rocket interceptors! maybe....the plan is have the int load on chemical weapons...and drop them somewhere...and then run away real fast -
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rocket interceptors! maybe....the plan is have the int load on chemical weapons...and drop them somewhere...and then run away real fast 
Gentlemen! it is at times like this I am glad I can hide under the bed. Loved the description of the tenuous moonlight in the factory hall, Yogi. Now where can I get a gas mask? Bad. Very bad. Hiding under the bed with the blankest over my head bad, even...
DW
DW
Virgiltchicken said:I just read the entire EOFM saga, and I'm quite impressed! I would say that this may be your greatest work yet, Yogi. It would make a great movie, perhaps you should talk to Peter Jackson...
Too bad about Bond, but when will we hear from Dr. Jones? Also, why didn't the shock of seeing the High Priest wake Duhrn like the thought of Fah Loo Sue being shot woke Skorzeny?
Also, update!
Dr Jones is scheduled to appear soon - he's still searching for the grave of Genghis Khan... When the false shooting of Fah Loo Sue jolted Skorzeny awake, his dream persona was in the Waking World - in the Wevelsburg cementery. Dream personas in the waking world are higly susceptible to waking up from the slightest shock. Duhrn on the other hand was deep in the Dreamland when the High Priest's hideous face was disclosed too him, so he remained asleep.
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Great update. I was little worried about that rocket interceptor. Buck was lucky this time.
Thanks for all your comments, Gentlemen! They are the fuel that keep this AAR running, the Royalties that enrich and reward the toiling writer...
And now, for something completely different: while the distant rumblings of war grow more intense, The Shadow strives to thwart the evil machinations of Siwan Khan and James Bond stakes his very soul to find a cure for his paralyzed body, Dr Indiana Jones is on a new quest!
Enjoy!
And now, for something completely different: while the distant rumblings of war grow more intense, The Shadow strives to thwart the evil machinations of Siwan Khan and James Bond stakes his very soul to find a cure for his paralyzed body, Dr Indiana Jones is on a new quest!
Enjoy!
New York Museum of Natural History
United States of America
February 20th, 1940
Dr Henry “Indiana” Jones waited with apparent tranquillity while the Curator of the New York Museum of Natural History threw aside the large cloth cover of the object. They were in the depths of the Museum’s ample subterranean storage area, in a large room still made claustrophobic by the low ceiling. Together with the insufficient electric light, the dry mustiness of the air and the plethora of strange and sometimes disturbing objects piled high on the shelves lining the concrete walls, it gave an air of grotesquery, even nightmare. Once the dust once accumulated on the cloth had settled down enough not to cause bouts of coughing, Indy leaned forward to examine the large silver coffin it had revealed. It was covered in intricate scripture and arabesques the 13th century Mongolian origins of which were immediately apparent to the erudite eye of the archaeologist.
‘And you reached the conclusion this wasn’t the genuine article how exactly, Professor Calhoun?’ he asked in a tone carefully devoid of any irritation. At the time, he too had only smiled at the very notion of the coffin of Genghis Khan showing up mysteriously in a New York Museum and never considered that the experts that had examined it might have been wrong in considering it a crude hoax.
The Curator, a grey-bearded and balding but tall and powerfully built man in his late 50s wore a perpetual sneer of disdain that disfigured his face. He threw out his hands in a dismissing gesture at Indy’s question.
‘Well, Dr Jones, apart from the sheer foolishness of the notion of Genghis Khan’s lost coffin suddenly appearing in the Museum’s mail, remember who brought it here – Siwan Khan, a known criminal, and to boot a foreigner who wanted to make us believe he was the direct descendant of Genghis Khan! I mean, really Dr Jones, who would believe such a thing?’
‘So you didn’t examine it at all?’ Indy answered with a voice made soft by disbelief.
‘On the contrary! Since the historical experts we called in declared that the writing was genuine enough, we had a forensic team examine the coffin. As you can see, it still has substantial amounts left of the velvet lining, whose general state of decay is consistent with a 13th century origin – and it’s immaculate. A decaying body would have stained that fabric beyond any possibility of cleaning. Since that coffin never held a body, at most it could be a work commissioned by Genghis Khan but never actually used in his burial. Or more likely, it could have been made more recently, and old velvet used for the lining. Given it’s use, to make an impressive appearance for that criminal yellow ape, I’d say the chances of this being even a discarded item commissioned for Genghis are remote at best. Nevertheless, it’s a beautiful piece of forgery and the silver used has a substantial intrinsic value, so we’ve held on to it.’
