Necroscope: Harry and the Pirates: And Other Tales From the Lost Years

by Brian Lumley

  Intensely curious now, Harry enquired: “When was that, and in what connection was it mentioned?”

  In yet another story, Necroscope: a tale I heard from one of Billy’s shipmates—a younger man called Will Moffat—who was hanged from a gibbet next to Billy, right here on this wide harbour wall. That was . . . oh, a long time ago, even as much as three hundred years but certainly not far short!

  “Tried as pirates, found guilty and hung for their crimes: Will and Billy both.” Harry slowly nodded. “It explains Billy’s unmarked plot in the old cemetery . . . at least he was buried in hallowed ground! But on the other hand, where’s Will?”

  Rotted all away on his gibbet, said Erik. Which some said was a crime in itself, not simply because of his youth but also by reason of him not being right in the head. He’d taken such a clout to his skull that it shook his brain and left a scar that might even have rivalled my own! But where I had kept my senses Will’s were robbed away. In death he got ’em back, and that was when I got to hear his story. The two of us being cut from much the same cloth, as it were, we could at least commune with each other if not with anyone else. But you’d understand far better, Necroscope, if you’d let me tell it as I heard it.

  Another story? Harry was torn two ways; the ancient graveyard called out to him and he wondered if he had time for this. And yet some instinct informed him that what the Viking knew of Will Moffat’s story could be of great importance; that it might even be the key to all that was weird and mysterious here. But:

  “Why can’t Will tell his own story?” he enquired.

  Because Will’s no longer here, said the Viking. Because he moved on many years ago. Something of a measure of the way he’d lived his life, I suppose. Shanghaied as little more than a pup, he had been forcefully apprenticed, as it were. Oh, he’d become a pirate in the end, because that was all he’d known! But someone somewhere has seen reason to forgive him, and now he’s gone from here. Maybe one day me and mine will likewise be gone from here. Surely there are places in Valhalla even for Vikings such as us? At any rate we hope so.

  What, signs of conscience? In a blunt and boastful Viking? Pleasantly surprised, Harry nodded his approval. “I’m sure that you’ll get there eventually,” he said. “But before then I think maybe I should hear Will’s story.”

  I shall gladly repeat it, said Erik. But first . . . listen! As he paused abruptly, dramatically, Harry could almost picture him cocking his head on one side in an attitude of intense concentration. Until: Now tell me, Erik finally continued, what do you make of that?

  Harry listened, frowned, then answered sourly, “That’s the Great Majority. I don’t know what they’re up to—it’s all very strange to me—but it seems they’re throwing up another deadspeak wall.”

  Indeed they are! the Viking replied. But that wall they’re erecting now, it isn’t between you and me, Necroscope. No, it’s between us and a certain ancient graveyard! Now why is that, do you suppose?

  In answer to which, for the moment, Harry was silent—

  —Until in a little while, changing the subject:

  “I may already know some of Will’s story,” he said, as the Viking made ready to begin. “If it is the same story, then it’s likely I’ve heard it to the point where Will and a woman called Zhadia set up a sort of, well, a refuge you might call it, on a jungled island where pirates of all kinds could feel reasonably safe from the justice of their various authorities. I also know that Captain Jake Johnson—called ‘Black’ Jake—was intent on finding, wreaking vengeance on Will, and taking back Zhadia, who the youth had stolen away from him. Oh, and the story also contains something about a shawl or cloak of shimmering golden sky-stuff.”

  So then! said the incorporeal reaver. It is most certainly the same story! And this is how it continues:

  “Will Moffat knew that sooner or later Black Jake Johnson would hear of his tropical island venture, his den of various iniquities, and come looking for him, just as he’d looked before when Will and Zhadia were hiding in the jungle; for which reason the wily youth kept lookouts among the local peoples in the coastal towns, harbours, and even remote bays where the crews of vessels were wont to come ashore openly, or sometimes covertly, depending on their status or situation. These lookouts that Will used were paid in coins, rum, and promises: just enough to help them maintain an interest in his well-being.

