by Brian Lumley
“But … we do know you,” Septais answered, blinking.
“Yes,” Nathan nodded, “you know us—you know something of us, anyway—but the Szgany have never really known you. And they certainly haven’t known this!” He held out his hands as if to encompass all of Crater Lake.
The place was simply that: a giant crater a mile across, with a raised inner caldera. The river entered through caverns in the base of the west wall; it formed a great blue lake which emptied through a gap in the reef-like central node of jutting rocks, and from there down into the sump of a whirlpool. After that, deep in the earth again, the Great Dark River ran east as before. And so the colony was an oasis, but vast and very beautiful.
“You mean our oases, our secret places? But if you knew of them they would not be secret. And if you knew of them … how long before the Wamphyri learned of them, too?” Septais gave a shrug. “You Szgany have your places, the forests and the hills, and we desert folk have ours.”
“I don’t blame you for not wanting to share this,” Nathan told him.
“Perhaps different men should live together,” Septais answered. “But our experience is that they can’t. Upon a time, the Eastern Necromancers invaded. In aspect, they seemed much like the Thyre—far more like us than you Szgany—but they were not. For one thing, they did not have our telepathy. But they did have … other arts.”
“I’ve been told about them,” Nathan nodded. Again Septais’s shrug. “We trade a little with the Szgany, so that they may know us for a peaceful people. It is enough.”
“I understand,” Nathan said. “But I still can’t understand why we don’t know about you. So close, and yet so ignorant. And your telepathy: I know that certain men of the Szgany have had such talents before me. Did they never hear your minds conversing? Did they never wonder?”
“Our thoughts are guarded,” Septais said. “From birth to death, we are careful how we use this skill. Among the Szgany, telepathy is rare. But among the Wamphyri—it is not!”
Nathan nodded. “That makes sense, for I couldn’t bear the thought of them here!” Giving an involuntary shudder, he fell silent for a moment. But he was still curious, puzzled. “That aside,” he said in a while, “we are very close—I mean physically, geographically—with nothing so vast as the barrier range to separate us. It surprises me that men, Szgany loners, haven’t stumbled upon your oases.”
“Really?” said Septais. “You are surprised? Well, your geography may be sound in Sunside, Nathan, but it lacks something here in the furnace deserts. You ask, why have men not stumbled upon us?” He pointed north and slightly west. “Over there, some sixty miles, lies the eastern extent of the barrier range, where the mountains crumble to the Great Red Waste.” Keeping his spindly arm raised, he turned slowly east through ninety degrees. “And all of that, for a thousand miles, is the Great Red Waste. Beyond it lies a continuation of Sun-side, the mountains, the Szgany and the Wamphyri: an unknown or legendary land, to you. Men, Szgany, have not crossed the Great Red Waste. How could they, when even the Thyre have not crossed it on the surface? You shall be the first of the Szgany, but you shall pass around and beneath it!”
Nathan looked where Septais had first pointed. “Sun-side, only sixty miles away,” he mused. “And not even a crag showing on the flat horizon, because the mountains lie beyond the curve of the world. And of course you are right, Septais: why should any sane man of the Szgany ever venture out here? The forests blend into grasslands, which turn into scrub and sand, and the deserts sprawl sunwards forever. Only the strange, thin, dark-skinned nomads may dwell in the desert, and theirs is a fragile existence among the sun-bleached dunes, the rocky canyons and barren mesas. So we have always supposed; little we knew.” He pulled a wry face. “But I wonder: if my people are to die out, killed off or … changed, by the Wamphyri, mightn’t a few be saved, out here in the desert?”
“That is for the elders,” the other sighed. “If I were one of them … you know I could never deny you but would try to arrange it. For I have felt your sadness: how it washes out from you in great waves. A great deal of sadness, but hatred, too—for the Wamphyri!”
“You “feel” it?” Again Nathan’s wry smile. “Do you spy on me, then?”
“No need for that!” said Septais. “But I think: perhaps you should learn how to guard your thoughts, Nathan, like the Thyre. Why, sometimes they are so strong I must steel myself against them, unless they repel me!”
