by Brian Lumley
Necroscope: The Plague-Bearer
Copyright © 2010 by Brian Lumley. All rights reserved.
Dust jacket and interior illustrations Copyright © 2010
by Bob Eggleton. All rights reserved.
Interior design Copyright © 2010 by Desert Isle Design, LLC.
All rights reserved.
First Edition
ISBN
978-1-59606-659-5
Subterranean Press
PO Box 190106
Burton, MI 48519
www.subterraneanpress.com
Descendants of an ancient line, the brothers Francezci had gone down beneath the labyrinthine cellars and rock-hewn foundations of their ancestral estate, Le Manse Madonie, into a vast cavern in the mountain’s heart. Answering a “call” heard in their vampire minds alone, there they now stood at the wall of the dried-out well which, since that time when it had become necessary to lodge their mutated changeling father there, away from the knowledge—and especially the sight—of common men, they had come to call “the pit.”
“The pit:” That was how they thought of the Old Ferenczy’s well-cell in the roots of Le Manse Madonie, in this cavern forbidden to all men except the Francezcis (once the Ferenczys, in an era when that name had been far less synonymous with horror) who themselves were very much other than men proper, though not to the same degree as their mainly formless metamorph father.
But the O1d Ferenczy was safe here—and the brothers safe from him, who was their oracle despite that he had his turns—and all would be in order so long as he remained confined here, contained in the well under the cap of electrified wire-mesh in a circular frame that spanned the yawning darkness like a grill. And down there in the perpetual gloom at a depth of some eighty feet, where the shaft opened into a cyst-like chamber that long ago held water seeping from the dripstone walls, now was housed the brothers’ hideous sire—the one who in his way had called them here.
Gazing into the unquiet depths they knew he was there; knew also that he knew they had come in answer to his call, and that they now stood at the rim of “the pit.”
It is probable that to most men this name—its very sound—would conjure visions of the Pit of Hell, but to the Francezci brothers the notion of even that pit, the entrance to purgatory itself, could never be possessed of the terror inherent in this one. For it was undeniably real: an almost tangible thing, an emanation issuing from the well in a viscous, mental miasma that clung like slime: their father’s telepathic thoughts…
Up above on a comparatively remote plateau, Le Manse Madonie’s sprawling, fortress-like structure in its many high-walled acres stood square and flat on the rim of a ravine in the rocky heights over Cefalu, Sicily. In its altitude and appearance the place might be thought of as an aerie; and in fact and in every respect it was nothing less than that: an aerial redoubt of the Wamphyri! But with the exception of the brothers Francezci themselves, along with their common vampire servitors and adherents, no one else was aware of that fact.
On the contrary, Le Manse Madonie—for all that it seldom entertained guests—had the reputation of being the retreat of the gentlest of gentlemen; and their presence had been requested, however rarely accepted, at every major social event on the island ever since they had come into their inheritance and possession of Le Manse Madonie. And as for the Francezci bloodline: There had been Francezcis in the manse for as long as men could remember. Noted for its male twins, the family’s line went back into the dimmest mists of history—and into some of the blackest—but that last was for the brothers alone to know.
Thus the immemorial connection of the Francezcis with certain of Sicily’s—and indeed the world’s—less savory elements continued to go unsuspected; or if it was then it wasn’t mentioned in polite circles. Yet in their role of freelance intelligence agents for the Mob or mobs—as advisers in the fields of international crime, various kinds of espionage, and terrorism—the Francezcis were an unparalleled success story. Where such intelligence had its source…that too was for the secretive, occasionally reclusive brothers alone to know and for others to guess at. But to the Dons it seemed obvious that they had corrupted the otherwise incorruptible on a worldwide scale.
In fact their power base had its source right here, in the shape, or shapelessness, of the thing in the pit: their precognizant father. And now he had something to impart; something of obvious importance, for he was not the one to waste his efforts in common conversation. And now his thoughts came seething in a burst of mental energy, to drive them back a pace from the pit:
Ah, my sons, my keepers…dear Anthony, and my oh-so-dear Francesco! But tell me now, what is the meaning of this? Do you cringe? What, the invincible Francezci brothers, shrinking from a harmless old thing in a pit?
