Delerium's Mistress: Tales of the Flat Earth Book 4 (6 page)

“I will come in!”
exclaimed the girl. And she thrust wide the door and ran through.

How odd the
familiar room looked in its guttering prodigality of candles. But more than
light, it was a darkness there that had changed it. For the space seemed full
of a living dimness, an invisible, swirling, murmuring something—she did not
know it for what it was, the ambience of a weighty spell, but it turned her
cold, so she would soon have run out again. Then she beheld, through the fog of
the sorcery, the magician lying there on the quilts, heavy as lead, seeming not
to breathe, locked up in such a closed prison of sleep that it instantly
suggested death. And this sight, though it was more terrifying than anything
else, also stayed her.

Just then, a
whiteness that had seemed to hang like steam over the cushions on the floor
rose up.

Now the elder
sister was surely transfixed. She stood in horrified wonder, all eyes. Two pale
and ghostly girls poised before her, their long bright hair spilling around
them. Both were naked, both were known. One was the younger sister, one other
the elder sister—herself. Neither did these two possess, either of them, a
shadow, and it was clearly to be seen how the candlelight passed straight
through each.

“Do not be
afraid,” said the ghost of the elder sister to the reality. “Oloru brought me
forth from you and Oloru left me power to tell you of it.”

“Say what you are,”
trembled the girl.

“Your shadow, or
that which enables you to cast one—some of your substance, yet not your self.
With me, and with this other”—here the ghost indicated the ghost of the younger
sister—“the monster Lak had his wishes. To him it seemed he ravished and rent
and mastered flesh, but he did not. Nor is it anything to us what he did with
us. Neither, when we presently return to you, will you think anything more of
it than we.”

“But you are my
immortal essence,” cried the girl in a worse dismay than ever. “He has done all
these things to my soul and the soul of my sister.”

“No, we are not
your souls. Your souls are not of this fashion. Only colored air are we. Let me
come back to you, and you will know at once all is well with you.”

“Come back then,”
said the girl, and she braced herself for pain or lunacy. But the ghost drifted
to her like a moonbeam and glided over and through her, and was one with her.
And with great happiness the girl saw her shadow appear immediately on the wall,
like an omen of perfect good.

“Now go, and
bring here to me the one to whom
I
belong,” said the second ghost in a
petulant susurrus of the second sister’s voice.

“But he—’’ said
the girl, recalling Lak slumbering like the dead not ten paces from her.

“He has other business.”

“Where then is
Oloru my brother?” demanded the elder sister; relief had made her bold. But the
ghost did not respond, merely folded its hands patiently, just as the younger
girl did when she was exasperated.

The elder sister
felt she had no choice but to hurry below and tell the glad tidings. As for
Oloru, she blessed him, and her tears fell warmly, for she knew herself whole,
as the ghost had assured her she would, and her rescue was all his doing. And
in that way she forgot he had also been the cause of her peril.

4

AND FOR WHAT curious reward had Oloru gone to so much
trouble? What had he bought from the magician-prince with a delusion of white
bodies and screaming? What indeed, Oloru having proved
himself
such a competent mage, did he require from
Lak Hezoor that he himself could not manage alone?

Down, down, down; miles
down beneath the country of men and the comprehension of men: the Underearth,
the demons’ kingdom.

At the kingdom’s very
boundary wandered Sleep River, sluggish as a blackish treacle, between the high
tasseled heads of the white flax that grew there. Here on the river’s flaxy
shores, with blood-red hounds, the Vazdru hunted, not lion or deer, but the
souls of men asleep, which ran shrieking before them. Though it was only the
souls of those near death, or the insane, which the dogs were able to catch and
tear. Even these were allowed to escape in the end—it was merely a sport to the
demons. Besides, there had been no hunting a long while now, as there had been
little of anything—music, gaming, intrigue, love, the immemorial pastimes of
Druhim Vanashta and its lords. Nor did the hammers of the Drin, the demon
metalsmiths, often sound. Nor did the creatures of that underworld frequently
fly or sing, or the flowers extravagantly bloom, or the waters magnetically
glitter, as once they had. That pall of Azhrarn’s rage and grief hung over
everything.

