by Leslie Fish
The draft-lizards hissed in worry; I stuck the Morning Star back in my belt and shushed them with a tug at the reins. Then I bent over the downed driver, noticing that his weapon was indeed a coarse kind of black iron sword. I took it for myself and stuck it in my belt beside the Morning Star. He also carried a pouch of some greasy-looking meat and a skinful of suspicious-smelling fluid that I didn’t think I should trust, and a small bag of lumpish metal coins that looked like nothing I’d ever seen. I left him the pouch and skin-bag, took the coins for reparations, and left him lying in the road.
As I turned away it occurred to me that his head looked very much like the three- horned skull of my Morning Star. In that case, I knew, there were creatures hereabouts that could kill and eat his kind. I didn’t want to meet them on foot.
The cart was comparatively low-slung and not too hard to climb into. I put out my own torch to save for later, took up the reins and slapped them on the lizards’ backs, which they didn’t seem to understand. Beneath the seat I saw an unmistakable drover’s whip, so I took it out, tucked the reins into my left hand, and slapped the whip experimentally over the team’s rumps. It didn’t seem to hurt their scaly hides, but they understood the signal and moved on.
The cart had no springs, and its action was rough and jolting, but it beat walking. The cool breeze blew against my left cheek, reminding me of my original direction. Considering the reaction I’d had from the driver, I didn’t think his associates down the road would treat me any better, much less help me get home. I turned the lizards into the wind, off the road, which they were reluctant to do until I laid on a little harder with the whip.
The wind blew steadily, the lizards hissed complaints as they padded over the rough ground, and the cart creaked and jounced over the lichen and rocks. There was no other sound, and the gnawing pain threatened to soak up my mind if I didn’t fix my attention on something. I tied the reins to one of the poles and explored the cart for possible food, rope, or anything else useful.
The first things I found were some large coarse-woven bags with shreds of dried lichen in them. Then there was a smaller bag containing -- oh joy of joys -- a coil of leather rope, two grapnels and a mallet. I guessed that the driver had delivered a load of dried lichen and was on the return trip when he ran into me.
I couldn’t imagine what he or his friends had planned to do with the rope and grapnels -- unless, perhaps, he or his friends intended to do some cave-climbing. I didn’t know why he or they might want to do that, but the presence of those tools bothered me.
So did the construction of the cart itself, now that I looked at it. At first I’d thought it was made of some hard, fine-grained, pale wood bound together with leather thongs instead of nails. That puzzled me. The lack of nails couldn’t mean lack of metal; the sword, and the axle, wheel-joints and tires of the cart were made of black iron.
Then I took a closer look at one of the slats, and realized that it wasn’t made of wood at all. It was scraped, steam-shaped bone.
No wonder the cart was made without nails, I thought dully. Bone splits if you drive a nail through it. No wood, no trees, could grow down here, anyway: nothing but lichen and assorted animals. The crude iron was probably smelted and forged at those fire-pits. Limited materials, limited technology: these people didn’t have much -- except bad tempers. Who and what were they? I was too stupid with pain to think about it.
I found the last items in a bag under the seat: a dozen obvious long-range darts, bone-shafted, metal-tipped, with thin bone plates at the butt for feathering -- slender throwing-darts, as long as my leg. They looked as if they’d been well used. I settled the darts where I could reach them easily, and sat back to study the land around me.
Ahead and to the right lay another fire-crater, much larger than the last one. It was also noisier: loud bubbling, a rumbling and scraping, a rhythmic pounding that came to sound like metal being hammered at a forge. Considering that the natives were unfriendly and the crater seemed occupied, I chose to avoid it. I steered the lizards far around the fire-pit, hoping that none of the natives would come out and see the cart-lights as I drove past. In fact, they didn’t.
Unfortunately, something else did.
My first warning was the lizards shying violently to one side, their hissing rising to whistling screams. I couldn’t see what had scared them, but in another second I could smell it. How can a smell be cold and greasy? I wondered as I dropped the reins and picked up one of the darts. Torchlight glittered on something ahead and to my left. That was target enough; I threw the dart.
