The House of Cthulhu: Tales of the Primal Land Vol. 1

by Lumley, Brian

  Gyriss craned his feathery neck and looked closer, his beady eyes agleam. He saw a man in a boat, sailing stormy waters on the approach to Tharamoon’s crescent bay. “Aye,” he croaked, “but no ordinary slayer by a mile. I know this one. He is Humbuss Ank, a Northman—and quite recklessly mad!”

  “A Northman!” Mylakhrion narrowed his silver eyebrows, drew them close together over his sharp nose. “Mad, you say? Hah! But they are berserkers all, these men of the fjords! You, too, were a wild one, if memory serves . . .” And to himself he remarked the bird’s keen eyesight, for he himself had discerned no clear detail of the figure in the boat except that it was a man.

  The jackdaw’s feathers stood up along his spine. He shook himself, sprang aloft, flew round the rim of the high tower room crying: “Berserkers all, berserkers all!”—and alighted again on Mylakhrion’s hunched shoulder. “True, true,” he croaked, “but even more so in the case of Humbuss Ank. And with good reason.”

  “Say on,” commanded Mylakhrion, keenly interested. He had somehow guessed that Gyriss might be knowledgeable in the subject of wizard-slayers.

  “This one’s father, mother, and elder brother,” the jackdaw explained, “were slain all three by the cold magicks of Khrissan ice-priests. It happened at a fording- and trading-place on the Great Marl River, and this is how it was:

  “It was in the late autumn of the year and the coming winter would be a bad one; already the ice crept over the Reef of Great Whales, and the skies were ominously heavy with more than their fair share of snow and blizzard. Thull Ank and his strapping wife Gubba had trapped well; their haul that year was of the highest quality. The trading went well—for a while, anyway. But Humbuss’ brother, Guz, drank too much of the bitter wine of the ice-priests, and when he was drunk made much sport of their ice-gods and -goddesses.

  “So they slew Guz and his father both with their magicks, and took Gubba back with them to Khrissa as a sacrifice to the very gods her son had scorned. Aye, and they stole all their pelts and goods, too—word of which eventually got back to Humbuss, a mere lad then in Hjarpon Settlement. Since when he is grown to a man and lives only to kill wizards and priests and all such purveyors of magick wherever he may find them. And now at last it seems he’s come for you, Mylakhrion of Tharamoon . . .”

  “My thanks, Gyriss,” said Mylakhrion archly. “Though why I should detect accusation in your tone I cannot say! Towards myself? Because I, too, am a wizard? That is as it may be; but I am not one of Khrissa’s cruel mages, nor indeed do I make human or any other sacrifice to strange gods. As for women, I respect them—the human sort, anyway. I forced myself upon a lamia or two in my youth, but only as ritual ingredients in my spells. So do not glare your beady accusations at me! Now then, let me look more closely at this berserker come to kill me . . .”

  He narrowed his eyes at the bird, but deliberately refrained from asking how Gyriss knew so much about Humbuss Ank. Then without further pause he drew another figure with his finger, a shape which seemed to fall slowly from fingertip to shewstone and be absorbed by it. And lo!—the picture in the crystal ball swam up large as life, larger than the very crystal itself, until wizard and familiar both might fancy they were themselves integral in the frore and windswept scene.

  And Mylakhrion seemed to stand upon Tharamoon’s pebbly strand within the bay, with Gyriss flapping upon his shoulder; and they watched as the lone boat battled the breakers to finally shoot through the sharp volcanic rocks of the reef and into calmer water unscathed. The ragged sail was lowered as the boat swept on ashore, and down from his reeling craft sprang a man into the frothing surf even as the keel of his boat bit sand and grit; so that in a trice this northern adventurer was dragging his vessel ashore, hauling it up the beach with arms that looked utterly tireless.

  Fingering his beard, Mylakhrion nodded thoughtfully. “A strong man, this one, Gyriss.”

  And his familiar—perhaps too eagerly, too gladly—agreed saying: “That he is, that he is! No wily warrior this, Mylakhrion, but merely strong. Brainy?—never! But brawny? As an ox, brawny! A man to laugh in the face of your magicks, this Humbuss—aye, even in the face of hell itself! He’ll storm on through all your mirages and illusions, no matter how monstrous, and damn any demons you may conjure back to the dark where they’re spawned. It is not so much that he is invincible, rather that he thinks he is. Mind over matter, O master—which is a sort of magick in itself!”

