Yours most faithfully,

  RT

  She sat in the ruins for a while, looking at the pulsing lines in the sky, and weeping, for everything she’d done, and everything she feared she might do in the future. Whatever Tillinghast demanded, she could not deny, and he’d already demanded so much.

  Then she cut the back of her hand, and dripped blood into the cup, and sipped, and whirled through the darkness to find herself sprawled on the floor of Tillinghast’s shop.

  “My loyal retainer,” he said, smiling down at her.

  “What was that place?” Ruby whispered. “I never want to see it again.”

  “Oh, you might. You may well see it in your dreams. But no matter. Once you’ve rested a bit, I need you to retrieve another little lost relic for me…”

  •••

  Altman stood on the lawn beside Sarah Van Shaw, and together, they surveyed the remains of the Lodge. The rosy morning light made everything beautiful… except the sight before them. The stately old home had been reduced to a few charred timbers sticking up at odd angles, and the foundations were collapsed into the warren of tunnels below, the magic that held it all together broken. “We can rebuild, can’t we?”

  “I’m no builder,” Van Shaw said.

  The police, fire brigade, and medics had come and gone, and her hands and arms were wrapped heavily in bandages. There was a bandage across her left eye, too, and burn scars on that cheek. She should have been in the hospital, but she’d refused to go. The medics thought she’d been burned escaping from the fire, which had been blamed on a gas explosion, but in truth the burns had appeared spontaneously on her body when the Lodge fell.

  The warden (warden of what, now?) kicked a paving stone. “This is a plot of unstable, ghoul-infested land now. I wouldn’t bother with it. Best we make our home elsewhere. Tillinghast was right. There’s money, at least. We can find some other moldering pile to make our own.” She shook her head. “At least I can leave this place now. The bindings that held me here burned up when the building did. If I pledge myself to protect another house, perhaps… perhaps I’ll heal.” She touched her covered eye and winced.

  “What do we do now?” Altman asked.

  She rolled her one good eye. “You’d best find yourself a hotel. I’ll make my own arrangements.”

  “I mean… with the Order. Things are in such disarray.”

  “It’s hardly your problem,” she snapped. “Tillinghast is in charge for now, and he told me to secure a new headquarters. I’m sure he’ll have tasks for you, suited to your strengths, whatever they might be. Someone must deal with the membership of the Lodge, reassure them. Word is going to get out that Sanford is gone, and the Lodge house burned, and the members will have strong reactions to that, let me tell you. Some of them are rich, and think they’re important, and you’ll have to smooth all those ruffled feathers and keep them in line. Even so, we’re going to lose members, if we aren’t careful.”

  “Dealing with people has never been my strength,” Altman said. “At least, not unless I’ve got them held at knifepoint.”

  “Then why on heaven and earth did you want Sanford’s job?” Van Shaw asked. “It’s all dealing with people, when it’s not dealing with monsters instead.”

  Altman stiffened. “I didn’t want to take orders anymore, is all. And the only way to avoid that is to be the one giving them.”

  Van Shaw grunted. “You aren’t giving anyone orders yet, are you? Just serving Tillinghast instead of the magus, now.”

  Altman clenched his fists. Sanford wouldn’t have tolerated that kind of backtalk from her, but then, he wasn’t Sanford, and he’d negotiated a different sort of relationship with the warden. “Nor for long. Once Tillinghast is finished with this Great Work of his, I’ll be – we’ll be, the ones in charge here.”

  “May it bring us much joy,” she said sourly, and walked off through the grass, half a dozen dogs suddenly appearing to follow at her heels. She still had that much power, then.

  Altman looked at the burned remnants for a long moment. Then he headed for the street, wondering if he’d be able to hail a cab up here. The Bentley was a twisted heap of metal somewhere with a corpse pretending to be Sanford inside it–

  Randall Tillinghast was leaning against a silver Rolls Royce, his arms crossed, when Altman turned the corner. “Hello, my crown prince,” the old man said, smiling in his own secret amusement. “I have a new royal coach for you.” He patted the hood.

  “I’m not negotiating any new deals with you,” Altman began, but Tillinghast waved that away.

  “Nonsense. This is just a bonus. The terms of our agreement only required you to stand aside, but instead, you actively assisted in Sanford’s downfall. Or you tried to, anyway. That deserves something extra.”

  “You didn’t get your hands on his treasures, though, and without the house and the basements, there’s precious little left, it seems to me.”

  “The loss of the relics is a grievous one. I am also a bit perturbed to lose the Scholar of Yith. I’m sure she knew things that would have helped smooth the path of my work. As for the house, I have owned many of them, and seen many burned before. But tell me, Altman, are you trying to talk me out of rewarding you?” Tillinghast chuckled. “Take yes for an answer, my dear boy. You want to be the new Carl Sanford. You know he would take this as his due and then demand more.”

  Oh. “Then I demand–”

  Tillinghast raised a finger. “Don’t go that far.” He stepped away from the car. “I assume you need a place to stay, since your bedroom is now a smoldering hole. You can always go to a hotel, I suppose, but you might be more comfortable at Gloria’s house. There’s room.”