Indy said nothing, partly because the racial slurs against Asians, so common these days, always made him think sadly of his former young aide “Short Round”. Where would he be now? If he hadn’t yet been conscripted into the Pan-Asian legions running wild in the Pacific and the Philippines, he would be soon. So much for his almost adopted son-substitute… and the less he thought of his hideously crippled natural son the better. He just couldn’t face the thought of it and instead leaned forward over the coffin once more. The filigree work was among the best he had seen, and if it was a forgery, it was perfect in the minutest details. Indy would have staked his reputation, such as it was, that he was standing before a genuine 13th century Mongolian silver coffin. Silver coffin? And the name engraved… “Temujin”. The given name, rather than the title Genghis Khan. Why?
‘Apart from that, I see two anomalies with this coffin,’ Indy mused. ‘First, the name. After going through the trouble of declaring himself “Lord of the Earth” and doing a damn good job of backing up that claim through a lifetime of warfare, why settle for his given name on the coffin? Why doesn’t this coffin proclaim to all comers that this is the final resting place of the Great Lord of the Earth, rather than Mrs Mongol’s little brat Temujin?’
‘Good point, Dr Jones!’ Calhoun nodded. ‘None of our experts thought of that. Obviously the slimy lemon-face thought he was very clever. So you agree that this is a forgery then?’
Indy forcibly repressed his irritation. ‘No, I don’t. If the decoration on the coffin is a modern work, then it was made by someone with awe-inspiring skill and knowledge. I can’t think of a single person having both the crafting skills and the historical knowledge to make something like this, and if there was one, I WOULD know him. Also, if such an expert existed, he would never make the mistake of putting the name “Temujin” on the coffin. It would have been “Genghis Khan”.
‘Oh!’ Calhoun said, looking perplexed. ‘But then… well, maybe it is a real, albeit unused ancient Mongolian coffin, only some bungling yellow ape added the name later… yes, that would make sense. If the coffin was made for sale, then the place for the name would be left blank, to be filled in later, right?’
Indy had to agree that was plausible enough, even if he felt reluctant to agree about the sun rising in the East with the bigot Calhoun at the moment.
‘There’s something else though… why is the coffin made of silver? Only nobles were buried in coffins while most normal people would just be put out on the steppe to be devoured by wild animals. Genghis Khan could certainly have afforded to have it made of gold, and anyone else would likely have settled for wood or iron… but silver? I’m no expert on ancient Mongolian, but I believe some of these engravings are warding spells…’
‘Spells? Like magical spells, Dr Jones?’
‘Indeed, Professor. You see, it was common for many ancient cultures to consider silver a potent agent against the undead. My guess would be that the makers of this coffin intended to make a potentially restless corpse stay put in it's grave. And to judge from the fact that this coffin doesn’t show any trace of ever having contained a decaying corpse…’
‘What are you saying, Dr Jones?’
‘…it would seem that they were not successful.’
Calhoun’s discomfort was gratifying too see.
Author's note: In the movie "The Shadow"(1994), the villain Siwan Khan arrives in New York packed into a coffin posted to the New York Museum of Natural History and marked with the name "Temujin".
United States of America
February 20th, 1940
Dr Henry “Indiana” Jones waited with apparent tranquillity while the Curator of the New York Museum of Natural History threw aside the large cloth cover of the object. They were in the depths of the Museum’s ample subterranean storage area, in a large room still made claustrophobic by the low ceiling. Together with the insufficient electric light, the dry mustiness of the air and the plethora of strange and sometimes disturbing objects piled high on the shelves lining the concrete walls, it gave an air of grotesquery, even nightmare. Once the dust once accumulated on the cloth had settled down enough not to cause bouts of coughing, Indy leaned forward to examine the large silver coffin it had revealed. It was covered in intricate scripture and arabesques the 13th century Mongolian origins of which were immediately apparent to the erudite eye of the archaeologist.
‘And you reached the conclusion this wasn’t the genuine article how exactly, Professor Calhoun?’ he asked in a tone carefully devoid of any irritation. At the time, he too had only smiled at the very notion of the coffin of Genghis Khan showing up mysteriously in a New York Museum and never considered that the experts that had examined it might have been wrong in considering it a crude hoax.