Nevertheless, it might
be considered still a place of wonders worth seeing. Centuries before, Kazir
had come here by witchcraft, passing through the River of Sleep, as generally
men did solely inadvertently. Kazir had had a mission to perform. But Lak’s
poet, Oloru, had begged
that
he too might go
sightseeing through the treacherous underland, in the protective company of Lak.
What songs, opined Oloru, should be made of this excursion after! (And of the
bravura and cunning of the magician.)

Now, in order to go down
into Underearth, without notation and the spells of the demons themselves to
free the way, the one means was to travel incorporeally—as
Kazir
did in
the story.

It was therefore the
soul which must be the traveler, that is to say, the physical or astral soul,
that elemental greater th
an
mere shadowplay, though formed in the likeness of the
body; equipped also with that body’s talents and learning, whatever they might
be.

There were in that era
several towering sorcerers abroad on
the
earth. Interesting, perhaps, so few of them made this trip below. It would seem
to indicate some excellent reason for even the most wily to keep out. . . .
However, Oloru had inspired his lord to the knowledge that he need have no
qualms. That he, Lak, was a match for the Vazdru, eons ripe in all things
uncanny. In fact, no less than a rival of Azhrarn. Madness.

So, the orgy
completed, the women left lying like thrown-off clothes, Lak—with scarcely any
preparation, full of drink and meat, lethargic and satisfied—set about the
business of astral descent. “But,” had said Oloru encouragingly, “do not expose
me
to them,
my
poor shivering soul. Carry me with you as Azhrarn carried Sivesh—he an eagle,
and Sivesh one feather on his breast. You a lord of lords, and
I . . . some small ornament upon your person.”

It is not
recorded, the actual caliber of Lak’s magery, but he was mage enough for this, it
seems.

In a space, the
breath of magic filled the chamber and the magician’s body slumped in its
trance—the soul had gone. While of Oloru, surprisingly, nothing at all remained.
No, not so much as an eyelash on the pillow.

The tide of Sleep River swarmed with faces and forms
and mental wanderings. It took some guile and cerebral purpose to get through
the wash without succumbing. Through it they got, nevertheless, Lak and his
loving friend, and arrived on the shore.

Here they stood,
gazing out across the ebony landscape, in the sheen of the mystic jewelry
light.

Lak seemed only
himself, a dark soul princely dressed. Of the soul of Oloru there was no sign,
no trace. Not one? Yes, after all, one trace. On the breast of Lak Hezoor there
hung a little nugget of polished topaz, somewhat reminiscent of an unmarked
die. Oloru? Oloru.

It was said to be
possible to glimpse the demon city from the banks of the River, on a clear day.
But no days were ever unclear in the Underearth, nor were they “days.” It would
seem then that something, perhaps only the vision of the arrival, hid or
revealed Druhim Vanashta. If Lak made out the distant architecture is
debatable. But be sure the yellow gem upon his breast, common example of the
dice species though it was, saw everything.

Maybe it
communicated also with the magician, urging and cajoling. For certain, Prince
Lak began to walk in a definite direction, through the fragile groves of ivory
and silver and between the black willows that trailed down their tendrils like
unstrung harps. There was no hesitation in his step. Once or twice, when some
vaporous thing seemed to flutter at him out of the air (such emanations
abounded here), he brushed it aside with a potent phrase or mantra, as a man
waves away a gnat.

They, the lord and
his topaz, reached in a while a wide road. It was paved with marble, lined by
columns. This was the path to the city, and conceivably Lak paused a moment on
the brink of it. But there must have been rendered then more persuasion and
praise. In a moment, Lak Hezoor stepped upon the marble road.

