Our young Queen bids you welcome. Subscribe today!
I henceforth put pen to letter in hopes that what I have done, and shall do, will not be in vain.
My name is Captain Sir Henry Waddleton-Barnes, and I am—by the time you read this, was—the foremost explorer of the city of Pheidole.
Ah, fair Pheidole: the foremost city of the age. Ruled justly and with grace by our young Queen, it was the first among equals, a beacon of light, and knowledge; vibrant with arts, and sciences. Bursting with potential.
Until the coming of Myrmecia.
Wretched, vile, black-hearted Myrmecia!
We first came across Myrmecia, and we extended to them the hand of friendship. Our kindness was rewarded with treachery and death, for honour and nobility of spirit was not in them. We spoke of trade, and they responded with raids upon our territory. When we confronted them, they made protestations of innocence—and we believed them. Our diplomats were murdered, our outposts raided, our children taken—and all the while, the Mymecians claimed blamelessness.
In our naïveté, we believed them—and why should we not? We were incapable of comprehending the base calumny that forms the entire bedrock of the Mymecian character.
And so we found ourselves at war.
We did not do well. War is not a part of the Pheidolean nature as it is with the Myrmecians. We were devotees of art, science, and those things that uplift, rather than base savagery.
I found myself summoned before our young Queen, and as I went to kneel before her, she raised me up. “Sir Henry,” she said. “We are informed that you are the foremost explorer of the Jungle of Y’rd, and what lies beyond it.”
I grew cold with dread at her words, for indeed, none had the knowledge of Y’rd that I possessed. And I was the only Pheidolean living who had cast his eyes upon…the Mountain of Madness. And the eldritch abomination that dwelled there.
My horror at the memory must have shown on my face, because our young Queen laid her regal hand gently upon my brow. “Sir Henry,” she said, softly, sweetly. “We are losing this war.”
I protested! I spoke of the valour of our military; the fortitude of our citizenry. She smiled, sadly, and told me the truth: against the uncompromising Myrmecian barbarity, we were ill-prepared.
As this took root in my heart, an older gentleman stepped forward. He did not, if I may be so unkind, strike any sort of good impression upon me. He was unkempt, and in his eyes, I thought I saw a glimmer of the madness that comes from delving too deeply into the forbidden sciences.
Our Queen introduced him as Doctor Reginald Wharton, a scientist, and offered that he had a plan that might save fair Pheidole. As I listened, it soon became apparent that the faint shine of madness in his eyes was but only the surface of the insanity that lurked within him.
His plan, if it could be called that, was to journey through Y’rd to the Mountain of Madness, and seek out the Lost City of Monomorium, which dwelled in the dreaded shadows of that cursed mountain.
At this, I scoffed. Monomorium, I protested, was but a myth; a tale of fantasy, only used to fascinate children in the crèche.
Not so, said that madman. Monomorium, he pontificated, had been a centre of learning far in advance of anything we had achieved. Including, he thundered, the secret of calling the Great Old One, and forcing that horror to do our bidding.
He believed, actually believed, that we tiny mortals could bind that…thing…and use it to destroy Myrmecia.
I protested. I raged. I wept. I begged, but Her Majesty laid her hand upon my face and bound me to this task. What could I do but acquiesce?
The next morning, we—that insane scientist and myself—entered the Jungle of Y’rd on our task.
If you are reading this, I do not need to describe the dangers and horrors of our journey. Suffice it to say it took all of my knowledge and experience to enable us to survive.
Ah! If only I had turned a blind eye, and allowed that poor, unsound mind to fall to the traps or the talons in the night, but I was faithful to the charge laid upon me, and we stepped out of the jungle into the shadow of that fell mountain.
Later that day, we found the Lost City of Monomorium.
What can I say about that? To walk those empty boulevards, to see the bridges, and the silent rooms… Even under the dust of countless millennia, Monomorium is to Fair Pheidole as that glorious city is to the meanest tiny outpost on the frontier.
In the deepest chamber, we found it, inscribed on the walls in an ink I fear to think about were incantations. Fear ran through my body as I heard Dr. Reginald speak those exhortations in a language not meant to be spoken by sane creatures, and I begged him to stop.
“I have it, Sir Henry.” His voice, once timid, was strong. “They called me mad, but I have it!”
So saying, he strode forth from that dread chamber, through the silent, watching streets, and climbed to the top of the vast, cold mesa that laid before the Mountain itself.
The words. I will not write the words he spoke, save only that upon the third recital of those dire sentences, the ground shook—and before us appeared the Great Old One.
I cannot describe it. It isn’t possible. I can say that it did not have enough limbs, yet moved; that it reeked of charnel odours, and the sound of its movement sang promises of the death of the world; and its visage promised only the howling descent into madness.
Dr. Wharton grated out his demand. He offered that abomination the souls of Myrmecia, to use for whatever foul purposes might occur to that fell Beast.
And it listened.
After he was done speaking, it waited for too many breaths, then moved away in that impossible gait, only to return and move past us towards Y’rd.
“Do you see? Do you truly see, Sir Henry?”
“See what, Doctor? What?”
“Look at the sun, Sir Henry! Compare the angles! Myrmecia lies two points due West—and see where it goes!” So saying, the little scientist capered grotesquely on that mesa, laughing and cheering uproariously.
In the distance—impossible, I know—I swore I heard the screams of dying Myrmecia, and I must confess that it was music to my ears.
Soon, too soon, we saw the fell creature move ponderously, quickly, past us.
“We have done it, Sir Henry! We are saviours!”
It came past us, yet again, drifting back over the jungle of Y’rd, and unease settled upon my breast.
“Dr. Wharton.” Lost in his glory, the madman was accepting adulation from an invisible host, and I tugged firmly upon his shoulder. “Dr. Wharton! What lies to the west southwest?”
Shock settled upon his features.
“Dr. Wharton, what lies there?”
We heard the death of fair Pheidole.
We fled.
An upper room in Lost Monomorium served as shelter for our bodies, if not our souls. In the depths of night, Doctor Reginald Wharton got up, looked at me with eyes lost to madness, and walked out into the Y’rdian jungle. A brief shriek and crunching sounds told of his peace.
As for me: I am Captain Sir Henry Waddleton-Barnes. I am a faithful and loyal servant of the Fair City of Pheidole and devoted servant of her Queen. In the morning, I will find the Great Old One, and I will strike at its heart for the glory of Pheidole. May the loving spirit of her Queen guide my hand in avenging her destruction.
Signed:
Sir Henry Waddleton-Barnes, Esq.
###
“Ow, goddamnit!” Leroy Smith looked at his leg, where an enraged ant was furiously thrashing and biting, and quickly smashed it with a swipe of his thumb. “f*ck, we are ate up with these little bastards all of a sudden.”
Have you traveled beyond Y’rd, as well? Brave soul! Subscribe to Raconteur Press’s Substack today!
