Iced On Aran (7 page)

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Authors: Brian Lumley

BOOK: Iced On Aran
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Hero looked at him, and sweat seemed to form, as by some hypnotic magic, under his arms, on his face, the palms of his tied hands, his back. Cold, slimy sweat. He looked at Augeren and felt as much as a cricket must feel face to face with a praying mantis. And indeed, there was also something mantis-like about the monster's stance: his hunched forward appearance under the cave's low ceiling, the faceted glitter of his great, bright, all-seeing eye.
“Augeren,” Hero found strength to say, and was somehow satisfied to note that his voice didn't squeak. “You're the murdering thing called Augeren.”
“Murderer?” The thing stared down at him. “I kill to live, quester. What excuse do you have?”
Hero wouldn't be suckered by that one. “To rid the lands of Earth's dreams of such as you!” he spat the words out. “But I never killed a young boy, or girl, or any thinking being who didn't first try to kill me. I never destroyed one of my own kind.”
The monster nodded. He seated himself on a boulder close by—too close, by Hero's standards—and blinked his faceted eye. The glitter went out of it in a moment, returned with the next blink. And, “There you have me,” Augeren replied. “For I have killed my own kind. Hybrids like myself, anyway.” And the dreamer was startled to hear a sob burst from behind the fleshy probe which was the thing's tongue.
Hero knew he was doomed. It seemed that his only chance—not to gain his freedom, no, but to prolong his life, for a little while, anyway—was to engage Augeren
in conversation. At least until the creature decided he'd talked enough. Or until he was hungry …
“You're a Leng-thing, then?” the quester hazarded. “From across the gray peaks of the barrier range?” But before Augeren could answer, Hero was stricken with cramp. The pain in his joints and muscles was intense as hot pokers, forcing a groan from his dry lips as he rocked his trussed body to and fro.
Augeren's hands came out from under his robe. Hero had not noticed them before, but the light was marginally stronger now, the luminescence in the cavemouth a little brighter. The hands were human enough—basically—but larger, powerful; their nails were thick as blades, pointed and sharp-edged. Augeren reached out with one of those hands and Hero winced. He wanted to close his eyes, but couldn't for his life.
The great claw of a hand went behind him, sawed at the rope tied between his bound wrists and ankles. It parted, so that his body straightened like a bow when the twine breaks. For a moment that was even greater agony, so that Hero couldn't help but cry out. But then, as the pain began to ease, he closed his eyes, let out his air in a great gasp, allowed his sweat-soaked head to bump down on the hard rock floor.
And at length Augeren repeated: “A Leng-thing? Like the horned ones from across the gray peaks, do you mean? I have sucked the bones of Leng-things dry. They are foul, not to my liking. I am not one of them; I am not their kin; I have not come out of Leng at all. But long, long ago, I was—or my ancestors were—what you are now. I am a half-and-half thing, yes. But a Leng-thing, no.”
A half-breed!
thought Hero.
But what had been the other half?
Out loud he said: “Who are you; where do you come from, and why do you hate human beings?”
Augeren's strange sob sounded again. Hero couldn't decide if it was a real sob, the sound of genuine grief, or a sort of suction as the monster drew air around that ghastly tool in its malformed mouth.
“Quester,” said Augeren, “in a little while I must kill you, as I'm sure you know. The juices of your bones will be rich, and I shall grow strong on them. But I would kill you anyway, for you are correct: I do hate you, all of you. But there's a burden on me and I want it lightened, and perhaps it would be made less if I told my tale. Also, with you there is no need to make a quick end of it. You are tired, tied, helpless; more important, you make no outcry. For much as I hate you, I would hate futile cries for assistance even more. Aye, and you are curious about me. You despise me, perhaps fear me, but still you are curious. Very well, listen:
“For as long as is remembered, the men of Inquanok have kept apart from the men of other lands. They say it is because they are a race apart, that the blood of gods flows in their veins. Also, they are secretive, so that their ways may not be copied by outsiders; they keep their laws and rituals to themselves.
