by Brian Lumley
The author and publisher have provided this e-book to you without Digital Rights Management software (DRM) applied so that you can enjoy reading it on your personal devices. This e-book is for your personal use only. You may not print or post this e-book, or make this e-book publicly available in any way. You may not copy, reproduce or upload this e-book, other than to read it on one of your personal devices.
Copyright infringement is against the law. If you believe the copy of this e-book you are reading infringes on the author’s copyright, please notify the publisher at: us.macmillanusa.com/piracy.
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Notice
Epigraph
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Epilogue
TOR BOOKS BY BRIAN LUMLEY
Praise for Brian Lumley and the Necroscope® saga
Copyright Page
For Dave and Pete and all the blokes
I met at the House on the Borderland
in July 1986. Cheers!
Many and multiform are the dim horrors of Earth, infesting her ways from the prime. They sleep beneath the unturned stone; they rise with the tree from its root; they move beneath the sea and in subterranean places; they dwell in the inmost adyta; they emerge betimes from the shutten sepulchre of haughty bronze and the low grave that is sealed with clay. There be some that are long known to man, and others as yet unknown that abide the terrible latter days of their revealing. Those which are the most dreadful and the loathliest of all are haply still to be declared. But among those that have revealed themselves aforetime and have made manifest their veritable presence, there is one which may not openly be named for its exceeding foulness. It is that spawn which the hidden dweller in the vaults has begotten upon mortality …
CLARK ASHTON SMITH
(As by Abdul Alhazred)
They say foul beings of Old Times still lurk
In dark forgotten corners of the world,
And Gates still gape to loose, on certain nights,
Shapes pent in Hell …
ROBERT E. HOWARD
(As by Justin Geoffrey)
Chapter One
AFTERNOON OF THE FOURTH MONDAY IN JANUARY 1977; THE Chateau Bronnitsy off the Serpukhov road not far out of Moscow; 2:40 P.M. middle-European time, and a telephone in the temporary Investigation Control Room ringing … ringing … ringing.
The Chateau Bronnitsy stood central on open, peaty ground in the middle of a densely wooded tract now white under drifted snow. A house or mansion of debased heritage and mixed architectural antecedents, several recent wings were of modern brick on old stone foundations, while others were cheap breeze blocks camouflaged in grey and green paint. A once-courtyard in the “U” of polyglot wings was now roofed over, its roof painted to match the surrounding terrain. Bedded at their bases in massive, steeply gabled end walls, twin minarets raised broken bulbous domes high over the landscape, their boarded windows glooming like hooded eyes. In keeping with the generally run-down aspect of the rest of the place, the upper sections of these towers were derelict, decayed as rotten fangs. From the air, the Chateau would seem a gaunt old ruin. But it was hardly that, even though the towers were not the only things in a state of decay.
Outside the roofed courtyard stood a canopied ten-ton Army truck, the canvas flaps at its rear thrown back and its exhaust puffing acrid blue smoke into the frosty air. A KGB man, conspicuous in his “uniform” of felt hat and dark grey overcoat, stared in across the truck’s lowered tailgate at its contents and shuddered. Hands thrust deep in his pockets, he turned to a second man dressed in the white smock of a technician and grimaced. “Comrade Krakovitch,” he grunted, “what the hell are they? And what are they doing here?”
Felix Krakovitch glanced at him, shook his head, said, “You wouldn’t understand if I told you. And if you understood, you wouldn’t believe.” Like his ex-boss, Gregor Borowitz, Krakovitch considered all KGB low life-forms. He would keep information and assistance to the barest minimum—within certain limits of prudence and personal safety, of course. The KGB weren’t much for forgiving and forgetting.
