Description:

Classic Lovecraftian horror from one of the masters of the form, British Fantasy Award-winner Brian Lumley.

Tarra Khash is a Hrossak, a barbarian from the steppes beyond the River Luhr. A fearless adventurer, Tarra roves Theem-hdra in search of his next fortune, his next drink, and warm, willing females to share his bed. The Hrossak is a most fortunate man, for he has faced more than one god during his travels, and so far escaped unscathed . . . .

Seeking to avenge the murder of a beautiful young woman of the half-mystical Suhm-yi, Tarra joins forces with her husband, now the last of his kind. Each worships a moon-god, and together, their faith and Tarra's weapons wreak a terrible vengeance on those who stole the treasure of the Suhm-yi and destroyed that noble race.

Eager for wealth, Tarra is trapped by a wily old man who has lured him into plumbing the depths of a treasure-filled cavern guarded by golden statues of the Great God Cthulhu. Cthulhu's treasure is not easily plundered, and Tarra nearly loses his life to the monstrous forces of the Elder God.

Many men have met the lamia Orbiquita, but none have lived to tell of her extraordinary powers of love-making—until Tarra Khash, who treats her as a woman wants to be treated and so earns her forgiveness and his life. Alas, others who assume her to be weakened by love for Tarra Khash are not so lucky!

At the Publisher's request, this title is being sold without Digital Rights Management Software (DRM) applied.

Review

"Lumley deserves a wide audience among those who love Anne Rice . . . John Grisham . . . and Stephen King."-- VOYA

"Since reading Lumley's "Necroscope" series, I know that vampires really do exist!"--H. R. Giger

"Lumley excels at depicting heroes larger than life and horrors worse than death."
-- Publishers Weekly

"Lumley is obviously very bright, articulate, and in possession of an incredibly wild imagination."-- Rapport

"Lumley uses language deftly to conjure his alien universe."-- Publishers Weekly

"I'm impressed with Lumley's talent. He's obviously one of the best writers in the field."--John Farris

"An accomplished wordsmith, Lumley wields a pen with the deft skill of a surgeon, drawing just enough blood to titillate without offending his readers."-- The Phoenix Gazette

"Lumley's strength is in his jovial voice, a diction that dominates the narrative. Lumley's love of his pulp-horror subjects is gleefully apparent. He revels in every telling detail, in stories-within-stories and convoluted histories."-- San Francisco Chronicle

"Whether humorous or atmospheric and chilling, Lumley's tales are delightful."-- Booklist

"For fans of Brian Lumley and anyone who enjoys Lovecraft. Well written, displaying Lumley's skill at world building."-- Midwest Book Review on Harry Keogh: Necroscope and Other Weird Heroes

"A faithful tribute by veteran fantasist Lumley to horror author H.P. Lovecraft. A good addition to most libraries' horror collections and a title with special appeal to fans of the Cthulhu mythos."-- Library Journal on Beneath the Moors and Darker Places

"Nightmarish in a manner obviously inspired by Lovecraft . . . long hard to find in the US. Lumley succeeds at spine-chilling creepiness. Juicy indeed--worthy additions to the mythos and the horror genre alike."-- Booklist on Beneath the Moors a...

From Publishers Weekly

British Fantasy Award–winner Lumley pays homage to Robert E. Howard's Conan in the six fantasy tales of his second Primal Land collection (after 2005's The House of Cthulhu ). Barbarian Tarra Khash wanders the world of Theem'hdra, an island continent, where he more than holds his own against sorcerers, lamias and cutthroat thieves. In the opener, "Treasure of the Scarlet Scorpion," Tarra carries a stash of rubies from the scorpion god. From long exposure, Tarra is immune to the creature's sting; not so his doomed jailer, Nud Annoxin, when the god comes to call. In contrast to this baldly told tale is the poignant "Told in the Desert," in which an entire race faces a tragic end. These entertaining, unpretentious stories in the pulp tradition show Lumley at his relaxed best. (Apr.)
Copyright © Reed Business Information, a division of Reed Elsevier Inc. All rights reserved. --This text refers to an alternate kindle_edition edition.

About the Author

Brian Lumley is the author of the bestselling Necroscope series of vampire novels. The first Necroscope , Harry Keogh, also appears in a collection of Lumley's short fiction, Harry Keogh and Other Weird Heroes , along Titus Crow and Henri Laurent de Marigny, from Titus Crow, Volumes One, Two, and Three , and David Hero and Eldin the Wanderer , from the Dreamlands series.

An acknowledged master of Lovecraft-style horror, Brian Lumley has won the British Fantasy Award and been named a Grand Master of Horror. His works have been published in more than a dozen countries and have inspired comic books, role-playing games, and sculpture, and been adapted for television.

When not writing, Lumley can often be found spear-fishing in the Greek islands, gambling in Las Vegas, or attending a convention somewhere in the US. Lumley and his wife live in England.
--This text refers to an alternate kindle_edition edition.

Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.

