Worms of the Earth, Robert E. Howard [black authors fiction .TXT] 📗
- Author: Robert E. Howard
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affairs for many centuries, but They will keep their word.”
Bran nodded and turning, climbed up the stair with Atla close
behind him. At the top he turned and looked down once more. As far as
he could see floated a glittering ocean of slanted yellow eyes
upturned. But the owners of those eyes kept carefully beyond the dim
circle of torchlight and of their bodies he could see nothing. Their
low hissing speech floated up to him and he shuddered as his
imagination visualized, not a throng of biped creatures, but a
swarming, swaying myriad of serpents, gazing up at him with their
glittering unwinking eyes.
He swung into the upper cave and Atla thrust the blocking stone
back in place. It fitted into the entrance of the well with uncanny
precision; Bran was unable to discern any crack in the apparently
solid floor of the cavern. Atla made a motion to extinguish the torch,
but the king stayed her.
“Keep it so until we are out of the cave,” he grunted. “We might
tread on an adder in the dark.”
Atla’s sweetly hateful laughter rose maddeningly in the flickering
gloom.
It was not long before sunset when Bran came again to the reed-grown marge of Dagon’s Mere. Casting cloak and sword-belt on the
ground, he stripped himself of his short leathern breeches. Then
gripping his naked dirk in his teeth, he went into the water with the
smooth ease of a diving seal. Swimming strongly, he gained the center
of the small lake, and turning, drove himself downward.
The mere was deeper than he had thought. It seemed he would never
reach the bottom, and when he did, his groping hands failed to find
what he sought. A roaring in his ears warned him and he swam to the
surface.
Gulping deep of the refreshing air, he dived again, and again his
quest was fruitless. A third time he sought the depth, and this time
his groping hands met a familiar object in the silt of the bottom.
Grasping it, he swam up to the surface.
The Stone was not particularly bulky, but it was heavy. He swam
leisurely, and suddenly was aware of a curious stir in the waters
about him which was not caused by his own exertions. Thrusting his
face below the surface, he tried to pierce the blue depths with his
eyes and thought to see a dim gigantic shadow hovering there.
He swam faster, not frightened, but wary. His feet struck the
shallows and he waded up on the shelving shore. Looking back he saw
the waters swirl and subside. He shook his head, swearing. He had
discounted the ancient legend which made Dagon’s Mere the lair of a
nameless water-monster, but now he had a feeling as if his escape had
been narrow. The time-worn myths of the ancient land were taking form
and coming to life before his eyes. What primeval shape lurked below
the surface of that treacherous mere, Bran could not guess, but he
felt that the fenmen had good reason for shunning the spot, after all.
Bran donned his garments, mounted the black stallion and rode
across the fens in the desolate crimson of the sunset’s afterglow,
with the Black Stone wrapped in his cloak. He rode, not to his hut,
but to the west, in the direction of the Tower of Trajan and the Ring
of Dagon. As he covered the miles that lay between, the red stars
winked out. Midnight passed him in the moonless night and still Bran
rode on. His heart was hot for his meeting with Titus Sulla. Atla had
gloated over the anticipation of watching the Roman writhe under
torture, but no such thought was in the Pict’s mind. The governor
should have his chance with weapons—with Bran’s own sword he should
face the Pictish king’s dirk, and live or die according to his
prowess. And though Sulla was famed throughout the provinces as a
swordsman, Bran felt no doubt as to the outcome.
Dagon’s Ring lay some distance from the Tower—a sullen circle of
tall gaunt stones planted upright, with a rough-hewn stone altar in
the center. The Romans looked on these menhirs with aversion; they
thought the Druids had reared them; but the Celts supposed Bran’s
people, the Picts, had planted them—and Bran well knew what hands
reared those grim monoliths in lost ages, though for what reasons, he
but dimly guessed.
The king did not ride straight to the Ring. He was consumed with
curiosity as to how his grim allies intended carrying out their
promise. That They could snatch Titus Sulla from the very midst of his
men, he felt sure, and he believed he knew how They would do it. He
felt the gnawings of a strange misgiving, as if he had tampered with
powers of unknown breadth and depth, and had loosed forces which he
could not control. Each time he remembered that reptilian murmur,
those slanted eyes of the night before, a cold breath passed over him.
They had been abhorrent enough when his people drove Them into the
caverns under the hills, ages ago; what had long centuries of
retrogression made of them? In their nighted, subterranean life, had
They retained any of the attributes of humanity at all?
Some instinct prompted him to ride toward the Tower. He knew he
was near; but for the thick darkness he could have plainly seen its
stark outline tusking the horizon. Even now he should be able to make
it out dimly. An obscure, shuddersome premonition shook him and he
spurred the stallion into swift canter.
And suddenly Bran staggered in his saddle as from a physical
impact, so stunning was the surprize of what met his gaze. The
impregnable Tower of Trajan was no more! Bran’s astounded gaze rested
on a gigantic pile of ruins—of shattered stone and crumbled granite,
from which jutted the jagged and splintered ends of broken beams. At
one corner of the tumbled heap one tower rose out of the waste of
crumpled masonry, and it leaned drunkenly as if its foundations had
been half-cut away.