  “Gloria is dead,” Altman said. “Or, worse, she’s lost down there, forever, wherever the basements are. If they haven’t burned up, too.”

  “Is she? In that case, there’s even more room. There’s a key hidden under the flowerpot in her backyard, not that a man of your skills needs one.” Tillinghast winked and strolled away.

  The keys to the Rolls Royce were in the ignition, and after a moment of long indecision, Altman drove to Gloria’s house. He had plenty of time to think on the drive, but his disordered mind would not cooperate. His thoughts were like a flock of pigeons scattering under the shadow of a hawk.

  Would Tillinghast fulfill their deal? What would he ask of Altman before all this was done? What was his Great Work? Would there be anything left of the Silver Twilight Lodge for Altman to take over when the time came, and would Sarah Van Shaw let him enjoy it if there was?

  He parked in Gloria’s driveway. Her yellow convertible was nowhere to be seen, and he wondered if it was parked near the Lodge somewhere, or if Tillinghast had taken it away. He found the house key under the flowerpot (that was faster than picking the locks again) and let himself in. He stood wearily inside, head slumped, unable even to decide what to do next. He should drink a glass of water, maybe, and then he’d collapse into bed. He’d endured many long nights before in his checkered life, but none longer than this one.

  Altman went into the kitchen and stopped, frowning, when he saw an object on the kitchen table. When he went closer, he saw it was a note addressed to him, written in vivid purple ink.

  Dear Altman,

  Do help yourself to my house. I won’t need it anymore. You can also help yourself to my position – Mr Tillinghast doesn’t need me anymore. He has you to do his bidding now. I hope you enjoy the role as much as I did.

  A faithful servant,

  Gloria Dyer

  He scowled down at the letter. Had she written this before she came to the Lodge? Or had she somehow survived the shoggoth, and the collapse, and escaped? He supposed it was possible. Just barely. He’d lost track of her in the chaos, so she might have made it out. Altman was too exhausted to speculate further, so he crumpled the letter and tossed it into a wastebasket, and then went upstairs to sleep on the silk sheets on Gloria’s bed. He hoped there would be no dreams.

  He suspected his hopes would be unfounded.

  •••

  In the Miskatonic River, close to the Garrison Street Bridge that connects the north and south sides of Arkham, there is a small island, considered nameless to most. Those with occult wisdom know it is called Themystos’ Island, though there are debates about who, or what, Themystos is, or was. What is known is that the island is a desolate place, covered in tall grasses, and home to ancient crumbling monoliths and a large altar stone. Whatever dark rites were performed there ceased long ago, and the ancient bloodstains have long since been washed away by time.

  The morning after the Silver Twilight Lodge fell to Randall Tillinghast, and then fell into a smoking hole in the earth, Carl Sanford beached a canoe on the stony shore and limped through the tall grass and trudged toward the center of the island. He wore a dirty white cloak, the torn remnants of a once-fine suit, and fur boots, and his body was as battered and bloody as his clothes were tattered.

  The ends of his shirt sleeves hung open, both cufflinks missing. The white die had served its purpose, granting him a boon of life-saving luck – he must have rolled a six, he supposed, because the falling roof stones had included two large slabs that fell just right to lean against one another. They created a triangular cavity beneath the rubble that sheltered him and protected him from being crushed. Sanford had excavated himself, expending much of his magical reserves in the process, only to find his enemies had managed to escape before the deep basements were torn free from the world above.

  But that was of no consequence. They could be dealt with later. His enemies thought he was dead, or trapped forever, but they were wrong. The destruction of the keys had severed the connections between the Lodge house and the laboratories, workshops, and ritual chambers occupying that stolen space below, but those secret rooms were still intact, albeit damaged. The deep basements were now islands in the dark, and the passageways to the world above and to other worlds were blocked by stone, rubble, and void… but Sanford had his ways. Oh, yes.

  The magus hadn’t destroyed all the keys on his bracelet. He’d kept one, tucked into his vest pocket, just in case. That key opened a portal from the cut-off basements to a certain black cave near the river: a single, secret connection to the world above, known to Sanford alone. After digging himself out of the rubble, he traversed those damaged halls until he found the passageway he wanted. That afternoon, he limped out of the deep basements, and through a shimmering portal of velvet darkness, and on into the cave. He had a canoe hidden near the river, and he took that to the island, arms aching with every stroke of the oar across the wide and muddy Miskatonic.

  Carl Sanford always had contingency plans. That’s why he was the magus, and why Altman never would be. On balance, Sanford thought he hated Altman even more than Tillinghast. The shopkeeper was, at least, a foe who’d earned his respect. Altman was just an arrogant young murderer with pretensions beyond his station. And he thought he could simply take what Sanford had worked decades to build?

  The former head of the Silver Twilight Lodge trudged to the modest rise at the center of the island. He stood there for a moment, looking at the red rays of the sun rising at the end of the river, turning the waters the color of flame. It was a new dawn. A new day. A new beginning. Sanford smiled. And all his enemies thought he was dead.