The Curator, a grey-bearded and balding but tall and powerfully built man in his late 50s wore a perpetual sneer of disdain that disfigured his face. He threw out his hands in a dismissing gesture at Indy’s question.
‘Well, Dr Jones, apart from the sheer foolishness of the notion of Genghis Khan’s lost coffin suddenly appearing in the Museum’s mail, remember who brought it here – Siwan Khan, a known criminal, and to boot a foreigner who wanted to make us believe he was the direct descendant of Genghis Khan! I mean, really Dr Jones, who would believe such a thing?’
‘So you didn’t examine it at all?’ Indy answered with a voice made soft by disbelief.
‘On the contrary! Since the historical experts we called in declared that the writing was genuine enough, we had a forensic team examine the coffin. As you can see, it still has substantial amounts left of the velvet lining, whose general state of decay is consistent with a 13th century origin – and it’s immaculate. A decaying body would have stained that fabric beyond any possibility of cleaning. Since that coffin never held a body, at most it could be a work commissioned by Genghis Khan but never actually used in his burial. Or more likely, it could have been made more recently, and old velvet used for the lining. Given it’s use, to make an impressive appearance for that criminal yellow ape, I’d say the chances of this being even a discarded item commissioned for Genghis are remote at best. Nevertheless, it’s a beautiful piece of forgery and the silver used has a substantial intrinsic value, so we’ve held on to it.’
Indy said nothing, partly because the racial slurs against Asians, so common these days, always made him think sadly of his former young aide “Short Round”. Where would he be now? If he hadn’t yet been conscripted into the Pan-Asian legions running wild in the Pacific and the Philippines, he would be soon. So much for his almost adopted son-substitute… and the less he thought of his hideously crippled natural son the better. He just couldn’t face the thought of it and instead leaned forward over the coffin once more. The filigree work was among the best he had seen, and if it was a forgery, it was perfect in the minutest details. Indy would have staked his reputation, such as it was, that he was standing before a genuine 13th century Mongolian silver coffin. Silver coffin? And the name engraved… “Temujin”. The given name, rather than the title Genghis Khan. Why?
‘Apart from that, I see two anomalies with this coffin,’ Indy mused. ‘First, the name. After going through the trouble of declaring himself “Lord of the Earth” and doing a damn good job of backing up that claim through a lifetime of warfare, why settle for his given name on the coffin? Why doesn’t this coffin proclaim to all comers that this is the final resting place of the Great Lord of the Earth, rather than Mrs Mongol’s little brat Temujin?’
‘Good point, Dr Jones!’ Calhoun nodded. ‘None of our experts thought of that. Obviously the slimy lemon-face thought he was very clever. So you agree that this is a forgery then?’
Indy forcibly repressed his irritation. ‘No, I don’t. If the decoration on the coffin is a modern work, then it was made by someone with awe-inspiring skill and knowledge. I can’t think of a single person having both the crafting skills and the historical knowledge to make something like this, and if there was one, I WOULD know him. Also, if such an expert existed, he would never make the mistake of putting the name “Temujin” on the coffin. It would have been “Genghis Khan”.
‘Oh!’ Calhoun said, looking perplexed. ‘But then… well, maybe it is a real, albeit unused ancient Mongolian coffin, only some bungling yellow ape added the name later… yes, that would make sense. If the coffin was made for sale, then the place for the name would be left blank, to be filled in later, right?’
Indy had to agree that was plausible enough, even if he felt reluctant to agree about the sun rising in the East with the bigot Calhoun at the moment.
‘There’s something else though… why is the coffin made of silver? Only nobles were buried in coffins while most normal people would just be put out on the steppe to be devoured by wild animals. Genghis Khan could certainly have afforded to have it made of gold, and anyone else would likely have settled for wood or iron… but silver? I’m no expert on ancient Mongolian, but I believe some of these engravings are warding spells…’
‘Spells? Like magical spells, Dr Jones?’
‘Indeed, Professor. You see, it was common for many ancient cultures to consider silver a potent agent against the undead. My guess would be that the makers of this coffin intended to make a potentially restless corpse stay put in it's grave. And to judge from the fact that this coffin doesn’t show any trace of ever having contained a decaying corpse…’
‘What are you saying, Dr Jones?’
‘…it would seem that they were not successful.’
Calhoun’s discomfort was gratifying too see.
Author's note: In the movie "The Shadow"(1994), the villain Siwan Khan arrives in New York packed into a coffin posted to the New York Museum of Natural History and marked with the name "Temujin".