Bran dismounted and walked forward, dazed by bewilderment. The
moat was filled in places by fallen stones and broken pieces of
mortared wall. He crossed over and came among the ruins. Where, he
knew, only a few hours before the flags had resounded to the martial
tramp of iron-clad feet, and the walls had echoed to the clang of
shields and the blast of the loud-throated trumpets, a horrific
silence reigned.
Almost under Bran’s feet, a broken shape writhed and groaned. The
king bent down to the legionary who lay in a sticky red pool of his
own blood. A single glance showed the Pict that the man, horribly
crushed and shattered, was dying.
Lifting the bloody head, Bran placed his flask to the pulped lips
and the Roman instinctively drank deep, gulping through splintered
teeth. In the dim starlight Bran saw his glazed eyes roll.
“The walls fell,” muttered the dying man. “They crashed down like
the skies falling on the day of doom. Ah Jove, the skies rained shards
of granite and hailstones of marble!”
“I have felt no earthquake shock,” Bran scowled, puzzled.
“It was no earthquake,” muttered the Roman. “Before last dawn it
began, the faint dim scratching and clawing far below the earth. We of
the guard heard it—like rats burrowing, or like worms hollowing out
the earth. Titus laughed at us, but all day long we heard it. Then at
midnight the Tower quivered and seemed to settle—as if the
foundations were being dug away—”
A shudder shook Bran Mak Morn. The worms of the earth! Thousands
of vermin digging like moles far below the castle, burrowing away the
foundations—gods, the land must be honeycombed with tunnels and
caverns—these creatures were even less human than he had thought—
what ghastly shapes of darkness had he invoked to his aid?
“What of Titus Sulla?” he asked, again holding the flask to the
legionary’s lips; in that moment the dying Roman seemed to him almost
like a brother.
“Even as the Tower shuddered we heard a fearful scream from the
governor’s chamber,” muttered the soldier. “We rushed there—as we
broke down the door we heard his shrieks—they seemed to recede—into
the bowels of the earth! We rushed in; the chamber was empty. His
bloodstained sword lay on the floor; in the stone flags of the floor a
black hole gaped. Then—the—towers—reeled—the—roof—broke;—
through—a—storm—of—crashing—walls—I—crawled—”
A strong convulsion shook the broken figure.
“Lay me down, friend,” whispered the Roman. “I die.”
He had ceased to breathe before Bran could comply. The Pict rose,
mechanically cleansing his hands. He hastened from the spot, and as he
galloped over the darkened fens, the weight of the accursed Black
Stone under his cloak was as the weight of a foul nightmare on a
mortal breast.
As he approached the Ring, he saw an eery glow within, so that the
gaunt stones stood etched like the ribs of a skeleton in which a
witch-fire burns. The stallion snorted and reared as Bran tied him to
one of the menhirs. Carrying the Stone he strode into the grisly
circle and saw Atla standing beside the altar, one hand on her hip,
her sinuous body swaying in a serpentine manner. The altar glowed all
over with ghastly light and Bran knew someone, probably Atla, had
rubbed it with phosphorus from some dank swamp or quagmire.
He strode forward and whipping his cloak from about the Stone,
flung the accursed thing on to the altar.
“I have fulfilled my part of the contract,” he growled.
“And They, theirs,” she retorted. “Look!—They come!”
He wheeled, his hand instinctively dropping to his sword. Outside
the Ring the great stallion screamed savagely and reared against his
tether. The night wind moaned through the waving grass and an
abhorrent soft hissing mingled with it. Between the menhirs flowed a
dark tide of shadows, unstable and chaotic. The Ring filled with
glittering eyes which hovered beyond the dim illusive circle of
illumination cast by the phosphorescent altar. Somewhere in the
darkness a human voice tittered and gibbered idiotically. Bran
stiffened, the shadows of a horror clawing at his soul.
He strained his eyes, trying to make out the shapes of those who
ringed him. But he glimpsed only billowing masses of shadow which
heaved and writhed and squirmed with almost fluid consistency.
“Let them make good their bargain!” he exclaimed angrily.
“Then see, oh king!” cried Atla in a voice of piercing mockery.
There was a stir, a seething in the writhing shadows, and from the
darkness crept, like a four-legged animal, a human shape that fell
down and groveled at Bran’s feet and writhed and mowed, and lifting a
death’s-head, howled like a dying dog. In the ghastly light, Bran,
soul-shaken, saw the blank glassy eyes, the bloodless features, the
loose, writhing, froth-covered lips of sheer lunacy—gods, was this
Titus Sulla, the proud lord of life and death in Eboracum’s proud
city?
Bran bared his sword.
“I had thought to give this stroke in vengeance,” he said
somberly. “I give it in mercy—Vale Cosar!”
The steel flashed in the eery light and Sulla’s head rolled to the
foot of the glowing altar, where it lay staring up at the shadowed
sky.
“They harmed him not!” Atla’s hateful laugh slashed the sick
silence. “It was what he saw and came to know that broke his brain!
Like all his heavy-footed race, he knew nothing of the secrets of this
ancient land. This night he has been dragged through the deepest pits
of Hell, where even you might have blenched!”
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