“From the power of your telepathic voice, Father,” Anthony, who had been the Old Ferenczy’s “favourite” in the years before that one’s collapse—his total surrender to the devolution of his flesh, its constant flux and flow, and his descent into the subsequent mental degeneration which had overcome him—finally answered. “Each time we converse in this fashion, it seems your sendings have gained that much more strength. So much that they invariably repel us; at least until we recover from their initial shock.”
Oh? And am I so shocking? Oh, ha-ha-ha! Of course I am. Yet still you care and…provide for me. Well, from time to time, when you bring to me the occasional tidbit. For instance, right now? A girl, perhaps? Young, clean, ripe and…full of blood? (That last coming as a monstrous mental gurgle; which scarcely horrified the brothers, whose vampire appetites were almost the equal of those of the thing in the pit.)
“Not now, Father, no—” Anthony answered, “—but soon, I promise. To which end…do I detect your desire to offer some small incentive? Is there perhaps an item of benefit, knowledge that you might wish to impart?”
Huh! the metamorph replied, however bitterly. As always I’m required to pay—to beg like a dog—for even the smallest of pleasures! But as that old saying goes, beggars can’t be choosers, and such is my lot. Yes, there is a matter to discuss: one of great importance, for I have dreamed a dream.
“Him and his dreams!” Francesco muttered under his breath, scowling and forgetting if only for a moment that not even his thoughts were safe from the Old Ferenczy, not in close proximity like this. But in the next moment he gave a startled jerk, recoiling once again as the old thing in the pit chastised him, snarling in his mind:
Ah, Francesco! Wretch that you were, and ungrateful wretch that you are! Tell me: What would you have been without me, eh? Without my dreams, knowledge, and advice given unstintingly down all the endless years what would have become of you, eh? Where would you be hiding now but in the craggy keeps of some foreign land, and your aerie a forgotten, crumbling castle full of bats and spiders? Hah!
“Father!” Anthony got between, physically shoving Francesco aside while warning him to be quiet with a glance from gathered eyebrows. “Father, how can we help but be jealous of your dreaming skills, your oneiromancy, and unfailing fathoming of future events? But you are right: You are the origin and source of all that we have risen to, the Power behind our power in the world. Francesco perhaps forgets himself; but he is simply eager, as I myself am eager, to learn of your divinations.”
For long moments there was only emptiness, a sullen silence like a mental veil on the psychic ether, which gradually lifted until the pit-thing’s thoughts “sounded” again in the brothers’ minds: his seething yet simultaneously soothing, partially hypnotic telepathic voice. Ah, Anthony! My true one! And as always you fend well for a foolish, undeserving sibling!
“Francesco is my brother, yes,” said Anthony, with a small, almost regretful shrug of his shoulders. And
then, frowning, he held up a hand to once more caution Francesco against any would be protest. “He is my brother—and your true son, a bloodson, no less than I myself. Be gracious and forgive him, Father.”
Hmmm! said that one. Then let him bring me a small tribute, and all will be forgiven.
“I have promised,” said Anthony, with a nod of his head.
But let Francesco deliver the…the gift. The Old Ferenczy’s “voice” was thick as phlegm. And let him attend me here at the well, while I…while I enjoy it.
With a quick glance at his sullen brother, Anthony nodded a second time. “It shall be as you wish.”
Let him tell me it is so.
And keeping a rein on his furious, volatile thoughts, Francesco answered aloud: “Of course I’ll deliver your…tribute, Father, as soon as we find a safe, suitable provider.”
Good! And now hear me out, both of you, for there are great dangers in the world which must be dealt with, and soon.
And after a pause for thought:
While I have seen tomorrow and tomorrow, the future remains…difficult. I can never see far enough into future time, and as always what I do see may have complications, perhaps because I see it!
