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  DARK TALES FROM THE SECRET WAR

  Thirteen World War Two Tales by Modern Mythos Masters

  Written by Dan Griliopoulos, David J Rodger, Jake Webb, Jason Brick, JE Bryant, John Houlihan, Josh Vogt, Martin Korda, Mick Gall, Patrick Garratt, Paul Cunliffe, Richard Dansky, Will Salmon

  Edited by John Houlihan

  Cover illustration copyright © Dim Martin

  Layout & Design by Thomas Shook

  Proof Reading by TR Knight

  Achtung!Cthulhu & the Modiphius logo are copyright © 2012–2015 Modiphius Entertainment Ltd.

  Dark Tales Anthology copyright © 2015 Modiphius Entertainment Ltd

  All rights reserved.

  Published by Modiphius Entertainment Ltd.

  35 Turneville Road, London. W14 9PS. UK

  [email protected]

  Any unauthorised use of copyrighted material is illegal. Any trademarked names are used in a historical or fictional manner; no infringement is intended.

  This is a work of fiction. Any similarity with actual people and events, past or present, is purely coincidental and unintentional except for those people and events described in historical context.

  Find out more about Achtung! Cthulhu and other Modiphius Entertainment games at

  www.modiphius.com & www.facebook.com/modiphius

  Modiphius Entertainment product number: MUH050200

  ISBN: 978-1-910132-46-3

  INTRODUCTION

  WELCOME to Dark Tales from the Secret War, the first volume of fiction set in Modiphius’ Achtung! Cthulhu universe, a world which combines the terrors of HP Lovecraft’s Cthulhu mythos with the setting of mankind’s darkest yet finest hour, the second world war.

  The idea for Dark Tales originally came about in late 2013. I’d completed The Trellborg Monstrosities novella and game design for Modiphius the previous year. After finishing another couple of fictional works in my Tales of the White Witchman series, I came back to the A!C universe, looking for a fresh challenge and started to kick a few ideas around.

  I was keen to do more fiction, but one of the downsides of writing novels and novellas is that they always take an inordinate amount of time (that and they will slowly consume your every waking thought and eventually your very soul, of course). Even the shortest of novellas will probably take three months from start to finish, so perhaps short stories might be a better way to approach the problem?

  That was it: a collection of short stories, now we were talking! Not only would that break up the usual gruelling writing marathon, but it would also mean many different stories, from many different parts of the war, different characters, diverse organisations, providing variety and interest in a way that a single, longer story, no matter how compelling, would find difficult to achieve.

  Then the laziness of the long distance writer also whispered ‘And maybe you could inveigle… I mean invite other writers to get involved to help spread the load. Lots of different contributors, would mean lots of different ideas, different voices and… you’d only have to write one of them!’

  Enthused, I discussed this initial idea with Chris Birch, Modiphius’ splendid publishing director over a beer and with his enthusiastic support, Dark Tales was conceived, its remit to explore, expand and expound the Achtung! Cthulhu universe in bold new narrative-led ways.

  So, some solid foundations had been laid, but now I’d have to recruit some actual writers to execute my cunning plan. To help in this daunting task, I tried to picture myself as Takashi Shimura or Yul Brynner, recruiting a magnificent seven fictional samurai of wordslingers to power this volume. Perhaps that analogy didn’t really hold up in the cold cruel light of day, but any start is a good start as they say, and whatever you need to tell yourself…

  Naturally, on any such undertaking you start closest to home and good friend, fellow Cthulhu fanatic and acclaimed Yellow Dawn writer David J Rodger was one of the first to come on board, followed swiftly by Paul Cunliffe and Jonnie Bryant, friends and colleagues from the gaming world, who also indicated they’d be interested in contributing. Chris also promised a contribution in the form of Mick Gall’s Heart of the Sea and suddenly we were up and running with four potential tales.

  I held up four fingers in the glinting (imaginary) sunlight, tilted my virtual cowboy hat and adjusted the equally imaginary katana on my hip. Progress.