Chapter One
In the coastal, tropical forests east of Thinhla, lost amid creeper-cursed and vine-entwined ruins of an ancient city--where orchids took root in crumbling courtyards and shifty-eyed chameleons swayed atop the slumping piles of primal ziggurats--there lay the toppled temple of Ahorra Izz, the scorpion-god, whose stone steps went down to caverns of forbidden treasure beyond all dreams of human avarice. Guarded to east and west by twin rivers no man had ever named, whose steamy banks crept with crocodiles and whose waters teemed with tiny, terrible flesh-eating fishes--and by jungles of hybrid vegetation voracious beyond any appeasement, whose spines and suckers were armed with potent poisons--the place would seem unassailable and the treasure of Ahorra Izz entirely safe from all outsiders . . . And yet--

At least one man had been there, had filled his pockets to brimming with brilliant red gems, and had survived to tell of that hellish hothouse of rotting ruins and vampire vegetation--but only at the expense of his freedom . . .

It was four long years now since Tarra Khash the Hrossak had stumbled half-dead into Thinhla. So thin as to be almost fleshless, full of a delirious fever, in his semiconscious nightmare he had gibbered and moaned of the treasure of the scarlet scorpion. And yet he was lucky, for if the scum of the city had found him in that condition--if his staggering feet had taken him into the city's stews or fleabitten flophouses--then Tarra Khash would certainly have vanished; swiftly and silently removed, food for the great fishes that follow the galleys and split the water dorsally in Thinhla's harbour. As it was, he collapsed outside the walled courtyard of a convent, where dwelled seventeen sweet sisters of mercy whose devotions were to Theem'hdra's benevolent gods and goddesses. And there they found him in the dawn: life all but ebbed from him, a scarlet fortune bursting from his pockets like clots of blood frozen in some cold and alien hell.

For three months they tended and nursed him, returning him to life and flushing from his system poisons which would surely have killed a lesser man; and as the fever went out of him so his strength flowed back, and soon he was able to frown and question and ask for his treasure, that scarlet wealth of rubies wherewith his pockets had been stuffed. And all of this time his presence in the convent remained a secret; because the sisters were what they were, no one questioned the fact that they now paid for certain of their provisions with tiny red rubies. No one, that is, except Nud Annoxin, Thinhla's fattest, richest and most loathsome jewel-merchant.

Such was Nud Annoxin's interest that he set a spy to watch over the convent day and night; and when at long last Tarra Khash took his leave of the place and found himself a proper lodge in the city, then the secret watcher reported that occurrence to his fat and offensive master. Also the fact that Tarra Khash appeared to pay his way with rubies of a rare and flawless beauty . . .

Now the Hrossak was not a subtle man; little more than a barbarian, as were all the men of the steppes beyond the River Luhr, he was big, blunt, occasionally brutal, but above all, open as a book with its covers laid back. Another man endowed with Tarra's wealth might have tried to keep his secret hid, might have purchased a large property and employed hirelings to guard him and hoard both. But Hrossaks believed in living and few men of the steppes would willingly pen themselves, to which general rule Tarra was no exception. Now that his health was returned to him he began to live as he had lived before, and life to Tarra Khash could only be poured from a bottle, gnawed from a juicy bone, or found in the purple-sheeted bed of a bawdy-house belle. Which was why he was the perfect subject for the wiles of one such as Nud Annoxin . . .

Waking up late one hot morning, in his tavern bed above the waterfront, Tarra stuck his tousled head out of his high, small-paned window, smelled nets drying in the sun and the salt breeze off the Southern Ocean, and licked lips dehydrated by yestereve's alcoholic excesses. He remembered entertaining thoughts of a woman, and then of drinking to the idea until it became untenable, and finally of staggering back here under a reeling moon to climb corkscrew stairs to his horribly revolving bed. Now he laughed at such memories, then quickly groaned at the dull ache his laughter conjured up from the ghosts of his boozing.

Food, that was the answer! The Hrossak cursed himself for a fool. All of that drinking on an empty stomach. Well, he could remedy that: not the hangover but the emptiness, at least. A hearty breakfast would do the trick, washed down with a draught or three of good ale. Tarra grinned as he dressed and thought back on his life; but as his thoughts took form so his grin faded, and he grew remarkably philosophical for a Hrossak. There once was a time when he would drink for the hell of it, but since leaving the convent he seemed to drink only to forget . . . to forget the horrors he had known in the temple of Ahorra Izz!

And yet even now he could not be sure whether it had been real, or whether he had dreamed it all. He had certainly not dreamed the treasure of the nether-caverns; no, for the pockets of his wide belt were even now full of perfect rubies large and small; but what of the rest of it? Tarra Khash shuddered as he sat down on his bed to roll up the sleeves of his shirt and the wide-cuffed bell-bottoms of his trousers, to peer yet again at the dozens of tiny white scars which marred the bronze tan of his calves and forearms . . . And suddenly his hunger abated somewhat as a renewed desire for strong liquor rose up in him like a tide.

