Beneath Strange Stars: A Collection of Tales

by Ralph E. Vaughan

  The streets seemed to writhe crazily as I ran. I felt as if I were being watched intently, but I saw no human faces. There was no one to help me in the hour of my greatest peril.

  Then a familiar house rose before me.

  It was my house, the house of my father and his father before him, stretching back through the years, back to when the Chosen had wandered out of the east, after the stars had been right. I scrabbled up the stone steps, bloodying hands and knees. I thankfully touched the elder sign affixed to the door and nearly fainted with fright when my fumbling hands dropped my thick iron key. I wrenched the door open, flew into the house, and slammed and locked the door behind me.

  I leaned against the door, laughing and sobbing my shattered senses returned. I thanked Great Lovecraft and the Elder Gods that I had returned home with life and mind, most of it, intact.

  To myself, I vowed to return to the Library on the morrow and restore the book to its hiding place. May it never be found!

  These words of the unknown diarist are false:

  “I alone of those building the town remember the truth, but I am old. I am solitary in my knowledge that the Arkham House books are nothing more than fiction. Those are words I dare not speak aloud because several have already been punished for doubting. In their desperation, the people have taken these books to heart; they believe the books contain truths and secrets which will help us survive in this world of atom-blasted lands and genetic horrors. I fear that fiction will supplant truth and that we will never again be raised from darkness. Curse W.P. for saving the books from the radioactive ruins and bringing them here. They will be the death of us all.”

  But now my faith has been restored.

  I know the truth.

  I again fear the Terrors of the Night.

  Great Lovecraft is once more Lord of my life.

  And so shall it ever be, as long as the stars are right.

  Stories can become orphans, often when written for anthologies with very specific requirements, but which later fold. A frequent collaborator of mine in the 1980s was the late t. Winter-Damon. He liked writing anthology stories, the more outré the better, and sometimes dragged me along. We wrote tag-team style, one of us typing a section, usually trying to write the other into a corner, then mailing the manuscript (no email or Internet then) for the other to take over. We published a few stories in that fashion, but we also wrote some orphans. “When the Zombie Elvis Splatterpunk Fairy anthology folds,” Damon said once to me during a visit to his Tucson home, “where can we send the story we wrote for it?” Where, indeed? The following story was written solo, but it was written for a shared-world book that folded before seeing print. Fortunately, the universe had a more-or-less generic fantasy quality, and I was able to place it with MZB’s Fantasy Magazine, wonderfully illustrated by Vincent DiFate.

  The Demon of Don’t Ask

  A Tale of Fantasy

  Tyiir danced sinuously as a snake. Her oiled brown skin glinted under the leaping flames of torches. Her necklace, linked coins from many lands, clinked merrily as she moved to the rich rhythms of the accompanying music. Her long black hair fell in tight ringlets.

  “Dance!” cried the men grouped about her in a tight cluster. “Dance faster!”

  The musicians, hidden behind an ornate screen, quickened the pace. Ten-stringed larlaras and reedy instruments whispered erotically. Tyiir’s bare feet beat a quick tattoo upon the floor.

  Even among the many beautifies always entertaining in the Great Marketplace, this girl from the Tarmarian Hills was something to behold. To the jaded roundabouts eternally loitering around the marketplace, her every movement spoke of pleasure that could sear a man’s brain to ash.

  Copper and bronze coins clattered over the raised stage as the music reached a crescendo. Tyiir’s eyes were very sharp, especially when it came to spying treasurers among dross, so she instantly saw the gold coin as it clattered among the offerings; she followed the path of the coin back to the hand that had tossed it and forced a smile—the older, the richer, so this man must be very rich indeed.

  The caravan had entered the wealthy trade center of Mourvyn that daybreak, renting a space in the Great Marketplace for a week. Here, Tyiir hoped to earn enough so she never again had to journey with the caravans as they made their summer treks to the cities of the wastelands, between the Greylands and the western marshes. It was Tyiir’s dream to own a great house in the lower reaches of the Tarmarian Hills, where the moneyed families dwelled, with servants to command and to execute when they displeased her.