  A few weeks later, David’s Shadow of the Black Sun, the very first original tale arrived and suddenly Dark Tales became even more real. Through a cunning campaign of persuasion, intimidation, bribery, blackmail and in at least once case, holding the soul of the victim to ransom, more followed.

  Colleagues from the golden gaming generation all stepped up. Funamublism’s Dan Griliopoulos, Martin Korda, writer of Destiny The Taken King, Fable and the Journey video games and a BAFTA winner to boot hopped on board the Dark Tales train. The legendary Patrick Garratt publisher of VG247.com and a master of the macabre followed suit, swiftly joined by the luminous Richard Dansky of Splinter Cell fame.

  Word spread, momentum gathered, chickens came home to roost and now Dark Tales was attracting serious overseas talents like Josh Vogt and Jason Brick, as well as home grown genii like SFX’s Will Salmon and the Belvedere Writing Project’s Jake Webb.

  More and more Tales began to arrive and I began to read them with supreme interest and it has to be confessed, some growing alarm. These gentlemen were setting a damn high standard and I’d have to seriously up my game and contribute some decent words of my own just to merit a place in this august company. My own short “Servant of the Dark” was one of the final Tales to fall into place.

  So my cunning plan was concluded and its original design bought to fruition. Thirteen of the finest Dark Tales from the Secret War await within this collection’s unhallowed covers, covering a range of times, places and characters from that fateful conflict. Inside, you’ll be transported to theatres as diverse as Norway, the Pacific, occupied Europe east and west, the Black Forest, Amsterdam, London, Germany and Cairo and many points in between, from the outer realms to the wildest depths of inner space and beyond. You’ll meet daring heroes, dastardly villains, strange and unusual beings and creatures, horrors and artefacts that have never seen the light of day before, and possibly never should again.

  Dark Tales actually debuted at Dragonmeet 2014, where five of horror’s finest joined me to read excerpts and teasers from their stories — and you can find the results in the Dark Tales podcast. We’ll also be taking Dark Tales on the road again throughout this year and next, so watch out for readings and appearances at a horror, sci-fi or fantasy convention near you.

  Players of the Acthung! Cthulhu game should find plenty of inspiration herein with some intriguing inventions ike the Allies’ doddering but magnificent Met Office, original artefacts like Der Alptraum or discovering more about the sinister machinations of the sinister Black Sun, which can be enjoyed on their own or adapted to your games in whatever way you see fit.

  But primarily this is a collection of fiction to be read and enjoyed: with rip-roaring tales of horror and high adventure, by turns sinister, poignant, amusing and unsettling and I hope you’ll derive as much enjoyment, delight and delicious thrills from reading this first volume, as I have had from commissioning and editing it.

  After all, these are the darkest of tales from the most secret of wars — so you should expect nothing less.

  John Houlihan — Watford, November 2015

  SHADOW OF THE BLACK SUN

  By David J Rodger

  IT was only approaching eight o’clock in the evening and the sun was setting already. Every day, it sank lower faster and got darker earlier. The approaching winter made Oberleutnant Erich S
teinmann uneasy, because he knew his small squad of men were scared.

  In three days it would be dark by thirty past seven, by the end of the month it would be dark at thirty past six. By the end of November it would be dark by lunchtime and the sun would not rise again until after breakfast, only two hours of light a day. And then December. In December it would stay dark until the first week of January.

  Erich stubbed out the Eckstein he’d been smoking and immediately sparked up another one, inhaling the tobacco with a grimace — he preferred the Lucky Strikes he had traded for in Narvik, but they were all gone now. The stench of gasoline from the American Zippo lighter flooded his nostrils. The flame fluttered in the chilly breeze blowing into the bunker through the long, thin observation gallery. He snapped the Zippo shut. His eyes, small, triangular and grey, nervously raked the jagged black rocks hemming in the treacherous entrance to the harbour.

  This was the tiny fishing settlement of Svolvær, on the east coast of the rough jumble of islands making up the Vesterålen and Lofoten archipelago, hanging off the mainland of Norway. Bleak but beautiful, the surrounding landscape was entirely mountainous, towns and villages strung out along the Strandflaten.