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The coffin of Fu Manchu perhaps?!? That is the only gastly undead monster for a (former) human being i know.
Then if Fu Manchu = Temujin, then the second coming of the "Lord of the Earth" is upon us. Or an attempt at to come again , if our friends can do anything about it.
Then if Fu Manchu = Temujin, then the second coming of the "Lord of the Earth" is upon us. Or an attempt at to come again
, if our friends can do anything about it.
Oh SHITE!!! And I am nowwhere near my bed! WAAAHHHH!!!
Great update. I had almost forgotten that movie, having seen it once, long ago... I wonder if there's a dvd boxed set or something?
BTW, do you have these two in PDF or Word? Easier for skimming back... Thanks,
DW
Great update. I had almost forgotten that movie, having seen it once, long ago... I wonder if there's a dvd boxed set or something?
BTW, do you have these two in PDF or Word? Easier for skimming back... Thanks,
DW
Hmm... an undead 'Khan'? Could this possibly link in with Fu's role as the third great Asian tyrant?
So Cool!
America's triumph is inevitible however since they possess "The Ark of the Covenant"
America's triumph is inevitible however since they possess "The Ark of the Covenant"
Hmm so there might be undead wandering around somewhere... scary.
Great update again.
Great update again.
Near Münstertal, Schwarzwald
Greater German Reich
February 25th, 1940
It was as if even nature knew some ancient evil inhabited this God-forsaken place, deep in the aptly named Black Forest, and did it’s best to prevent some unwary walker of ever stumbling upon it. A small spring stream had during centuries or even millennia cut a deep swath through the hillside. The resulting path was completely blocked by fallen trees and underbrush, but the way was cleared by a dozen burly SS-men with Sonnenrads on their collar patches and H’s on their sleeve diamonds. They used machetes some times, but mostly their bare hands to clear an easy path for the two high-ranking officers of respectively the most prestigious and the most feared units within the SS: the SS-Sturmbannführers Otto Skorzeny and Günther Duhrn, both tall men clad in long black leather coats over their black uniforms, complete with ceremonial daggers.
The uniform and stature was where any similarity between the men ended. If Skorzeny was Herculean, Duhrn was fine-limbed and while Duhrn’s features were smooth and aristocratic, Skorzeny’s were scarred into a perpetual lopsided and sardonic grin. While Skorzeny wore the silver double S-runes on his collar patch, Duhrn had the Sonnenrad . Where Duhrn carried a regulation Luger, Skorzeny packed a heavy Mauser machine pistol, and as if that was not enough, Skorzeny’s trademark SS-rune sword was strapped to a black leather sword belt slung over his shoulder.
Duhrn might have followed the path cleared by the Sonderkommando H privates, all in Feldgrau greatcoats and carrying heavy loaded backpacks, shovels and picks and Mauser rifles and on their backs, but he still led the way with small gestures of his hands. He often referred to a hand-written map, simple scribbles on an ordinary white sheet that looked utterly prosaic. Yet Skorzeny could not suppress a shiver at the memory of Duhrn, sitting night after night with his back propped against a headstone at the Wevelsburg cemetery, taking notes and repeating mind-shattering mutterings at the feet of that hideous alien thing covered in yellow silken tatters, the High Priest not-to-be-named. The High Priest had deigned too meet with Duhrn at the boundary between Dream and “reality” to teach him among other, more horrible things what he knew of the Schwarzwald, or as it had been known in the Hyborean age, the border range between Aquilonia and Nemedia, where the degenerate descendants of Acheron had lived who had given Xaltotun of Python his second burial.
It was sketchy knowledge at best, since Xaltotun’s existence in that time, after the three thousand years of death following the fall of the Empire of Acheron, had been cut short by the intervention of the barbarian-born King of Aquilonia. Still, there had been time before his second death, while still de-facto ruler of Nemedia, for the sorcerer of Python to travel the short distance from the capital, Belverus, and briefly visit the last remnants of the people of Acheron. The inbred and brutal hill tribes had adored him like a God, and claimed they would rebuild his capital of old, Python, for him. They had even shown him the chosen spot, a secluded valley deep in the mountains, and to reward their loyalty Xaltotun had raised shadow images of the purple cupolas and minarets of cursed Python, malignant mirages that had been visible even in Belverus and horrified it’s inhabitants, descendants of the very barbarians that had destroyed Acheron and overthrown it’s millenarian reign of terror three thousand years earlier.
