Crossover Earth '98
FAILURE
Bad News for the Cult of Lordruu, Good News for the World?
by Scott Bennie
There was a flash of blood, congealed red spray, and he knew he was hurt. But Kurt Loftgren didn’t look back. He was too frightened to look on his pursuer. The creature... the thing... had finished swallowing the last of the mercenaries, and had taken a swing at him. Good thing I’ve got so much blood, Loftgren thought, suddenly coming the realization that he was becoming giddy. But the overwhelming impulse was to continue running. Along with rest of the cult of Lordruu.
They ran for five minutes, through the sewers of Chicago, brittle laughter in their ears. The sorcerer had a half-cough, a half-snarl for a laugh, brittle as barbed wire and twice as brutal. And why shouldn’t he laugh? He had tossed the entire cult of Lordruu and its hired mercenaries aside like children. They had gone to Paris, broken into the Louvre, performed a ritual to determine the location of the original Code of Hammurabi, traveled to Chicago to retrieve it, hired mercenaries for the job - and toppled like toy soldiers in a hurricane.
"Loftgren." The Golden Face shouted. "Go to the rear. Guard our retreat."
"He’s not in shape..." John K. Stevens quipped.
"The Hell I’m not..." Kurt Loftgren stopped, let the others pass him. I get to be the hero this time, hot shot, he thought. Provided I’m not dead in the next five minutes.
They continued running. It was a run that would have turned a marine’s legs to putty, stumbling over barely lit, uneven ground, water-worn stone. The sewers of Chicago, the lair of someone who called himself the Black Priest. A man who recognized the Golden Face, who knew the purposes of Lordruu. A man who sought the same five tomes of law that they did, but for a completely different purpose. He wanted to use them to unleash the Wild Hunt, and bring chaos to the world.
Finally, there was light, the April sky over Lake Michigan. The Cult took a collective sigh, and a sob. They had survived, but they had made a powerful enemy.
"We’ll kill him." Decomo said. He and the Face were the last ones to leave the meeting place. The cult was on patrol around Columbia; the campus was oddly preserved during the alien invasion and the Apocalypse Now attack, although clearly the destruction of New York was as upsetting to the cult as the failure in Chicago. The meeting had seemed more like a funeral than a gathering of worship, which added to the Face’s sense of failure.
The Golden Face lifted up his face; the mask took on a world-weary aspect. "Your gun, Mr. Decomo. Then leave me."
Decomo blinked, but before the Face could reprimand him, Decomo unbuckled his gun from his belt, strained a bit to pull the pistol from his holster when his beer belly was getting in the way, then handed it to the Golden Face. He looked at him for several seconds, blanched as though struck by an invisible blow, then left.
The Golden Face grabbed the gun, chanted softly, and watched it spin in the air. He removed the mask, and closed his eyes.
What do you think you’re doing?
The Face whispered.
"I have failed you for the last time," the one without a Face replied. "It
is time to find another operative."
The Face scowled. "Do you think in death you shall find release?"
"I do not know the mysteries of death. But I know that my life has been less than useful to you, and my recent decisions unwise."
"Unwise? You faced an unknown enemy and choose to study him before engaging in battle. That strikes me as wise. You did know that the demands that were made upon you were difficult? Lordruu does not give his servants easy burdens. I have the patience of the Snake. Your sole failing is that you have not acquired that patience."
The gun fell to the floor. The face rose in its stead, and it returned to the face of Lordruu’s high priest, bearing a more comfortable demeanor. An image of the Face was projected in a golden streak, a blur that looked much like a snake of light.
"Chalice!" he shouted.
A few of the cultists had not yet left the building. Chalice Green had not heard that tone in the Golden Face’s voice for quite some time. "Yes, sir?"
"We must find everything we can about our new enemy. You shall organize the followers and gather information." The Golden Face stated. "Mr. Decomo, the city is in chaos. And although it distresses me, we shall join in the pickings. We will need money and resources to do what must be done. And so we must become carrion."
"Sure boss." Decomo said. "Sounds like my kind of work."
The Golden Face snarled momentarily, but said nothing.
"Got anything for me?" Kurt Loftgren asked.
There was a long, thoughtful pause. "Perhaps you can carry some books for Miss Green." The Golden Face suggested.
"Yes sir." Loftgren said, suppressing an urge to flash his biceps.
The Golden Face turned to each of the cultists. "If there has ever been a time when the world needed the judgment and reshaping of a higher power, it is now. Humanity struggles, but without guidance or discipline. It is our task to facilitate its redemption, before Man falls into the abyss. Our success may take time, and there will be setbacks - a chaotic world is a conspiracy to torment those who revere reason and order - but victory will come."
The Golden Face sat back in his chair and sighed. There was much to do. He would have to inform the Tagelohns of the threat - Celia will want to take the Ark back to Europe, but it should not be too difficult to dissuade her with a carefully phrased argument. But he would be patient, and he would plot, and he would win. It was as inevitable as a snake shedding its skin.