  Nearly half a mile from Svolvær itself, the isolated bunker faced the open sea of the Vestfjorden. The ethereal colours of sunrise and sunset were often trapped in the mirror-like surface of the water; but today, the sea was black and brooding, surging across the broken shoreline with fretted waves and a sticky white foam. Sunset was but a band of tarnished gold in a grey sky, heavy with low cloud, spilling an uneasy glow across the rocks and the red painted wooden rorbuer.

  Because the harbour was so deep and could accommodate large transport ships, it was important to the strategic needs of the Fatherland. There were rumours the British Commandos were planning a raid because Svolvær is an important centre for the production of fish oil and glycerine, used in the German war effort.

  The clusters of serrated rocks that jutted out from the water formed a good natural defence, but he did not like those rocks — they suggested strange shapes and outlines in certain light.

  The British would be angry. The Luftwaffe had just begun bombing London. It would either motivate them or crush their “bulldog” spirit. Erich sadly suspected the former; he liked London, he liked the British — if only they would have joined the German people in this drive towards victory as allies. It had been several months since Norway surrendered, one of many territories to fall under the remarkable might of their combined fighting teams: units using Heer and Luftwaffe assets together. Coupled with advanced operational and tactical methods, Erich had heard of the world media’s shock and awe at the scale and speed of German victories. Blitzkrieg they called it.

  A lightning war.

  Appropriate, in some ways, for the raw and primal energies he suspected were being tapped (or simply still explored) by some elements outside of the Wehrmacht. Only rumours, of course. More rumours. But these were backed-up by claims from one of his squad, Torben Bruhn, who had a brother in the Waffen-SS and liked to boast about it. Men and woman, Aryan brothers and sisters, who were plunging into… what did Bruhn call it? Into the “Abyss between the cosmos and the stars”, to seek a secret weapon, a Great Advantage for Germany. Bruhn also liked to ridicule him about being a Christian. He would have to discipline Bruhn, eventually; right now he needed all of his men and all of them on his side. Besides it may not even be necessary because Bruhn’s brother had sent a communiqué to have him reassigned to Oslo.

  And tonight, a sense of…what?

  Menace in the sky? Foreboding? Erich hated it. The impression had only grown since they first arrived to take over the bunker. It was as if there was tragedy woven into the fabric of the mountains that surrounded them.

  Something bad was going to happen soon. He could feel it in his blood.

  The smell of cooking caught his senses and distracted him from his gloomy thoughts. Turning away, he barked an order at Schenck who was sitting on a balcony below the observation deck, cleaning the bolt-action mechanism of his K98.

  “Take over the night watch, Schenck.”

  Seppel Schenck, a reptile of a man, tall and gangly with a high steeply sloping forehead and a greasy mop of brown hair. He had the black, lacklustre eyes of a predatory creature and was the only solider Erich had commanded who actually took pleasure in killing. As Erich trotted down the concrete steps, Schenck pushed himself wearily from the chair and slouched past without acknowledgement. Another candidate for discipline, Erich mused wearily.

  “I’ll come back to relieve you once I eat, Schenck.” Erich called over his shoulder as he climbed the wooden staircase from the balcony down into the concrete bowels of the bunker. This place, Svolvær, had gnawed away at the confidence of his men; it had eroded their discipline and made them only half the soldiers he knew they were.

  Two men occupied the ground floor mess. Corbinian Sturm, who was cooking a fish stew on his portable stove; large, bald and sweaty, he was reliable and trustworthy. Winfried Dirchs, a giant with the harsh features of a philosopher, sat nearby, sharpening a paratrooper knife he had traded in Oslo, and doing little to help with the cooking. Erich noted with silent disdain that Dirchs had modified his M40 tunic (against regulations!) with a bottle-green collar salvaged from an older M36, covering up the feldgrau — field grey — which had become the new standard issue. Dirchs worked on the knife and looked like a man concentrating on not going insane. Yes, Bruhn had got inside his head.

  Torbin Bruhn was out with the young and impressionable Quirin Siekert — both had been commandeered by Hauptmann Raske, to look for the missing cadet, Oberjäger Henning Krebs.