The blocky Special Policeman shrugged, lit a stubby brown cigarette and drew deeply on its cardboard tube. “Try me anyway,” he said. ‘It’s cold here but I am warm enough. See, when I go to report to Comrade Andropov—and I am sure I need not remind you of his Politburo status—he will want some answers, which is why I want answers from you. So we will stand out here until—”
“Zombies!” said Krakovitch abruptly. “Mummies! Men dead for four hundred years. You can tell that from their weapons, and—” For the first time he heard the insistent ringing of the telephone, turned towards the door in the corrugated iron façade of the covered courtyard.
“Where are you going?” The KGB man came alive, took his hands out of his pockets. “Do you expect me to tell Yuri Andropov that the—the mayhem—here was done by dead men?” He almost choked on the last two words, coughed long and loud, finally spat on the snow.
“Stand there long enough,” Krakovitch said over his shoulder, “in those exhaust fumes, smoking that shredded rope, and you might as well climb in the truck with them!” He stepped through the door, let it slam shut behind him.
“Zombies?” The agent wrinkled his nose, looked again at the truckload of cadavers.
He couldn’t know it but they were Crimean Tartars, butchered en masse in 1579 by Russian reinforcements hastening to a ravaged Moscow. They had died and gone down in blood and mire and bog, to lie part-preserved in the peat of a low-lying field—and to come up again two nights ago to wage war on the Chateau! They had won that war, the Tartars and their young English leader, Harry Keogh, for after the fighting only five of the Chateau’s defenders still lived. Krakovitch was one of them. Five out of thirty-three, and the only enemy casualty Harry Keogh himself. Amazing odds, unless one counted the Tartars. But one could hardly count them, for they had been dead before it started …
These were Krakovitch’s thoughts as he entered what long ago had been a cobbled courtyard—now a large area of plastic-tiled floor, partitioned into airy conservatories, small apartments and laboratories—where E-Branch operatives had studied and practised their esoteric talents in comparative comfort, or whatever condition or environment best suited their work. Forty-eight hours ago the place had been immaculate; now it was a shambles, where bullet-holes patterned the partition walls and the effects of blast and fire could be seen on every hand. It was a wonder the place hadn’t been burned to the ground, completely gutted.
In a mainly cleared area—the so-called Investigation Control Room—a table had been erected and supported the ringing telephone. Krakovitch made his way towards it, pausing to drag aside a large piece of utility wall which partly blocked his path. Underneath, lying half-buried in crumbled plaster, broken glass and the crushed remains of a wooden chair, a human arm and hand lay like a huge grey salted slug. Its flesh was shrivelled, the colour of leather, and the bone where it projected in a knob at the shoulder was shiny white. It was almost a fossil. There’d be many more fragments such as this yet to be discovered, scattered throughout the Chateau, but apart from their repulsive looks they’d be harmless—now. Not so on the night of the horror. Krakovitch had seen portions like this one, without heads or brains to guide them, crawling, fighting, killing!
He shuddered, moved the arm aside with his foot, went to the telephone. “Hello, Krakovitch?”
“Who?” the unknown caller snapped back. “Krakovitch? Are you in charge there?” It was a female voice, very efficient.
“I suppose I am, yes,” Krakovitch answered. “What can I do for you?”
“For me, nothing. For the Party Leader, only he can say. He’s been trying to contact you for the last five minutes!”
Krakovitch was tired. He hadn’t slept since the nightmare, doubted if he’d ever sleep again. He and the other four survivors, one of them a raving madman, had only come out of the security vault on Sunday morning, when the air was finished. Since then the others had made their statements, been sent home. The Chateau Bronnitsy was a High Security Establishment, so their stories wouldn’t be for general consumption. In fact Krakovitch—being the only genuinely coherent member of the survivors—had demanded that the case in toto be sent direct to Leonid Brezhnev. That was Standing Orders anyway: Brezhnev was the top man, personally and directly responsible for E-Branch, despite the fact that he’d left all of it to Gregor Borowitz. But the branch had been important to the Party Leader, and he’d seen everything that came out of it (or at least anything of any importance). Also, Borowitz must have told him quite a bit about the branch’s paranormal work—literally ESPionage—so that Brezhnev should be at least part-qualified to pass judgement on what had happened here. Or so Krakovitch hoped. In any case, it had to be better than trying to explain it to Yuri Andropov!
