Maggot Czar of the Everglades

#2 Maggot Czar of the Everglades

and

The Tethers

by Stuart Hopen

Bold Venture Press • 2018

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Published by Bold Venture Press

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Copyright © 2018 Author.

All Rights Reserved.

The Twilight Patrol TM 2018 Stuart Hopen. All rights reserved.

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Contents

Copyright Information

Our Story So Far

Maggot Czar of the Everglades

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

The Tethers

The Editor’s Cockpit

About the Author

Connect with Bold Venture Press

Our Story So Far …

Reality has completely unraveled for Captain Hollister Congrieve, the most famous American pilot on the Western Front.

Germany has allied with the Mysteriarchs of the Abyss, an ancient order that harvests mystic powers by destroying beauty and communing with dark forces and demons known as the Qliphoth. Armed with swarms of flesh-eating flies supplied by the Mysteriarchs, Germany conquers Europe, and lays siege upon America.

Congrieve enlists the aid of Orville Wootin — genius, pilot, spy and mad poet, whose mood swings produce either superb results or disasters. He meets Cassiopeia Lampreyv, deposed hemophiliac ruler of a Carpathian country. With her macabre beauty and her mastery of men and the skies, she captures Congrieve’s heart — and uses it to pump blood from his circulation and into her own. Chaim Ben-Zimra — the queen’s physician, reveals himself as a Cabalistic seer, hypnotist, or charlatan. Then there is Lael, of the purple eyes of mystery and the murderous, murderous lips — a shape-shifting double agent.

By winning an aerial duel with a turncoat General, Mortimer Bainbride, Congrieve gets his hands on a mystic rune that can repel the sorcerous flies. It seems to be the best hope of defeating the Mysteriarchs of the Abyss. But can Congrieve truly trust his new companions — surely the strangest and most undependable assortment of heroes the world has ever known? The Mysteriarchs always play both sides of every conflict, ensuring the continual spread of chaos and destruction.

Maggot Czar of the Everglades

Suppose you were shown proof of real magic and promised anything you could possibly want — but at a terrible cost. Well, most of us have to make that same choice every day, but we just don’t realize it. Learn what happens to Wolfgang Von Schtorr, a German Army Surgeon, when the unseen world is revealed to him, and the Mysteriarchs of the Abyss propose an infernal bargain — the trading of mere beauty for ultimate truth.

Chapter One

Dulcet Lyre

April, 1916.

Captain Wolfgang Von Schtorr, the regiment’s physician, had been commanded to attend the Grand Ball at the Embassy.

My patients need me, he protested to his commanding officer.

This is an order. The commandant stroked his preposterously bushy moustache.

It was the night of the full moon, the time when the world was especially thick with the invisible things that vex mankind. The

wounded would be pouring in from the front, and fevers would be raging.

You’re putting lives and limbs at risk.

It is not for you to decide where you are most needed. That is in the hands of those above you.

Von Schtorr bridled at being subject to the whims of unseen and unquestionable authorities, least of all men whose power emanated from starched costumes.

But why me? He was shivering. It was too cold to go out, and he was ill himself.

Who knows? They want a doctor in attendance. Maybe they worry that a visiting dignitary might choke on a canapé. It isn’t for me to question. Nor is it for you.

Von Schtorr began to suspect his father’s manipulations at work. Although Wolfgang had used his medical training to achieve some degree of rank and recognition in the Army, it wasn’t good enough for his father. The old man wanted to see him ensconced in an even more prestigious position. Who else would care about his attending the Grand Ball at the Embassy?

The old man had always used his political connections to interfere with Wolfgang’s affairs. Although born to a family steeped in Prussian military traditions, Wolfgang had felt a calling to the field of medicine. It wasn’t a passing interest. It was an obsession, bordering on religious mania.

He and his father argued constantly. It was an ancient struggle; for each new generation plots to amend the failures and downgrade the accomplishments of the preceding. The old man knew what was at stake. Wolfgang was not only rebelling against his military heritage, he was rebelling against all of his family’s values. He adorned himself with grandiose rhetoric that compared a profession based on healing with one based on killing. He was fortifying himself to lay siege against the whole moral order around which his ancestors had structured their lives. He rejected the Church, on the grounds that science had become his faith. Respect for the sanctity of marriage fell in the wake of this rejection of the Church. Love and honor of family fell next. Then he took aim at allegiance to Kaiser.

Both Von Schtorr and his father were fixed in their determination of a proper career choice. The old man was used to giving orders and being obeyed. In the old man’s eyes, his son’s very soul depended on his career. It took time and cruel confrontation, but eventually they compromised.

Wolfgang became an army surgeon.

I must obey the higher obligations of my profession, said Von Schtorr. His commanding officer didn’t bother to look up from his papers.

Then I’ll have you shot.

Shot? For refusing a party invitation?

I have my orders. You have yours.

Apparently Von Schtorr the elder was determined to have his way. But would he actually sanction his own son’s execution? Perhaps. It fit into the way the old man saw the world as structured with perfect order.

Von Schtorr expected to be flown to Berlin. Instead, he was placed in a car. His driver headed in the opposite direction, out toward the Front. What kind of Embassy was this, anyway? What kind of Grand Ball would be conducted so near the trenches?

They arrived at an out-of-the-way Belgian village, largely devastated by shelling and seemingly abandoned except for the occasional stubborn straggler.

