The Source

by Brian Lumley

  Meanwhile:

  A second gas-beast had come drifting directly toward The Dweller’s house. The two Harrys fled the place, encountered a pair of Wamphyri lieutenants in their way. Their strategy in dealing with them proved their kinship: they let the grinning, gauntletted vampires close with them and charge, then ducked through Möbius doors. As their pursuers plunged into that unknown realm directly on their heels, so they closed the doors and exited through others. The lieutenants had simply disappeared; perhaps faint echoes of their screams came back, to be quickly drowned in the row and confusion of battle.

  The mewling gas-beast over The Dweller’s house was hit by a stray burst of gunfire. It exploded with a devastating roar, demolishing the place and sending out a great rush of vile stench.

  Warriors were coming over the saddle behind the settlement. Another crashed down on the low structure housing Harry Jr.’s generators. The remaining ultraviolet lamps blinked out, leaving only a handful of lanterns and starlight to light the reeling night. The bellowing voices of the Lords Belath and Menor Maimbite sounded inside the garden! From overhead, the Lord Shaithis shouted down instructions,

  Still reeling from the gas-beast blast, Harry clutched his son’s arm. “You said we were a last resort,” he breathlessly reminded him. “Whatever you meant by that—whatever’s on your mind—you’d better say it now.”

  “Father,” the other answered. “in the Möbius Continuum even thought has weight. And you and I, we’re linked. Wherever we are in the Möbius Continuum, we know each other.”

  Harry nodded. “Of course.”

  “I’ve done things with and to the Continuum that you’ve never dreamed of,” The Dweller continued, but innocently, without boasting. “I can send more than mere thoughts through it—as long as there’s someone to receive what I send. In this instance, however, what I must send is dangerous. Not to you, but to me.”

  “I don’t follow you.” Desperately aware that the battle was being lost, Harry licked suddenly dry lips, shook his head.

  “But you will.” Quickly The Dweller explained.

  “I’ve got you,” Harry said. “But won’t it hurt the garden, the Travellers?”

  “I’m not sure. A little, perhaps. Nothing serious or lasting. But you should get the Lady Karen out of the way.” He went running back to the ruins of his house, found a shimmering metallic robe of foil where he’d stored it and put it on. It covered him from head to toe, with tinted glass disks for his eyes. “I’ve used it before,” he said “out beyond the stars. Now you’d better see to Karen.”

  Harry had followed him, said: “Where will I find you?”

  “Here. I’ll wait for you.”

  Harry used the Möbius Continuum and went to the wall. Men with flame-throwers were hosing down a stricken warrior; Karen fought with a lieutenant, dispatching him even as Harry arrived. “Don’t question this,” he said. “Come quickly!”

  He caught her up, stepped through a Möbius door, emerged down on the plain of boulders at a safe distance from the glaring sphere Gate. Dazed, she swayed for a moment and her scarlet eyes went round as saucers. “How … ?”

  “Which is your stack?” he asked her.

  She pointed and he caught her to him again …

  Harry left her in her deserted aerie, returned to the garden. His son was waiting. “Do you understand?” The Dweller wanted to know.

  “Yes,” Harry nodded. “Let’s get on with it.”

  They entered the Möbius Continuum and Harry Jr. moved away very quickly, across the mountains to Sunside and from there—

  —To the sun! He stood off from that monstrous furnace in deep space, opened a Möbius door. Harry heard his hiss of torment, also his directed thought: Now!

  Harry opened a Möbius door on the garden, trapped and fixed it there, let his son re-direct and pour sunlight through the Mobius Continuum and out through Harry’s door. The garden was at once bathed in intense, glaring, golden light!

  Harry turned the door like the gun-turret of a tank, sending his shaft of concentrated sunlight sliding across the garden. The beam struck warriors where they ravaged forward across the saddle. It ate into them like acid, devouring their vampire flesh. For this was sunlight, but not thinned by distance, not diluted by atmosphere. It was the essence of the sun! The monsters melted, boiled away and slumped down into sticky black pools.

  Ahhh! The Dweller’s agony was a fire in its own right, burning in his father’s mind. The beam shut off, gave Harry time to recoup, rest from the task of holding steady and controlling his Möbius door.

