by Brian Lumley
Tarra Khash, for instance: he was a strange one, this Hrossak. Not often that a common man comes to the attention of lofty mage, whose thoughts and schemes would normally dwell on higher plane; and yet Teh Atht was interested – intensely so. Aye, for this wasn’t the first time he’d heard of this brawny Hrossak, nor merely through any mundane or common gossip.
A certain lamia in her sulphurous lair knew of him, thinking strange, fond thoughts for a lamia! (This was Orbiquita, Teh Atht’s ‘cousin’, with whom by virtue of their blood bond he had the power to converse over vast distances. For Mylakhrion, that most fecund of all wizards, had been her progenitor too; indeed, and according to legend, he was both ‘father’ and ‘brother’ to the entire sisterhood!) While Teh Atht had sojourned in her castle in Sheb, he’d tried to contact Orbiquita in the great subterranean cavern beneath the Nameless Desert where she slumped asleep, cocooned in lava, serving a sentence of five years solitude for some sin against lamia laws. He had tried to contact her, but all he got were dreams and fancies: dreams of Tarra Khash, in fact, whom she seemed to fancy more than somewhat!
Now, it were certainly not strange for lamias to lust after iron-thewed, handsome steppemen; but to long for a man? And with such affection? At the time Teh Atht had merely thought it odd, no more than that: it was her dream, after all, and dreams are curious things at best, which do not always tell the truth. And so, being no voyeur (shewstone to the contrary), he’d not lingered but left her to her dreaming.
That had been the first instance. But then:
Ahorra Izz, scarlet scorpion god in his jungle temple, had also known of Tarra Khash; or if not his name, certainly he’d known of the man. ‘Three who work against Gorgos,’ he’d riddled, ‘and one of them a man!’ A man called Tarra Khash, aye. Moreover, that singular arachnid deity had owned to ‘liking’ him! First most loathsome lamia, and now ireful insect intelligence? Oh, he was a charmer for sure, this Hrossak, and perhaps much more than that. Worthy of further investigation, anyway.
Teh Atht’s fruitless five year quest had left him weary, and he’d vowed that when he got home he would take his ease; yet now, sensing that his and a certain Hrossak’s destinies were fast intertwined, he felt full of a strange urgency. It were imprudent (indeed, nigh impossible) to go direct to Tarra Khash and make his interest known: interest in the Hrossak himself, in his curved sword with its curiously fashioned and gem-studded hilt – ah, and great interest in Black Yoppaloth’s current slavemaster, the cryptogenic Cush Gemal! For the steppeman hadn’t yet settled to captivity and would be doubly nervy; he might well react to magick in much the same way as a superstitious Northman, who would avoid it if he could, or fight it to the death if he couldn’t! And so Teh Atht’s eventual approach would need to be well considered and crafty in its execution. Wherefore, better to leave it until later, when the Hrossak had lost something of hope and might be ready to grasp at straws. Or whatever else the wizard had to offer.
And meanwhile?
Teh Atht sighed. One quest ended, however disappointingly, and another about to begin. Genuine, healing rest, of the sort he’d looked forward to – with his slippers, books, and perhaps a succubus or two to keep him warm nights – were now out of the question. A wizard’s work was never done. He’d know no peace of mind until certain riddles were resolved. And who could say, perhaps it might mean the resolution of that earlier quest, too.
Where to start was easy, but first—
He went to his bedchamber, stretched himself out and uttered the rune of Rapid Repose, at once began to snore. Ten dreamless hours sped by in a like number of seconds, and refreshed Teh Atht sprang up. It wasn’t as good as the real thing, of course, but better than nothing.
Now he must hie him to Nameless Desert, find a blowhole and descend to planet’s fiery bowels, there seek audience with Orbiquita. Only this time in person, and not just mind to mind. Aye, he’d wake her up from sulphurous slumbers, and at last attempt to fathom her fondness for this mere man, this Tarra Khash. And that, too, would be a neat trick, if he could turn it. For a mortal, even a wizard, to commune face to fearsome visage with a lamia were nothing less than fraught!
But alas, no way round it. Not that he could see …
III
A MAGE IMMORTAL?
