The Source (44 page)

Read The Source Online

Authors: Brian Lumley

BOOK: The Source
2.28Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
His first reaction, when he'd noticed the early changes,
had been to distrust the mirror, a distrust which had quickly turned to a strong dislike. Ridiculous for a man to dislike a mirror, but it was true, he did. He disliked
all
mirrors, probably because they reminded him of certain undeniable alterations, which he'd be only too happy to forget about.
The changes were … weird! He wouldn't have believed them possible.
He had positioned this mirror on the wall himself, so that his face would be exactly centered in the glass. But now he had to bend his knees a little to get the same effect. He had gained two or more full inches in height. That fact should have delighted him, who had always considered himself as being little more than a dwarf, but instead it terrified him. For he could actually feel the
ability
of his body to be tall! And if the vampiric growth continued—then someone would notice.
His hair, too, was undergoing something of a metamorphosis. Its dirty-grey down was darkening, showing signs of a long-delayed virility, and the halo was contracting toward the centre of his head's dome, filling itself in. No one had noticed that, either, but he supposed they must when finally the growth was complete. Why, already he looked—and felt—years younger. Felt ready now for … almost anything. And yet for a little while longer he must continue to play the part of the old Vasily. The old, despised, neglected and contemptuously treated Vasily …
Still gazing at himself, Agursky was surprised to feel a growl rising unbidden in this throat. It came up soft, purring from his chest, then thickened to a snarl. His lips curled back from his teeth—from his strong, white, animal teeth, whose canines had grown so as to interlock with each other more surely than they ever had in all his previous life—and he snarled like a beast! But he cut it off right there, took a grip on himself. For a moment there'd been a power in him like none he'd ever known before; and knowing where it came from,
he knew too that he must control it. As long as he could.
For at the Perchorsk Projekt, they had this habit of burning things like Vasily Agursky.
Finally he took off his thick-lensed spectacles. The old curved lenses were gone now, removed from their frames and disposed of. In their place, flat discs of common glass which he'd cut in the workshop: “eyepieces for my instruments,” as he'd explained it. No need now for aids to eyesight which had improved to an entirely incredible degree. Why, he could even see in the dark!
But in connection with his eyes, there was something else which might soon begin to show, though what he could do about that was quite beyond him to imagine. Contact lenses? By the time he could order and receive them it might well be too late. In a way that frightened him too, but in another way … it was fascinating.
Slowly he reached out a hand to the cord of the light-switch, gave it a single sharp tug.
Click!
—and the light went out.
But in the mirror two lesser lights had taken its place. Agursky couldn't suppress the strange smile, the wolfish grin, which spread over his darkly-mirrored features then. A smile in which the pupils of his eyes burned like tiny censers, filled with hell's own sulphur …
Harry and “Friends”—The Second Gate
HARRY HAD SLEPT THE CLOCK ROUND, AND TOWARD THE end he dreamed. Not knowing he dreamed, it seemed to him he had always existed in this timeless, lightless limbo, and that now someone called to him from far, far away.
Harry! Harry! You're asleep, Harry Keogh—but the dead are awake! They've begged a boon of me—of me!—whom hitherto they shunned utterly. And I have agreed to talk to you: but when I sought you out, I discovered only a sleeping mind. Jumbled memories and dreams and intricate mind-puzzles. Pictures of an existence beyond existence! A strange thing, your sleeping mind, Harry, and not one with which I may readily converse. So stir yourself! Faethor Ferenczy offers his services
…
Faethor? Harry snapped awake, sat bolt upright in his bed. Cold sweat drenched his brow, slimed his trembling limbs. A nightmare, yes: he'd dreamed that Faethor Ferenczy called to him in his sleep. A man shouldn't dream about creatures like Faethor, not even when they were dead and no longer capable of mischief. A dream like that was the worst possible omen. But—
A
dream?
The glutinous, far-away voice sounded again in Harry's Mobius-orientated mind.
A nightmare? Hardly
flattering, Harry!