  Whatever Krebs had been up to, it wasn’t sanctioned by the chain of command and now rumours (more damned rumours) were flying around that the Order of the Black Sun were operating in the area — and that Krebs was one of them. An acolyte hunting the origins of Germanic supremacy in the bloodlines of the Old Race. It was why his men were scared. Not because of the risk of British Commandos raiding Svolvær, but because Torbin Bruhn had filled their silly heads with stories about the Black Sun and what they could do.

  “It smells good, Sturm.” Erich complimented his cook, pausing as he walked to inspect the contents of the pan.

  Sturm grinned, wiped a flabby hand across the sweat covering his forehead and glanced over at the giant, Dirchs. “Thank him. He caught them this afternoon. So fresh I think they will make our bellies glow in delight.”

  Erich acknowledged this with a curt nod and then walked over to a table where plates, bowls and cutlery were stacked up. He stopped and placed his hands just above the table. His fingers were trembling.

  God damn this war.

  He lowered his palms to the table and made his fingers still.

  Torbin Bruhn hero worshipped his SS brother and by association seemed to worship the Black Sun units who were known to ride alongside SS Sonderkommando and the Waffen-SS. If the Black Sun were here, it might explain why Krebs had gone missing: the cadet was aloof and mysterious with hollow eyes and gaunt features, but he had an inner strength that far outshone his fragile physical form. Yet this did not make sense. Why would they not present themselves in the settlement? At least make their presence known? All this secrecy….

  Erich was deeply suspicious of their motives. Torbin talked proudly about the Advantage the Black Sun would bring to Germany, but Erich had asked questions and heard other things — from officers at the whaling station in Andenes and at the industrial wharfs at Narvik. Some people did not believe the motives of the Order of the Black Sun were entirely aligned with the supremacy of German blood over Europe. Listening to these stories, Erich considered that Himmler had been blinded by greed for more power; by a desire to accelerate his plans for a master race to form a true home for the Aryan descendants. Hyperborea and the Thule Society. Erich shook his head sadly, stubbed out the remains of the cigarette and picked up a battered tin bowl and steel spoon. All he cared a
bout was getting back to Munich to see his wife and three children, once Germany had re-established its rightful place at the heart of Europe and the centre of the global political court. Once the fighting stopped, he would put away his knife and gun, and temper his war spirit with carpentry at his grandfather’s factory.

  Erich held the bowl like he might hold a weapon. The Black Sun…

  The way their reputation was weaving its way into the fantastical parts of the imagination of the German fighters, it bothered him. Reinhardt Weissler bothered him. Erich knew that Alfred Rosenberg disliked him too, which didn’t make sense as Rosenberg was the Party’s chief racial theorist.

  Weissler was too close to Himmler. What had they found in Karelia, Finland? The mission was supposedly undertaken by the Ahnenerbe but Erich knew it was a cover for the Black Sun’s first expedition. And later the same year, ‘36, in Bohuslän, Sweden; they found something there that caused acute excitement — something that was taken back to Wewelsburg Castle…where apparently Reinhardt Weissler now had his own private laboratory complex. Built hurriedly in ‘34…a little over a year after the Reichstag burned down. Not recent history but the speculation had grown from hushed whispers to the boastful talk of drunken soldiers in that time.

  That bothered him!

  A commotion sounded outside the steel door to the bunker, and a moment later Bruhn and Siekert crashed through, wrestling with a savage looking woman with dark hair, dressed in rags and blankets. Erich spun round dismayed. Sturm and Dirchs leapt to their feet and hurried over to help restrain her. Sturm took a heavy punch to the face from the woman, which caused him to drop to his knees, stunned, clutching a bleeding nose. Dirchs didn’t take such risks, he swiftly kicked the woman in the groin and pistoned a fierce fist to the side of her skull as she doubled over.

  “Enough!” Erich yelled, sensing Dirchs’ desire to continue the violence.

  The giant Dirchs stepped back, responding to the order but casting a sullen glance towards his commanding officer.