It was in this very valley, however hard it might be to find it after twelve thousand years, that the High Priest expected the mortal remains of his human form to be hidden, probably in an underground crypt or temple. Even armed with this knowledge, neither Duhrn nor the High Priest had much hope of finding any trace of a construction apparently lost since twelve thousand years through purely conventional means. To remedy this, they had resorted to sorcery – most of the bizarre apprenticeship of Duhrn had been spent learning a series of spells for which the High Priest had given him several gruesome objects, among them pieces of monstrous-looking alien flesh presumably from his own Dreamland body.
After an exhausting trek into the spring-sodden and muddy forest close to Münstertal, Duhrn raised a hand to order a halt and examined their surroundings with satisfaction, referencing them against his notes. They were in a deep wooded ravine with steeply sloping sides. The SS magician, whose terrifying experiences had turned his hair prematurely snow white, raised his left arm with the palm of the hand upturned and the sickening pieces of alien flesh carefully arranged in it. His right hand began to trace a series of complex symbols in the air while he chanted in a voice that didn’t seem human, which was only fitting since the language he singsonged in could never have been intended for a human vocal apparatus. Suddenly the scraps of flesh dissolved into a thick, green-yellowish liquid that oozed between Duhrn’s fingers to drip onto the ground. A nauseating stench, like a mass grave reopened after several months, but faint, flooded the area, making some of the privates gag and all others wrinkle their noses in disgust.
As Skorzeny watched in fascination, a blue-greyish cloud of smoke rose from where the vile liquid had dripped on the ground, covered by a blanket of rotting leaves. The smoke quickly formed a tendril that extended over the ground as if alive, snaking between tree trunks and boulders. While the privates watched with bulging eyes, Duhrn began to walk along the trail of smoke, gesturing for the others to follow. Finally, the smoke rolled into a spiral, like a coiling snake. The front end seemed to flow into the ground, and the rest of the smoke tendril followed it until all of the smoke had filtered away.
‘This is the spot!’ Duhrn shouted excitedly. ‘Here men, begin to dig here!’
Skorzeny picked up a pickaxe from one of the privates and began to work as any other man. It was not the National Socialist way for an officer to despise hard work when he was not required to command, and this trip was entirely Duhrn’s show. He was along for one reason only.
Lebstandarte Barracks, Berlin
Greater German Reich
Three days earlier
They were in Skorzeny’s office, the simple, spartanly furbished workspace of a battalion commander. The only decorations in the office were the battalion colours hanging from one wall, and the SS-rune sword on display on another. Duhrn sat in the visitor’s chair, opposite the desk while Skorzeny as always was leaning back in his chair with his boots on it. He was smoking a Gauloise made from strong Turkish and Syrian tobacco, a habit picked up during the campaign in France where he had taken a few packages as war booty from captured French Poilous. The smell of the smoke made Duhrn’s eyes water, but he refused give Skorzeny the satisfaction of complaining.
‘As is your wont, I’ll go straight to the point, Skorzeny.’ Duhrn explained after refusing one of the Austrian’s odorous cigarettes. ‘I want you to come with me to the Schwarzwald to search for Xaltotun’s crypt. We might need your sword once we find the grave.’ Duhrn said, nodding towards the weapon on the wall. ‘You see, the High Priest warned me that it might well be… guarded.’
‘After twelve thousand years? Don’t be ridiculous! Besides, I need to be around the barracks right now, we have finished equipping the men, we’re are just beginning the training program, and I don’t want to leave them alone with Master Lichtenauer.’
‘Really? That was fast!’ Duhrn exclaimed, his interest piqued. ‘So tell me, what have you decided to go with?’
‘A mix of weapons. The swords will be handy for close combat, and we… I have already learnt a lot about using them from Master Lichtenauer. His reputation is well deserved! Between you and me, I really like the old geezer. I’m not sure what I’ll do when the training is done. He’s dead set, no pun intended, on getting decapitated ASAP.’ Skorzeny threw up his hands in confusion. ‘What can you say to that?’
‘I can take care of that far less messily, don’t worry about it. Go on, please, I’m curious.’
‘Right. I went back and studied infantry tactics from the end of the medieval era, before gunpowder really upset things. It seems the most successful infantry of the time were the Swiss, so I based my unit on them, a square of infantry fighting in close order. Now all that drill instruction will pay off big time! I did improve somewhat on the Swiss formation though. Benefit of hindsight and all that.’
‘Yes?’