Something squalled like scraping rock, and there was a tangled thrashing at the edge of the torchlight. Something long and dark and reeking whipped close overhead, narrowly missing the near torch. I pulled out the sword and set it across my knees, hoping that the thing would see, take the hint and go away.
It didn’t. A long glittery-black limb of something stretched out, raking at the cartwheel. I took up the sword, turned awkwardly and slashed down at it. There was a satisfying impact and screech, and an unpleasant splash as something spurted across my arm. The screeching and stink retreated fast into the darkness.
Whatever the fluid was, it burned. I dropped the sword into the wagon-bed, grabbed one of the sacks and wiped the burning liquid off my arm before it could do any serious damage. It left sore red spots, like a speckled sunburn. Where it had splashed my pants-leg it ate holes in the cloth. Where it had hit the wagon, it slowly stained the bones black. I took care to wipe it off the sword and the leather, hoping the cart wouldn’t fall apart under me at some odd moment. My arm was throbbing again.
The lizards calmed down and slowed to a shuffle, and I turned them to face the wind again. As I glanced over the cart to check for remaining damage, I noticed something caught in the spokes of the off wheel. I reined the lizards to a halt and looked closer.
The object stuck between the bone spokes was clearly the tip of the arm/leg/ whatever of the thing that had attacked us, but it didn’t look like part of any animal I knew. It resembled the tip of a cactus, and was about as big around as my lower leg. It was still dripping that blackish burning fluid. The wheel didn’t show any damage beyond stains, but I didn’t think it a good idea to leave the thing there. I pried it loose with the tip of the sword, dropped it on the ground and drove on. The smell of the burning blood lingered, greasy-cold and foul.
That, as it turned out, was lucky. As we went on through the dark I noted that the whisper-clickings approached often, but each time they’d come only so close and then pause, make a sound like suspicious sniffing, then turn around and go away. Apparently the weasel-shadow things liked the stench of cactus-beast even less than firelight. That was fine with me.
Meanwhile the pain gnawed its way through my attention, dulling everything else. There was no way to measure time. I began to doze off in fits and starts, and didn’t snap back into full wakefulness until the two draft-lizards slugged determinedly off to the left. At first I tried to pull them back on course, but then I noticed what they’d heard: the faint gurgling of running water. I considered that the beasts probably needed it, and my canteen could use refilling too, so I let the lizards have their way.
In a few minutes we came to a small stream running through the lichen and stones. The lizards stopped at the stream-bank and put their heads down to drink. In the torchlight I could see nothing else but some small lizards that resembled gila monsters nesting in the lichens near the stream. I noticed the small lizards nibbling on the lichen, and guessed that if the creatures were herbivores they just might make good eating. I didn’t know how long it would take me to get out of the cavern, and I was already hungry. I slipped off the wagon, slid out the dark iron sword and bashed three of the creatures before the others realized I was dangerous and skittered away.
As I was picking up my kills I noticed something moving overhead, high in the air on the far side of the stream, something round and pale. Moon? I thought stupidly, before I remembered where
I was. At that point the thing came a little closer, and I got a good look at it.
It was the face of a giant lamprey.
I crouched there for a long moment, looking at the impossible thing, making certain that it wasn’t just a pain-delirium vision. It was hanging about ten feet up in the air, and looked to be about two feet across. It was as flat as a dinner-plate, surrounded by a fringe of waving short tentacles, with a circular mouth that opened like an iris-lens and was full of pointed pale teeth. It was dirty-gray in color, and had no eyes that I could see. It seemed to be smelling its way toward the stream, swinging slowly through the air. I knew that behind that face there had to be a head of some sort, or at least a neck, but I couldn’t see it yet. I had no idea what its body looked like, or how big it was. I didn’t think those teeth belonged to a lichen-eater.
How can a lamprey live out of water? I wondered, watching the thing. Perhaps it was only thirsty. Perhaps it was just coming for the water, and if I stayed out of its way it would leave me alone. I tucked my kills into my sling and stepped away from the water. Good thing it was downwind, I thought, or its smell might panic the draft-lizards, and then where would I be?