That strong? He looked at Septais and nodded, but grimly now. Aye, maybe, but I wish they were stronger: so strong that I could think all of the Wamphyri into extinction! Especially the one called Canker Canison.
The other shook his head, took Nathan’s arm. “The will is not enough,” he said. “No man can think something into existence, Nathan, or out of it. Nor would we like it if we could. For as well as good, there is evil in all men. Who knows what a man might think, in some sad, frustrated moment?”
“Evil in all men,” Nathan answered. “Yes, you’re right—but more of it in the Wamphyri! I know, for I’ve seen it first hand. And you may believe me, I would drown them in my numbers vortex, or think them to death, if I could!”
“Well then,” said Septais, “in that case you have a great deal of studying to do, for as yet your numbers are weightless and could not drown a fly. Likewise a great deal of thinking; for while your thoughts are passionate, they are also ungovernable, and you are the only one who is likely to die of them!”
And in this Septais showed wisdom far beyond the range of his two-score years …
Nathan had been with the Thyre for a year and five months—some seventy-three “days”—when he surfaced through Red Well Sump on the edge of the Great Red Waste. He had parted company with Septais eleven sunup cycles earlier, since when he’d had various Thyre guides along the course of the Great Dark River. But from here on in the name of that subterranean torrent would be different: it was now the Great Red River, after all of the mineral wastes washed into it from the rusty, ruined earth.
Nathan’s new guide was a spry Thyre elder called Ehtio, whose knowledge of this entirely uninhabitable region was as good as anyone’s: at best rudimentary. In the ghastly glow of a crimson twilight, Ehtio showed Nathan a map drawn on lizard skin, which detailed the course of the river from their last stop, Ten-Springs-Spurting, to their current location.
“The river has swung north,” he husked, “taking us under the Great Red Waste. And this —” he gazed all about, his soft Thyre eyes blinking, “— is the Great Red Waste, its southern fringe, anyway. Aptly named, as you see.”
They had come up steps cut in the wall of a vast well. A hundred and fifty feet below them, their boat was moored where Thyre oarsmen waited. There was no colony here; their stop was to be of the shortest duration, just long enough for Nathan to see and loathe the place. And from his first glance, he did loathe it.
Standing on the pitted wall of the well, behind its parapet, he turned in a slow circle and gazed out across the Great Red Waste. And in every direction he saw the same thing: wave upon wave of red and black dunes, with areas between like massive blisters which had burst and turned brittle, and crumbled back into themselves, and others which were lakes of seething, bubbling, smoking chemicals. Nathan smelled tar, sulphur, the overpowering reek of rotten eggs, the stench of mordant acids. The contours of the dunes were like wrinkles in diseased skin, as if this entire landscape were the body of some cosmic corpse dead of its lesions and infections, its flesh torn and rotting, and Nathan and Ehtio standing in its navel.
It was the twilight of evening. South, the horizon was a sick, shimmering, smoky ochre: the sunset seen through a smog of rising vapours. North, the horizon was black, humped, alien. Overhead, the stars wavered; they blinked on and off like sick fireflies, dying in the rising reek.
“The air is bad,” said Ehtio. “We can’t stay.”
“A thousand miles of this?” Nathan shook his head, turned towards the stairwell. “I don’t wan
t to stay …” The damp, musty air rising from the well seemed sweet by comparison. Descending in flickering torchlight, Nathan asked: “What happened, up there? Does anyone know?”
“Not for sure,” Ehtio shook his head. “Too old to be part of history, it is myth, lore, legend. I cannot guarantee it.”
“Tell me anyway.”
“One day in the long ago, a white sun fell from the sky. It skipped over the world like a flat stone bouncing on water. This was one of the places where it bounced; such was the impact, its iron shell was broken and fell on the land in so many pieces they could not be counted. The land became hot; chemicals in the soil gathered into pools; acids ate the white sun’s metal skin into rust. It is a process which continues to this day. But the core of the white sun made one final leap. Shrinking, it sped west and slightly north; such was its fascination, it drew up the mountains to form the barrier range, and was in turn drawn to earth.”