‘The main weapons will be halberds and crossbows. We made halberds of sorts by combining two scythe blades mounted on a five metre wooden pole – we commissioned those from a broom manufacturer, would you believe it? Anyway, we insert one end in half a metre of steel tube – for strength and weight, and then we weld on two scythe blades, the largest we could find mounted edge-out on the steel tube and a small one on the opposite side point-out, for hacking or hooking with. We topped the thing with sharpened bayonet blades serving as lance points, the old long type from the Great War.’
‘Fascinating. What else?’
‘Unlike the Swiss, half of the men will be armed not with halberds but with crossbows. We made those using the stock and part of the firing mechanism of old Mauser rifles, combined with some cut steel tube for the groove. The bow arms we made with spring leaves from the suspension of Panzer I’s – now that they’re being phased out, there’s no shortage of spares from them. Luckily, there’s still people shooting with bows for sport, so we could just coil three ordinary bowstrings for each weapon. You cock it by using a lever that will pull the string back through a cogwheel mechanism made with off-the shelf parts– not much slower than pulling the bolt of a rifle! The perfect solution – it feels just about like a Mauser rifle, except it’s heavier and will shoot a steel bolt right through the door of a car! The boys should have little trouble learning to shoot with them.’
‘What about armour?’
‘Well, to begin with our Stalhelm is perfectly good head protection even against swords and axes, so we’ll just keep those. I also had Mercedes press cuirasses and greaves from sheet steel, the same they use in their cars. It won’t give perfect protection, but it will be better than nothing. I had the armour pieces painted - black of course - for protection against rust, so the men don’t have to spend time oiling and caring for them in all that snow and cold.’
‘Nice touch. So, the “Schwarze Landsknechten” for real, eh?’ Duhrn said grinning. ‘I can’t wait to see you in action! Still, that will have to wait. As I was saying before, I will need you and the Rune Sword when we enter Xaltotun’s tomb. What guardian might still linger in that crypt will not be stopped by bullets – the High Priest taught me a few spells that might help, but for destroying it, nothing short of an enchanted blade wielded by an experienced swordsman will do.’
‘But… look, I’ve seen too much in the last two years to shrug this off, but after twelve thousand years… what could possibly survive that long, buried inside a tomb?’
Duhrn’s answer was a quote from the Necronomicon, although Skorzeny could not know that: ‘That is not dead which can eternal lie…’ he whispered, all the usual arrogance suddenly gone from his pale features.
Greater German Reich
February 25th, 1940
It was as if even nature knew some ancient evil inhabited this God-forsaken place, deep in the aptly named Black Forest, and did it’s best to prevent some unwary walker of ever stumbling upon it. A small spring stream had during centuries or even millennia cut a deep swath through the hillside. The resulting path was completely blocked by fallen trees and underbrush, but the way was cleared by a dozen burly SS-men with Sonnenrads on their collar patches and H’s on their sleeve diamonds. They used machetes some times, but mostly their bare hands to clear an easy path for the two high-ranking officers of respectively the most prestigious and the most feared units within the SS: the SS-Sturmbannführers Otto Skorzeny and Günther Duhrn, both tall men clad in long black leather coats over their black uniforms, complete with ceremonial daggers.
The uniform and stature was where any similarity between the men ended. If Skorzeny was Herculean, Duhrn was fine-limbed and while Duhrn’s features were smooth and aristocratic, Skorzeny’s were scarred into a perpetual lopsided and sardonic grin. While Skorzeny wore the silver double S-runes on his collar patch, Duhrn had the Sonnenrad . Where Duhrn carried a regulation Luger, Skorzeny packed a heavy Mauser machine pistol, and as if that was not enough, Skorzeny’s trademark SS-rune sword was strapped to a black leather sword belt slung over his shoulder.
Duhrn might have followed the path cleared by the Sonderkommando H privates, all in Feldgrau greatcoats and carrying heavy loaded backpacks, shovels and picks and Mauser rifles and on their backs, but he still led the way with small gestures of his hands. He often referred to a hand-written map, simple scribbles on an ordinary white sheet that looked utterly prosaic. Yet Skorzeny could not suppress a shiver at the memory of Duhrn, sitting night after night with his back propped against a headstone at the Wevelsburg cemetery, taking notes and repeating mind-shattering mutterings at the feet of that hideous alien thing covered in yellow silken tatters, the High Priest not-to-be-named. The High Priest had deigned too meet with Duhrn at the boundary between Dream and “reality” to teach him among other, more horrible things what he knew of the Schwarzwald, or as it had been known in the Hyborean age, the border range between Aquilonia and Nemedia, where the degenerate descendants of Acheron had lived who had given Xaltotun of Python his second burial.