But the thing changed direction, turning toward me. Its iris-mouth pulsed open and shut, sucking air. I realized that it didn’t just want water; it smelled through that mouth-opening, or perhaps the tentacles. It had smelled the spilled blood of the dead lizards, and it wanted food.
All right, I grumbled silently, pulling out one of the lizards. I can spare one.
I tossed the lizard at the lamprey-face. It hit to one side and bounced, landing on the wrong side -- my side -- of the stream. The lamprey-face dived greedily after the carcass, dropped flat on top of it and began gulping up the body with a crunching/squelching noise. As the lamprey-face fed, I got a good look at its head -- a featureless bulb -- and its neck: round and gray, thin rings of what looked like cartilage joined by a semi-transparent gray membrane, about as thick around as my body. I didn’t think the dull sword would cut through it, nor the Morning Star do it much damage, and I still couldn’t see what the rest of its body looked like. I stepped back to the wagon and climbed in quietly.
Just as I lifted the reins the lamprey-face looked up again, wet teeth clacking, and started to bob and weave toward the cart. I didn’t want the draft-lizards to see it; they might panic and run and overturn the cart -- with me in it. All right, you greedy worm! I thought, growing sullenly peeved, as I pulled out the second lizard and threw it.
The carcass plopped on the ground a good way from the cart, and the lamprey- face plunged after it. It was a good thing the worm was blind, and hopefully deaf too, I considered as I pulled the draft-lizards’ heads up and reined them back from the water. Though the lizards hadn’t seen the thing yet, they must have caught a scent that worried them; flapping the reins on their rumps was enough to make them move quickly. They turned the cart neatly and began shambling away at a good quick shuffle. I didn’t think the lamprey-face would catch up to us.
Then I heard a heavy splashing behind me.
I turned around and saw that, yes, sure enough, the damned thing was crossing the stream to come after us. I saw the blind face clearly, and got a dim glimpse of thick coils. There seemed to be no end to them. And the lamprey-face was moving much faster than I’d expected. Yes, it could overtake us. In fact, it would reach the cart in less than a minute at this rate.
I wasn’t about to give that damned thing my last meal.
I dropped the third carcass under the cart-seat and reached for one of the darts. Then I turned again and crouched on the seat, hefting the dart, wondering where to hit the lamprey-face to best effect. Maybe piercing its neck would discourage it. I aimed a little below the fringed-platter face and threw the dart.
It struck well; I saw it hit and quiver. Unfortunately, all that seemed to do was annoy the worm. The lamprey-face gave a ridiculously thin whistle that sounded more peeved than hurt, and lurched after us with its teeth clacking like castanets and its coils grinding wetly on the stones.
Damn! Two meals and a good weapon wasted! was my first reaction. My broken arm twinged, and I began to actively hate that pestering worm. I pulled out the sword and waited, trying to think of where I could hit that thing that would hurt it.
The draft-lizards broke into a shambling trot, hissing nervously, as they finally guessed that something unpleasant was following them. They still didn’t outpace the lamprey-face, which was grinding along like a slow freight-train behind us. It closed in on the cart, its blind head weaving down out of the air toward me. I lifted the sword and waited.
As it passed through the smoke of the off torch, the lamprey-face jerked back and irised its mouth as if it as if it had smelled something nasty.
That gave me an idea.
I tried to untie the torch-pole from the wagon, but the knots were too tight. I swore briefly and chopped the leather laces through just as the lamprey-face made another pass. The weight of the torch-pole hurt my bad arm as I put down the sword, and that put paid to any hesitance I still might have had. I took the torch-pole in my good hand, pulled back and waited until the blind head drew close. Smelling lizard blood, the circular mouth opened wide.
I reared up and jammed the torch straight into the gaping mouth, as far as it would go.