And Faethor's ancient, dead-undead mental chuckle came across all the miles between, came unerringly, tingling at the edges of Harry's still sluggish perceptions. But he was awake now, and the thing was no longer nightmare but reality. It was his business; it was what a Necroscope is all about; and now that he knew it was real it was no longer frightening. His limbs stopped shaking and he peered about the room. The blinds were drawn but slices of light made faded bands on the wall opposite the windows. An electric bedside clock said that the time was three in the afternoon.
“Faethor?” Harry said. “The last time I spoke to you was at your old place under the Moldavian Alps. At that time I got the impression I'd heard the last from you. Has something changed that? Anyway, I'm still in your debt, so if there's something … ?”
What?
the other's dark chuckle was sly now, insinuating.
Something you can do for me? That's a fine macabre sense of humour you have there, Harry! No, there's nothing you can do for me. But perhaps there is something I can do for you. Didn't you hear what I said? Were you that deeply asleep? I said that the teeming dead have begged my assistance, and that I have agreed to help—if I can.
“Eh? The dead, talking to you?” Harry slowly shook his head in astonishment. “There must be something they want pretty badly.”
Aye, but not for themselves, Harry—for you! They've spoken to me of a quest, your quest, and asked for my guidance. And in this they've shown more wisdom than you. For who would know better the secret source of vampires than an ex-member of the Wamphyri himself, eh?
Harry gaped. The source of vampires! The place where they originated! The world in which they were spawned, to come through into this world—as they had now started to come through the Gate in Perchorsk!
“And do you know this secret source?” Harry couldn't
conceal the eagerness in his voice and thoughts. “Did you yourself come from that place?”
Myself? Was I once an inhabitant of that world of vampire legend? Ah, no, Harry—but my grandfather was.
“Your grandfather? Do you know where he lies, where his remains are buried?”
Buried? Old Belos Pheropzis? Alas, no, Harry. The Romans crucified and burned him a hundred years before your Christ. And my father: the last word I had of him was that he was lost at sea, somewhere off the mouths of the Danube in the Black Sea, in the Year 547. He was a mercenary for the Ostrogoths against Justinian, but of course he was on the wrong side. Ah, we Wamphyri were a fierce lot in our day! There was a living to be made, if you'd the stomach for it.
“Then how can you help me?” Harry was perplexed. “It seems to me that something like a thousand years separates your grandfather's era and yours. Whatever he knew about his origins—about this source world—must have died with him.”
But there are legends, Harry! There are memories, stories Old Belos told his son Waldemar, which he in turn passed down to me. They are as fresh now in my mind as they were the day I heard them. I kept them fresh, for they were the only Wamphyri history I was ever likely to know. I was still in thrall to my father at that time. If Thibor, that ingrate, had ever spent his apprenticeship with me, then I would have passed the legends down to him. But of course he never did. Now, if you in your turn would learn these things—which might well provide the clues you need to complete your quest—then come to me in my place and talk to me, as we talked once before.
Faethor's voice was faint now. Killed in a bombing raid in the Second World War and burned to ashes, what was left had seeped into the earth where once stood his house on the outskirts of Ploiesti toward
Bucharest. It must be an effort for one such as he to speak across all these miles, after all this time. On the other hand, Harry was well aware of the devious nature of the vampire—of all vampires. To his knowledge they rarely did anything which was not of benefit to themselves. But there again, in the past Faethor had not been orthodox. Harry could never “like” or ever really “trust” him, but he did in a way respect him.
“No strings?” he said.
Strings? I'm a dead thing, Harry. Nothing remains of
me but my voice. And only you can hear it—and the dead, of course, when they choose to listen. Even my voice is fading with the years. But . .
(Harry sensed his shrug)
do as you will. I am merely respecting the wishes of the dead.
Harry would have to be satisfied with that. “I'll come,” he told the other. “But as well as hungry for knowledge, I'm plain hungry too! Give me an hour and I'll be there.”
Take your time,
Faethor answered.
I've plenty of it. But do you remember the way?
His voice was dwindling now, shrinking into deep distances of mind.
“Oh, I remember it well enough!”
Then I'll wait for you. And then, perhaps, the Great Majority will see fit to leave me in peace …
 
