by Brian Lumley
As quickly as the vision of Litha the girl came I put it out of my mind, striding out more purposefully for the Temple of the Elder Ones. If any man could help me in my bid for vengeance against the turbaned traders Atal, the Priest of the Temple, was that man. Atal had even climbed the forbidden peak, Hatheg-Kla, in the stony desert, and had come down again alive and sane! It was rumoured that in the temple he had keep of many incredible volumes of sorcery. His great knowledge of the darker mysteries was, in fact, my main reason for seeking his aid. I could hardly hope to engage the forces of the hell-traders with physical means alone.
It was then, as I left the little green cottages and neatly fenced farms and shady shops of the suburbs behind me, as I pressed more truly into the city proper, that I received a shock so powerful my soul almost withered within me.
I had allowed myself to become interested in the old peaked roofs, the overhanging upper storeys, numberless chimney-pots and narrow, old cobbled streets of the city, so that my attention had been diverted from the path my feet followed, causing me to bump rudely into someone coming out of the narrow door of a shop. Of a sudden the air was foul with shuddersome, well-remembered odours of hideous connection, and my hackles rose as I backed quickly away from the strangely turbaned, squat figure I had chanced into. The slightly tilted eyes regarded me curiously and a wicked smile played around the too wide mouth.
One of Them! Here in Ulthar?
I mumbled incoherent apologies, slipped past the still evilly grinning figure, and ran all the rest of the way to the Temple of the Elder Ones. If there had been any suggestion of half-heartedness to my intentions earlier there was certainly none now! It seemed obvious to me the course events were taking. First it had been Dylath-Leen, now an attempt at Ulthar—where next? Nowhere, if I had anything to say of it.
The Temple of the Elder Ones stands round and towering, of ivied stone, atop Ulthar’s highest hill; and there, in the Room of Ancient Records, I found the patriarch I sought—Atal of Hatheg-Kla; Atal the Ancient. He sat, in flowing black and gold robes, at a centuried wooden bench, fading eyes studiously lost in the yellowed pages of a great aeon-worn book, its metal hasps dully agleam in a stray beam of sunlight striking in from the single high window.
He looked up, starting as if in shock as I entered the musty room with its myriad book-shelves. Then he pushed his book away and spoke:
“The Priest of the Temple greets you, stranger. You are a stranger, are you not?”
“I have seen Ulthar before,” I answered, “but, yes, I am a stranger here in the Temple of the Elder Ones. I come from the waking world, Atal, to seek your help…”
“You—you surprised me. You are not the first from the waking world to ask my aid. I thought at first sight that I knew you of old. How are you named and in what manner might I serve you?”
“My name is Grant Enderby, Atal, and the help I ask is not for myself. I come in the hope that you might be able to help me rid Dylath-Leen of a certain contagion; but since coming to Ulthar today I have learned that even here the sores are spreading. Are there not even now in Ulthar strange traders from no clearly named land? Is it not so?”
“It is so,” he nodded his venerable head. “Say on.”
“Then you should know that they are those same traders who brought Dylath-Leen to slavery—an evil, hypnotic slavery—and I fancy that they mean to use the same black arts here in Ulthar to a like end. Do they trade rubies the like of which are found in no known mine in the whole of dreamland?”
Again he nodded: “They do; but say no more—I am already aware. At this very moment I search for a means by which the trouble may be put to an end. But I work only on rumours, and I am unable to leave the temple to verify those rumours. My duties are all important, and in any case, these bones are too old to wander far. Truly, Dylath-Leen did suffer an evil fate; but think not that her peoples had no warning! Why, even a century ago the city’s reputation was bad, through the presence of those very traders you have mentioned! Another dreamer before you saw the doom in store for the city, speaking against those traders vehemently and often; but his words were soon forgotten by all who heard them and people went their old ways as of yore. No man may help him who will not help himself! But it is the presence of those traders here in Ulthar which has driven me to this search of mine. I cannot allow the same doom to strike here—whatever that doom may be—yet it is difficult to see what may be done. No man of this town will venture anywhere near Dylath-Leen. It is said that the streets of that city have known no human feet for more than twenty years, nor can any man say with any certainty where the city’s peoples have gone.”