  Tyiir finished her dance in a swirl of filmy fabric and smiled invitingly at the disgusting old man as the threadbare curtain fell. She scooped her coins and rushed to her wagon. She placed the coppers and bronzes in her hiding place, for every coin, no matter how small, brought her a pace closer to her goal, but she held on to the gold coin, feeling its weight, loving the way it sparkled even in the wan light of her single candle. She added the coin to her necklace and hid it where no one would ever find it.

  A knock sounded hesitantly at the door of her wagon, the sort of knock made by a nervous old man with unfamiliar lusts gnawing at his guts.

  Tyiir arranged her limbs in a pleasing fashion, forced a smile and murmured: “Enter.”

  The door opened and the old man of the gold coin stepped through the shadows. Tyiir’s smile became even more forced. He was ancient, older even than Tyiir had first thought, all wrinkles and age spots, so frail in frame a good wind would have knocked him over. He wore dark clothing, gold neck chains with fist-sized gems, and heavy gold rings on each finger.

  “You are very lovely, my dear,” the old man whispered. “An excellent dancer—I had no idea the human body was so flexible or could do so many…interesting things.”

  “You are most kind, my lord,” Tyiir replied, leaning forward slightly. “My name is Tyiir, and I would be most pleased to dance for you…privately.”

  The old man grinned. “How old are you, my little Tyiir?”

  “Young, my lord,” she replied. “Very young.”

  “I am called Malthuza.”

  “I am yours to command, Lord Malthuza.”

  Malthuza reached into his purse and withdrew two large gold coins. He rubbed them together, and Tyiir shivered at the sound.

  She stood and moved toward her sleeping chamber, parting the silken veils that separated it from the rest of the wagon. Within was her most precious secret—a bed magicked by a sorcerer of the Southern Forest of Hyadajz, a senile love-besotted magician. In this bed, a man could be convinced that a moment of pleasure was a lifetime of ecstasy, and Tyiir could still retain her honor.

  Malthuza dropped the gold pieces into his purse, where they clinked disappointedly among their brothers.

  “Not here, my dear,” the old man said.

  “Where?” Tyiir asked, suddenly wary.

  “At a place I own,” he replied. Seeing the look of apprehension on the girl’s face, he added quickly: “No harm will come to you. I only wish to see you dance…privately”

  The girl let the veils fall across her sleeping chamber and said, “Very well, Lord Malthuza.”

  “You had better put on something warmer and a little less revealing,” Malthuza said. “We have a bit of a walk before us, but I assure you it shall be made worth your while.”

  Tyiir slipped on a hooded cloak. “Where exactly are we going, my lord?”

  “Don’t Ask,” he replied.

  Don’t Ask! Those were the last words she had expected to hear from the rich old gentleman. A villa in the well-to-do southern suburbs or even an estate in the merchant’s quarter of the city…but Don’t Ask? Tyiir rethought the situation. Don’t Ask was due north of the Great Marketplace. At one time it might have had another name, but no one remembered it now. Even a traveler such as Tyiir had heard of the infamous Don’t Ask of Mourvyn. Over the centuries, it had become a city within a city, a haven for every sort of evil. Behind its façade of inns and shops, Don’t As
k was a twisted warren of unnamed alleys, haunted underground vaults and secret rivers that vanished deep into the earth.

  Don’t Ask was a very bad place for a young girl to venture into at any time, especially in the company of a stranger. But Malthuza did have gold, and his talk promised more. Gold was a balm that could soothe Tyiir’s deepest fears; enough gold could absolve a man of any sin better than the blue-robed priests of Kolvar. And Malthuza did have lots of gold. What else mattered? Tyiir was sure that if worse came to worse, the old man’s frailty would be his greatest weakness.

  Tyiir departed her wagon holding onto the arm of the infirm old man. She felt as if she were supporting him rather than he escorting her, and that made her feel a little safer.

  Even though it was late, the Great Marketplace was a hubbub of activity. Itinerant merchants were always packing up to go elsewhere, but others waited to take their places. The Marketplace was crowded with all levels of society. They passed the edge of the Great Marketplace and saw thickly clustered stalls, leased by the year by fat merchants who sat within like great glaring spiders.

