Necroscope II: Wamphyri! n-2

by Brian Lumley

  I knew then that I couldn’t beat him, not unarmed, and I cast all about in the eerie twilight for a weapon. And found several.

  Suspended from the high rear battlements, a row of circular bronze mirrors hung at different angles, two or three of them just catching the last faint rays of sunlight and reflecting them away down the valley. The Ferenczy’s signalling devices. Arvos the gypsy had said that the old Ferengi didn’t have much use for mirrors, or for sunlight. I wasn’t exactly sure what he’d meant, but I seemed to remember something of the sort from old campfire legends. In any case I didn’t have a lot of choice. If Faethor was vulnerable, then there was only one sure way to find out.

  Before he could close with me, and avoiding places where the timbers seemed suspect, I ran across the roof. He came after me like a great loping wolf, but pulled up short when I tore down a mirror from its fastenings and turned to face him. His yellow eyes went very wide and he bared bloodied teeth at me like rows of shattered spires. He hissed and his forked tongue flickered like crimson lightning between his jaws.

  I held the ‘mirror’ in my hands and knew at once what it was: a sturdy bronze shield, possibly old Varyagi. It had a grip at the back for my hand. Aye, and I knew how to use it — but if only it were spiked in the centre of its face! Then, unwitting, the burnished bronze caught a stray ray from the scythe of sun setting on the hills — caught it and hurled it straight into Faethor’s snarling visage. And now I knew old Arvos’s meaning.

  The vampire cringed before that blaze of sunlight. He shrank down into himself, threw up spider hands before his face, backed off a pace. I was never one to waste an opportunity. I pursued, drove the buckler clanging into his face, kicked at his loins again and again as I forced him back. And whenever he’d make to advance on me, then I’d catch the sun and throw it in his teeth, so that he had no chance to gather his reserves.

  In this way I beat him back across the roof, with kicks and blows and blinding rays of sunlight. Once his leg went through the rotten roof, but he dragged it out and continued to retreat before me, frothing and cursing his fury. And so at last he came up against the parapet wall. Beyond that parapet was eighty feet of thin air, then the rim of the gorge and three hundred feet of almost sheer slope clad in close-packed, spiky pines. Down at the bottom was the bed of a rivulet. In short, a nightmare of vertigo.

  He looked over the rim, glanced at me with eyes of fire — eyes of fear? At which precise moment the sun dipped down out of sight.

  The change in Faethor was instantaneous. The twilight deepened, and the Ferenczy swelled up like some great bloating toadstool! His face split open in the most soul-wrenching smile of triumph — which I at once crushed under one last battering blow of my buckler.

  And over he went.

  I couldn’t believe that I’d got him. It seemed a fantasy. But even as he toppled so I clung to the parapet wall and peered after him. Then… the strangest thing! I saw him like a dark blot falling towards the greater darkness. But in another moment the shape of the blot changed. I thought I heard a sound like a vast stretching, like giant knuckles cracking, and the shape hurtling towards the trees and the gorge seemed to unfurl like a huge blanket. It no longer fell so swiftly, nor even vertically. Instead it seemed to glide like a leaf, away from the castle’s walls, out a little way over the gorge.

  It dawned on me then that in the fullness of his powers Faethor might indeed have flown, in a fashion, from these battlements. But I had taken him by surprise, and in the shock of falling he had lost precious moments. Too late, he’d wrought a great change in himself, flattening himself like a sail to trap the rushing air. Too late, because even as I stared in fascination, so he struck a high branch. Then, in a dark whirling and a snapping of branches, the blot was gone. There followed from below a series of crashes, a shriek, a final, distant thud. And silence.

  I listened for long moments in the rapidly deepening gloom. Nothing.

  And then I laughed. Oh, how I laughed! I stamped my feet and thumped the top of the parapet wall. I’d got the old bastard, the old devil. I’d really got him!

  I stopped laughing. True, I had thrown him down from the wall. But… was he dead?