  “So that even as Jake careened the Sea Witch in just such a remote bay, there torturing one or two locals for their knowledge, Will learned that his ex-master, this brutal pirate, was coming for him. And he made what preparations he could, because he knew that this time Black Jake must surely find him. In fact Will was resigned to the fact that however long Jake took about it, the brute would eventually find him; it wasn’t in the man’s nature to leave unanswered such a slight as he had suffered.

  “And with his ship stripped, careened on her side, and the bulk of his crew at work scraping and patching her bottom, Jake disguised himself as best possible, and along with Billy Browen and two other worthies took up what weapons he could manage and set off into the jungle to pay Will Moffat a visit.

  “Meanwhile Will and Zhadia had prospered; or rather, truth to tell, in certain ways they had prospered—in their finances most definitely, in other ways not at all: more of which later, as the story unfolds—until their sanctuary at the base of a jungled hill had grown from a ramshackle, mosquito-ridden bolt-hole to a township of many leaning shacks with a central building which in its time must have been a veritable mansion. As big and bigger than the largest Viking meeting hall that I ever got drunk in, it was constructed on two levels that backed into the steep hillside, and the entire upper floor belonged to Will and Zhadia.

  “Now, I’ve spoken of young Will’s preparations, which were basic at best. He had informed certain of his patrons—half-a-dozen men, once members of the crew of the Sea Witch—of Black Jake’s imminent arrival, and he’d placed a bounty on that one’s head. Each man of the six had a ‘pistol,’ unheard-of weapons in Viking times, which fired small metal balls at such speeds that they would enter a man’s heart and kill him! And of course they had knives and swords. And Will himself was likewise equipped.

  “All very well, but what Black Jake had in addition to his weapons was a reputation for ferocity, cruelty, and most of all an astonishing longevity! For he’d committed piracy across what young Will was wont to call ‘the seven seas,’ oceans unknown in Viking times. He’d fought battles galore, not only with law officers and military men on land and sea, but with other hardened pirates too. He’d ground down as many crews as rotten teeth and still come through it all unscathed! Which was why the hard men who went with him to Will’s and Zhadia’s refuge were mainly unafraid of what might await them; the boldness, outrageous luck, and fighting skill of their chief—to say nothing of their own prowess in a battle—was sure to protect and keep them safe.

  “As for ‘Mister’ Billy Browen: well it’s possible he might have had his own agenda—not that events would work out in his favour, not ultimately—but that is to jump too far ahead, and this is a tale that should be allowed to unfold in its own good time. . . .

  “So then, with the rains coming on, Jake and his men trekked the jungled interior, and because Will’s lookouts sheltered from the weather they failed to intercept the Sea Witch’s captain and comrades-in-arms until that quartet was at the steps to the central structure’s entrance. Which was when Jake came face-to-face with two of the six who had jumped ship on him—one of whom paid for his desertion with a single sword thrust, and the other with a razor-sharp blade across his windpipe.

  “Then out of the rain and into the gaming area, which was bordered by bar rooms and the curtained alcoves of common prostitutes, stepped Black Jake and his men. Disguised and dripping wet, dispersing within the great smoky room, they moved quickly among the gamblers, whores, and rum-soaked revelers, where three more ex-members of the Sea Witch’s company were soon discovered and dealt with as quietly
as possible. Until the sole surviving deserter—realizing what was happening: that ex-comrades, now murderous foemen, had infiltrated the jungled den and commenced a killing spree—raised a belated alarm before fleeing for his life.

  “By then, with their presence only just discovered, Black Jake’s avengers had come together again at the foot of sweeping stairs that climbed to a high, bead-curtained balcony overlooking in its entirety the hall of thronging gamers and roisterers. There on the stairs Jake’s raiders were confronted by a pair of fat eunuchs wielding curving, broad-bladed swords, which proved of no use at all against point-blank pirate pistols; and in any case the time for stealth was now well past.

  “Shot dead, the Arabs were felled; their blood flowed down the stairs while Jake and his party threw themselves up and on. And there at the sweep of the balcony they were met by two more eunuchs who they engaged with shot, swords, and knives.