  “Hmm!” mused the wizard darkly, a trifle surly now. “Let me look closer. I wish to see his face.”

  Meanwhile: the Northman had made his boat secure in the lee of the cliffs, which now he set about to scale. And Mylakhrion floated up light as a feather to where the invader swarmed up those sheer crags like a monkey. He looked into Humbuss’ face, even into his blackly glittering eyes, and Humbuss saw him not. For of course this was only a picture in a shewstone, however real it might seem.

  And Mylakhrion saw a man whose soul was empty, bereft of any last vestige of honour or decency. His black eyes were narrow, cruel and full of lust; his hard mouth was twisted in a sneer; his blunt nose and hollow left cheek were grimly scarred, and his squat nostrils sniffed the chill night air like those of a great bloodhound. His narrow black mane stood up stiffly down his back, like the risen hackles of a dog; and diagonally across that broad, muscled back he bore a mighty broadsword, strapped there in its leather scabbard, its blade notched from many a fierce affray.

  Then Mylakhrion drew back and away into his tower retreat, and Gyriss flapping still where he clung to his shoulder. And the wizard snapped his fingers, at which the shewstone cleared and became simply a blue-green ball of crystal, quiescent and opaque.

  “Gyriss,” said Mylakhrion then, “this man is a brutal slayer, and yet I relish not the thought of killing him. Indeed killing is not my way at all, for it lacks sensitivity. So tell me, how may I stop this thing before it goes any further?”

  Gyriss flew to his perch and sat preening, saying nothing.

  “Well? Have you no ideas?”

  “What can I say?” the jackdaw finally croaked. “He’s a brute and a berserker on a lifelong quest for revenge.”

  “Revenge? I think not,” said Mylakhrion. “No, there’s more than that brings him here.” At which the jackdaw gave a small start, glad that his master was looking the other way. “He may have started this life work of his out of some perverted sense of duty to his priest-slain kith and kin,” Mylakhrion continued, “but since then it has got quite out of hand. Now I think he kills because he likes it, or for profit. So much I divined when I looked into his face. If it is the former, mayhap I’m in trouble. If the latter—”

  “Then you can buy him off with a pouch of priceless gems,” croaked Gyriss.

  “Why not?” said Mylakhrion, bringing his pacing to an abrupt halt. “Indeed, why not? I have a vault full of jewels, and what use are they to me?”

  “No use at all,” said Gyriss, “when you can simply conjure them out of the air—as you conjure my nuts!”

  “But that must be a last resort.” Mylakhrion paced some more, holding up a finger. “For if I’m to give gems to this one, next year there’ll be a dozen like him. First I shall attempt to deter him with magick!”

  “But he scorns magick,” answered Gyriss. “Many another mage has tried to frighten him off. And where are they now?”

  “I do believe you’re enjoying this!” said Mylakhrion with a glare. “Nathless, what you say is probably true. Still I shall try to frighten him away. It’s that or kill him out of hand, and I won’t spill blood if it can be avoided—as you are well aware.” And he glowered pointedly at Gyriss, who for his part croaked:

  “You could always transport him back whence he came . . .”

  “In the last year or two I’ve transported—how many wizard-slayers?”

  “Four, by my count,” answered the bird at once, “plus a pirate ship and its motley crew.”

  “Correct!” snapped Mylakhrion. “A pair of dull
brigands back to Klühn; a black pirate princeling back to his jungled island, him and his ship and all his crew with him; and a deranged Hrossak hunter back to the steppes. I weary of transporting! Also, word may soon get out that transportation is my sole defence! What’s more, if it’s true that this Humbuss Ank has killed so many sorcerers, by now he may well have some small understanding of magick himself. The cancellation of the rune of transportation is easily achieved, if a man knows the words. And once one spell is broken, then other enchantments are checked that much easier. Spells are like building blocks which interlock: remove one and the entire wall is weakened. No, I’d not risk that with this one—except if I fail first to scare him off.”

  “So,” said Gyriss, summing up, “you’ll scare him, or transport him if he won’t scare, or buy him off as a last resort. And is that the sum total of the measures you’ll take against him?”

