Sogoth's Triumph

 

Bankirk’s streets were torch-lit, the electricity long gone from the region. Shad leaned forward and felt the hempen ropes burning against his shoulders, his bare abdomen, his forearms, and his palms. His shoes were cloth, and the soles had been shredded in the opening hours of the Triumph.

Sogoth levitated at a permanent distance, its many eyes turned to take in the Earth in her entirety. The Great Destroyer had come, and as had been predicted, it had ruled for ten generations. Maybe longer. Shad knew the stories. All born under Sogoth’s gaze knew the stories. There was no prompting, no induction; these were the first memories shared by the species. There was no escape from the Knowing.

In the beginning, Earth had been a lawless place. Men rose to power and crashed like waves over the land, shaping it to their whims. They died, and new men rose in their stead. On the cycle went. No empire persisted forever. No ruler left permanent impressions. Save for a few, maybe.

But none had ruled as Sogoth ruled.

“Praise be,” Shad husked out. His body ached with the strain of the chariot, a platform the size of a modest home. Sogoth’s offspring perched along the chariot’s misshapen spires and jutting columns, slithering limbs tethering them to the gnarled, nest-like center of the structure. Its gargantuan, improperly weighted wheels groaned with each revolution, and still, Shad walked on.

One city block. If he could make it one city block, Sogoth would gift his family enough food and water to last a month.

Pale, eyeless figures lurched along the block. A string of men and women, their arms linked together, stood with their backs to the sidewalks, heads bowed, staring down at the cracked cement and their own feet. The humans cordoned off the crowd, kept it from pressing in too close to Shad and the chariot.

Half a mile ahead, Shad’s replacement waited in their kennel. They’d take hold of the reigns when Shad reached the end of the block. When he reached it, by Sogoth.

His body shuddering, Shad brought one foot down. Then he dragged the next forward. He cracked and creaked with the effort. How heavy was the chariot? It was topped by more than two dozen of Sogoth’s offspring, large, wretched creatures. Pale limbs lapped at the sweat dripping down his back. From each limb, a thousand needle-thin proboscises slipped into his flesh to lap at the blood. Shad’s world turned pale, desaturated. He felt cold. There were two of everything, wavering around and around.

His knees buckled, and he hit the ground. His nails dug into the ruinous cement, dragged him forward. He wasn’t feeling anymore.

Half a mile. He had half a mile left…

*

The door to Sawyer’s kennel crept open. One of the Eyeless leaned down and stared in at him, its face translucent against the light of the torches that swarmed in around it, clutched in a dozen different tendril-esque limbs. Its vertical lips smacked and peeled back to reveal row after row of razor teeth.

It was grinning.

Sawyer cowered away. He hadn’t volunteered for this. He’d been one of the unfortunates to be volunteered. They’d taken him from Below. Like a colony of ants, they’d frozen out his family, his friends, all he’d ever known. He and a string of others had survived, and this was their fate.

Toys in one of the Horror’s games.

Yet resistance, he knew, was futile. Miles below ground, one could convince oneself that there was a chance. Life almost resembled the fables, that far from Sogoth’s view. But it couldn’t be done on the surface. The blighted Eye consumed half of the bloody sky.

The Eyeless hauled him out and dragged his voluntarily limp body to the place Shad had fallen. They untethered the cadaver and tossed it to the crowds of Eyeless that stood along the sidewalks. It was swallowed up by the masses; later, only hollowed out bones would remain of Shad.

They thrust Sawyer to the ground, bound him with the hempen ropes, and moved away.

At first, he did nothing. That lasted until he felt the needle-lined proboscises slithering up his legs. He stood bolt upright then and sprinted away, only to be thrown back to the ground by the sudden tension in the ropes. He lost his air, but managed to keep his head. The proboscises slithered toward him, gaining quickly. He stood and, still fighting for air, started to walk.

The chariot was heavy. Ludicrously so. The total sum of his strength gained him an inch. The weight of the chariot resulted in the wheels tipping over, granting Sawyer a full revolution. He had to jog a little to keep up with the sudden movement, but it slowed again a moment later.

The proboscises gained. Inch by inch, they gained, and he’d earned only a foot or so. It clicked then that the game was moot. He would only ever have the length of the ropes; the bloodsucking limbs could not be escaped. Rather, Sogoth’s offspring were toying with him. Nothing more.

He thought to give in and die, then. He stood, staring down at his feet.

The first of the limbs reached his ankle; he watched a blossoming of red spill out over the pale body of the limb, watched it seep into the flesh and vanish, knew his blood had just fed one of the little horrors. He was repulsed. His skin itched. He felt bile rising into the back of his mouth, and turned to face the chariot.

One of Sogoth’s Offspring howled, phlegm and blood spewing from its vertical maw. Its prismatic eyes pulsated, twisting horridly against the starry backdrop. Sawyer walked toward the chariot, his fists tightening. If he was going to die, he’d drag that sick creature to hell with him. He made it two steps before the tendrils enveloped him. There wasn’t time to scream.