The ball itself was held in the town square, at the site of the Cathedral De Saint Norville, or rather what remained of it after the bombardment. Through some clever construct, the building had been rigged to look as if it were exploding. Crumbling walls were hoisted in the air by wires tied to huge observation balloons high overhead, barely visible by the light of the full moon. Glowing shells hung like Christmas ornaments around the structure. Crumbling staircases wound their way into the night sky. There were platforms and broken tiers, huge timbers and burning tapestries, inclined walls and sections of stained glass windows—all hammered carefully into place, posed as weightless decorations, supported by cleverly concealed joints and struts.

On top of his anger at having been hauled out this great distance, Von Schtorr found himself even more outraged by the elaborateness and preposterousness of this display. It seemed a jest in poor taste, and one taken at the expense of the poor villagers, to say nothing of war effort.

Von Schtorr noted the rank and prestige of the other guests. There were several generals he recognized. There were ambassadors from Austria Hungary and Transylvania. Crowned heads of state presented themselves under the jury-rigged collapsed ceilings.

Wolfgang overheard snatches of conversation he found disconcerting. Idle formalities, boring banter, but interspersed with strange words from unknown languages, full of sibilant sounds and chant-like meter, somehow sinister. Something about the party was wrong. One man wore formal attire, but he seemed to have the head of a hamster. It was some kind of hideous trickery, like the mockery of the exploding cathedral. There was also an American General present, an older man. He was drawing stares, but not for the way his uniform was out of place in this company, but rather because he escorted, on one arm, a woman of the most exceptional beauty. Indeed, Von Schtorr found himself admiring her slender figure, and the strong angles of her jaw and cheek. She had peculiar purple eyes, accented by the sheen of her satin dress and her white furs.

Then she astonished him by returning his gaze, singling him out even though all other eyes were upon her. She smiled warmly at him, as if they had known each other for countless ages. Had she mistaken him for someone else? He didn’t think so. He had a sense that she had felt what he did. There was a kinship between them, something they both knew and recognized at once, even though they were strangers. He started toward her, but then she and the old American General were lost in the throng.

Hans Trichmann approached Von Schtorr. They knew one another slightly, and had much in common, for they had both been born into martial families. They had played together as children. Their fathers were close friends.

Von Schtorr was tall, but Trichmann seemed to tower over him. He’d grown a great deal since their last encounter. A heavy dark beard burst over his face, making him look much older. His ruggedly cruel features made Von Schtorr feel uncomfortably pretty by comparison. Though the two men were close in age, Hans was already a General in the 4th Ersatz Division. It wasn’t all that surprising, for he’d been a dutiful son, frequently brought up—in vain—as a role model.

I’ve been hearing so much about you, Wolfgang. You have a reputation.

You outrank me. Now I suppose I must salute you! But instead of saluting, he made a distasteful gesture.

That’s the kind of thing I’ve been hearing about. That’s the kind of reputation.

Trichmann offered to share a bottle of a drink called Dulcet Lyre, a sort of British cousin to Absinth. Von Schtorr took a taste, then a hard swallow. It had an immediate strange effect, quite unlike alcohol. It seemed to enhance the natural and inherent qualities of the surroundings. Everything was ever so much, even more so of what it was. Von Schtorr tried to guess the pharmacology from the flavor and effects. Like Absinth, there was wormwood and cocaine. But there was something else.

Von Schtorr asked, Have you any idea why they’ve gone to such effort here? He motioned toward the dangling fragments of the cathedral.

To create a monument, of course, said Trichmann. A monument to the destruction of beauty. Shall we drink to it?

Von Schtorr emptied the glass, and then raised it. Drink is an anesthetic. It doesn’t need another purpose.

I’m very serious. There’s glory in seeing what lies beneath beauty. There’s … magic in it. You’re a physician. Don’t you find something otherworldly revealed when you cut through layers of skin and tissue?

Von Schtorr pulled his sheepskin collar closer around his neck to ward off the beastly cold.

Is that the way you view the same thing on the battlefield? I’ll bet you do. But compare the difference between what you and I accomplish at the end of the day.

Oh yes. Your life has a grand meaning and direction. That’s why you feel so fulfilled.

Von Schtorr grimaced. Trichmann had scored a direct hit. He tried to change the subject.

I prefer to see beauty intact. Now take a look at her, for example …

He gestured to the purple eyed woman who had captivated him earlier.

Trichmann laughed. Her name is Lael. Be careful of that one. She is a witch.

She has enchanted me.

I’ll introduce you to her, if you wish. And then we’ll see how long it takes you to appreciate the destruction of beauty. She is already spoken for. The old man. The American General, as repulsive as that might sound.

I sense some peculiar destiny between us.

"Her handsomeness is too perfect for my tastes. That’s the kind of face I’d expect to see

if you put a vain woman in front of a mirror and gave her the chance to shape her own looks. There are too many touches of what are purely women’s ideas of what is beautiful in a woman, including what they find attractive in a man. For myself, I much prefer the other woman."

He inclined his head, trying not to be obvious, toward a tall pale woman with hair the color of blood. The features were purely classical, as was the shape, with its full breasts and narrow waist, the long, long legs. The eyes were especially large, but distinctively marked by a red sclera that made diagnosis immediately obvious to Von Schtorr.

Her name is Cassiopeia, the very queen of Cassiopeia. She is here tonight by special invitation, like yourself. Now there is a woman to bring out my every vice, said Trichmann. "Lust. Greed. Envy … She’s wearing far more wealth than many generations of both of our families managed to pilfer