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Published in King Kull, 1967. (Fragment/unfinished draft completed by Lin Carter and titled “Black Abyss” when first published.)
The cold eyes of Kull, king of Valusia, clouded with perplexity as they rested on the man who had so abruptly entered the royal presence and who now stood before the king, trembling with passion. Kull sighed; he knew the barbarians who served him, for was not he himself an Atlantean by birth? Brule, the Spear-slayer, bursting rudely into the king’s chamber, had torn from his harness every emblem given him by Valusia and now stood bare of any sign to show that he was allied to the empire. And Kull knew the meaning of this gesture.
“Kull!” barked the Pict, pale with fury. “I will have justice!”
Again Kull sighed. There were times when peace and quiet were things to be desired and in Kamula he thought he had found them. Dreamy Kamula—even as he waited for the raging Pict to continue his tirade, Kull’s thoughts drifted away and back along the lazy, dreamy days that had passed since his coming to this mountain city, this metropolis of pleasure, whose marble and lapis-lazuli palaces were built, tier upon gleaming tier, about the dome-shaped hill that formed the city’s center.
“My people have been allies of the empire for a thousand years!” the Pict made a swift, passionate gesture with his clenched fist. “Now, is it that one of my warriors can be snatched from under my nose in the very palace of the king?”
Kull straightened with a start.
“What madness is this? What warrior? Who seized him?”
“That’s for you to discover,” growled the Pict. “One moment he was there, lounging against a marble column—the next—zut! He was gone with only a foul stench and a frightful scream for clue.”
“Perhaps a jealous husband—” mused Kull.
Brule broke in rudely; “Grogar never looked at any women—even of his own race. These Kamulians hate we Picts. I have read it in their looks.”
Kull smiled. “You dream, Brule; these people are too indolent and pleasure-loving to hate anyone. They love, they sing, they compose lyrics—I suppose you think Grogar was snatched away by the poet Taligaro, or the singing woman Zareta, or prince Mandara?”
“I care not!” snarled Brule. “But I tell you this, Kull, Grogar has spilt his blood like water for the empire, and he is my best chief of mounted bowmen. I will find him, alive or dead, if I have to tear Kamula apart, stone by stone! By Valka, I will feed this city to the flames and quench the flames in blood—”
Kull had risen from his chair.
“Take me to the place you last saw Grogar,” he said, and Brule ceased his tirade and led the way sullenly. They passed out of the chamber through an inner door and proceeded down a winding corridor, side by side, as different in appearance as two men could well be, yet alike in the litheness of movement, the keenness of eye, the intangible wildness that proclaimed the barbarian.
Kull was tall, broad-shouldered and deep-chested—massive yet lithe. His face was brown from sun and wind, his square-cut black hair like a lion’s mane, his gray eyes cold as a sword gleaming through fathoms of ice.
Brule was typical of his race—of medium height, built with the savage economy of a panther, and of skin much darker than the kings.
“We were in the Jeweled Room,” grunted the Pict, “Grogar, Manaro and I. Grogar was leaning against a half-column set into the wall when he shifted his weight full against the wall—and vanished before our eyes! A panel swung inward and he was gone—and we had but a glimpse of black darkness within, and a loathsome scene flowed momentarily outward. But Manaro, standing beside Grogar, whipped out his sword in that instant and thrust the good blade into the opening, so the panel could not wholly close. We thrust against it, but it did not yield and I hastened after you, leaving Manaro holding his sword in the crack.”
“And why did you tear off your Valusian emblems?” asked Kull.
“I was angry,” growled the Spear-slayer sullenly, avoiding Kull’s eye. The king nodded without reply. It was the natural, unreasoning action of an infuriated savage, to whom no natural enemy appears to be slashed and rent.
They entered the Jeweled Room, the further wall of which was set into the natural stone of the hill on which Kamula was built.
“Manaro swore he heard a whisper as of music,” grunted Brule. “And there he leans with his ear at the crack. Hail—Manaro!”
Kull frowned as he saw the tall Valusian did not change his posture or give any heed to the hail. He did in truth lean against the panel, one hand gripping the sword which held the secret doorway apart, one ear glued to the thin crack. Kull noted the almost material darkness of that thin strip of blackness—it seemed to him that beyond that unknown opening, the darkness must lurk like a living, sentient thing.
He strode forward impatiently and clapped the soldier heavily on the shoulder. And Manaro rocked away from the wall and fell stiffly to lie at Kull’s feet with horror-glazed eyes staring blankly upward.
“Valka!” swore Brule. “He’s been stabbed—I was a fool to leave him here alone—”
The king shook his lion-like head. “There’s no blood on him—look at his face.” Brule looked and cursed. The dead Valusian’s features were set in a mask of horror—and the effect was distinctly one of listening.
Kull cautiously approached the crack in the wall and then beckoned Brule. From somewhere beyond that mysterious portal sounded a thin, wailing sound as of a ghostly piping. It was so dim as to barely be heard, but it held in its music all the hate and venom of a thousand demons. Kull shrugged his giant shoulders.