The effect on the worm was truly satisfying. The thing whistled in High C, yanked backward so hard and fast that it ripped the torch clean out of its pole-socket and almost pulled the pole itself out of my hand. The lamprey-face whipped backward, oily smoke and flames pouring out of its mouth, and went flopping and thrashing away in the dark. I could hear it rolling around long after I lost sight of it, and guessed that it might take that thing a good while to die. The draft-lizards were inclined to keep trotting, and I let them.
I had only the one pole-torch now, and it wasn’t nearly as easy to see the ground ahead. I fitted my hand-torch into the empty pole-socket and tried to light it at the other torch, but couldn’t manage the trick on the bouncing cart. I judged that we’d need to stop at the next fire-pit to renew the oil in the pole-torches anyway, and besides, I was painfully hungry and wanted to cook and eat my remaining lizard. I looked for a fire-pit ahead, saw a small but characteristic smudge of red light not too far off, and steered the team that way.
I was in luck; the fire-pit was small and its crater was, as I took care to make certain, unoccupied. There was barely enough room for the team, the cart and me between the oil-pool’s edge and the crater wall, and I had a miserable time moving the team and cart safely into place. I fetched a heavy rock to pin the reins and keep the draft- lizards from straying, then also went and fetched some lichen and offered it to the beasts. They gulped it greedily, so I picked an armload of it and left them happily munching. I blew out the cart’s remaining torch, cut one of the sacks into strips to re-tie the loose pole, pulled both torches out of their sockets and took them to the oil-pond to refill them.
Skinning, gutting and cleaning the lizard wasn’t too difficult, given that I had no blade but the crude sword. Cooking it was a worse problem; I stuck the carcass on the end of the sword and held it over the fire to roast, but the sword’s handle soon grew too hot to hold. I managed to wedge the sword in place with rocks, then leaned against the cart’s near wheel and sat back to wait for my dinner to cook. It had to cook thoroughly, I reminded myself; there was no telling what parasites or plagues or poisons wild game might be carrying, especially down here.
Down here… Mean place, my mind wandered as I waited. I pulled out the Morning Star and studied the skull at its end. “’Alas, poor Yorick’,” I muttered to it. “How long have you and yours been down here? Ten million years? More? Since before the other dinosaurs died? Is this lost Atlantis, or the source of the legends of Hell? How long did it take you folks to grow intelligence? And is this all you’ve done with it?”
The skull, of course, said nothing.
My throat felt sore, so I stuffed the Morning St
ar back in my belt and took out the canteen. The water had an unpleasant metallic taste; I wondered if it came from the battered canteen or from the stream flowing over mineral beds.
This was, I thought drowsily as I watched the lizard-carcass roast, a very mean place. I was bothered by the locals every time I turned around. Ugly things tried to hit me, snatch the cart or my team or my food… And all I was trying to do was get out of here. I didn’t feel very good. My arm hurt like hell.
The lizard was actually overdone when I remembered to pull it off the fire, but I wasn’t choosy. It tasted like oily leather. I ate it anyway, right down to the bones.
As I chewed the last of the bones I felt something slap my boot. I looked down to see a horned red snake, as long as my arm, striking determinedly at the sole of my heavy cave-climbing boot. Damn, but the local monsters wouldn’t leave me in peace! I kicked the snake into the fire and watched it shrivel, then got up and went to the cart and crawled inside. The empty lichen-sacks sufficed for mattress, pillow and blankets. I fell asleep quickly, heavily, without dreams.
When I woke, everything was the same except that I felt worse. My arm throbbed like a bass drum. I was hot and feverish, and saw blisters coming up among the bruises and scratches on my skin. Apparently I’d picked up some sort of local rash, too. That was all I needed.
Time to get out of here. I lit and remounted the pole-torches, picked up the reins, whipped up the team and drove out of the crater, back into the wind.
I hadn’t driven twenty yards before something landed hard on my back, and I heard teeth or claws scrabbling on the metal of the pack-frame. Without looking, I pulled out the Morning Star and swung it back over my shoulder like a Penitente’s flail. One of the horns gave me a nasty poke, but it also took care of my unwelcome guest. I heard the thing squawk and fall with a leathery thump into the cart-bed, so I turned around to get a good look at it.