“Krakovitch?” the phone barked at him. (Was this really the Party Leader?)
“Er, yes, sir, Felix Krakovitch. I was on Comrade Borowitz’s staff.”
“Felix? Why tell me your first name? You expect me to call you by your first name?” The voice had a hard edge, but it also sounded like its owner was eating something mushy. Krakovitch had heard several of Brezhnev’s infrequent speeches; this could only be him.
“I … no, of course not, Comrade Party Leader.” (How the hell did one address him?) “But I—”
“Listen, are you in charge there?”
“Yes, er, Comrade Party—”
“Forget all that stuff,” Brezhnev rasped. “I don’t need reminding who I am, just answers. Is there no one left who is senior to you?”
“No.”
“Anyone who’s your equal?”
“Four of them, but one’s a madman.”
“Eh?”
“He went mad when … when it happened.”
There was a pause; then, the voice went on, a little less harshly: “Do you know Borowitz is dead?”
“Yes. A neighbour found him in his dacha at Zhukovka. The neighbour was ex-KGB and got in touch with Comrade Andropov, who sent a man here. He’s here now.”
“I know another name,” Brezhnev’s thick, gurgling voice continued. “Boris Dragosani. What of him?”
“Dead,” and before Krakovitch could check his tongue, “thank God!”
“Eh? You’re glad one of your comrades is dead?”
“I … yes, I’m glad.” Krakovitch was too tired to answer in any way but truthfully, straight from the heart. “I think he was probably part of it; at least, I believe he brought it down on us. His body is still here. Also the bodies of our other dead—and that of Harry Keogh, a British agent, we think. And also—”
“The Tartars?” Brezhnev was quiet now.
Krakovitch sighed. The man wasn’t a slave to convention after all. “Yes, but no longer … animate,” he answered.
Another pause. “Krakovitch—er, Felix, did you say? —I’ve read the statements of the other three. Are they true? No chance of an error, mass hypnotism or delusion or something? Was it really as bad as that?”
“They are true—no chance of an error—it was as bad as that.”
“Felix, listen. Take over there. I mean you, take over. I don’t want E-Branch shut down. It has been more than beneficial to our security. And Borowitz was more valuable to me personally than many of my generals would ever believe. So I want the branch rebuilt. And it looks like you’ve got the job.”
Krakovitch felt like a swatted fly: knocked off his feet, lost for words. “I … Comrade … I mean—”
“Can you do it?”
Krakovitch wasn’t crazy. It was the chance of a lifetime. “It will take years—but yes, I’ll try to do it.”
“Good! But if you take it on, you’ll have to do more than just try, Felix. Let me know what you need and I’ll see you get it. The first thing I want is answers. But I’m the only one who gets those answers, you understand? This one has to be screwed down. It mustn’t leak. And that reminds me—did you say there was someone from the KGB with you right now?”
“He’s outside, in the grounds.”
“Get him,” Brezhnev’s voice was harsh again. “Bring him to the phone. Let me speak to him at once!”
Krakovitch started back across the floor, but at that moment the door opened to admit the man in question. He squared his shoulders, looked at Krakovitch in a surly, narrow-eyed manner, said, “We haven’t finished, Comrade.”
“I’m afraid we have,” Krakovitch felt shored up, buoyant as a cork. It must be his fatigue beginning to work on him. “There’s someone on the phone for you.”
“Eh? For me?” The other pushed by him. “Who is it, someone from the office?”
“Not sure,” Krakovitch lied. “Head office, I think.”
The KGB man frowned at him, scowled, snatched up the phone from the table. “Yanov here. What is it? I’m busy down here, and—”
His face immediately underwent rapid changes of expression and colour. He jerked visibly and almost staggered. Only the phone seemed to be holding him up. “Yessir! Oh, yes, sir. Yes, sir! Yes, yessir! No, sir. I will, sir. Yes, sir. But I—no, sir. Yessir!” He looked sick, held out the phone for Krakovitch, glad to be rid of it.