“What is more, for
almost
as long as is remembered there have been Veiled Kings of Inquanok, though commoners have never understood the system of succession, or indeed the origins, of their Veiled Kings. Likewise the priests of these kings, or of the gods they worship; theirs, too, is a cryptic genesis. But the laws of the kings, and the way they are applied by priests and officials, are known and understood very well indeed. Inquanok does not have much by way of crime or sin, for its punishments are severe. Let me explain:
“A thief in Inquanok has the offending hand cut off. If he persists his other hand is amputated. After that he thieves no more. Cheats are ‘cheated'—that is to say,
everything they own is taken from them, so that they must start over again. Murderers are escorted to the temple, where the Veiled King's priests receive them. They go in but do not come out. Do you understand?”
“The punishment fits the crime,” said Hero. “The rest of dreamland's populated regions have similar measures, though rarely so harsh.”
“Ravishment, too, carries a harsh penalty,” Augeren continued. “Perhaps the most severe. A man accused of rape is stripped naked and banished north.”
“North?” Hero frowned. “But … nothing lies to the north. Certainly nothing hospitable. Only the quarries, the foothills rising to the gray barrier peaks, with unknown lands beyond and finally Leng. If a man is banished north he usually dies, or lives like a leper in the lee of the gaunt gray peaks, on roots and berries and whatever he can trap. Or climbs and probably falls, else is taken by Shantaks or gaunts …”
“ … Or wins through and descends the far side, to face the unknown terrors of whatever wastelands await,” Augeren carried it on. “And perhaps gradually ascends to Leng—there to be captured, tortured, finally devoured by almost-humans. Aye, and if he does none of these things but sneaks back into Inquanok … then he is taken to the temple.”
Hero nodded. “Let no man ravish in Inquanok,” he said.
“And yet they do, from time to time,” said Augeren. “One tot too many of muth; or a woman whose charms are resistless, a temptress who goads and then cries out in the night; or simply a man who cannot control his lusts. And so, once in a while, another naked rapist will be found plodding north to a fate undreamed. And all such men, you understand, lusty types, and some even bestial.”
“Most, I should think,” Hero agreed.
“The gaunts get them usually,” said Augeren matter-of-factly. “Not Shantaks, gaunts. The Shantaks fear night-gaunts, and many of the latter who dwell on high, in the peaks, are trained, which makes them especially dreadful creatures to the Shantaks. No Shantak-bird would dare take a human attempting to climb the gray peaks. Did you know that gaunts can be trained?”
“I know a youth who trains gaunts, aye,” Hero answered. “He has a power over them.”
“Others have powers, too.” Augeren sobbed again.
Hero found himself morbidly fascinated. “What do the gaunts do with the climbers they take?” he asked. “And what has that to do with you?”
“Certain caverns in the gray peaks are gates to the underworld,” Augeren answered. “Do you believe me?”
“I do,” said Hero. “Mount Ngranek on Oriab is likewise a gate to the underworld. Down there at the roots of dreamland lie the Vale of Pnoth, Zin's vaults, black seas of pitch, great ruins without name, and many another nameless thing. I know, for I've been there.” He couldn't suppress a shudder.
Augeren was impressed. “And returned unscathed! Then you're a quester born for sure! Alas, the quest for Augeren is your last. But tell me: are you still curious about me, or should I simply kill you now and have done? For sure as the dawn draws nigh I grow hungry, and I'd as soon be filled and sleeping through the day as sat here boring you.”
The word “boring” got to Hero. “Curious?” he croaked. Somehow he managed to get his knees under him so that he kneeled, scratched his back against the rock wall behind him. “Never more so. Indeed I'm fascinated! So say on, Augeren. Except …”
“Yes?”
“First tell me what happened to my friend. The burly fellow? He's a quester like myself, you see, and I just wondered—”
“Then stop wondering. He won't be coming to save you.” Augeren's many-faceted eye glittered. “He's dead, your friend. Fell into my trap in the dark. A great pit …”
Hero hung his head, felt grief, anguish fill him like a flood. He gritted his teeth, looked up. “And did you …” he choked, “did you—?”