  “It is!” snapped Mylakhrion. “And it must suffice, else I’ll be left with no choice but to kill him.”

  “If you can,” croaked Gyriss quietly, wickedly.

  “What?” cried the wizard. “If I can? And how, pray, may he prevail, against a fortress of magicks and machineries such as this tower of mine? You try my patience, Gyriss!” And he stamped his foot on stone flags. “Perhaps you’d welcome my demise? And would you remain a jackdaw forever? For you surely will if some barbaric doom befalls me. Who then to open my runebook and read the words which alone may un-spell you, ungrateful bird?”

  And Gyriss was rightly cowed, and hunched down into himself upon his perch. “I meant only to say,” he croaked, “that if you’re to set guards and traps and such you’d best be about it. By now Humbuss Ank has scaled the cliffs and strides this way. Some twenty miles, as I gauge it. Rough country, but still he’ll be here before morning.”

  “Hmph!” grunted Mylakhrion. And, “Calm yourself, Gyriss. There’s time enough and more. As for his chances: a snowflake would stand more chance in hell! Methinks you make too much of him. Myself: I shall be fast asleep when—if—he gets here. I would not soil my hands on him but leave such servile chores to others far less sensitive. Attend me if you will, I go now to make the arrangements . . .”

  Mylakhrion’s tower was reached via a drawbridge across a chasm too wide for jumping, whose sheer sides went down endlessly into darkness. Beneath the tower itself were many mazy vaults whose contents were conjectural and at best dubious; above the ground stood six floors serving various purposes. Topmost consisted of a storeroom, pantry and kitchen, bath- and steam-room, small study, and observatory for astrological readings. Gyriss had never seen those rooms: they were forbidden to him, as was the wizard’s bedchamber and orchid-decked conservatory on the penultimate level.

  That left four floors with which the jackdaw was familiar. The great room with the shewstone was one of three interconnected rooms on the fourth level, beneath Mylakhrion’s bedchamber, which also contained the vast majority and endless variety of his thaumaturgical books and experimental apparatus. The next floor down was a maze of storerooms, usually all but empty, for Mylakhrion conjured most of his supplies as required. But beneath that the two lower floors were dangerous places indeed for would-be intruders. For built into the rooms therein were certain mechanical devices so designed as to utterly incapacitate all unwary thieves and the like. They were veritable mantraps, which now Mylakhrion would bait. But first he’d set his guards on the narrow and stony path beyond the drawbridge, by which route Humbuss Ank must needs approach.

  So down he went to the vaults with Gyriss (who didn’t much care for the dark) where he animated three stone statues and led them stiffly up out of darkness and across the drawbridge. On the far side he turned and faced them, and scowled his disgust at them. For they were—had been—favored familiars in their time, and he had placed some small trust in them. But many years agone they’d turned on him and deliberately lured a wizard-slayer here, for which Mylakhrion had punished them by turning them to stone. He’d punished the wizard-slayer, too—one Gyriss Kag—replacing them with him. But once in a while he’d bring them up and let them ease their joints, and at times he even had work for them. Now was such a time.

  The three were chiropterans, great bats who wore the faces of men they’d once been. Now as they stumbled in Mylakhrion’s wake he spoke to them, saying: “A man is coming who would kill me. You—” he pointed to the first man-bat, “—will remain here, at the drawbridge. If he comes this far you will offer him this for his trouble and tell him to turn aside.” And he gave the chiropteran a fat pouch of gems. “Fail to turn him back,” he answered, “and I’ll stand you forever on the balcony of my tower observatory to weather in the wind and the rain.”

  Then he walked half a mile with the other two and paused again, speaking to the second of them: “You will remain here. If my would-be slayer comes this far, you will utter the rune of transportation and hurl him back whence he came. Failure to do so will see you broken in two halves upon this very spot, where time and nature will mold your pieces into small stones.”

  After a further half-mile he stopped again where the path wound down a steep cliff, and to the third bat-thing said: “You will astonish the man with illusions, and afraid for his life he’ll flee. In the event he does not flee—you shall be dashed into small, small fragments. I, Mylakhrion, have spoken!”