  Abruptly, Tyiir was beyond the realm of mercantile activity, as if she had entered another country, one of silence and shadows, where people flowed through the streets like smoke. Mourvyn lay under the cover of night, but the darkness shrouding Don’t Ask was even deeper.

  “Don’t be afraid, my little Tyiir,” the old man said, patting her hand when he felt her shudder.

  What reassured Tyiir was not the touch of Malthuza’s withered hand but the sound of gold in his purse.

  Dark alleyways branched in all directions. Man and girl moved through a sea of darkness. Sounds of merriment and terror came from all around them, but always seemingly from a great distance. The night currents carried exotic perfumes and hashish-dreams. The dimly-lit shades of windows opening onto the stygian alleys had the appearance of dead skin.

  Tyiir was puzzled by the fact that they saw no others during their walk. A rich old man and a beautiful girl were easy marks to coves and coshers, but they saw no one, only shapes and shadows that might have been people, but which vanished into the obscurity of night at their approach. Tyiir was nervous now. Only by concentrating on great piles of gold could Tyiir keep from fleeing in terror back to the safety of her wagon, where awkward merchants’ sons waited with fistfuls of coppers.

  “Not much farther now, my dear,” Malthuza murmured, as if reading her thoughts.

  “You have a home here, my lord?”

  “One of the many places I own in the city,” he replied. “But I do not live here. It is a workshop of sorts, my place of business, you might say, where I make my gold.”

  Before Tyiir could ask just what that business might be, Malthuza announced they had arrived. They stood before a doorway carved with arcane symbols. Malthuza passed his hand over the surface of the door. Blue bolts of energy leaped between hand and door, and the door opened silently.

  “You are a wizard,” Tyiir breathed, taking a step back from the yawning portal.

  “Does it matter?” Malthuza smiled. “I have gold.”

  Tyiir shook her head and entered. A love-struck sorcerer had helped her before; maybe this relationship would prove equally rewarding, if not more so since gold was involved.

  The door closed behind her and she followed Malthuza deeper into the structure. When she saw a creature with an ape’s body and a cobra’s head lurking in a side passageway, she began to doubt the wisdom of coming here. Before Tyiir could dwell long upon her misjudgment, something struck her from behind and oblivion claimed her.

  Awareness returned to Tyiir in a flood of light and sensation. She tried to move and discovered herself captive, manacles binding ankles and wrists, upon a cold stone slab.

  Malthuza stood on the opposite side of the small circular chamber from her. Between them was a magick circle etched into the stone floor. Malthuza was flanked by two bizarre beings—the cobra-headed ape and a red boy with a fish’s head. Tyiir struggled against her bonds.

  “How young and strong you are,” Malthuza murmured. He gestured toward the fish-headed boy. “Mathematica does not know his own strength and sometimes gets carried away by the excitement of the moment. It is gratifying to see that his muscles were no match for your stamina.”

  “What do you want?” Tyiir demanded, writhing desperately against her bonds.

  Malthuza licked his cracked lips. “A beautiful body indeed. So full of youth and vitality. It is a shame that such vigor is wasted on the young, who are always so foolish. So full of life…”

  Tyiir forced a smile. “Is this it, my lord. Are your dreams fashioned of iron and leather?”

  “How old do I seem?” Malthuza asked.

  “Oh, not very old, my lord.”

  “Always the flatterer,” Malthuza said with a dry laugh. “You probably think me the oldest man you have ever seen, but I am only thirty-three.”

  Tyiir gasped. It was the magick, of course. Everybody knew the old maxim: ‘Three score years and ten for the races of men, but much less for wizards and all their kin.’ Magick aged a man—days and weeks for minor spells, months and years for powerful incantations. Even Tyiir’s lover in the Southern Forest of Hyadajz had been young but had magicked himself into the realm of senility—how malleable he had then been in her hands!

  “Yes, you know about the Price, do you?” Malthuza said grimly. “But what would you say if I told you I have been this age—the age you see me now—sixteen times?”