“I can say!” I answered. “Not where, exactly; but how at least! Enslaved, I said, and told no lie. I had it first from Bo-Kareth, late of DyIath-Leen, who told me that when those traders had taken all the fat black slaves of Parg in exchange for those evil stones of theirs, they brought to the city the biggest ruby ever seen—a boulder of a gem—leaving it on a pedestal in the main square as a false token of esteem. It was the evil influence of this great jewel that bewitched the people of Dylath-Leen, bemusing them to such a degree that in the end they, too, became slaves to be led away to the black galleys of the traders. And now, apparently, those traders have…used up…all the peoples of that ill-omened city and are starting their monstrous game here! And Bo-Kareth’s story was true in every detail, for with my own eyes—”
“A great ruby…hmmm!” Atal musingly cut me off, stroking his face and frowning in concentration. “That puts a different complexion on it—yes, I believe that in the Fourth Book…there may be a mention! Shall we see?”
I nodded my eager agreement and at Atal’s direction lifted down from a corner shelf the largest and weightiest tome I had ever seen. Each single page—pages of no material I had ever known before—glowed with burning letters which stood out with fire-fly definition in the dimness of the room. I could make nothing of the unique ciphers within that book, but Atal seemed thoroughly familiar with each alien character, translating easily, mumbling to himself in barely discernable tones, until suddenly he stopped. He lurched shakily to his feet then, slamming the priceless volume shut, horror burning in his ancient eyes.
“So!” he exclaimed, hissing out the word, “It is that! The Fly-the-Light from Yuggoth on the Rim, a vampyre in the worst meaning of the word; and we must make sure that it is never brought to Ulthar!” He paused, visibly taking hold of himself before he could continue:
“Let me tell you…
“Long ago, before dreams, in the primal mist of the pre-dawn Beginning of All, the great ruby was brought from distant Yuggoth on the Rim by the Old Ones. Within that jewel, prisoned by light and the magic of the Old Ones, lurks a basic avatar of the prime evil, a thing hideous as the pit itself! Understand, Grant Enderby, it is not the stone that induces the hypnotic weariness of which you have spoken, but the thing within the stone, the evil influence of the Fly-the-Light from dark Yuggoth on the Rim! Few men know the history of that huge jewel, and I do not consider myself fortunate to be one of the few.
“It is told that it was discovered after coming down in an avalanche from the heights of forbidden Hatheg-Kla—which I can believe for I know much of that mountain—discovered and carried away by the Black Princess, Yath-Lhi of Tyrhhia. And when her caravan reached her silver-spired city it was found that all Yath-Lhi’s men at arms, her slaves, even the Black Princess herself, were as zombies, altered and mazed. It is not remembered now where Tyrhhia once stood, but many believe the centuried desert sands to cover even its tallest spire, and that the remains of its habitants lie putrid within their buried houses.
“But the ruby was not buried with Tyrhhia, more’s the pity, and rumour has it that it was next discovered in a golden galley on the Southern Sea twixt Dylath-Leen and the isle of Oriab. A strange ocean is the Southern Sea, and especially between Oriab and Dylath-Leen; for there, many fathoms deep, lies a basalt city with a temple and monolithic altar. And sailors are loath
to pass over that submarine city, fearing the great storms which legend has it strike suddenly; even when there is no breath of wind to stir the sails! However, there the great jewel was found, aboard a great golden galley, and the crew of that galley were very beautiful even though they were not men, and all were long dead but not corrupt! Only one sailor, mad and babbling, was later rescued from the sea off Oriab to gibber pitifully the tale of the golden galley, but of his fellow crew-mates nothing more is known. It is interesting to note that it is further writ how only certain peoples—they who are horned and who dance to the evil drone of pipes and rattle of crotala in mysterious Leng—are unaffected by the stone’s proximity!” Atal looked at me knowingly. “And I can see you have already noticed how strangely our traders wear their turbans.
