Necroscope 4: Deadspeak

by Brian Lumley

  Oh, I’ve talked to a lot worse than you, Seth, Harry told him. And anyway, it’s my guess you were just another victim, like so many others. I don’t think you could help what you’d become.

  I couldn’t, oh I couldn’t! the other answered, with obvious relief. For five and a half long years I was just a …a fly in his web. He was my master; I was in thrall to him; nothing I did was of my own free will.

  I know, Harry told him, but they like to pretend it is. I suppose that even knowing it’s a lie, still it’s the one salve to their conscience: that you are theirs of your own free will.

  Conscience? Armstrong’s spirit was bitter. Don’t make me laugh, Harry. Creatures such as Janos Ferenczy never suffered such common complaints!

  You’re glad to be free of him, then? So why the remorse? You’re as one with the teeming dead now. Which, as so many of them have told me, isn’t as bad as you might think.

  Oh? said Armstrong. And do you honestly believe the dead will wish anything to do with me?

  Harry thought about it a moment, then said: Two of them, at least, that I can think of. And probably more. What of your parents, Seth?

  He sensed the other’s nod. Dead some time ago, yes. But… do you think …?

  I think that when you’ve got yourself together, it might be a good idea to try and reach them, said Harry. As for the Great Majority: who can say? Maybe they won’t come down on you as hard as you think. Certainly I can put in a good word for you.

  And you’d do that?

  Why don’t you ask the dead about me, said Harry, when the time comes? I think they’ll tell you I’m not such a bad sort. But until then there’s a favour you could do for me.

  Armstrong’s thoughts turned bitter again. Nothing for nothing, eh? Even here.

  No, you’ve got it all wrong, Seth, said Harry. Turn me down, it will make no difference. I’ll still ask them to go easy on you. You’re dead and burned away, and as all the rest of them know, you can’t be any more punished than that.

  What is it you want to know?

  Janos has gone now, Harry told him, out of Rhodes, probably out of the islands. And he took the woman—I suppose you’d say my woman—with him. I want to know where he is.

  She’s the bait in his trap, I suppose you know that?

  Oh, yes, I know. But I’d go after him anyway.

  Then go to Romania.

  Harry groaned. It was the worst possible scenario. I’ve just been to Romania, he said. It won’t be so easy a second time.

  Nevertheless, that’s where he is. His castle in the mountain heights over Halmagiu. He said you were his only living enemy and the greatest possible enemy, and that when he met you it must be there, on his terms and in his territory. He read it that way, and that’s how he’ll play it. But Harry … I hope you didn’t love that girl.

  Don’t! Harry gritted his teeth, shook his head, rejected the unthinkable pictures Armstrong’s words had conjured. Instinctive reactions to something he’d hoped would not be mentioned. Don’t tell me about that.

  Armstrong was silent, but the Necroscope could sense his sympathy and even his … remorse? And suddenly Harry knew. He’d suspected it might be so, but had tried to keep it out of his mind. Until now. It was you who took her for him, right?

  Armstrong was sobbing again. It changes everything, doesn’t it? he said. But it was a statement of fact, not a question. Yes, he got into her mind, and I took her to him.

  Harry didn’t rave, didn’t curse, but simply stood up and walked away, with his head down.

  Darcy and Manolis came after him, looked at him and at each other, and asked no questions. Behind them the incinerator’s furnace hissed and roared, and a man sobbed rackingly, but only Harry Keogh could hear him.

  And despite his promises, Harry didn’t care …

  Later, back at the hotel where Harry had arranged for a room of his own, he tried to contact Möbius. He reached out his Necroscope’s awareness to a place he knew well indeed: the graveyard in Leipzig where August Ferdinand Möbius’s mortal remains had lain buried for one hundred and twenty years, but from which his mathematician’s and astronomer’s immortal mind had gone out to explore the universe. And:

  Sir? said Harry, showing his usual respect. August? It’s me, Harry Keogh. I know it’s been some time since I was in touch, but I’d hoped I could talk to you again.