  Panic gripped me. Of all men, I knew how difficult it was to kill a vampire. Proof of that was right here on the roof with me, in the shape of the gurgling, fitfully twitching Ehrig. I hurried to him. His face was blue and the thong had buried itself in the flesh of his neck. His skull, which had been soft at the back where I’d crashed it against the wall, was already hard. How long before he awakened? In any case, I couldn’t trust him. Not to do what must now be done. No, I was on my own.

  Quickly I carried Ehrig back down into the bowels of the castle, to our cell in the roots of one of the towers. There I dumped him and barred the door. Perhaps the vampire filth under the earth would find him and devour him before he recovered fully. I didn’t know and cared much less.

  Then I hurried through the castle, lighting lamps and candles wherever I found them, illuminating the place as it had not been lit in a hundred years. Perhaps it had never known such light as I now brought into being in it.

  There were two entrances: one was across the drawbridge and through the door I’d used when first I arrived here escorted by Faethor’s wolves, which I now barred; the other was from a narrow ledge in the cliff at the rear, where a roofed over causeway of doubtful timbers formed a bridge from the ledge to a window in the wall of the second tower. Doubtless this had been the Ferenczy’s bolthole, which he’d never had cause to use. But if he could get out that way, so could he get in. I found oil, drenched the planking, set fire to the causeway and stayed long enough to ensure that it was well ablaze.

  I paused periodically at other embrasures to gaze out on the night. At first there were only the moon and stars, stray wisps of cloud, the valley, silvered, touched occasionally by fleeting shadows. But as I proceeded with my task of lighting and securing the castle, so I was aware that things were beginning to stir. A wolf howled mournfully afar, then closer, then many wolves. The trees in the gorge were inky now, ominous as the gates to the underworld.

  In the first tower I found a barred, bolted room. A treasure house, maybe? I threw back the bolts, lifted the bar, put my shoulder to the door. But the key had been turned in the great lock and removed. I leaned my ear to the oak panels and listened: there was sly movement in there, and… whispering?

  Perhaps it was as well the door was locked. Perhaps it had been locked not to keep thieves out but something else.

  I climbed to the hall where Faethor had poisoned me, and there found my weapons where I had last seen them. More, I took down from the wall a mighty long-handled axe. Then, armed to the teeth, I returned to the locked room. There I loaded my crossbow and placed it close to hand, stuck my sword point-down in a crack in the floor, ready for grasping, and took both hands to the axe in a huge swing at the door. I succeeded with that blow in caving in a narrow panel, but at the same time I dislodged from its hiding place atop the lintel a rusty iron key.

  The key fitted the lock. I was on the point of turning it to enter, when — such a clamouring from the wolves! So loud I could

  hear its doomful dinning even down here! Something was afoot.

  I left the door unopened, took up my weapons and raced up winding stairs to the upper levels. Wolves howled all around the castle now, but they were loudest at the rear. In a very little while I traced the uproar to the burning causeway, and arrived in time to see the bridge go crashing down, blazing into the back chasm. And there across the gap were Faethor’s wolves in a pack, crowding the narrow ledge.

  Behind them in the shadow of the cliff… was that the Ferenczy himself? The hairs on my neck stood erect. If it was him, he stood crookedly, like a queer bent shadow. Broken from his fall? I took up my crossbow but when I looked again — gone! Or perhaps he’d never been there. The wolves were real enough, however, and now the leader, a giant of a beast, stood at the rim measuring the gap.


  It would be a leap of all of thirty feet, possible only if he had a clear run along the ledge. And even as I thought it, so the lesser wolves made way, shrank back into shadows, left the ledge clear. He ran back, turned, made his loping run and leaped — and mid-flight met my bolt, which sank directly into his heart. Dead, but still snarling his last snarl, he hit the rim of the opening and went tumbling into oblivion. And when I looked up, the rest of the pack had melted away.

  But I knew that the Ferenczy would not give up that easily.

  I went up onto the battlements, found jars up there full of oil and cauldrons seated on tilting gear. Setting fires in braziers under the cauldrons, I half-filled each one with oil and left them to simmer. And only then did I return to the locked room.