Now naïve as the Hrossak was, he was not so dumb as to dwell on the seamy side of Thinhla without taking certain precautions--not while he was master of so much wealth. Eventually he intended to board a ship bound for Grypha, make his way up the Luhr and so back to the steppes; but for now he was satisfied to recuperate in his own way, to convalesce in a manner befitting his near-barbarian status, and Thinhla had more than enough amusements and diversions for a man of the Steppes of Hrossa.

As for his precautions: they were simple enough. This garret room, for instance: unassailable from the outside, it looked down precipitously upon the wharves. And its stout oaken door, double-barred and bolted--with a padlock whose single heavy key Tarra wore around his neck--would admit no one he wanted kept out. And so, no matter how drunk, he felt perfectly safe to sleep here; and awake--why!--who in his right mind would tackle a grinning Hrossak with arms like a bear and a wicked sabre sharp as a well-honed scythe?

As he left the tavern and made his way into the backstreet away from the wharves, Tarra came around a corner and bumped (by accident, apparently) into a fat, jolly-looking man who caught hold of his brawny arms to steady himself. This was Nud Annoxin--wearing a very false aspect--who had made a covert study of Tarra's habits and quite deliberately chosen this morning to place himself in the Hrossak's way. Now the fat man unhanded Tarra and bowed, as best his belly would allow, before introducing himself.

"Nud Annoxin," he informed, holding out a pudgy hand. "My pardon, sir, for almost tripping you; but dreaming of a hearty breakfast and a gallon of ale, I was not watching my way. I've just returned from a profitable business trip in the hinterland--but a dry affair and almost completely void of victuals--and now I hie me to my favourite eatery. You're a steppeman, I see. Perhaps you have an appetite?"

"Aye," Tarra grunted, "I'm a Hrossak--and a hunger on me, certainly--and something of a thirst to boot!"

"Then say no more," said Nud with a nudge and a wink. "Come, be my guest. I dwell not far from here; and no finer wine cellar in all Thinhla." And he took Tarra Khash by the elbow.

The Hrossak shook himself free and looked momentarily suspicious. "Your favourite eatery, you said."

"Most certainly!" cried Nud, standing back. "My own house, I meant, whose kitchen is that of a veritable king of gourmets!" He patted his stomach. "Can't you tell? But come, will you be my guest? And after we've eaten, perhaps my dancing girls may entertain . . . ?"

That last did the trick, for now the jewel-merchant had offered all three ingredients in the Hrossak's ideal brew of life. Tarra grinned and slapped Nud's meaty back, which made all of his flesh tremble like so much jelly, then bade him lead the way and gladly followed on behind.

Four long years gone by, but the Hrossak remembered every detail of that first meeting as if it were yesterday. More clearly, in fact, for there had been precious little in between to dilute or dim the memory. Only this deep damp well of a cell and his nightly, self-imposed task of cutting hand- and footholds in its walls, which were too far round in the circle to climb as a chimney.

And yet Nud Annoxin had delivered all he promised--much more, to tell the truth. There had been food all through the fore and afternoon, and drink by the flagon--a deluge of drink--until Tarra's head swam in it like a fish in blinding, bubbly, sparkling shallows. And dancing girls (Annoxin's "daughters," the fat liar said, though Tarra had doubted it) and more food and wine. And Nud had grown merrier (or had seemed to), telling the story of his life to Tarra Khash; and oh!--they had become fast friends.

Until Tarra too told his tale: the story of how, wandering east of Grypha, he had paused to cast a line in the Bay of Monsters; and of the large fish he caught, and the greater Roc-bird that caught him and fish both; of the journey westward clutched in terrible, rib-cracking talons, until the Roc's nest of five hunger-crazed chicks big as lions was sighted atop... --This text refers to an alternate kindle_edition edition.

Classic Lovecraftian horror from one of the masters of the form, British Fantasy Award-winner Brian Lumley. Tarra Khash is a Hrossak, a barbarian from the steppes beyond the River Luhr. A fearless adventurer, Tarra roves Theem-hdra in search of his next fortune, his next drink, and warm, willing females to share his bed. The Hrossak is a most fortunate man, for he has faced more than one god during his travels, and so far escaped unscathed . . . .Seeking to avenge the murder of a beautiful young woman of the half-mystical Suhm-yi, Tarra joins forces with her husband, now the last of his kind. Each worships a moon-god, and together, their faith and Tarra's weapons wreak a terrible vengeance on those who stole the treasure of the Suhm-yi and destroyed that noble race. Eager for wealth, Tarra is trapped by a wily old man who has lured him into plumbing the depths of a treasure-filled cavern guarded by golden statues of the Great God Cthulhu. Cthulhu's treasure is not easily plundered, and Tarra nearly loses his life to the monstrous forces of the Elder God. Many men have met the lamia Orbiquita, but none have lived to tell of her extraordinary powers of love-making—until Tarra Khash, who treats her as a woman wants to be treated and so earns her forgiveness and his life. Alas, others who assume her to be weakened by love for Tarra Khash are not so lucky! At the Publisher's request, this title is being sold without Digital Rights Management Software (DRM) applied.