It was sketchy knowledge at best, since Xaltotun’s existence in that time, after the three thousand years of death following the fall of the Empire of Acheron, had been cut short by the intervention of the barbarian-born King of Aquilonia. Still, there had been time before his second death, while still de-facto ruler of Nemedia, for the sorcerer of Python to travel the short distance from the capital, Belverus, and briefly visit the last remnants of the people of Acheron. The inbred and brutal hill tribes had adored him like a God, and claimed they would rebuild his capital of old, Python, for him. They had even shown him the chosen spot, a secluded valley deep in the mountains, and to reward their loyalty Xaltotun had raised shadow images of the purple cupolas and minarets of cursed Python, malignant mirages that had been visible even in Belverus and horrified it’s inhabitants, descendants of the very barbarians that had destroyed Acheron and overthrown it’s millenarian reign of terror three thousand years earlier.
It was in this very valley, however hard it might be to find it after twelve thousand years, that the High Priest expected the mortal remains of his human form to be hidden, probably in an underground crypt or temple. Even armed with this knowledge, neither Duhrn nor the High Priest had much hope of finding any trace of a construction apparently lost since twelve thousand years through purely conventional means. To remedy this, they had resorted to sorcery – most of the bizarre apprenticeship of Duhrn had been spent learning a series of spells for which the High Priest had given him several gruesome objects, among them pieces of monstrous-looking alien flesh presumably from his own Dreamland body.
After an exhausting trek into the spring-sodden and muddy forest close to Münstertal, Duhrn raised a hand to order a halt and examined their surroundings with satisfaction, referencing them against his notes. They were in a deep wooded ravine with steeply sloping sides. The SS magician, whose terrifying experiences had turned his hair prematurely snow white, raised his left arm with the palm of the hand upturned and the sickening pieces of alien flesh carefully arranged in it. His right hand began to trace a series of complex symbols in the air while he chanted in a voice that didn’t seem human, which was only fitting since the language he singsonged in could never have been intended for a human vocal apparatus. Suddenly the scraps of flesh dissolved into a thick, green-yellowish liquid that oozed between Duhrn’s fingers to drip onto the ground. A nauseating stench, like a mass grave reopened after several months, but faint, flooded the area, making some of the privates gag and all others wrinkle their noses in disgust.
As Skorzeny watched in fascination, a blue-greyish cloud of smoke rose from where the vile liquid had dripped on the ground, covered by a blanket of rotting leaves. The smoke quickly formed a tendril that extended over the ground as if alive, snaking between tree trunks and boulders. While the privates watched with bulging eyes, Duhrn began to walk along the trail of smoke, gesturing for the others to follow. Finally, the smoke rolled into a spiral, like a coiling snake. The front end seemed to flow into the ground, and the rest of the smoke tendril followed it until all of the smoke had filtered away.
‘This is the spot!’ Duhrn shouted excitedly. ‘Here men, begin to dig here!’
Skorzeny picked up a pickaxe from one of the privates and began to work as any other man. It was not the National Socialist way for an officer to despise hard work when he was not required to command, and this trip was entirely Duhrn’s show. He was along for one reason only.
****
Lebstandarte Barracks, Berlin
Greater German Reich
Three days earlier
They were in Skorzeny’s office, the simple, spartanly furbished workspace of a battalion commander. The only decorations in the office were the battalion colours hanging from one wall, and the SS-rune sword on display on another. Duhrn sat in the visitor’s chair, opposite the desk while Skorzeny as always was leaning back in his chair with his boots on it. He was smoking a Gauloise made from strong Turkish and Syrian tobacco, a habit picked up during the campaign in France where he had taken a few packages as war booty from captured French Poilous. The smell of the smoke made Duhrn’s eyes water, but he refused give Skorzeny the satisfaction of complaining.
‘As is your wont, I’ll go straight to the point, Skorzeny.’ Duhrn explained after refusing one of the Austrian’s odorous cigarettes. ‘I want you to come with me to the Schwarzwald to search for Xaltotun’s crypt. We might need your sword once we find the grave.’ Duhrn said, nodding towards the weapon on the wall. ‘You see, the High Priest warned me that it might well be… guarded.’