  “Son?” his anxious thoughts went out along the Möbius way. “Are you all right?”

  No! … Yes. Yes, I’m all right. Give me a moment …

  Harry waited, conjured a door and looked out. He chose new targets: the Lords Belath and Menor where they came striding through a host of panicking Travellers, swatting them like flies.

  Now!

  Harry fixed the door, guided his son’s sun-blast through it. The brilliant beam fell on Belath and Menor like a solid shaft of gold. It super-heated them, blew away their skins and flesh in writhing, stinking evaporation. As the Travellers scrambled wildly away from them, they exploded into tatters of smouldering vileness.

  Harry turned his beam to the north, found a warrior in mid-air, descending toward the defenders at the wall. He shrivelled the thing before it could come too close, reduced it to a tarry fireball that fell well beyond the cliffs. Other warriors were overhead, and flyers with their startled riders. Harry swung the door horizontally, turned its beam into a giant searchlight. The sun shone upwards, from the earth!

  Monstrous debris rained from the sky, and: Ahhh! Again the beam was shut off.

  “Son! son!” Harry cried into the Möbius Continuum. “Let that be an end to it. They’re beaten, moving off. Stop now, before you kill yourself!”

  No! the other’s Möbius voice was a shudder. They must never recover from this. Go down onto the boulder plain, close to their stacks.

  Harry understood. He did as directed.

  Now!

  The Dweller’s beam reached out and licked at the base of Shaithis’s stack. It played there for a moment, blazed in across bony balconies and through cartilage windows, found the gas-beasts in their places. In an uncontrollable chain-reaction of living bombs, the stack’s base exploded outwards, hurling rock, bones, cartilage carcasses and all far out onto the plain. The stack teetered, crumpled downward into itself, toppled. Falling, it flew apart; but before its gigantic sections could strike earth, already Harry had redirected his beam.

  And one by one the aeries were brought crashing down on the shuddering plain, reduced to rubble, erased.

  Twice more during the work The Dweller cried out and the beam was shut off. But in the end only the Lady Karen’s stack remained. And:

  Let it be, Harry Jr. whispered.

  Father and son went back to the garden. They emerged as the smoke and reek were lifting, and as the dazed Travellers and their friends from a different world looked all about them and rubbed grime from stinging eyes.

  The Dweller’s cloak of foil had fused to his body. Smouldering, he swayed there a moment—a black and silver thing that groped blindly as it took a single pace forward—then crumpled into its father’s arms …

  In what would have been three days Earth-time the news was: The Dweller would recover! It was the vampire in him, which given time would repair the damage he’d suffered. But Harry Sr. knew he could never take his son, or Brenda, back to the world where they were born. Harry Jr. was Wamphyri; however different from the others, still he must stay here forever. Indeed he wanted to stay here. This was his place now, his territory which he’d fought and paid dearly for. And of course he could never be sure how things would go.

  But … The Lady Karen was different, too. For the moment, anyway Also, if what Harry had heard about her was true, she’d one day be more dangerous than all the others put together. He cared nothing for her, but he
did care for his son. And an idea had formed in his mind.

  Leaving The Dweller in the care of Jazz, Zek and the ever-faithful Travellers, Harry went to Karen’s aerie. It was memorable when he left the garden, because for one thing there was gold on the peaks again, and also he had witnessed a strange reunion. Wolf, his paws bleeding, had made the crossing to find his mistress. No vampire in him, just a great deal of love and a lot of faith.

  There’d been another, perhaps even more joyous reunion, too: along with Wolf had come a weary Lardis Lidesci and a handful of his people …

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  The Last Warrior—The Horror at Perchorsk!

  FOLLOWING THE BATTLE AT THE DWELLER’S GARDEN, Shaithis of the Wamphyri guided his half-crippled, seared flyer for home. He fancied the creature wouldn’t make it, not for all his goading, for it was burned all along its underbelly and dripping fluids like rain. He, too, had taken a dose of direct sunlight, but had been nimble-minded enough to throw himself down on his flyer’s back, in the trench of horny ridges formed of its huge wing muscles.