“The Heisenberg principle,” said Anthony, who was well read in such things. “Whatever we study we change.”
Indeed, and the future is a devious thing. But I know nothing of this Heisenberg; well, except what I see in your mind. A scientist, you say? But aye, the future has occasionally played me false, even a master dreamer such as myself. Still, it would be foolish not to heed its warnings…
Across the world, fifteen hundred miles and more—in Scotland as it is known today—a dog-Lord slumbers in his mountain lair. You know of which I speak: Radu Lykan, hibernating in his amber trough down all the centuries. While he sleeps, the great hound is not a problem. But Radu has a moon-child guardian, one whose name is also known to you.
“Bonnie Jean Mirlu,” Anthony cut in. “A common vampire. And we should have dealt with her before now, but—”
—An uncommon vampire! His father cut him short. A werewolf bitch: a moon-child, as stated. She has a pack, all female, but they too are of small concern—so long as Radu sleeps. Ah, but Radu is our enemy, has been our enemy these thousands of years, no less than the Drakuls and their lone survivor. Oh yes, the Drakuls, Lykans, and Ferenczys: enemies since times supposedly immemorial. But ancestral memories will never let it rest. The hatred like the blood runs deep, and I have felt Radu stirring in the resin that preserves him!
The brothers moved closer, gazed down into the deep throat of the pit, and Francesco said, “He will be up? Radu is awakening? Is that what you’re saying?”
Oh, ha-ha-ha! The pit-thing laughed in their minds. Suddenly I have your attention in full, eh? And what is this I smell: sweat on your flesh, and cold? Do you tremble? And is that fear in your blood, Francesco mine? Can you feel that great hound’s fangs gnawing at your throat, tearing you even now? Oh, ha-ha-haaaa!
The Old Ferenczy’s mad laughter slowly faded away, and in a while his “voice” continued to sound, but low and yet more sinister and sibilant now:
You and them that you control can handle the moon-child and her bitch pack well enough I fancy. But my dreams have shown me someone else: a glimpse, nothing more. A man, someone in thrall to her and under her spell. A stranger. Yesss! And indeed he is a strange one! He has…talents, which as yet I cannot fathom. In my dreams he comes and goes…hard to explain. Ah, but one thing is certain: He makes Bonnie Jean’s existence so much more dangerous to us, which might well mean that the dog-Lord Radu’s future rising—an event which was only a possibility until now—has become a probability.
In the far past Radu was…oh, he was powerful! The Drakuls were likewise strong, but they feared Radu. Which is why it behooves us to deal with his guardian moon-child and put an end to the bitch pack that she controls, along with her new champion, who or whatever he may be. As for how this may be achieved: alas that I personally can do nothing. For while my sons are up and about I…must remain down. But through me you have established yourselves in the world. You have resources: your wealth and power, a sufficiency of vampire thralls, and the ability to make more. Wherefore you must devise a scheme to destroy Radu’s guardian pack, and when that is accomplished to kill the sleeping dog-Lord himself. Aye, and preferably in his sleep…
So then, what is your response?
“We have a number of thralls, agents, abroad in the world,” said Anthony. “I think we should choose the members of a powerful team and let them deal with the Mirlu woman and her thralls.”
No! (The brothers sensed the shake of what passed for their changeling father’s head, in whatever shape it was now.) Do not rely on them who are your agents and informers abroad. They are established—your sleepers in the world—and should be kept that way: hidden, covert. You cannot afford to have them reveal themselves; you will certainly need them in times to come. What is more, to band such men together is not a good idea…what, when they might decide that they are stronger than you? No, for I have dreamed it that you will send someone else—a lone man to perform this task, having first supplied him with an invisible weapon that the moon-child and her pack will find baneful even unto death. Aye, and your man shall unleash a plague upon Bonnie Jean and her ladies, one which they cannot survive!