“But I digress. Again the jewel survived whatever fate overtook the poor seamen who rescued it from the golden galley, and it was later worshipped by the enormous dholes in the Vale of Pnath, until three leathery night-gaunts flew off with it over the Peaks of Throk and down into those places of subterrene
horror of which certain dim myths hint most terribly. For that underworld is said to be a place litten only by pale death-fires, a place reeking of ghoulish exhalations and filled with the primal mists which swirl in the pits at Earth’s core. Who may say what form the inhabitants of such a place might take?”
At this point Atal’s eyes cleared of their far-away look and turned from the dark places of his tale to the present and to me. He placed his rheumy hands on my shoulders, peering at me earnestly: “Well, so says legend and the Fourth Book of D’harsis; and now, you say, the great ruby is come again into the known places of Earth’s dreamland. Now hear you, Grant Enderby, I know what must be done—but how may I ask any man to take such risks? For my plan involves not only the risk of destruction to the mortal body—but the possible eternal damnation of the immortal soul!”
“I have pledged myself,” I told him, “to avenge the peoples of Dylath-Leen. My pledge still stands, for though Dylath-Leen is lost, yet are there other towns and cities in dreams which I would dream again—but not to see them corrupted by horned horrors that trade in fever-cursed rubies! Atal—tell me what I must do.”
Atal then got to it, and there was much for him to do. I could not help him with the greater part of his work, tasks involving the translation into language I could understand of certain tracts from the Fourth Book of D’harsis, for, even though many things are simpler in dream, those passages were not meant to be read by any man—neither awake nor sleeping—who did not understand their importance.
Slowly but surely the hours passed and Atal laboured as I watched, putting down letter after letter in the creation of pronounceable syllables from the seemingly impossible mumbo-jumbo of the great book from which he drew. I began to recognise certain symbols I had seen in allegedly “forbidden” tomes in the waking world, and even began to mumble the first of them aloud— “Tetragrammaton Thabaite Sabaoth Tethiktos”—until Atal silenced me by jerking to his feet and favouring me with a gaze of pure horror.
“It is almost night,” he remonstrated, striking a flint to a wax candle, his hands shaking more than even his extreme age might reasonably explain, “and outside the shadows are lengthening. Would you call That forth without first having protection? For make no mistake, distance is no matter to this invocation, and if we wished we could call out the Fly-the-Light even from here. But first you must cast a spell over Dylath-Leen, to contain the thing when you release it from the ruby; for certainly unless it is contained it will ravish the whole of dreamland; and you, the caller, The Utterer of The Words, would be one of the first to die—horribly!”
I gulped my apologies and sat silently from then on, listening attentively to Atal’s instructions even as my eyes followed his scratching pen. “You must go to Dylath-Leen,” he told me, “taking with you the two incantations I now prepare. One of them, which you will keep at your left, is to build the Wall of Naach-Tith about the city. To work this spell you must journey around Dylath-Leen, returning to your starting point and crossing it, chanting the words as you go. This means, of course, that you will need to cross the bay; and I suggest that you do this by boat, for there are things in the night sea that do not take kindly to swimmers. When you have crossed your starting point the wall will be builded. Then you may use the other chant, spoken only once, to shatter the great gem. You should carry the second chant at your right. This way you will not confuse the two—a mistake which would prove disastrous! I have used inks which shine in the dark; there will be no difficulty in reading the chants: So, having done all I have told you your revenge will be complete and you will have served all the lands of dream greatly. No creature or thing will ever be able to enter Dylath-Leen again, nor leave the place, and the Fly-the-Light will be loosed amongst the horned ones. One warning though, Grant Enderby—do not watch the results of your work! It will be as was never meant for the eyes of men!”