  He made his way through the grass to the mossy standing stones, etched with near-invisible runes. This spot had been sacred to the long-dead cult of some long-lost god, but now it was only ruins. So, too, was Sanford’s empire.

  But Sanford would not disappear into the bottomless pit of history, no. Sanford would see all his glory restored.

  There was an immense altar stone in the center of the island, a waist-high slab of ancient black rock, pitted and gouged, covered in lichen and mysteriously stained. Sanford set his hands against the stone, gritted his teeth, and set his feet. He pushed on the stone, and after a moment of reluctance, it began to slide.

  The stone was cunningly counterweighted, and if you knew where to apply the proper pressure, it could be moved through a short arc on the stony ground. Sanford pushed until he heard a click, indicating that the altar was locked in its new position. The movement revealed a vertical shaft descending into the ground, with a ladder fixed to one side.

  Sanford descended the ladder, wincing as his body protested at any movement. He’d put himself through a lot in the past several months – or, from the vantage point of those who’d remained on Earth, the past several hours.

  When he reached the bottom, in the dark, he groped until he found the matches, right where he’d left them, and the lantern, too. He struck the match, lit the wick, and watched light bloom in the darkness. A solid lever of wood and metal jutted from the wall next to the ladder, and Sanford engaged it with a grunt of effort. A catch released above, and the stone slid back into place above him. Down in the bowels of the earth again. Fortunately, he was at home in such places.

  The contents of the little stone-walled room at the bottom of the shaft gleamed in the light as he shone the lantern around him. It was hardly an accommodation suitable to his dignity, just a ten-by-ten space without much in the way of creature comforts. But his most precious relics were all here: the wall mirror, the scrolls, the cups, the knives, the statuettes, and more.

  When his vault had been breached for the second time last year, Sanford knew his relics were no longer safe there, or anywhere in the basements. So he made a great show of increasing his security, while secretly transferring the relics through the portal in the basement, first to the Black Cave, and then to the nameless isle, where no one would think to look for them. He wasn’t starting over from nothing. Almost, but not quite. He had his relics. He had a passage to his basements, and though the halls were shattered, there were still things of value in the wreckage… and maybe even one last ally, in the form of the Scholar of Yith, if she’d survived the upheaval.

  Sanford had made it to the top before. He would make it again. He was even more motivated now than he had been in his youth, because now he knew how sweet it was to be on top.

  This hidey-hole held more than just his relics. There was a cot down here, too, and the keys to a car stored in a garage in a nearby town, and cash, and – blessing of blessings – a fresh suit… though he should probably rinse off in the freezing river before he changed clothes.

  All that could come later. For now, Sanford dropped his torn cloak, took off his filthy coat and vest and shirt, and kicked off his stinking boots. Then he stretched out on the cot, his muscles groaning. He would rest for a day or two, and then begin to plan. He would need to leave Arkham for a while. Loath as he was to abandon his city, it was too dangerous now with Tillinghast fully ascendant. Fortunately, Sanford had contacts overseas who might prove useful. Once he’d gathered his strength anew… he would commence his ascension.

  Sanford closed his eyes. He expected dreams of snow, and fire, and revenge, and the devastation of his enemies.

  He was not disappointed.

  Acknowledgments

  My thanks as always to the team at Aconyte, especially Charlotte Llewelyn-Wells and Gwendolyn Nix for their editorial acumen, and to the Arkham Horror developers for allowing me to play in their sandbox once again. My agents, Ginger Clark and Nicole Eisenbraun, do great work on the business side so I can concentrate on making stuff up.

  On a personal note, I’m grateful to my spouse, Heather, and our teenager, River, for putting up with me muttering about tentacles and zoogs and the Beings of Ib for months, and for playing board games with me, even the very long and complicated ones. Thanks to my nearest and dearests: Sarah, Katrina, Emily, Amanda, and Aislinn, for their unflagging support, even when I’m being weird. Molly Tanzer is always there for me to bounce ideas off, and she’s a great writer of Mythos fiction in her own right (check out “The Thing on the Cheerleading Squad”).

  Finally, I don’t know Daniel Harms at all, but his book The Cthulhu Mythos Encyclopedia was always next to my desk as I wrote this book, and I consulted it often to refresh and clarify my memories (after forty-ish years of Mythos reading, it gets a little jumbled in there).

  About the Author

  TIM PRATT is a Hugo Award-winning SF and fantasy author, and finalist for the World Fantasy, Sturgeon, Stoker, Mythopoeic, and Nebula Awards, among others. He is the author of over twenty novels, and scores of short stories. Since 2001 he has worked for Locus, the magazine of the science fiction and fantasy field, where he currently serves as senior editor.

  timpratt.org // twitter.com/timpratt

  Contents

  Cover

  Arkham Horror

  Also available in Arkham Horror

  Herald of Ruin

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  World Expanding Fiction

  Index

 

 

  Tim Pratt, Herald of Ruin

 

 

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