Nathan nodded. “We have much the same legend. The white sun fell on Starside and fashioned the boulder plains. It sits there even now—I’ve seen it—like a cold blind eye, glaring on Starside. But that’s not all, for Szgany legend has it that this sphere of cold white light is a kind of doorway, to hellish lands beyond.”
“Beyond what?”
Ehtio looked at him. “Beyond itself, beyond this world.”
Nathan shook his head.
“Beyond my powers to describe. But … it’s not just a legend, for men have come through that Gate from the world beyond. And creatures from Starside have likewise crossed to their side.”
“Creatures?”
“Wamphyri! I’ve heard it said that sometimes they would cast one of their own out—cast him into the Gate.”
“Indeed,” said Ehtio, offering a sad, slow, very thoughtful nod. “And so vampires have passed through this “Gate”, eh?” He nodded again. “Well then, it strikes me that if these lands “beyond” were not hellish before, they are now.” Which reminded Nathan that Lardis Lidesci had once said much the same thing …
From Red Well Sump the river swung south again and back under a comparatively healthy desert. Such was its load of rust, its waters would run red for a further hundred miles.
Forty miles east of Red Well Sump and eighteen south of the Great Red Waste, the next Thyre colony was called Place-Under-the-Orange-Crags. It reminded Nathan of Place-Under-the-Yellow-Cliffs; also of Atwei, his Thyre sister. The Cavern of the Ancients was similar, too, except there was no Rogei and no crystal ceiling.
Place-Under-the-Orange-Crags fronted a sprawling plateau lying roughly east to west. Looking north from its summit towards the Great Red Waste, Nathan saw that the entire northern horizon was a dirty red smudge. The barrier range lay far to the west; likewise Sunside and Settlement, which through all of his formative years he’d called home. He was homesick; no, he was sick for anything Szgany. Once, he’d been a loner even among the Sunsiders; he’d wanted nothing so much as to escape to an alien world, while in this one Misha had been his only anchor. Now Misha was gone and he actually lived in an alien world, which palled on him more every day.
“Men are contrary,” Ehtio husked from beside him. “Aye, Szgany and Thyre alike.” His voice drew Nathan back to earth.
“Oh? Was I thinking out loud again?”
“Often,” said the other. “Do you no longer practise your mind-guard?”
Nathan thought of Misha’s face—he couldn’t help it; it flashed into his mind—but just as he had been taught by Septais during many an hour of trial-and-error instruction, so now he “cloaked” both the thought and the picture. And: “There,” he said. “How’s that?” He felt Ehtio’s probe: a tingle on the periphery of his awareness, which he held at bay.
“Quite excellent,” said the elder after a moment. “But now that your thoughts are in order and guarded, you must concentrate more on your emotions. The two are closely linked.”
Nathan nodded. “I’ve heard much the same before.”
“Nathan,” said Ehtio, “I have been asked to tell you that should you desire it, there will always be a place for you with the Thyre.”
It was a great honour and Nathan acknowledged it. Except: “First there are things I must do,” he said. “And even then … afterwards … I don’t know.”
“Things you must do? Put your life at risk, do you mean? Go among the eastern Szgany, who give themselves—and their children—to the Wamphyri without protest? Oh? And how then shall they deal with you?”
“It’s hard to believe they do that to their own,” Nathan shook his head. “Not without protest. As for me … I have to know how it is for them there, and how it’s yet to be in Sunside.”
Ehtio made a hopeless gesture. “But what good will it do? What can you change? You have nothing to gain, everything to lose. Yes, and we too, the Thyre, have everything to lose.”
“In me?”
“Of course.”
“You value me too highly.”
“How so? You are invaluable!”
“I have to go,” Nathan was determined. “But I’m grateful to the Thyre for all I’ve learned from them. And I will work on my telepathy—yes, my emotions too—and on the numbers shown to me by Ethloi. It strikes me there has to be a reason, a purpose, in all of these things. But I must go east, if only to speak to Thikkoul in River’s Rush and discover my future in the stars.”
