orders. We’ve no choice but to stand firm and fight these devils.”
In the confusion St. John-Smith did not quite register exactly what the captain had in mind, so he stayed where he was, staring at the approaching menace.
“Ready for going about.” yelled the captain.
When the captain bellowed for Norcutt to fulfill his order… nothing happened. St. John-Smith tore his eyes away from the impending air peril to look at the bridge. Norcutt was looking about himself wildly, as if searching for a means of escape. There was, of course, none to be found.
“Curse you, Norcutt!” roared the captain,” Mr. Decker, tack her.” The ship began to slowly come about.
“Let go the anchor.” called the captain.
The order was repeated by the man called Decker and the sound of great, metal knots grating against iron galvanized St. John-Smith and he leapt to take cover. Too late, the Tern yawed violently, abruptly losing her trim. The deck pitched and St. John-Smith was sent sprawling. He fell hard against the gunwale and instinctively clutched it.
“Haul the After-yards.” In another moment the captain’s voice called out again, “Haul the Head-yards.”
A voice, apparently that of Decker’s, called out,” She’s not sufficiently tacking, captain.”
“Then kedge her, Mr. Decker.”
The ship jerked about yet again. A great blast of steam escaped the Tern’s stacks and the insistent throbbing of the engines stopped. The Tern regained her trim, but was now crawling along at a snail’s pace, dragging her anchors. Her cannon, however, were now in position to defend her. The airship was to windward and almost on top of them.
“Fire cannon.” yelled the captain.
The order was, again, echoed and the two small, port cannon, the only weaponry on the ship, rang out their sharp reports, followed by a cloud of dark smoke.
St. John-Smith had regained his footing by now and stared in fascination as the balls tore into the grey underbelly of the airship. This seemed to have absolutely no effect and it came on, heedless and arrogant.
“Reload and fire at will.”
The next volley was directed at the undercarriage of the airship itself. The balls, however, failed to penetrate and only glanced off and fell harmlessly into the ocean below. The angle and the weak firing power of the small cannon made it practically impossible to penetrate the armored undercarriage. St. John-Smith knew then they were doomed.
The captain must also have, because he abandoned the cannon and ordered the firing of the rifles.
Radium pellets from seven rifles peppered the air. Most exploded in mid air but a few stray pellets tore at the wooden gunwales of the attacking vessel.
St. John-Smith, fear mounting inside of him, still felt a measure of respect for the captain of the Tern. His ship all but lost he still struggled to keep her. Perhaps he hoped that continued resistance would cause the attackers to reevaluate the situation and back off to find an easier target—one that would not fight back. This, in fact, was not what the captain was thinking at all. He knew all to well the reputation of the Kraken and its captain and he had no hopes of reprieve.
The airship was directly above them. A line was cast downward and a grapple hook attached itself to the mizzenmast of the Tern. A dozen or more ropes snaked suddenly down to the deck of the hapless ship and from each rope a wildly dressed pirate rapidly descended. It appeared they would smash full speed into the deck, but each pulled up only a yard short, stopped by means of a harness attached to a rope. In expert fashion they unclipped from their ropes and struck the deck upright, swords and rayzers at the ready. The entire act seemed to take mere seconds and, even as they were striking deck, a second wave of pirates was descending.
Now true chaos ensued on the deck of the Tern. Sailors ran about madly, pirates firing and slashing in their midst. The riflemen fired at the intruders, but the shots either went wide or hit their own men.
In seemingly calm and organized manner the pirates quickly cut down the riflemen of the Tern. A group of pirates sprinted for the bridge, and took it easily. Within five minutes, the crew of the Tern had been disarmed and taken prisoner. The battle was over even as it had begun.
The captain stood silently, making a brave hearted attempt to appear fierce and disdainful in the face of the menacing horde that had so easily taken his ship. He was disarmed and several rayzers leveled at his heart.
Norcutt had fallen to his knees and was groveling for his miserable life. St. John-Smith, strangely ignored during the brief fray, was truly frightened, but not yet without his wits. He had backed up against the mast and had one hand in his sack coat, fingering his pistol. As he watched Norcutt sniveling he became angry. He could tell immediately upon meeting the fellow that Norcutt was a liar, a bully and a thief, but he had not realized just how much of a coward the man truly was.
“Shaddup, you son of a waterfront whore!” growled one of the more savage looking pirates.
But Norcutt, lost in terror for his life, did not seem to hear the man and continued to babble. The captain stood by silently.
Despite his extreme distaste for Norcutt, St. John-Smith felt alarm for the man. Shut up, Norcutt, he whispered under his breath, for Heaven’s sake shut your mouth!
But Norcutt continued his ranting. The pirate who had warned Norcutt to shut up stepped forward and, with a half-angry half disgusted twist to his face, leveled his pistol point blank at Norcutt’s heart. He fired, their was a bright, green glow for just a split second, a horrible tearing sound and Norcutt’s body sagged sideways. He lay, unmoving, his legs folded beneath him. St. John-Smith looked away.
Two more harnessed pirates plunged down the ropes, landing dramatically on the deck of the Tern. They made their way unhurriedly to the bridge. One was dressed after the fashion of his pirate mates, but the other stood out in sharp relief.
