Free Iced On Aran by Brian Lumley Page A

attempting to climb the gray peaks. Did you know that gaunts can be trained?”
    â€œI know a youth who trains gaunts, aye,” Hero answered. “He has a power over them.”
    â€œOthers have powers, too.” Augeren sobbed again.
    Hero found himself morbidly fascinated. “What do the gaunts do with the climbers they take?” he asked. “And what has that to do with you?”
    â€œCertain caverns in the gray peaks are gates to the underworld,” Augeren answered. “Do you believe me?”
    â€œI do,” said Hero. “Mount Ngranek on Oriab is likewise a gate to the underworld. Down there at the roots of dreamland lie the Vale of Pnoth, Zin’s vaults, black seas of pitch, great ruins without name, and many another nameless thing. I know, for I’ve been there.” He couldn’t suppress a shudder.
    Augeren was impressed. “And returned unscathed! Then you’re a quester born for sure! Alas, the quest for Augeren is your last. But tell me: are you still curious about me, or should I simply kill you now and have done? For sure as the dawn draws nigh I grow hungry, and I’d as soon be filled and sleeping through the day as sat here boring you.”
    The word “boring” got to Hero. “Curious?” he croaked. Somehow he managed to get his knees under him so that he kneeled, scratched his back against the rock wall behind him. “Never more so. Indeed I’m fascinated! So say on, Augeren. Except …”
    â€œYes?”

    â€œFirst tell me what happened to my friend. The burly fellow? He’s a quester like myself, you see, and I just wondered—”
    â€œThen stop wondering. He won’t be coming to save you.” Augeren’s many-faceted eye glittered. “He’s dead, your friend. Fell into my trap in the dark. A great pit …”
    Hero hung his head, felt grief, anguish fill him like a flood. He gritted his teeth, looked up. “And did you …” he choked, “did you—?”
    â€œNo,” Augeren shook his monstrous head. “Why should I climb down there to feed on him when there was the boy’s father—or you? I kill, and then I eat. But once a body is cold, then the marrow of the bones quickly— ah! ”
    For Hero had turned his face away, was silently cursing into the hollow of his own shoulder, biting on the collar of his jacket. And Augeren said: “But see, now you hate me as much as I hate you.”
    Hero controlled himself—a gigantic effort of will—and looked up again. He prayed that the tears in the corners of his eyes didn’t show, for he wouldn’t give this damned thing that much satisfaction, and said: “Please … please go on. The underworld. Men are taken there by gaunts. Why?”
    â€œNew blood,” Augeren answered at once. “A guarantee of continuity. They are placed where their unnatural lusts will best serve the denizens of the underworld. Especially the Lords of Luz.”
    â€œDenizens of the underworld? Monsters d’you mean? Gugs, ghouls and ghasts and such? I don’t understand. And just who are these Lords of Luz?”
    As Augeren took up the tale again, so Hero commenced sawing at the rope between his wrists, slowly, painfully working its fibers against a projecting edge of
the rock at his back: “Do you know what a dhole is?” the monster asked him. Saliva spurted from the corner of Augeren’s distorted mouth, driven out by his restlessly churning probe. “But of course you must know, for you’ve seen the Vale of Pnoth. Actually, I doubt if you have seen one, though perhaps you’ve been close. But to actually see a dhole is to die—usually. And yet I have hunted dholes and killed them! Not alone, of course, but as a member of the hunt. However, let that be for now …
    â€œWell, there are dholes in all of dreamland’s subterranean ossuaries. Wherever bones are