  “My lord,” she said, “About the gold…”

  “There is only one thing on your little mind,” Malthuza accused. “No local girl would have come with me and few travelers would have followed me into Don’t Ask. Your greed shall be your undoing.”

  “You’re not going to pay me, my lord?”

  “You are going to die!” Malthuza snapped impatiently. “I will purchase my years with your blood. When I discovered the terrible price of magick, I resolved to find a way to escape its finality. The demons of the underworld have the power to roll back the years of a man, but the problem is finding the proper demon with the necessary powers, not an easy task since most demons look alike. I persevered and discovered the secret names which summon and bind. The demon will give me back the youth that has fled. The cost is your life, but I consider the price to be small. Very small.”

  “I can make you feel young, my lord,” Tyiir offered.

  Malthuza began to chant in the Forbidden Tongue, the guttural language of the lower domains. His familiars moved away from him, cowering near the doorway. As Malthuza chanted, energies from other dimensions crackled around him and within the magick circle. The patterns of his words opened a portal into infernal regions. Through that portal, accompanied by a clap of thunder and a billow of sulfurous smoke, stepped a truly disgusting creature.

  Tyiir’s eyes stung from the smoke; she wrinkled her nose against the stink of the being. He had only one eye, and that one eye did not seem very secure in its socket. Slime oozed from the pores of his skin and dripped to the floor in long strings. A single red horn erupted from his scaly brow. Fangs protruded from between yellow lips; blue hair sprouted from the most unlikely places. Tyiir gasped at the sight.

  “I have summoned you once more from the Pit to do my bidding!” Malthuza intoned. “I command you to roll back the years of my life. As before, I offer a blood sacrifice.”

  “Huh?” said the demon.

  “You are my slave,” Malthuza uttered. “I have summoned you and bound you. I command you.”

  The demon looked about the circular chamber as if confused. His gaze fell upon the lithe form of Tyiir and he froze.

  “I command you in the name of Belamak, in the name of Physithlethia, and in the name of the Unspeaking One,” Malthuza chanted, gesturing. Blue flames followed the movements of his hands.

  The demon did not turn his gaze from Tyiir. “Pretty.”

  “Harken to me!” the frustrated wizard screamed. “Do my will or suffer
the pain of my wrath.”

  The demon turned to Malthuza, planted his taloned hands on his hips and snorted.

  “Take the years of this wench and give them to me!” Malthuza instructed. “Her soul will become your plaything.”

  “She’s pretty, and you’re not.” The demon looked at Tyiir, then back to Malthuza, pointing.

  A bolt of lightning leaped from the demon’s extended forefinger, engulfing Malthuza, incinerating him where he stood. The two familiars looked at the smoking ashes, then fled. The demon pointed his finger at Tyiir, and her bonds turned to smoke.

  Tyiir sat up, fighting nausea, fear and disappointment. Not only would she die at the hands of this demon, she was not going to see another gold coin; but she forced a smile at the very male demon.

  “You’re very pretty, Miss,” the demon said. “I am glad my cousin sent me in his place. He was getting sick of Malthuza. He didn’t mind doing what Malthuza told him twice or even thrice, but sixteen times?” He looked Tyiir up and down. “He didn’t tell me there would be a pretty girl.”

  Tyiir crossed her legs and leaned back slightly. “This your first visit to our world?”

  The demon chuckled and looked down bashfully. “My first time anywhere, Miss.”

  “Would you like to see me dance?” Tyiir asked.

  The demon nodded enthusiastically.

  “I would need music.” The demon waved his hand, and a trio of musicians, all demonic, appeared in the room. The hellish music they played was unfamiliar to Tyiir, but she danced to its complicated rhythms as if very her life depended upon it, as she was sure it did. She danced until her feet seemed ready to fall off.

  At the end of what seemed hours, the music came to an end, the demons vanished, and Tyiir was left alone.

  She looked around, sighed and gathered her cloak from a hook on the wall. She looked at the ashes on the floor and thought: An unprofitable night all around.