Almost at once a
peculiar feeling fixed on him. It was not a feeling he was intimate with,
though he had often been its author in others: fear. Now it might be supposed
even Lak should experience some misgiving simply at getting quiddity in this
place, yet so far, patently, he had not. Nor did there seem any pronounced
cause for the emotion to strike at him this instant. The air was still, no
threatening noise disturbed it, and no agitation was visible anywhere—except
the glint of the city at the road’s end, if he even saw it. So Lak resumed his
walk boldly, and the clutch of fear grew stronger, nor could he control it.
With every stride it grew worse, until he halted again. This time, having
looked carefully ahead, and all around, Lak looked over his shoulder. So he
noticed an oddity. The marble road, of which he had only traversed a brief
length, extended for a mile or more behind him. Such elongation did not console
Lak Hezoor.

As a man
sometimes will, when unnerved, the prince spoke aloud to his companion.

“This highway is
unorthodox. No doubt some weird plan of demonkind to discommode the pilgrim. I
think we shall return to the road’s beginning and take our bearings.” And when
there came no speechless answer, Lak grinned and said, “What? Already swooning,
dearest?” And he put up his hand to pet the die. His fingers found nothing.

Many conclusions
might have gone through the brain of Lak Hezoor at this discovery. He might
have thought the gem had somehow loosened and fallen and been lost, or that one
of the wafting emanations had stolen it, or even that its own fright had pushed
it back into the world above. But actually, the magician thought none of these
things. One may conclude, then, he was at least sage enough to know he had been
duped.

He had less than a
minute to revel in the knowledge.

At last the
chaste and windless air began to convey to him a sound. No sooner did Lak hear
it than he understood it. It held every motive for his mounting fear. It was
composed of a succession of belling notes, decipherable to one who had hunted,
the noise of dogs that have the scent of their quarry in their nostrils.
However, those that tell of it remark that it was more like the baying of
starving wolves—yet worse, much worse. The fortunate would wake from sleep at
its echo, screeching. The unfortunate did not wake, but turned and ran, and the
sound ran with them, growing always louder and more near. It was the cry of the
hounds of the Vazdru.

Lak Hezoor,
magician-prince of a city of earth, stood on the road and spoke swiftly but
faultlessly the charm which would remove him from that spot. And the charm
failed him. It failed him totally. Not a fraction of his plight was altered.
Here he still lingered in the Underearth, the belling of the hounds ringing on
every column around, and within the hollow of his soul’s own psychic skull. And
peering along the forward vista of the road, it appeared to him now there was a
cloud there, black and winking silver at its apex, brilliant and bloody below,
and the cloud raced to reach him.

Then Lak Hezoor
the magician also turned and ran. He fled along the road toward the groves and
the flax-framed river. He fled howling, emptied of sorcery, filled to the brim
with horror and despair. And fly as he would, the road was endless. It went on
and on before him, as at his back. He could not, would not reach the river. And
the cry of the hounds was so loud now it seemed already ahead of him and to
both sides, and though he dared not turn to see, he felt a blast like fire on
his heels—the panting of glad murderers.

But finally, the road
did come to its beginning, and Lak beheld the River of Sleep, his nightmare’s
border, on the edge of distance. He flung himself forward, but as his feet
touched the sweet sooty grasses, warm weights slammed hard against his
shoulders, and long bodies, curiously textured as if smoothly scaled, tumbled
and flowed over him.

The red dogs
pulled him down among the willows. There they rolled him and tore at him, and
through the abstract blindness of his suffering and screaming, he saw their
scarlet eyes and teeth scarlet with his astral blood. The color of blood they
were, and soon they dripped with their color. The torment did not abate. Over
and over the unbearable was borne, the mawling of a death which did not kill.

Eventually only a
demented bundle of rags flopped back and forth shrieking among the hounds. Till
some signal was given and they were called, and slunk aside, like sinuous
shadows, to the caressing hands of their masters.