  The blast had come as Shaithis’s creature was turning away from the garden after a trial landing run, and so he’d not been blinded; but still he’d felt the hideous, searing heat of the true sun, and so had known that The Dweller could not be defeated. His weapons were simply too powerful, beyond Wamphyri understanding and certainly beyond their control. Which, together with the loss of his lieutenants and warriors, had convinced Shaithis that the attack was a pointless exercise. Wamphyri losses had been devastating, and the survivors had come to the same conclusion as Shaithis, quitting the fight en masse and heading for home.

  Down across the Starside plain they’d flown their creatures, many limping, all humiliated, and Shaithis had felt their hatred of him beating like hammer blows on his psychic Wamphyri mind. They blamed him for their losses, for he’d been the one who instigated the attack, their self-appointed leader in the abortive affray. Generals who lose are rarely feted, mainly scorned.

  On the way east, using the half-dome of the shining sphere for pharos and rolling in his saddle, Shaithis had seen Fess Ferenc and Volse Pinescu go down, fluttering out of the sky on flyers finally too weak to resist gravity’s pull, and he’d watched them crash in clouds of dust far below on the moon-silvered plain. The Lords must finish the rest of their journey afoot, for Shaithis doubted they’d have strength for flight metamorphosis. He certainly wouldn’t, if his flyer was to succumb. Still, walking had to be better than dying.

  The Lords Belath and Lesk the Glut, Grigis and Menor Maimbite, Lasula Longtooth and Tor Tornbody were missing, along with many lesser Wamphyri lights. Of warriors there were none to be seen … no, Shaithis corrected himself, one—only one?—spurting through the sky eastward, acting of its own volition. Doubtless its master was dead, and now it returned to the only home it knew.

  As for lieutenants: where were they? Gone—gone with the flyers, the warriors, the trogs—gone with all dreams of conquest and revenge. Only a dozen flyers left in all the sky, exhausted, gliding where they caught the thermals and desperate to conserve energy, carrying their Lords whole or crippled, bearing them back to their stacks and their …

  … Their aeries?

  Crossing over the glaring dome of the Gate, Shaithis had lifted his blackened face to peer ahead. And he’d seen the unbelievable, the unthinkable. Of all the mighty stacks of the Wamphyri, only one remained standing. And that was the stack of the treacherous Karen!

  Fury galvanized him. Karen, that mother-bearing bitch! He hauled on the reins, lifted the head of his flyer and turned it towards Karen’s stack. His creature tried: its manta wings pulsed once, twice, three times; pulsed feebly at the air, then quivered mightily and formed a shallow “V.” The thing was barely alive. Its fluids were gone and there was nothing left to power it. The glide grew steeper, swifter, and nothing to be done about it. At the last moment Shaithis bellowed frantic mental commands into his creature’s dull, dying mind, dragged on the reins until he thought they’d surely snap. The beast’s head slowly came up and its wings adopted a more nearly aerodynamic profile. It swooped, levelled out, tilted to one side; the debris-littered plain became a dizzy, whirling, surreal kaleidoscope of rushing landscape. Then—

  The creature’s inner wingtip struck the stump of a stack, accelerating its spin. Its master was hurled from the saddle, felt bones break in his left arm and shoulder, tasted dust and his own blood where his face ploughed the plain and rocks broke his teeth. Long moments passed, silent except for Shaithis’s pounding heartbeat, and the worst of the pain slowly ebbed. Finally, gasping and swaying, he staggered to his feet, shook his gauntlet-clad right hand at Karen’s lone stack. He cursed it long and loud. Her aerie stood as a sure sign of her treachery. She was The Dweller’s, bought and paid for!

  A vengeful snarl twisted Shaithis’s broken features more yet. Well, and when she returned from The Dweller’s garden … ah, but then there’d be a reckoning! A reckoning, aye—long and lusty and bloody, bloody, bloody! And oh so very sweet!

  He took a stumbling step in the direction of her stack —and froze. Descending toward that solitary needle of rock, that last Wamphyri aerie, was the warrior he’d previously noted. He groaned as it squirted in through the dark mouth of her launching bay. Her warrior! And while she lived it would defend her aerie to the last, against all comers, even against Shaithis of the Wamphyri himself.

  How Shaithis raved then; ranted and raved, and no one at all to hear him but a flock of great bats, familiar creatures who doubtless questioned the whereabouts of their crevice colonies in the stricken Wamphyri stacks.