“An invisible weapon?” Francesco frowned as he repeated the pit-thing’s words, voicing his puzzled query. “But what exactly do you have in mind, Father? What kind of weapon?”
All that I have told you is for you to fathom! the thing in the pit answered, his telepathic voice rising and seething more yet as he began to babble. Have I not stated that my dreams are incomplete? If I could tell you more I would, but the future is a vast confusion of things that are, things that may be, and—stranger by far—things that have been! Ah, you think me mad! I see it in your minds. Well perhaps I am. But what of it? What comes to me in dreams is the source of your power; what I learn of the future is a guide that you can follow. Oh, ha-ha-haaa! I am in agony! The stretching and flowing is upon me, and my pain is so great that it is almost a pleasure. But let me…let me show you…show you something of what your father has become!
They knew what their father had become, and moved back from the pit as something rose up its shaft—something that surged like rising dough in an oven, overflowing itself, churning like so much pale red-and purple-veined lava—something with eyes, some of which saw but others that were glazed, blind and insensate in features that formed, collapsed and reformed on a great bloated mushroom of a head and the heaving flesh supporting it!
An extension—it could have been a rubbery, inflated hand—reached up to touch the electrified grill. Only a touch, but knowing, tentative; until hot blue sparks arced and sputtered, and it was at once snatched back!
And with the cavern’s glaring lights and electrical systems buzzing and flickering, with the shadows advancing and retreating, dancing on the hewn rock walls and stalactite ceiling, the Francezcis backed off and shielded their minds as best possible against the pit-thing’s mental shrieks of pain, rage, and loathing as it sank down once more into its prison.
In a moment more the systems settled down again and the Old Ferenczy’s insane and seething thoughts were withdrawn, shrinking into his melting mind. Then as the brothers departed, climbing up through the foundations and cellars of Le Manse Madonie, all that remained of their father above the well’s wall was the stench of alien, singed flesh and a drifting waft of foul black smoke that quickly dispersed.
Francesco was silent during the climb, but as they emerged into the upper floors he spoke up. “That old bastard down there deserves his ‘tribute’ I suppose, but I only wish he didn’t put on me so. He has never liked me, not before his change and certainly not now! But his words—what he raved about sending just one man on this mission, and something else he said about bringing down a plague on Bonnie Jean and her lot—that has set my mind to workin
g. He may find the future deceptive; he knows the requirement but stops short at understanding the means, but the answer is in his words, I’m sure.”
“You’re sure?” Anthony repeated him. “Then tell me, what do we do?”
Francesco nodded and looked thoughtfully at his brother. “I think we should first contact our chemist friend in Bulgaria about not one plague but two, or perhaps even three. And, if he can fulfil our needs, then we must find—how shall I put it?—our plague-bearer, a means of delivery. One man, and preferably one that we’ve found wanting from time to time. Why ruin a good thrall if we can make one last use of a bad one, eh?” And chuckling darkly to himself, for the moment he would say no more…
II
Several weeks later, on the white sand beach at Crimdon Dene on England’s north-east coast, Harry Keogh caught himself giving more than his usual amount of thought and attention to the monstrous subject of vampires; more specifically, their diversity. Because unlike other men—such as the horror movie-makers, the writers of weird romances, or tellers of tall tales in general; and for the time being leaving aside the large percentage of so called “superstitious” or “unenlightened” or “backward” peoples worldwide who were castigated for such “outrageous beliefs”—the Necroscope knew for a fact that indeed such beings existed. And not just the half-or once-human variety that inhabited the pages of macabre novels or late-night cinema screens.
Oh, Harry had known his fair share of the real thing—much more than his fair share—but recently he’d been given to wonder about the possibly unfair attitude of rather more run-of-the-mill men than he himself, not only to the so-called, allegedly fictional undead but also to the actual, factual Desmodus and/or Diphylla; and, to remain in the realm of the scientifically accepted or acknowledged, not merely to the bats of such loathsome habits but to each and every other of the entire catalogue of blood-sucking species.