  As 1 approached a hand, slender, female, wriggled in the hole in the panelling, tried desperately to reach and take hold of the key in the lock. What? A prisoner? A woman? But then I remembered what old Arvos had said about the Ferenczy’s household: ‘Retainers? Serfs? He has none. A woman or two, perhaps, but no men.’ Here was a seeming contradiction: if this woman was his servant, why was she locked in? For her safety while there was a stranger in the house? That seemed unlikely in a house like this.

  For my safety?

  An eye peered out at me; I heard a gasp and the hand was withdrawn. Without further pause I turned the key, kicked open the door.

  There were two of ‘em, aye. And they’d been handsome enough women in their time.

  ‘Who… who are you?’ One of them approached me with a curious half-smile. ‘Faethor did not tell us that there would be…‘ She floated closer, gazed upon me in open fascination. I stared back. She was wan as a ghost, but there was a fire in her sunken eyes. I looked about the room.

  The floor had a covering of local weave; ancient and wormy tapestries hung on the walls; there were couches and a table. But there were no windows, and no light other than the yellow aura from a silver candelabrum on the table. The room was sparse, but sumptuous by comparison with the rest of the place. Safe, too.

  The second woman was sprawled somewhat wantonly on one of the couches. She stared sulphurously upon me but I ignored her. The first drifted closer still. Stirring myself, I held her at bay with the point of my sword. ‘Move not at all, lady, or I’ll spit you here and now!’

  She turned wild in a moment, glowered at me and hissed between her needle teeth; and now the second woman rose like a cat from her couch. They faced me menacingly, but both were wary of my sword.

  Then the first one spoke again, her voice hard and cold as ice: ‘What of Faethor? Where is he?’

  ‘Your master?’ I backed out of the door. They were

  vampires, obviously. ‘He’s gone. You’ve a new master now — me!’

  Without warning, the first one sprang at me. I let her come, then drove the pommel of my sword against the side of her head. She collapsed in my arms and I threw her aside, then yanked shut the door in the face of the second. I barred it, locked it and pocketed the key. Inside the room, the trapped vampire hissed and raged. I picked up her stunned sister, carried her to the dungeon and tossed her inside.

  Ehrig came crawling. He had managed somehow to remove the thong from his neck, — which was white and puffy and looked sliced as if by a knife around its entire circumference. Similarly, his head at the back was strangely lumpy, deformed like a freak’s or a cretin’s. He could hardly speak and his manner was childlike in the way of simpletons. Perhaps I had damaged his brain, and the vampire in him had not yet corrected it.

  ‘Thibor!’ he husked his amazement. ‘My friend, Thibor! The Ferenczy — did you kill him?’

  ‘Treacherous dog!’ I kicked at him. ‘Here, amuse yourself with this.’

  He fell upon the woman where she lay moaning. ‘You’ve forgiven me!’ he cried.

  ‘Not now, not ever!’ I answered. ‘I leave her here because she’s one too many. Enjoy yourself while you may.’ As I barred the door he had already begun to rip his filthy clothes off, hers too.

  Now, climbing the spiralling steps, I heard the wolves again. Their song had a triumphant note to it. What now?

  Like a madman I raced through the castle. The massive door in the foot of the tower was secure, and the causeway burned down — where would Faethor attempt his next assault? I went to the battlements — only just in time!

  The air over the castle was full of tiny bats. I saw them against the moon, flitting in their myriads, their concerted voices shrill and piercing. Was that how the Ferenczy would come: flitting like a great bat, a stretchy blanket of flesh falling out of the night to smother me? I shrank down, gazed fearfully up into the vault of the night sky. But no, surely not; his fall had injured him and he would not yet be ready to tax himself so greatly; there must be some other route with which I was not familiar.

  Ignoring the bats, which came down at me in waves, but not so close as to strike or interfere with me, I went to the perimeter wall and looked over. Why I did this I can’t say, for it would take more than any mere man to climb walls as sheer as these. Fool that I was — the Ferenczy was no mere man!

  And there he was: flat to the wall, making his way agonisingly slowly, like a great lizard, up the stonework. A lizard, aye, for his hands and feet were huge as banquet platters and sucked where they slapped the walls! Horrified to my roots, I stared harder in the dark. He had not yet seen me. He grunted quietly and his huge disc of a hand made a quagmire sound where it left the wall and groped upward. His fingers were long as daggers and webbed between. Hands like that would pull a man’s flesh from his bones as if they were plucking a chicken!