He wore a heavy, woolen navy duster, which sported white, vertical stripes and great, brass buttons. He strode through the crowd in high, black jackboots with brass buckles, his heels striking resoundingly, daringly, as he walked. His gait was slow and deliberate; every step a challenge to those who observed. As he passed he cut an impressive figure, for not only did he dress strikingly, but he was also easily a head taller than the largest of the sailors and pirates present. This fact was further intensified by the weather- beaten, painted top hat that sat, cocked at a jaunty angle, on his great head. This, obviously, was Quarrel, the captain of The Kraken.
Once on the bridge, he paused to glance down disapprovingly at Norcutt’s corpse, than made his way to the captain of the Tern.
He spoke in a voice that was rich and booming, and surprisingly cultured, ”Order your men to their lifeboats, captain.” Then he added, as an apparent afterthought,” You are staying with your ship.”
The captain’s eyes flickered, than he turned and addressed his crew,” Mr. Decker.”
“Aye, captain?”
“First Mate Decker, see to the men. Make certain they are all safely aboard the lifeboats.”
“Aye aye, captain.”
When the captain turned back to his captor the man’s face had a dark and tragic expression.
“What’s this here?” came a voice of a sudden. St. John-Smith had been so engrossed in the drama on the bridge he had failed to notice an approaching pirate, “ ‘Oo ur you, then? Yer not one a tha crew.” The man flashed his rayzer, “Come on then, let’s ‘ave a bit o’ a chat wit tha cap’an.”
His heart pounding in his chest, St. John-Smith walked ahead of the pirate toward the bridge. He looked back at the sailors of the Tern scrambling into the lifeboats.
“Don’t worry ‘bout them, lad,” said the pirate in a nasty, amused tone,” It’s yerse’f ya should be worried for.”
As St. John-Smith climbed the ladder to the bridge he heard the captain of the buccaneers speaking with several of his men. “Be thorough, lads. A clean sweep, you hear! Leave off on the coal bins, we are marking near on the plimsol in that regard. Leave the captain’s quarters to Mr. Kensington, but check the rest of the ship. When you’re finished scuttle Her.”
The pirate captain turned as St. John-Smith approached him. He frowned in annoyance. “See here, Latimer, what’s the meaning of this?”
“Beggin’ yur cap’an’s pa’don, sir,” said the pirate waving his rayzer at St. John-Smith, “But this here fella ain’t one o’ the crew, by the looks o’ ‘im. I figured ya might wanna know who he is before we string ‘im up.”
“Judas Priest, man!” growled the captain, “Take that pistol from under his coat before he gets nervous and decides to shoot someone with it.”
The man yanked St. John-Smith’s pistol from his belt, looking rather sheepish, ” Sorry, cap’an. I reckoned he’da pulled it by now if he ‘ad one.”
“State your name, sir, and your business on this ship!” ordered the captain.
St. John-Smith cleared his throat, ”My name is Arthur Ian St. John-Smith. I am a Professor of Archaeology and Antiquities for Arkham-On-Tyne University, England. I am currently returning from a field study site-an archeological dig-on the isles off the Southern coast of the Maine colony.”
“He is of no interest to us, Latimer,” replied the captain, “Toss him overboard and let him swim for the lifeboats.”
“Aye, captain.” Latimer appeared rather disappointed but he dutifully jerked St. John-Smith around and pushed him toward the gunwale of the bridge.
“No!” protested St. John-Smith, “I can’t swim. And even if I could I couldn’t possibly do it with my bag in hand.”
“Then let me relieve ya of it.” said Latimer, grabbing at the bag.
In a sudden fit of terror St. John-Smith tried to wrench back his possession from Latimer and when he couldn’t a struggle ensued. St. John-Smith impulsively struck the man in the jaw. Latimer was not felled by the blow, but he did fall backward. The bag jerked spasmodically between the two and popped open, dislodging its contents onto the deck of the bridge.
Latimer recovered and lunged forward to attack St. John-Smith, murder in his eyes and a dagger in his hand, but stopped dead to rights when he saw what had fallen from the bag. “Blimey!” he muttered.
The captain turned back to the two men to see what the trouble was and looked down at the three objects that were still spinning and rolling at his feet.
For a moment nothing happened, but then the captain suddenly roared, “Mutt!” His face had become instantly swollen and purple with rage, “Mutt! Mr. Kensington!”
The man who had descended to the deck of the Tern with the pirate captain rushed over to him, “Yes, Captain Quarrel?”
“Take this filth to the Kraken. Secure him in the brig. And get a noose ready for keel hauling.”
Rough hands grabbed St. John-Smith and he was taken from the bridge to the main deck below. His hands were forced together and the end of one of the ropes dangling from the airship was lashed about his wrists. Before he could protest or fight back the rope was drawn taut and, with a blast of ripping pain, he was jerked upwards toward the airship.
He grunted and squirmed, and more pain shot up his arms into his shoulders. Something wet dribbled down his arms and through a fog of pain he saw blood flowing from his wrists. He knew he was too high to safely fall now, so he went limp, waiting to reach the deck of the airship. Then he was spinning round and round and everything went black.