Free The Society of Dread by Glenn Dakin Page A

Man came and saved me!’
    Theo suddenly felt ten feet tall. He related his tale, patiently answering Chloe’s barrage of questions. She frowned deeply when she learnt how Sam and Magnus had disappeared.
    ‘Basically, nobody is safe with these crelp things running around,’ Chloe remarked. ‘As I said – they either eat you, or drag you off to be a slave.’
    ‘A slave for who? For what?’
    ‘Find out that and I’m guessing we’ll find Sam and Magnus,’ Chloe said. ‘Did you get all of them?’ she asked suddenly.
    ‘I hope so.’
    ‘Well, we can’t hide in here forever. Let’s take a look.’
    Theo opened the refuge door and led the way out, his hands aglow, ready for the first sign of a tentacled enemy. Dead crelp lay smouldering and bubbling around the entrance, but no living creatures to be seen.
    ‘Where are we going?’ asked Theo.
    ‘Into danger, of course,’ Chloe said, her glance darting from side to side as she left the refuge. ‘Stay vigilant!’
    ‘Bring him!’
    The faceless figure, tall and dark, in ragged garb, sat in his command chair, surrounded by control panels, pistons and gear wheels: the gleaming instruments of ancient alchemy. Wisps of black smoke curled up from cracks in his ashen skin. In that ghastly head, deep, dark sockets showed a glint of moist eyeball.
    ‘I want the old man, now!’ rasped the broken, painful voice. Two thorny, aged crelp seethed and fluttered their tendrils at his feet.
    From the doorway emerged Queasley, the one-eyed Sewer Rat, prodding Magnus with his staff. The old cemetery keeper heaved his bony frame along on his two walking sticks. With grim resolution the old man navigated his way slowly through the glittering dials, spinning iron wheels and screeching pressure valves that filled this, thetop of the central tower in the Great Furnace.
    The control centre had no roof and was open to the airs of the cavern, and the giant chimney, built of immense stone blocks, towered above them in the darkness, belching stinking smoke. Flecks of ash danced in the air and rained down on the shining control stations, but no one seemed to care.
    Hollister and Queasley, staffs in hand, flanked Magnus as he was presented to their master.
    Magnus gazed at the faceless man, still struck with disbelief.
    ‘Dr Pyre,’ he breathed. ‘How can you be here . . . now? You died many, many years ago!’
    The faceless man’s eyes flashed, as if they might spontaneously combust at any moment and take his whole head up in a grisly bonfire.
    ‘It appears not,’ he growled. He paused. A faraway look came over his ravaged features. For a moment his harsh voice sank to a whisper. ‘These are strange days indeed,’ he began. ‘To the denizens of this underworld, the slinking smoglodytes andthe sly garghouls, the whole human era is known as the
Aftertime.
They speak as if our whole age is but an afterthought of creation. Well, it seems that Dr Pyre, too, has been allowed Aftertime.’
    Magnus gave the ashen man a deep, penetrating look, as if searching for something only he could see.
    ‘What year is it?’ Dr Pyre asked suddenly.
    Magnus told him. The faceless man nodded.
    ‘I see,’ he said in a strange soft tone that seemed filled with sadness.
    ‘But, Master, why do you believe him – and not us?’ asked Queasley. ‘We found you in the tunnels, we’re the ones who follow you!’
    ‘Because,’ Dr Pyre roared suddenly, ‘this is a world of lies!’
    Dr Pyre cupped his hand and let a small fire crackle there. ‘This is a world that deserves to burn.’
    The two Sewer Rats laughed coldly at this and raised their staffs in salute at the sentiment.
    ‘Back in the old days – the ones you now call Victorian,’ Dr Pyre said, ‘we used to saythat when a man bought a newspaper, the only truth it reliably contained was the date on the front page.’
    Queasley nodded. ‘Yes, yes – very good, sir!’
    Dr Pyre peered darkly into the distance. ‘Now even that verity has lost