Tarra Khash lay under the moon and stars, a coarse blanket for his cover, with his stomach growling and his thighs on fire from forced march to ruined Humquass. He’d trekked a fair bit in his time, however, and knew that pain alone wouldn’t kill him; not the natural pain of tired muscles, anyway.
Chains had been lengthened, allowing for a little mobility, but only one blanket to each pair of captives, so that he must needs share it with one other: a blond-haired, blue-eyed youth of some fifteen summers. A farm lad, Tarra guessed – with muscles a-plenty but little fortitude of mind – who’d snivelled a bit and then gone to sleep; but the Hrossak remained wide awake, only biding his time.
The moon had put on a little weight since last night, but not much; three weeks yet before it would swell into an orb; and where would a steppeman find himself then, and what would he be doing there? Fighting in some nightmare arena of magick? Best not to seek to know, he supposed.
Tarra turned carefully in the shallow, sandy depression he’d dug for himself and gazed all about. Outwards: Humquass’ once-massive, now broken walls formed a black, fanged horizon, with the stars floating on jet above its rim. Inwards: the wagons were ranged in a wide circle around central fires already burning low, where a few black slavers squatted and conversed in lowered tones, while a handful of barbarians and Hrossaks gambled with dice. And close to the lead wagon with its precious cargo of pure maidens, there stood a silken tent, black, with black tassels at the four corners of its scalloped canopy. Cush Gemal’s tent, where doubtless he slept on plump cushions even now.
The Hrossak’s glittery eyes swept the area of the central fires. Many Yhemnis were bedded down there, wrapped in their blankets. The last three or four gamblers finished gaming, cursed their luck or collected up their winnings, slowly ambled off into the shadows. Two drunken Northmen remained, guzzling a wineskin dry, then leaning together and burping into firelight’s glow. Tarra watched them, waiting until they too took their staggering departure.
There would be a watch out, of course – frizzies doing three-hour shifts through the night, perched high up in the broken walls – but they’d be looking outwards, watching for wandering nomads or possible pursuers. They’d not be much interested in what went on down here. Not that a lot would be going on, for Tarra was still chained. This was the problem to which he’d now apply himself.
He’d already studied his chains well enough: scrutinized each link, run them through his hard but sensitive fingers, looked for rust and signs of wear – all to no avail. Well forged, those chains – damn their makers to every hell! As for the manacles (manacles in name only, for they left one hand free): they were short, single sleeves of iron ‘worn’ on a captive’s right wrist, where they fitted too snug to be slid down over crafty fingers. Tarra’s manacle, like those of all the rest, had two large rings or staples in its flange, through which the chain passed before returning to the wagon, where it further passed through a single large staple whose prongs were driven deep in ironwood frame. Then the chain passed down the flank of the wagon a double pace, to another staple which anchored the next captive, and so on. Even if a slave were strong enough to tear iron from ironwood, he’d still remain manacled between two more slaves. No, all of the staples would need to be wrenched out together, and even so the slave band would remain chained in a bunch.
Slaves, aye, and Tarra Khash starting to get used to the word. And him one of ’em …
He began to feel a mite sorry for himself, checked the feeling at once. What? Why, he’d be grovelling next, or whining in his sleep like this farmer’s pup at his side! He gave the lad a gentle pat on his back anyway, then slipped out from under the blanket and crawled into the shadow of the wagon. It wouldn�
��t hurt to have another feel at those staples; the more you study a problem, the surer its resolution – usually. Coming upright beside the long wagon, he held his chains taut so they wouldn’t jangle against his wrist manacle.
Manacle…hmmm! And again he considered the iron sleeve on his wrist. They were locked with curious keys, these vile bracelets – or one curious key, at least. Tarra had only seen the one, when it had been used to shackle him; and of course he’d consigned to memory the face of the Yhemni who’d used and then pocketed it. All possibilities must be considered, including that there might come a moment of confusion, when it might be possible to clout a certain frizzy on the head and go through his pockets.
But now he put that thought aside for the moment; it would be a desperate measure at best, only to be considered if things got totally out of hand. Now he found his staple and tugged at it, then gritted his teeth and tugged harder, finally scowled and punched at it with his fist, which only served to bruise his knuckles. Solid as a rock, that iron loop, with just enough clearance for the chains to slide. A man would need to be superhuman to break these chains or wrench these staples loose!