As Krakovitch took the instrument from him, the agent hissed viciously: “Fool! That’s the Party Leader!”
Krakovitch let his eyes go big and round, made an “O” with his mouth. Then he said casually into the mouthpiece, “Krakovitch here,” and at once held the phone towards the KGB man, let him hear Brezhnev’s voice:
“Felix? Has that prick gone yet?”
It was the Special Policeman’s turn to make an “O.”
“He’s going now,” Krakovitch answered. He nodded sharply towards the door. “Out! And do try to remember what the Party Leader told you. For your own good.”
The KGB operative shook his head dazedly, licked his lips, headed for the door. He was still white-faced. At the door he turned, thrust his chin out. “I—” he began.
“Goodbye, comrade,” Krakovitch dismissed him. “Now he’s gone,” he finally confirmed, after the door had slammed shut.
“Good! I don’t want them interfering. They didn’t fool about with Gregor, and I don’t want them fooling with you. Any problems from them and you get straight back to me!”
“Yes, sir.”
“Now, here’s what I want … But first, tell me—have the branch records survived?”
“Almost everything’s intact, except for our agents. There’s damage, a lot. But records, installations, the Chateau itself—in decent order, I think. Manpower’s a different story. I’ll tell you what we have left. There’s myself and three other survivors, six more on holiday in various parts, three fairly good telepaths on permanent duty in connection with the British, American and French embassies, and another four or five field agents out in the world. With twenty-eight dead, we’ve lost almost two-thirds of our staff. Most of the best men are gone.”
“Yes, yes,” Brezhnev was impatient. “Manpower is important, that’s why I asked about records. Recruitment! That’s your first task. It will take a long time, I know, but get on it. Old Gregor once told me that you have special sorts who can spot others with the talent, right?”
“I’ve still got one good spotter, yes,” Krakovitch answered, giving an unconscious
nod. “I’ll start using him at once. And I’ll commence studying Comrade Borowitz’s records, of course.”
“Good! Now then, see how quickly you can get that place cleaned up. Those Tartar corpses: burn ’em! And don’t let anyone see them. I don’t care how that’s done, but do it. Then put in a comprehensive works chit for repairs on the Chateau. I’ll have it actioned at once. In fact, I’ll have a man here, on this number or another number he’ll give you, who you can contact at any time for anything. That’s from right now, You’ll keep him informed and he’ll keep me informed. He’ll be your only boss, except he’ll deny you nothing. See how highly I prize you, Felix? Right, that should get things started. As for the rest: Felix Krakovitch, I want to know how this happened! Are they that far ahead, the British, the Americans, the Chinese? I mean, how could one man, this Harry Keogh, do so much damage?”
“Comrade,” Krakovitch answered, “you mentioned Boris Dragosani. I once watched him work. He was a necromancer. He sniffed out the secrets of dead men. I’ve seem him do things to corpses that gave me nightmares for months! You ask how Harry Keogh could do so much damage? From what little I’ve so far been able to discover, it seems he was capable of almost anything. Telepathy, teleportation, even Dragosani’s own necromancy. He was their best. But I think Keogh was many steps ahead of Dragosani. It’s one thing to torture dead men and drain their secrets from their blood and brains and guts, but it’s quite another to call them up out of their graves and make them fight for you!”
“Teleportation?” For a moment the Party Leader was thoughtful, then came on impatient: “You know, the more I hear the less I’m inclined to believe. I wouldn’t believe, except I saw Borowitz’s results. And how else am I to explain a couple of hundred Tartar corpses, eh? But right now … I’ve spent enough time with you on this. I have other things to do. In five more minutes I’ll have your go-between on this line. Think about it and tell him what you want done, anything you need. If he can come up with something he will. He’s had this kind of assignment before. Well, not exactly this kind! One last thing …”