James Palmer - Shadows Through Time

The Man of Truth has learned that Illusion is the One Reality, and that Substance is the Great Impostor .

“El-Yezdi,” Burton murmured. He was still there with him.

“What did you say?” asked the Swinburne-thing.

“El-Yezdi,” Burton said again, flexing the fingers of his right hand, feeling the cold brass there once more, the solid and lethal scimitar hanging from his left hip.

The Man of Truth is beyond good and evil. The Man of Truth has ridden to All-Is-One.

They were all there with him. The Captain. Ruffian Dick. Abullah the Bushri. El-Yezdi. Especially El-Yezdi, whose eyes once more burned into Burton’s soul.

“Something’s wrong,” said the Goforth-thing. “I don’t like this.”

“Nor do I,” said the Whiteside-thing. “Something isn’t right.”

“Something else is here with Burton,” said the Nash-thing.

“Wait, you dolts,” said the Swinburne-thing. “Once Yog-Sothoth is through this will be over. We’ll head for the Gate and leave these repulsive bodies.”

So the ritual wasn’t finished. Burton smiled, rising to his feet, which were no longer melting into the floor.

“No. It can’t be,” said the Nash-thing. “He subverts the will of Yog-Sothoth.”

Burton stepped up to him, slashing out with Abdullah’s scimitar, knocking the queer headpiece from his head. It clanged onto the floor and Burton stepped on it, rending the soft metal and dislodging the Wold-Newton stones from their fittings and crushing them to black dust beneath his boots.

“No!” cried Whiteside, lunging at the explorer. Burton slapped him aside with a brass hand that could dent steel plate, and the man fell to the floor in an unconscious heap. The rest of the Awakened moved toward Burton now, but they were no fighters, even in their normal lives. Burton dispatched them easily, careful not to wound them too severely as he dashed the obscene crowns containing the Wold-Newton stones from their heads.

“Keep chanting!” the Swinburne-thing screeched at his thralls. “We must complete the ritual!”

Burton came after him next, but the being from Yith ducked out of the explorer’s reach. “Where did you get that sword? That arm?

Burton could see no scimitar in his hand, no brass and wood prosthetic where his right arm should be, though he could feel them. But he was glad Swinburne’s impostor could see them. He grinned at the Swinburne-thing. “The Man of Truth knows that Illusion is the One Reality, and that Substance is the Great Impostor.”

“Who told you that?”

He brought the scimitar up, its blade singing in time to the ethereal vibrations given off by the Wold-Newton stones. He brought it down in a sideways arc. The Swinburne-thing ducked, but the sword lodged between the combs of the elaborate, misshapen headpiece and pulled it from his head. Burton flicked his wrist, and the headpiece clattered to the marble floor.

“No!” said the Swinburne-thing, diving to the floor and grabbing it. “You don’t know how many centuries we have prepared for this! You will not take this away from us, you repugnant pink ape!”

Burton placed the tip of his blade on the back of the Swinburne-thing’s neck.

“Do it, Burton,” the Swinburne-thing spat. “Go ahead. You will not kill me. I am Timeless. But the owner of this body, your dear friend the poet, will not be so fortunate.”

In the distance the great bell of the Westminster clock tower struck the first chime of midnight.

“No!” the Goforth-thing cried. “The ritual!”

The tendrils of Yog-Sothoth that stretched out from the stone began to writhe and slink back within it, the tenuous foothold the eldritch entity had in this world slipping away.

“Come back, O Beyond One!” the Swinburne-thing cried, reaching for his master, heedless of the razor-sharp blade at his neck.

With the third chime, there was a sudden flash through the front windows from the direction of Westminster, and all of the Awakened went limp and senseless where they lay.

“Algy?” said Burton, leaning down to check his friend’s pulse. His scimitar and mechanical arm, so solid and present mere moments before, were now gone. There was a blast of cold air from the stone, and a slight sucking sensation, then the essence of Yog-Sothoth was gone. The assembled acolytes moaned and held their heads, muttering questions to one another.

Burton looked behind him at the prostrate form of Inspector Abberline, who grumbled as he sat up. “Blimey. Where’s my gun?”

“Over there,” Burton pointed.

Abberline worked his jaw up and down, touched his hand to his mouth. “By Jove! My mouth is back! But where did it go?”

“I believe Yog-Sothoth was having some fun with us,” said Burton. “An illusion.”

“And you figured it out. But how?”

“The Man of Truth knows that Illusion is the One Reality, and that Substance is the Great Impostor.”

Abberline squinted up at him. “And what the deuce does that mean?”

Burton chuckled, helping the inspector to his feet. “I have no idea. But it helped me dispatch the Great Race of Yith. We need to get the gaslights back on.”

Abberline nodded, retrieved his gun, and headed for the double doors, where the policemen outside had begun striking it with their battering ram once more. In a few minutes the building was full of police carrying truncheons and lanterns, though they didn’t have to make use of the former. The so-called acolytes were dazed and confused and had little recollection of how they had arrived there and the strange ritual in which they had taken part.

Once the gaslights were restored, Burton went to his friend, gently rolling him onto his back. He looked like a pale cherub in the sputtering gaslights and appeared as if he were only sleeping. Burton gently slapped at his cheeks. “Algy. Wake up.”

The poet’s eyes snapped open, and in his characteristic high-pitched voice screeched, “Oh, yes, Madam! Spank me! For I have been a very naughty boy!”

Swinburne sat bolt upright and looked around, his wild fiery hair in his face. Every eye in the room was on him thanks to his outburst. “Gadzooks! Where am I?”

Burton cleared his throat. “You are at the Theosophic meeting hall, Algy.” Burton helped the poet to his feet as he looked around shakily.

Swinburne stood there a long moment, blinking at everyone standing or sitting around the large black stone. “My hat!” cried the poet. “Am I sober?”

“I’m afraid so, Algy.”

Swinburne scowled up at him, hauling a thick lock of red hair out of his face. “A dreadful sensation which you must rectify immediately by buying me a pint. Or three.”

“Very well, Algy,” said Burton, glad to have his friend back. “Do you remember anything?”

“Why, no. One minute I was taking the lash, and the next moment, I’m standing here, stone sober and wondering what the bloody hell is going on.”

“I’m afraid that will take some time to explain,” said Burton. “I have some loose ends to attend to, but there’s James Hunt. Let him examine you.”

“My hat!” Swinburne squealed at the sight of their friend, walking in with a throng of police, his medical bag in hand. “James old son! Mind telling me, over a pint, what the devil is going on?”

“There’s a good fellow,” urged Burton as he turned to examine the black stone. It was twice as tall as him, standing within a circle made of candles. Its black surface was covered in strange, often grotesque sigils partially eroded away by time. He touched it, feeling the cold, rough stone beneath his fingertips.

“Burton!”

The explorer turned to see the rotund figure of Mycroft Holmes coming toward him, a couple of stiff and trim assistants bookending him.