Beginning to feel frustrated, Tarra turned to the nearest wagon wheel and fingered its wide rim. Ironwood, yes, but still only wood: even rolling over rock it wouldn’t cut iron or snap chains, merely crush the rock!
There came a hiss and a honk from close by and Tarra started, then glanced quickly all about. The great lizard that hauled the wagon had sensed him standing there and queried his presence, but no one seemed to have noticed. The lizards were known to voice complaints like this periodically, usually warning of nothing whatsoever.
‘Tss! Tss!’ Tarra hissed low, in the way of Hrossaks cautioning their beasts. He stepped light round the front of the wagon and stroked the clammy hindquarters of the huge creature squatting there between massive shafts. The lizard turned its long neck and gloomed on him slit-eyed. ‘Quiet, old scaly,’ he husked, ‘or you’ll wake the whole camp!’
Not very likely, for most would be well asleep by now, but still it were time Tarra returned to his own gritty bed. He turned from where he gazed at lizard’s ridgy rump, went to all fours in the dark and crept back round to the side of the long wagon – then jerked to a halt where his chains were caught on something. Or where they were trapped under something.
…Like booted feet, for instance! Tarra stared at leather-clad feet where they stood square on his chains, then slowly lifted his gaze to see who it was who’d caught him creeping around. His heart sank. It was Gys Ankh, who’d chased and lost Stumpy Adz in the foothills, then taken his spite out on Tarra’s back. Outcast Hrossak, no doubt for damned good reasons.
‘Going somewhere, “friend”?’ Ankh made quiet inquiry, his scar a band of livid white over his right eyebrow and square down his face to his chin. ‘But I distinctly remember telling you to be good …’ The coils of his whip snaked down onto the sand. Tarra’s thoughts ran wild, in every direction, but all came back bloodied. He’d suffered once at the hands of this bully, and this time it was bound to be worse.
‘Well?’ Gys Ankh stood over him.
Tarra slowly came to his feet, wiped his hands down his pants as Ankh backed off to striking distance. The crack of the whip would be heard, of course, but what odds? What, someone chastising a stubborn slave in the night? Little cause for concern there. ‘I…I was restless,’ said Tarra lamely, with a shrug.
‘Much more so in a moment,’ Ankh grinned lopsidedly. ‘Aye, damned restless! And how’ll you sleep with sand in your grooves, “friend”? Face-down, maybe? Not much good, that, for it’s my intention to cut you there, too! Restless? I’ll say you’ll be.’ He drew back his arm sharply and the coils straightened out, slithering along the sand to his rear.
Things twanged in Tarra’s head, then snapped: twin threads of hope and patience. He’d just run out of both. He fell to a crouch, leaned with a silent snarl toward his tormentor. Gys Ankh chuckled, backed off a pace. ‘Aye, come and get it, “friend”,’ he said. ‘Discover for yourself why they kicked me out of Hrossa!’
Tarra needed no more urging: he leaped, and Ankh snapped his whip – or tried to and almost jerked himself from his feet! He turned, saw the youth under the blanket where he’d taken firm hold on the end of his whip, went to kick him in the face. But silently raging Hrossak was on him, dropping chains over his head in a loop, shutting off air and sudden shriek of terror both. They crashed down together on the sand, Ankh groping for his knife, Tarra butting him, kneeing him in the groin, choking his life out, generally allowing him no space for thought or movement; and the youth holding the blanket over both struggling forms until the scarface stopped moving. Ankh managed to choke out one last word – a curse, Tarra suspected – twitched several times and went slack as a eunuch’s foreskin. But for several moments longer, just to be absolutely sure, Tarra drew the chains even tighter about the bully’s throat.
Now came lad’s whisper, by no means cowed, even jubilant: ‘Is he—?’
Tarra nodded. ‘Stone dead, aye,’ he whispered, ‘or I’m not Tarra Khash. But quiet now, or you’ll soon be able to ask him man to man!’ They stuck their heads out from under the blanket, listened for long moments, breathed deep and grinned at each other in the dark.