  The moon raced on across the sky, and Shaithis grew quiet and became still. His shadow passed through the vertical and began to lengthen on the other side. When it was as long as Shaithis himself, then his shoulders slumped and he turned and headed for the shattered, far-flung ruins he’d once called home …

  Weary and hollow-cheeked—with half of his body seared, several broken bones, and his face crushed and burned on one side—the once-great Lord Shaithis of the Wamphyri drew nigh the base of that mighty outcrop, that towering rock now gone forever, which had housed him for all of his five and half centuries. In the stump itself, there he’d had his workshops: the vast vats where with great cunning he’d forced and moulded metamorphic flesh, creating his warriors, flyers, gaslings, siphoneers and various types of cartilage creature. Down there, if the massy ceiling had not fallen in upon it, a freshly formed flyer was even now mewling and floundering in its vat. Once a Traveller, soon it would travel again, and at least Shaithis would have a mount.

  There, too, he’d find his pit-things: metamorphosed Travellers and trogs, mindless criers in perpetual night, the raw materials of his warriors and the other creatures he’d made. Well, they could leap in their pits, wail and gibber, stiffen, eventually fossilize. He cared not at all.

  Overhead, the last of the Wamphyri were silently flying north, heading out across the icelands for those dark regions on the roof of the world, where the sun never shone at all. When his flyer was ready, then Shaithis would join them there. The legends had it that if one crossed the polar cap and kept going, then that he’d find more mountains, new territories to conquer. No one in living memory had tested the legends, however, for the great stacks had been the places of the Wamphyri, their immemorial homes. But … that was yesterday. And now it appeared that the legends were to be tested in full. So be it.

  As Shaithis went to descend a shattered stairwell, his good eye detected a movement in the rubble and he heard a muffled moan. Someone here, alive, in the ruins of his aerie?

  Shaithis picked his way over tumbled blocks of stone and bony debris, came to a tangle of shiny cartilage and fractured rock where a hand and arm protruded from a gap. The hand groped blindly about, clawed uselessly at rough stone. From below came a half-conscious moaning.

  For a moment Shaithis was puzzled; a Lord, even the lowliest lieutenant would have dug his way out
by now. But eventually he smiled a grim smile and nodded his recognition of the trapped man. “Karl!” The vampire’s false smile disappeared as quickly as it had come. “Hell-lander. Ah, but I’ve several large scores to settle with hell-landers!”

  He tore away blocks of stone and weirdly fused cartilage masses, reached down into darkness and drew Vyotsky out. His handling of the Russian wasn’t gentle, especially since both of Vyotsky’s legs were broken below the knees. He cried out: “No, no! Oh, God—my legs!”

  Shaithis shook him mercilessly until his agonized eyes popped open. “Your legs!” he hissed. “Your legs? Man, look at me!” He sat Vyotsky down on a flat stone surface, let fall his cloak to expose his ravaged body, slowly turned in a circle for the other’s inspection. Trembling in his own extreme of pain, still the Russian winced at the extent of Shaithis’s injuries. “Aye,” Shaithis agreed. “Pretty, isn’t it?”

  Vyotsky said nothing, continued to hold himself upright where he sat by pressing down on the rock’s surface with the flats of his spread palms. In this way he kept pressure off his trembling, jelly legs.

  “Now, Karl,” said Shaithis, facing him squarely. “It seems to me that I remember a conversation we had, that time when we almost caught your fellow hell-landers, before The Dweller’s intervention. You remember?”

  Vyotsky said nothing, wished he could faint but in any case knew that he didn’t dare do so. His agony was great, but if he collapsed now the odds were that he’d never wake up again. He gasped, closed his eyes as a fresh wave of pain burned upwards through his body from his shattered legs.

  “You don’t remember?” said Shaithis, in mock surprise. He lifted his gauntlet, clenched his hand, opened the weapon wide so that the Russian could see its dozens of cutting edges. A single blow from that would flense a man’s entire face, Vyotsky knew, or crush his skull like an eggshell. “Well, I do remember,” the vampire Lord continued, “and it seems to me I warned you then what I would do if you should ever again attempt to flee from me. I said I would give you to my favourite warrior, all except your heart which I would eat myself. Surely you remember that?”