‘After twelve thousand years? Don’t be ridiculous! Besides, I need to be around the barracks right now, we have finished equipping the men, we’re are just beginning the training program, and I don’t want to leave them alone with Master Lichtenauer.’
‘Really? That was fast!’ Duhrn exclaimed, his interest piqued. ‘So tell me, what have you decided to go with?’
‘A mix of weapons. The swords will be handy for close combat, and we… I have already learnt a lot about using them from Master Lichtenauer. His reputation is well deserved! Between you and me, I really like the old geezer. I’m not sure what I’ll do when the training is done. He’s dead set, no pun intended, on getting decapitated ASAP.’ Skorzeny threw up his hands in confusion. ‘What can you say to that?’
‘I can take care of that far less messily, don’t worry about it. Go on, please, I’m curious.’
‘Right. I went back and studied infantry tactics from the end of the medieval era, before gunpowder really upset things. It seems the most successful infantry of the time were the Swiss, so I based my unit on them, a square of infantry fighting in close order. Now all that drill instruction will pay off big time! I did improve somewhat on the Swiss formation though. Benefit of hindsight and all that.’
‘Yes?’
‘The main weapons will be halberds and crossbows. We made halberds of sorts by combining two scythe blades mounted on a five metre wooden pole – we commissioned those from a broom manufacturer, would you believe it? Anyway, we insert one end in half a metre of steel tube – for strength and weight, and then we weld on two scythe blades, the largest we could find mounted edge-out on the steel tube and a small one on the opposite side point-out, for hacking or hooking with. We topped the thing with sharpened bayonet blades serving as lance points, the old long type from the Great War.’
‘Fascinating. What else?’
‘Unlike the Swiss, half of the men will be armed not with halberds but with crossbows. We made those using the stock and part of the firing mechanism of old Mauser rifles, combined with some cut steel tube for the groove. The bow arms we made with spring leaves from the suspension of Panzer I’s – now that they’re being phased out, there’s no shortage of spares from them. Luckily, there’s still people shooting with bows for sport, so we could just coil three ordinary bowstrings for each weapon. You cock it by using a lever that will pull the string back through a cogwheel mechanism made with off-the shelf parts– not much slower than pulling the bolt of a rifle! The perfect solution – it feels just about like a Mauser rifle, except it’s heavier and will shoot a steel bolt right through the door of a car! The boys should have little trouble learning to shoot with them.’
‘What about armour?’
‘Well, to begin with our Stalhelm is perfectly good head protection even against swords and axes, so we’ll just keep those. I also had Mercedes press cuirasses and greaves from sheet steel, the same they use in their cars. It won’t give perfect protection, but it will be better than nothing. I had the armour pieces painted - black of course - for protection against rust, so the men don’t have to spend time oiling and caring for them in all that snow and cold.’
‘Nice touch. So, the “Schwarze Landsknechten” for real, eh?’ Duhrn said grinning. ‘I can’t wait to see you in action! Still, that will have to wait. As I was saying before, I will need you and the Rune Sword when we enter Xaltotun’s tomb. What guardian might still linger in that crypt will not be stopped by bullets – the High Priest taught me a few spells that might help, but for destroying it, nothing short of an enchanted blade wielded by an experienced swordsman will do.’
‘But… look, I’ve seen too much in the last two years to shrug this off, but after twelve thousand years… what could possibly survive that long, buried inside a tomb?’
Duhrn’s answer was a quote from the Necronomicon, although Skorzeny could not know that: ‘That is not dead which can eternal lie…’ he whispered, all the usual arrogance suddenly gone from his pale features.
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Spooky outlook, Yogi, storywise that is. I'm enjoying this very much, and I do dare to say that the frequency of updates has increased lately , so there isn't anything left to complain about. Damn Yogi, you're doing a good job?
Maybe I should complain about that?
, so there isn't anything left to complain about. Damn Yogi, you're doing a good job?Maybe I should complain about that?
This story still has me! When new secrets are revealed I can't help to wonder how our heroes will possibly defeat the mastermind of Fu Manchu, if they will...
The Yogi said:
That certainly brought back old memories of reading H.P. Lovecraft some 30 years ago.
Its good to see you continuing this story Yogi. It's one on the best that I've read on any of the AAR sections.Joe
Likely it is something far more horrifying than a vampire. Fantastic update Yogi. All the different threads of this story are so good I have trouble deciding whch one I hope to see next.