‘What?’ said Tarra then, his voice low. ‘No tears? But I had you figured for a mother’s boy. Whimpering and whining one minute, and helping me kill a man the next! So what’s your story, eh?’
The lad hung his head. ‘Did you hear me crying?’
‘Aye, though I suspect you were asleep.’
‘I wasn’t sleeping,’ the other denied. ‘I think I’ve forgotten how to sleep! But I swear my tears were for someone else, not me.’ He ground his teeth in suppressed fury.
‘For who then?’
The lad looked at Tarra, his young face white as chalk in the thin moonlight. ‘My sister. She’s only a year older than me – but she sleeps with the other girls in that lead wagon!’
Tarra drew a sharp breath. This explained a great deal. He nodded. ‘Well, I can understand your misery,’ he said, ‘but not your interference on my behalf. You risked your neck to help me. Indeed, it’s still very much at risk!’
The youth’s turn to nod. ‘This dog Gys Ankh whipped me, too, when I was taken. If I was going to die a slave in Shad, knowing my sister for a naked whore in some black wizard’s palace …’ He shrugged. ‘I might as well die here and now, helping you to kill Ankh. At least I’d have my pride.’
‘Keeping your pride’s one thing,’ Tarra grunted, ‘and keeping your head is another. Now we’ve to deal with this one before he stiffens up on us.’ The dead rogue Hrossak lay between them, his body still warm.
The youth shuddered. ‘Can’t we dump him in the boat on the wagon there?’
‘We could,’ said Tarra, ‘except it might be a noisy bit of work. So far we’ve not woken anyone up – and lucky for us these lads are knackered from walking all day and many a day. They’re captives like us, I know, but by now some of ’em’ll be desperate. They’d likely turn us in hoping to save their own skins. Anyway, wagon’s the first place they’ll look for him, just wait and see. Come morning, Gys Ankh gone and his mount still here? Sleeping off a skin too many in a nice warm wagon, obviously. Then they’d find him, and you and me closest to him. Hot irons applied in the right places, and be sure we’d talk …’
‘So what do we do with him?’
‘What’s your name?’ Tarra briefly changed the subject.
‘Loomar,’ said the other. ‘Loomar Nindiss. My father took Jezza and me out of Grypha two years ago when our mother died. We built a little farm down south on the Eastern Range, close to Hrossa’s borders – but not too close. There was the makings of a village there. Then, maybe three weeks ago—’ Again he ground his teeth, hung his head.
‘That’s a familiar story,’ Tarra growled. ‘Can you dig, Loomar?’
‘Dig?’ Loomar looked up.
Tarra nodded. �
��Right here, right now. With your hands. Like this.’
He started to scoop out sand, shoving it with his forearm out under the edge of the blanket. They took sand from under Gys Ankh’s body, which slowly settled into the hole. An hour later it was done: a shallow grave, true, but no trace of the bully remaining on the surface.
Then Loomar showed Tarra the dead man’s knife, nine inches of sudden death, its blade gleaming in starlight. ‘I took it from him when you were choking him,’ he explained, ‘else he might have stabbed you. I’m going to keep it.’
‘The hell you are!’ said Tarra. ‘If they find that on you, they’ll use it to skin you alive!’
‘It’s my skin,’ Loomar protested. ‘And anyway, why should they search me?’
‘Because we’re together,’ said Tarra, ‘and they’ll most certainly search me! So you see, it’s my skin, too. Now be reasonable.’ He gently took the knife, worked it point first, deep down out of sight into the sand. ‘And now – goodnight.’
Loomar couldn’t believe it. ‘You…you’re going to sleep? On top of …’
Tarra cut him short. ‘Tomorrow’s another day, son,’ he said. ‘A hard day, which can bring almost anything. We’re not in the clear yet. Me, if I’m riding the rapids to hell, I want good strong arms for my paddle! So sleep. Believe me you’ll feel better for it. How’ll you be any good to your sister, skinny as a runt and weary to death from lack of sleep?’
That last did the trick. Loomar rolled over, curled himself up. Tarra felt something of the tension go out of his body.
He gave Loomar’s back a gentle punch, settled himself down, and in his usual way made overture to Shoosh, goddess of the still slumbers. Lady, if you’re out there, come and get me. I’m all yours.