  He waited but there was no response, just an aching void. It was about what he’d expected: the man who had taught him how to venture into and use an otherwise entirely conjectural fifth dimension was out there even now, doing his own thing along the Möbius way. Harry couldn’t tell how long he’d been away, or even hazard a guess as to when he was likely to be back, if he would be back.

  But if Harry was ever to achieve a balance of power with Janos, Möbius was his one hope. And so he kept trying: for an hour, then two, until finally Darcy came knocking at his door. “Any luck?” he said, when the Necroscope opened the door for him.

  Harry shook his head. And perhaps surprisingly, in the circumstances: “I’m hungry,” he said.

  They all three ate out, at a taverna of Manolis’s recommendation; and there, during the course of their meal, Harry outlined a possible course of action as he saw it:

  “Manolis,” he said, “I need to get into Hungary. Budapest initially, and from there to Halmagiu across the border. That’s a distance of about one hundred and fifty miles. Once I’m in I can travel by road or rail; I’ll be a “tourist”, of course. As for getting across the border into Romania, I’m not sure. I can work on that when I get there. How long will it take to fix me up with documentation?”

  Manolis shrugged. “You don’t need any. Your English passport says you’re an “author”; it has a Greek entry stamp; quite obviously you are the genuine tourist, or perhaps the author doing his research. You can simply fly to Budapest via Athens. Tomorrow, if you wish it. No problem.”

  “As simple as that?”

  “Hungary is not Romania. The restrictions are less severe. In fact Romanians are fleeing to Hungary every day. When will you go?”

  “Three or four days,” Harry answered. “As soon as we’re finished up here. But as I’ve said before, where Janos is concerned time is no longer of the essence. I believe he’ll simply hole up in the Transylvanian mountains and wait for me. He knows I’ll come eventually.”

  Manolis looked at him, and looked away. Time not of the essence,” the Greek mumbled, shaking his head a little.

  “All right,” said Harry at once, a harsh, unaccustomed edge to his voice, “and I know what’s bothering you. Look, I’ll try to explain as simply as possible. And then for Christ’s sake and mine both let’s drop it! Either Janos has already vampirized Sandra or he hasn’t. If he hasn’t, then he’s keeping her as his ace in the hole, in case I come up with something unexpected, in which case she’ll be a bargaining point. But that’s only the way I hope it is, not the way I think it is. And if he has changed her … then given only half a chance I’ll do my level best to kill her! For her sake. But right now if I concentrate on Sandra to the exclusion of everything else, then obviously I won’t be able to think straight. And we all of us need to think straight. Now, I know you think I’m a cold one, Manolis, but is everything understood?”

  Manolis shook his head. “Not cold,” he said, “just very strong. I simply needed reminding, that’s all. You see, Harry, some of us are not so strong.”

  Harry sighed and nodded. “I think you’ll do,” he said. He picked up his glass of rich red wine.

  Darcy said: “So, three or four days before you head for Hungary, right? And between times? You think it’s time we took on the rest of them, right?”

  “That’s exactly what I think,” Harry answered. “Janos has men, or vampires, at his dig in Halki. It’s possible there are others on his island, and there’s also the crew of his boat. Which makes quite a few of them, and we don’t yet know how dangerous they are. I mean, if they’re all vampires then they’re all
dangerous,—but there are vampires and vampires. Janos is … one hell of a vampire! By comparison the rest of them won’t be too hard to handle. No harder than Armstrong was, anyway.”

  “Jesus!” said Manolis, crossing himself. “You don’t think the American was hard enough?”

  “Oh yes I do,” said Harry. “I was just thinking out loud, remembering some of the things I saw on Starside. But right here and now … Manolis, you’ve seen how effective a crossbow firing hardwood bolts can be. So what can Rhodes supply in the way of special weaponry?”

  “Crossbows? I don’t think so. Next best thing: spearguns!”

  Harry started to shake his head, then stopped and narrowed his eyes. “With steel spears, right?”

  “Steel harpoons, yes,” Manolis nodded, and he wondered what Harry was thinking. The Necroscope didn’t keep him in suspense.