  “Meanwhile a majority of the drunken revellers in the great hall had woken up to the invasion, and because Jake and his men had disposed of their disguises, the roaring pirate Captain and his party had at last been recognized for the terrible men that they really were. Now down below—as cards and dice were scattered, tables overturned, and good rum spilled—a crush of both sober and sodden men, and shrieking whores alike, all surged in a panic for the crowded defile of the exit.

  “But the pistol shots and screams—the uproar in general—had finally alerted others in the upstairs rooms, and now on the balcony stood a figure wrapped in a remarkable golden robe: Zhadia, of course, whose face was beautiful as always while yet seeming strangely vacant. And appearing alongside her, who else but young Will Moffat, who despite his rich raiment seemed likewise listless and withdrawn—and perhaps even resigned?—with eyes deep sunken in a sallow face.

  “For a moment—one moment only—the tableau was frozen . . . then with his shortsword held high, with his dark eyes blazing and crooked teeth grinding, Black Jake rushed upon the pair. Young Will managed to put himself between his former master and Zhadia, the while fumbling a pistol from his silken sash—only to have it tumble from his palsied hand! Incredible, when with a twitch of just one finger he could have shot Black Jake Johnson stone dead! Ah, but Will’s hands weren’t what they used to be!

  “Then Jake was upon him: with a ‘Hah!’ he raised his sword higher, and with a ‘Ho!’ brought it down on Will’s head. It cut him deep, flattening him to the floor with a great bloody gouge in his skull. And now Jake straddled him, and up went his shortsword one more time. At which—

  “—The strangest thing! For that was when ‘Mister’ Billy Browen shouldered Black Jake aside away from the more than half-stunned youth, and met his downward-hurtling blade with that of his own weapon, which causing sparks to fly and Jake to curse! And before the astonished Captain could explode in fury:

  “ ’Now hold!’ cried Billy, backing off beyond the immediate reach of his gape-mouthed master’s wrath. And: ‘Cap’n darlin’,’ he continued, ‘Will’s no more than a lad! Don’t go killin’ him, Jake! For there’s nothin’ to be gained—no fame or glory in it for you—naught but shame if it get out that you killed a mere whelp, and for nothin’ more than to spite a treacherous woman!’

  “All of this from young Will Moffat’s mouth, you’ll understand, just as he repeated it to me while he hung there rotting on a gibbet’s arm; he having been aware of Billy’s pleas on his behalf, where he’d writhed on the floor in a bloody daze.

  “Now through all of this Zhadia had stood there, pale as a beautiful ghost, looking this way and that but blankly, with no expression whatsoever; she had to be in shock: which Black Jake and his men must surely have believed was the case. And now the cuckold—the cheated Captain—turned his rage upon her.

  “He went to cut her down, barely in time checked the blow, and very nearly choked on the word as he called her a whore! He snatched at a loose corner of her golden gown where it lay flat to her shoulder, snarling: “All covered in gold, are we? And is yer body so very precious when a mere boy can have it for his pleasure whenever he fancies it, eh? And what of all those rum-soaked swabs down below? . . . How many of them have seen what’s under that glitterin’ rag? Ye treacherous whore!

  “With which he yanked on the sky-stuff to rip it from her. But instead of tearing it simply unwound from Zhadia, as of its own accord; which with the force of Jake’s tugging set her spinning, then staggering and toppling, as naked as a newborn child but by no means as pure, as the shimmering robe floated free of her. Naked she was, aye, poor creature . . . a poor lost soul, in a body that was no longer beautiful but hideously transformed!

  “Moving in and out of consciousness, Will saw her and realised that what he’d been imagining ever since Zhadia first wore the golden thing—or ever since it first wore her!—was now reality. Black Jake saw it, too; he snatched back his hand in a frenzied attempt to break free of the weird mesh that was burning him like slow fire! He went to slash at it, cut it with his sword’s sharp blade, but it wouldn’t cut! And now as he cursed, stumbled, stamped, and hauled on his trapped hand, so the languidly wafting sky-stuff suddenly quickened and became imbued of a terrible purpose! In another moment it had wrapped Black Jake as in the scaly coils of some weird sea serpent!