“No,” Augeren shook his monstrous head. “Why should I climb down there to feed on him when there was the boy's father—or you? I kill, and then I eat. But once a body is cold, then the marrow of the bones quickly—
ah!
”
For Hero had turned his face away, was silently cursing into the hollow of his own shoulder, biting on the collar of his jacket. And Augeren said: “But see, now you hate me as much as I hate you.”
Hero controlled himself—a gigantic effort of will—and looked up again. He prayed that the tears in the corners of his eyes didn't show, for he wouldn't give this damned thing that much satisfaction, and said: “Please … please go on. The underworld. Men are taken there by gaunts. Why?”
“New blood,” Augeren answered at once. “A guarantee of continuity. They are placed where their unnatural lusts will best serve the denizens of the underworld. Especially the Lords of Luz.”
“Denizens of the underworld? Monsters d'you mean? Gugs, ghouls and ghasts and such? I don't understand. And just who are these Lords of Luz?”
As Augeren took up the tale again, so Hero commenced sawing at the rope between his wrists, slowly, painfully working its fibers against a projecting edge of
the rock at his back: “Do you know what a dhole is?” the monster asked him. Saliva spurted from the corner of Augeren's distorted mouth, driven out by his restlessly churning probe. “But of course you must know, for you've seen the Vale of Pnoth. Actually, I doubt if you have
seen
one, though perhaps you've been close. But to actually
see
a dhole is to die—usually. And yet I have hunted dholes and killed them! Not alone, of course, but as a member of the hunt. However, let that be for now …
“Well, there are dholes in all of dreamland's subterranean ossuaries. Wherever bones are tossed or piled or otherwise accrue, there dwell the dholes. They dwell deep down under the roots of the great gray peaks, too. Down there, in the lightless dark, they go about their curious labors, heaping the massive paleogean remains of monsters extinct since a time when dreams were in their infancy, and the dreamlands themselves were new-formed of the subconscious fancies of the first men. For there in a cavern vast as all Inquanok lies a prehistoric graveyard of beasts; and where better to find dholes, eh, than burrowing in the rustling dark of endless leagues and unknown fathoms of bones?
“But let me first describe the geography, however vertical, of the subterranean places—the better for you to understand the rest of my tale.
“If a man be borne by gaunts through the upper orifices of the gray peaks and down through those hollow mountains into the underworld—which indeed is the only way in, for the peaks are like hollow teeth in a skull—first he will find himself in Luz. Luz, therefore, is the uppermost of the land below, inhabited by the elite”—Augeren gave what sounded like a slobbery snort—“of these sunless regions. Beneath Luz, and accessible only through a fissure constantly guarded by
the Lords of Luz, lie the Downs of D‘haz, where dwell the halflings of which I am one. There, too, in the walls of that mighty, tilted cave of fungi and etiolated grass, dwell the Url. They are worms big as a man—indeed their trunks are like unto the trunks of men, but their limbs are vestigial and they burrow with spadelike snouts. They live on oil seeped by the centuries through the honeycombed rocks which form the walls of D'haz … on that, and on a richer diet by far, of which more later.
“Several chimneys go down from D'haz into the great dhole ossuary, whose extent is largely unknown. It must be vast, however, for there dwell dholes in their hundreds, and with them their attendant parasites, whom you might best think of as tick-men.”
“What?” Hero stirred a little, used the opportunity to saw again at his ropes. “Tick-men? Are you talking about human parasites—on dholes?”
“Not human,” Augeren slowly shook his head. “Though they probably were, once upon a time …” And eventually he continued: “Beneath the dinosaur boneyard, on the nethermost level, there lie the Pits of the Unknown Things. Of them, quite obviously, I can tell you nothing—except that they wage constant war with the dholes and live on their flesh. Also, that the dholes in turn live on
their
flesh.”

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