  I looked wildly about. The bubbling cauldrons of oil were positioned at the ends of the span, where the great hall joined the towers. Rightly so, for who would suppose that a man could crawl under the flying buttresses and come up that way, with nothing but the gorge and certain death beneath him?

  I flew to the closest cauldron, laid my hands on its rim. Agony! The metal was hot as hell.

  I took my sword belt and passed it through the metal framework of the tilting engine, then dragged device and cauldron and all back the way I had come. Oil splashed and drenched my boot; one foot of the tilting bench went through a rotten plank and I must pause to free it; the entire contraption jerked and shuddered through friction with the planking, so that I knew Faethor must hear me and guess what I was about. But finally I had the cauldron above the spot where I had seen him.

  I glanced fearfully over the parapet — and a great groping sucker hand came up over the rim, missed my face by inches, slapped down and gripped the coping of the wall!

  How I gibbered then! I threw myself on to the tilting device, turned the handle furiously, and saw the cauldron bearing over towards the wall. Oil spilled and ran down the cauldron’s side. It met the hot brazier and caught fire; my boot went up in flames. The Ferenczy’s face came up over the rim of the parapet. His eyes reflected the leaping flames. His teeth, whole again, were gleaming white slivers of bone in his gaping jaws, with that flickering abomination of a tongue slithering over them.

  Shrieking, I worked at the handle. The cauldron tilted, slopped a sea of blazing oil towards him.

  ‘NO!’ he croaked, his voice a broken bell. ‘NO — NO — NOOOOOO!’

  The blue and yellow fire paid him no heed, ignored his cry of terror. It washed over him, lit him like a torch. He wrenched his hands from the wall and reached for me, but I fell back out of harm’s way. Then he screamed again, and launched himself from the wall into space.

  I watched the fireball curving down into darkness and turning it day bright, and all the while the Ferenczy’s scream echoed back up to me. His myriad minion bats flocked to him mid-flight, dashing their soft bodies against him to quell the flames, but the rush of air thwarted them. A torch, he fell, and his scream was a rusty blade on the ends of my nerves. Even blazing, he tried to form a wing shape, and I heard again that rending and crackling sound. Ah, what sweet agony that must have caused him,
with his crisp skin splitting instead of stretching, and the burning oil getting into the cracks!

  Even so, he half-succeeded, began to glide as before, and as before struck a tree and so went spinning and crashing through the pines and out of sight.

  He left a few sparks and scraps of fire drifting on the air, and a host of scorched bats skittering crippled against the moon, and a lingering odour of roasted flesh. And that was all.

  Still I wasn’t satisfied that he was dead, but I was satisfied that he wouldn’t be back that night. It was now time to celebrate my triumph.

  I doused the fire where it had taken hold of dry timbers, shut down the burning braziers, and went wearily to Faethor’s living quarters. There was good wine there which I sipped warily, then gulped heartily. I spitted pheasants, sliced an onion, nibbled on dry bread and swilled wine until the birds were done. And then I dined royally. It was a good meal, aye, and my first in a long time, and yet… it lacked something. I couldn’t say just what. Fool, I still thought of myself as a man. In other ways, however, I still was a man!

  I took a stone jar of proven wine with me and went unsteadily to the lady in the locked room. She did desire to receive me, but I was in no mood for arguments. I took her again and again; in as many ways as entered my head, so I entered her. Only when she was exhausted and slept did I, too, sleep.

  And so the castle of Faethor Ferenczy became mine.

  Chapter Ten

  Harry Keogh’s nimbus of blue fire burned bright in the stirless glade over Thibor’s tumbled mausoleum, and Keogh’s incorporeal mind was aware of the passage of time. In the Möbius continuum time was a very nearly meaningless concept, but here in the first low foothills of the Carpatii Meridionali it was very real, and still the dead vampire’s tale was not completely told. The important part — for Harry, and for Alec Kyle and INTESP — was still to come, but Harry knew better than to ask directly for the information he desired. He could only press Thibor to the bitter end.