“The first two are things you can do without risking yourself,” Ehtio answered. “And the last is an excuse, or at best a forlorn hope. It seems to me you go to sacrifice yourself.”
“No,” Nathan denied it. “I go to improve myself. Some time ago—it seems a long time now—I made my Szgany vow. It may be I made it in anger and horror, but it was still my vow. If I forsake it now, that would be … unseemly. Perhaps these gifts of mine are tools, which I must learn to use in order to fulfil my obligations. In which case it will be a useful thing to know my future.”
“You are stubborn,” Ehtio told him, but without rancour.
“I’m Szgany,” Nathan answered, simply …
A further twelve sunups and Nathan reached River’s Rush. Here the Great Red River’s course became a borehole, and the river itself a solid chute of water hurtling through eleven miles of narrow, subterranean sumps before widening out and being reasonable, placid again. Below ground those miles were unnavigable; it made little or no difference to Nathan, whose route now lay to the north, across the surface.
As for the Thyre: there were only two more colonies to the east, beyond which the river flowed on into myth and mystery. But the two must remain unvisited; River’s Rush was Nathan’s last stop at the end of a journey which had carried him more than two thousand miles from his birthplace.
On the surface, the place was a small oasis twenty miles south of “Sunside” (the Sunside of these unknown eastern regions, at least). Beyond Sunside were mountains, and across the mountains “Starside”. There the Wamphyri dwelled in a mighty gorge, whose name Nathan had learned from the Thyre: Turgosheim. But even though the vampires were the undisputed masters here, still the restrictions upon them were the same: the night was their element, but the sun was their mortal enemy.
Upon a time the Thyre had traded with the Szgany in the grassland fringe between desert and forest, much as they did in the west; all that had come to an abrupt, bloody end some three years ago. For the Szgany of this region had become a gaunt, greedy people. Worn down by the Wamphyri, their sensitivities had been eroded away until they were little more than feral creatures, no longer trustworthy.
When the members of a Thyre trading party had seen how they were being cheated, even threatened by the Szgany, they had tried to withdraw back into the desert. The Szgany fell on them and murdered them; their few goods were stolen; they paid with their lives for a handful of medicinal salts and a few polished lizard skins. Only one man, wounded in his side, had returned to River’s Rush to tell the tale.
The story made Nathan afraid, and not a little ashamed. For the
se were Szgany, his people. Also, he had intended to visit among them. Maybe now he would change his plans …
In any event, his work came first, and for the duration of a single sunup he proved his credentials in the mausoleum called the Hall of Endless Hours. There, when at last his time was his own, he spoke to Thikkoul: a bundle of venerable rags in a niche lit by a constantly flickering candle.
And so you’ve come, that one’s deadspeak came as a whisper in the Necroscope’s mind. Well, it should not surprise me, for I remember how, before I went blind, I saw it in the stars: a visit from one who would make me see again, however briefly. Then I died and still you had not come. And I thought: so much for my astrology! And all my life’s work was in doubt. Ah, how could I know that even in death there may be light!
“Did you really read men’s futures in the stars?” Nathan was fascinated.
Do you doubt me?
“It seems a strange talent, this astrology.”
Oh, and is it stranger than telepathy? Stranger than this deadspeak which allows me to communicate with my myriad colleagues among the Great Majority? Stranger than your own unique talent?
“It’s not that I’m without faith,” Nathan answered. “But even the Thyre bolster their faith with fact. Show it to me.”
The other chuckled. Gladly! Only show me the stars, and I will show you the future.
Nathan nodded. “But there are no stars in the Hall of Endless Hours, Thikkoul. I’ll have to go up into the desert. Stay with me …”
Above, it was night. The stars were diamonds, but they shone softer here than over Starside and the barrier range. Nathan walked out over sands which were cool now, away from the oasis. And in the silence and aching loneliness of the desert, Thikkoul’s thoughts came more clearly into his inner mind. Lie down, look up, gaze upon the heavens. Let me look out through your eyes upon all the times which were, are, and will be. For just as the light from the stars is our past, so is it our future. Except…