IV
I came through the desert towards Dylath-Leen at dusk, when the desert grasses made spiky silhouettes atop the dunes and the last kites circled high, their shrill cries telling of night’s stealthy approach. Night was indeed coming, striding across dreamland in lengthening shadows which befriended and hid me as I tethered my yak and made for the western point of the bay. I would start there; making my way from shadow to shadow, with the wall-building chant of Naach-Tith on my lips, to the opposite side of the bay; and then I would see about crossing the water back to my starting point.
I was glad that the moon was thinly horned, glad the desert was not more brightly illumined, for I could not be sure that there were no sentries out from the unquiet city. Whatever joys Dylath-Leen may once have held for me, now the place was unquiet. No normal lights shone in its streets and squares, but, as night came more quickly, there soon sprang up many thousands of tiny points of evil red, and in one certain area a great morbidly red blotch glowed in strange reminiscence of Jupiter’s huge eye-like spot, glimpsed often in my youth through a friend’s telescope. Empty though the city now was of all normal life, that poisoned jewel in the main square still filled the town with its loathsomeness, a terror ignored by the abnormal traders as the statues of past heroes are ignored in saner places.
Half way round the city’s perimeter there came to my ears the strains of music—if such evilly soul-disturbing sounds warrant placing in any such category—and leaping fires sprang up in Dylath-Leen’s outer streets, so that I could see and shudder at the horned figures that leapt and cavorted round those ritual hell-fires, observing the way their squat bodies jerked and shook to the jarring cacophony of bone-dry crotala and strangled flutes. I could neither bear to hear nor watch, so I passed quickly on, chanting breathlessly to myself and feeling about me a weird magic building up to a thrill of unseen energies in the night air.
I was more than three-quarters towards the eastern side of the bay when I heard behind me a distant sound that stiffened the short hairs on the back of my neck and brought a chill sweat to my brow. It was the terrified cry of my yak, and following that single shrill scream of animal fear there came another sound—one which caused me to quicken my pace almost to a run as I emerged from the dunes to the washed pebbles of the shore—the horrid, ululant cry of alarm of the horned ones!
Stranded on the beach was a small one-man craft as used of old by the octopus fishers of Dylath-Leen. Frail and unsafe though it looked, beggars cannot be choosers, and thus thinking I leapt within its tar-planked shell and found the round-bladed paddle. Still chanting those mad words of Atal’s deciphering I paddled strongly for the black outline of the far side of the bay, and ungainly though my craft had at first looked it fairly cleft the dark water as I drove furiously at the paddle. By now there were squattish outlines on the shore behind me, dancing in anger at my escape to the sea, and I wondered if the horned ones had a means of communication with which more orthodox creatures—such as men!—were unfamiliar. If so, then perhaps I would find monstro
us welcomers awaiting my beaching on the western point!
Half-way across the bay things happened to make me forget the problem of what might wait for me on landing. I felt a tug at my paddle from the oily water and a dark mass rose up out of the depths before my boat. I screamed then, as the thin moonlight lit on the sharp teeth of that unknown swimmer, and lashed out with my paddle as it came alongside, taking a deep breath when it turned away and submerged. I continued then with my frenzied paddling and chanting until the western point loomed out of the dark and the shallow keel of my boat bit sand. As I leapt overboard into the night-chill water I imagined soggy gropings at my legs and ploughed in an agony of terror for the pebbles of the beach—
—And in that same instant, as I touched dry land, there loped out of the dark from the direction of the city the squat forms of a dozen or so of those foul, horned creatures whose brothers dwell in nighted Leng! Before they could reach me, even as their poisonous paws stretched out for me, I raced across my starting point and there came a clap of magical thunder that flung me down face first into the sand. I leapt up again, to my feet, and there within arm’s length, clawing at an unseen barrier—the Wall of Naach-Tith—were those thwarted horned ones of elder dreams. Hateful their looks and murderous their strangled intent as they clawed with vile purpose at thin air, held back by the invisible spell of Naach-Tith’s barrier.
Without pause I snatched out the second of those papers given me by Atal and commenced the invocation of the Fly-the-Light, the spell to draw forth the horror from the ruby! As the first of those weird syllables passed my lips the horned ones fell back, unbelievable terror twisting their already awful features…