  “Do we have silver-plating facilities? A factory or plant that can put a sheath of silver on a handful of harpoons?” Manolis’s eyes opened wide. “Certainly!” he beamed. “Very well, let’s buy ourselves two or three high-performance spearguns. Can we leave that to you?”

  “Tomorrow morning, first thing. I am the spear-fisherman and know these guns. The best model is called “Champion”, Italian manufacture, with single or double rubbers. Using a single barb, with a metal flap that opens on making a strike … they will be quite as effective as your crossbow.”

  “Rubbers?” Darcy Clarke wasn’t much for water sports.

  Harry explained: “These guns use rubber hurlers for propulsion. They’re pretty deadly. Slow to load, though, so we’ll need single, powerful rubbers. Manolis, better make it half a dozen guns. And Darcy, I think it’s time you called in extra help. I don’t think it will be too difficult to find three or four volunteers from your lot back in London.”

  “E-Branch?” Darcy answered. “They’re just waiting for the word! I’ll bring in the blokes from the Bodescu job. I can get on it just as soon as we’re finished here.”

  “Good,” Harry nodded. “But it might be a good idea to get it started even before they get out here. I think our first priority has to be Halki. We know there are only a couple of Janos’s creatures there. And actually, we don’t yet know that they are “creatures”! They could be men pure and simple, dupes in his pay, who don’t know what they’re working for. Well, I’ll only have to see them to know them. Manolis, how long will it take to get those spears—er, harpoons—silvered up?”

  “By tomorrow night?”

  “And how long to Halki?”

  “In a fast boat,” Manolis shrugged, “two hours, two and a half at most. It sits in the sea only a few miles from the island of Rhodes, but fifty miles down the coast from Rhodes Town, where we are now. Halki’s only a little place. A big rock in the sea. One village with a couple of little tavernas, one short road, some mountains, and one Crusader castle.”

  “Tomorrow’s Wednesday,” said Harry. “If you can fix us up with a boat and a pilot by Thursday morning, we can easily be there before midday. So that’s what we’ll aim for. Between times, is there any chance of taking a look at this “fang of rock” that Janos is buying in the Dodecanese?”

  Manolis shook his head. “That would take the best part of a day. I suggest we do Halki Thursday morning, and go straight on to have a look at Karpathos and this bay close to the airport where the Lazarus is laid up. Incidentally, both Halki and Karpathos lie in what used to be called the “Carpathian Sea”! This vampire, he likes to feel at home, eh?”

  Harry nodded. “I fancy it’s a coincidence. A funny one, but a coincidence anyway. But I agree with you on the rest of what you said. And in any case, we should have reinforcements from E-Branch by Thursday evening. Friday will be soon enough to take a look at Janos’s 20th-century aerie.”

  Harry’s large steak, rare, without vegetables, must surely be cold by now. He hadn’t yet touched it and the others had long since finished eating. He shrugged and ate anyway. It was a long time since he’d tasted meat so rare and bloody. In fact he couldn’t remember the time. And the deep red wine was good, too. And to himself, wrily: If you can’t beat ‘em, join ‘em!

  Maybe Manolis was right and he was a cold one after all …

  A message was waiting for them back at the hotel: a Sister at the asylum has requested that Inspector Papastamos call her back. Manolis did so immediately. He spoke on the phone in his usual rapid-fire Greek, with long pauses between each burst, while Harry and Darcy watched his face going through a variety of expressions: from wary and inquiring to astonishment, then disbelief, and finally sheer delight. And at last he was able to translate the message back to them.

  “Trevor Jordan is much improved!” he almost shouted, his face a huge smile. “He is conscious, talking, making sense! Or at least he was. They made him take food, then gave him a shot to put him down for the night. But before he slept he said he wanted to see you, Harry. They say you can see him first thing in the morning.”

  Darcy and Harry looked wonderingly at each other, and Darcy said, “What do you make of it?”

  For a moment Harry was bewildered. He frowned and scratched his chin. “Maybe … maybe distance has put him beyond Janos’s reach? I had thought his condition was permanent—that his mind had been tampered with, like mine—but maybe Janos isn’t up to that. Maybe he isn’t that good. Hell, who cares? Whatever it is, it sounds like good news to me. We’ll just have to wait until the morning to find out.