  “As Jake staggered to and fro with his black eyes starting out, down from within the golden sheath which now enveloped him fell the smoking ruins of his customary garments: scraps of his leather jacket, sailcloth trousers, melting silk shirt and sash. Also his weapons: all tumbling free from where he’d lodged them about his person, all black and smouldering as if painted with hot tar!

  “He tottered there, obviously in agony, but such was Black Jake’s enormous strength that he refused to go down! And all he said was this, which young Will heard clearly enough, before he passed out from his wound:

  “ ‘Look after me, Mister—and look after this young bastard, too—’ With a kick in the ribs for Will. ‘Aye, for I’m not yet done with this one. Ooh! Argh!’ With which Jake’s eyes sort of glazed over, and his mouth went slack; the pain was gone but so was his mind, most of it. And that was all young Will Moffat knew of things for a while, except that before he passed out he looked again at Zhadia where she’d fallen to the floor, and saw what he’d been caring for ever since the first time she dressed herself in the sky-stuff:

  “From her neck up she was the same as ever, likewise from her knees down; but the shape she’d shown when swathed in gold, that had been a disguise, as false—or as normal?—in appearance as that sky-stuff had wanted her to look! For now she was a hag! No more the ravishing Zhadia, not in that ravished body, but an old, old woman: indeed a hag! Her breasts like withered, tattered sacks lying flat on her ribs, several of which showed ivory white and yellow where the sere skin had shrunk back from them. Her belly: blotched, blackened, and wrinkled; shriveled to leather like a dead thing laid out in the sun too long. And Zhadia’s once-seductive, once-supple thighs and softly curving rump: now no more than skin over bone—and lacking even skin in more places than one!

  “Young Will Moffat saw her like that, aye, and knew that his worst fears for her were realised. For in all those months since she first donned that robe—or thing, whatever it was—he had never been able to touch her. Oh, he’d tried, which accounted for the ruined claws he now wore for hands! And he also knew it for an act of mercy when Billy Browen cried his horror and loathing, then did for Zhadia what his Captain should have done, taking her head with his cleanly shining sword . . . !”

  The Necroscope felt torn two ways. Now that Erik Haroldson had lost much of his bluster his manner of expression and deadspeak phrasing had acquired a genuine eloquence; there was no denying that he knew how to tell a tale. Nor could there be too much of Erik’s—or young Will Moffat’s, or Billy Browen’s—story left to tell . . . and yet Harry felt a powerful compulsion, an urgent need, to return to the old graveyard and the last-mentioned ex-pirate.

  These were the Necroscope’s thoughts during
the short interval while Erik paused and considered the best way to continue his narrative: unshielded thoughts that issued into the psychic aether as deadspeak, of course; to which, in such close proximity, the incorporeal Viking was privy. And something in what he had heard at once goaded him to a sharp enquiry:

  What? Is it really so, Necroscope?

  The tiny harbour’s promenade and sea wall in the immediate vicinity were deserted, prompting Harry to use common speech as he gave himself a shake and replied: “Eh? Is what so?”

  Why, that you’re feeling a strange compulsion to return to that old graveyard! If so, I beg you not to be in such a hurry. I fear there’s danger in it, which the rest of this story might in part explain.

  Harry gave an impatient sigh, shuffled about to adjust his position on the cold stone wall, and finally said, “Very well—but I’m pretty sure Billy Browen will think it unfair of us. He commenced this story, after all; you’ve continued it . . . surely he should be the one to finish it! Don’t you think so?”

  What I think, the Viking answered, is that you should hear the rest of it from me. Or at least enough that you can make up your own mind.

  And now it was Harry’s turn to query: “But make up my mind about what?”

  Ah, if only I knew for sure! the other answered, in such a way that the Necroscope could sense the frustrated shake of his head.

  Then, before Harry could change his mind, the Viking continued the story. . . .

  “Billy Browen’s party was now reduced to himself and two others from the Sea Witch’s crew, so how exactly they contrived to get wounded Will Moffat and the bereft Black Jake Johnson through a tropical jungle and back to the beached vessel is beyond my ken. Young Will himself—after he regained something of his senses to find himself aboard the Sea Witch, with ‘Mister’ Billy Browen in command—could remember nothing of it, which should explain my own uncertainty.