  And with Gyriss on his shoulder he returned to his tower, set his mechanical protections, proceeded up the winding central staircase to his bedchamber. At the door he took the jackdaw on his finger, saying: “There. And fear not for me, Gyriss. I shall sleep like a babe, and this Northman shall not disturb me. Begone!” At which the bird descended to the room of the shewstone, where for a while he sat in utter silence, waiting for his master to fall asleep . . .

  WITHIN THE HALF-HOUR, unable to hold off any longer, Gyriss flapped silently to a balcony and across it into the fast approaching night, and flew up to peer into his master’s bedchamber through the single great window there, which fortunately stood open. The room was all of mosaics, covering floor, walls and ceiling. Above flew ebony swallows in a lapis-lazuli sky; the walls were a jade forest with jewelled birds of paradise; and the floor was of chrysolite ferns, inlaid with an hundred marble monkeys.

  There slept Mylakhrion, as his huddled form beneath the satin bedclothes testified. But to be absolutely certain, Gyriss passed through the window into the forbidden room and swooped once on silent wings around the bed to hear the wizard snoring. Satisfied then, he left the tower and sped across the drawbridge, following the path toward the distant Bay of Tharamoon. And beneath him he spied the three chiropteran guards where Mylakhrion had placed them. Eventually in the gloom he saw the Northman Humbuss Ank striding toward him and he descended, flying well over the other’s head.

  “Humbuss!” he croaked then. “Look up. It is I, Gyriss Kag.”

  The barbarian saw him, paused, guffawed and slapped his thigh. “What? And is it really you, Gyriss, who once swigged ale with me and slew the occasional wizard? Come down and speak to me, if you’re one and the same, and explain why you’ve called me here to this cold and lonely crag.”

  Gyriss alighted on the other’s mighty shoulder. “I’m him, all right!” he croaked. “Do you remember that ill-omened night each of us boasted how he’d be the first to breach Mylakhrion’s protections and kill him? Drunk, we were, and me so drunk that I set out at once to be started on the quest. But you held back, saying you’d work your way up to him by degrees. Do you remember?”

  “I do,” said Humbuss, still mirthful. “And it seems I was right to be cautious. He was too much for you, eh?”

  “Indeed he was, and too much for many another I’ve called here. But not, I pray, too much for you. For with my help, old friend, you’ll surely slay him.”

  “Well, so far so good,” growled Humbuss. “I followed the course you set me across the sea and through the ragged reef, and here I am. You mentioned a treasure, Gyriss, and I desire it. Also, I desire the great
prestige of killing Mylakhrion the so-called ‘immortal.’ But what would you have out of this?”

  “Only my human form once more returned to me,” answered Gyriss. “And the satisfaction of seeing Mylakhrion die! For after you’ve killed him you’ll read a certain rune of restoration from his great runebook and I’ll be a man again. After which I’ll show you his treasure house.”

  “Good enough!” Humbuss agreed. “And now: how may you help me, eh?”

  And Gyriss told him all about the three guardians of the way, and something about the drawbridge, and more about Mylakhrion’s tower itself. Following which he flapped aloft and returned the way he’d come, his heart filled with treacherous satisfaction . . .

  MEANWHILE, BACK AT the tower: a tiny black spider surveyed her jackdaw-ruined web at Mylakhrion’s window, and angered spun a silken thread and drifted on it to where the wizard slept. She alighted on his cheek and crept into his ear, and Mylakhrion awakened, listened, smiled and sat up. He waited for her to emerge, then carefully carried her back to her web, which he repaired at once with a word and a wave of his hand.

  “My thanks, small friend,” he whispered, and slowly descended to his room of many magicks—even to the room of the shewstone . . .

  HUMBUSS ANK CAME upon the first man-bat and commanded him, “Stand aside!”

  “Much as I would like to, I cannot,” answered the chiropteran. And he conjured an illusion wherein he swelled up massive as a mountain. Humbuss laughed and pushed him off the cliff, and stiff from his stony sojourn in the vaults he could not fly but fell like an icicle in the melt—and like an icicle was dashed into small, small fragments, as Mylakhrion had decreed.

  Half a mile later Humbuss came to the second guard and said, “Out of my way, bat-thing!”

  To which the other answered: “Sdrojf eht ot kcab—Kna Ssub-Muh, enogeb!”—which was the rune of transportation.