  XIII: First Contact—

  The Challenge—

  Thralls

  BEFORE HE WENT TO SLEEP, HARRY TRIED AGAIN TO CONTACT Möbius. It was useless; his deadspeak went out to Möbius’s grave in Leipzig, but no one answered. One of the reasons Harry had delayed pursuing Janos was that he’d hoped (hope against hope) to regain his numeracy—and through it access to the Möbius Continuum. This had been his plan but … it was fading now, possibly into oblivion.

  Still worrying about it, eventually he slept.

  But his obsession of the moment was carried over into his dreams where, separated from the lesser problems and diversions of the waking world, Harry continued to transmit his thoughts across that Great Dark Gulf which men called Death. Many of the teeming dead in their graves heard him, would answer or comfort him, but dared not. None of them was the one he sought; communication for its own sake would be pointless; they knew that their commiserations, even their inevitable approbations, would only constitute obstructions in Harry’s path. For the Necroscope had never been able to refuse conversation with the dead, whose suffering of solitude he alone of all living men understood.

  There was one among the dead, however, who—for all that she loved him more than the rest—stood much less in awe of him. Indeed, on a good many occasions she had chided him. The mothers of men are like that.

  Harry? her deadspeak touched him. Can you hear me, son?

  He sighed and abandoned his search for Möbius. There had been that in her tone which commanded his attention. What is it, Ma?

  What is it? (He could picture her frown.) Is that how you speak to me, Harry?

  Ma, he sighed again, and tried to explain, I’ve been busy. And what I’m doing is important. You don’t know how important.

  Do you think so? she answered. Do you really think I don’t know? But who knows you better than me, Harry? Well, I know this much, anyway—that you’re wasting your time!

  Harry’s dreaming mind played with her words and found no explanation for them. Nor would he unless she was willing to supply one. She picked that up at once and flew at him in the closest she’d ever come to a rage. What!? And would you take that attitude? Would you take your impatience out on me? Well, the dead might prize you, but they don’t know you like I do. And Harry, you … are … a … trouble!

  Ma, I—

  You, you, you! Always you! And are you the only one? Who is this T you’re always mentioning, Harry? And why is it you never speak of “we”? Why must you always think you’re alone? Of all men you
are not alone! For a million years men have died and lain silent in the dark, thinking their thoughts and following their solitary designs, each separate from the next but joined in the belief that death was an airless, lightless (oh, yes, and painless too!) but relentless prison … until a small bright light named Harry Keogh came along and said: “Why don’t you talk to me? I’ll listen. And then you might like to try talking to each other!” Ahhh! A revelation!

  Harry remained silent, didn’t know how to answer. Was she praising or chastising him? He had never heard her like this, not even when he was awake. She had never been so angry. And his Ma picked that up, too.

  Why am I angry? I don’t believe it! For years you couldn’t speak to me if you wanted to—not without killing yourself for it and finally when you can speak to me—

  Now he believed he understood, and knew that she was right, and hoped he also knew how to deal with it. Ma, he said, the others need to know about me, need to be reassured that there’s more than just loneliness in death. And they need to know that there’s safety in it, too. From such as Dragosani and the Ferenczys, and others of their sort. But there are so many of the dead—I have so many good friends amongst them—that I can’t ever hope to speak to them all. Not until I’m one of them, anyway. But you don’t need to know these things because you already know! Yes, and you’ve always known … that I love you, too, Ma. She was silent.

  So if there’s ever a time I don’t contact you, it’s because something very, very important is getting in the way. And Ma, that’s the way it’s always going to be … Ma?

  She was full to the top, which was why she wasn’t answering, but at least she wasn’t crying. Harry hoped not, anyway. And eventually she said: Oh, I know that, son. It’s just that I… I worry about you so. And the dead … they ask after you. Yes, and because they love you they go out of their way for you, too. Don’t you know that? Can’t you understand that we all want to help?-And don’t you know that there are experts among us—in every field—whose talents you’re wasting?