Harry washed and shaved, had a change of clothes, “breakfasted” and contacted E-Branch. He quickly told Darcy Clarke what he'd done, and what he was about to do. Clarke offered a cautionary “take care” and Harry was ready.
He used the Möbius Continuum and went to Ploiesti.
 
The scene was much the same as it had been eight years earlier: Faethor's house on the outskirts of the town was one of several burned-out shells lying half-buried in heaps of overgrown rubble, stony corpses in what was otherwise open countryside. It was dark here, around
6:50 P.M. Middle European Time, but there was still enough light for Harry to find himself a tumbled wall and take a seat. And he had remembered the way: he could feel Faethor's presence lying like a shroud on the place, albeit one which was slowly returning to dust. A very faint nimbus of light glowed on the western horizon, beyond the Carpathians in the direction of home.
All around Harry was desolation, made worse by the feel of winter in the air. He shivered, but entirely because of the chill he could feel slowly working its way into his bones. In summer this place would have a certain wild beauty, when the old bomb craters would be masked by flowers and unchecked brambles, and the skeletal walls covered with lush ivy. In the winter, however, the snow would bring the perspective back to gaunt, monochrome reality. The devastation would be obvious, incapable of disguise. It would always be a reminder, and that was probably why the Romanians would never rebuild here.
One of the reasons, anyway,
Faethor agreed.
But I have always liked to believe that I was the main reason.
I
don't want people building here. Since Thibor destroyed my old place I've had several homes, but this was the last of them. This is where I am, so to speak. So now, when people come nosing around and I feel their footfalls—
“—You sort of gloom over the place. You exert an influence, your aura.”
You've noticed.
Harry shivered again, but still only from the cold. “How about your legends, Faethor?” he said. “I don't like to rush you, but I've never yet spoken to one of your sort who told me anything in plain, simple language! And time is precious. It could be that lives are at stake.”
At “stake”? An unfortunate choice of words. Do you mean human lives? In that other world? Ah, but they always have been!
“I mean lives which are important to me. You see, I think people have found a way into that place, that source world. Some of whom are, or were, very dear to me.”
He sensed Faethor's nod (for the fact is that people nod with their minds as well as their heads.)
So I have been informed—er, by the dead, of course. Very well, the legends:
“Wait,” said Harry. “First tell me what's in this for you? Oh, I know you've said there are no strings attached, but still I can't imagine you'll help me out of the goodness of your heart.”
Faethor's chuckle grew into a laugh. Not a pleasant thing.
Ah!—but you know us well, Harry Keogh. Very well, I'll tell you:
My grandfather, Belos, was exiled from his aerie, his world, his heritage, by the Wamphyri. He had grown
too
strong. They feared him mightily, and when their chance came they tricked, entrapped, expelled him. His lands and properties were stolen and he found himself here, in this world. He wasn't the first or the last, and if things don't change there may well be others still to come. Now I never knew Belos, who was dead before Waldemar passed on his egg to me, but I do know that if he had not been so badly treated then I would now be one of the Wamphyri in my rightful place—in the source world! When they expelled him they not only stole his heritage but denied Waldemar his after him and also mine. For that reason, and despite the years flown in between, Belos is worth avenging.
“You're going to help me find my way into that world for revenge?” Harry frowned. “I don't intend to look anyone up for you, Faethor. As I see it, it will be a case of in, rescue, retreat. I won't be staying there long enough to write off any old scores.”
Oh? And you know all about this place you're searching for, do you?
(A certain amusement in Faethor's
tone.)
Get in, rescue your loved ones, or whatever, and get out again. As simple as that …
“Something like that, yes.” But Harry was less certain now.
Again Faethor's shrug.
Well … possibly. But I see it differently. For after all, you are Harry Keogh! And the fact is that in your use of your special talents you have been a dire force against vampires in this world. You've dealt with my treacherous son Thibor, with Boris Dragosani, Yulian Bodescu—the list is impressive. My feeling is that when you enter into the source world, then things are almost bound to happen. I believe that you are the catalyst which will change, perhaps even destroy, the old balance. So all I require of you is this: that if the time should come and someone should ask you, “Who are you?”—then you will answer him that Belos sent you. Is that too much to ask?
“No, you have a deal,” Harry agreed. “So now tell me what you know. First about Perchorsk.”
Eh?
(Surprise.)
I never heard of it.
Harry quickly explained.
That may well be one way into, or out of, the source world, Faethor answered, but it is not the only route. Now listen: this is what Old Belos told my father, which he in turn told me. The Wamphyri sent him into the hell-lands (this world) through a shining white door in the shape of sphere. Yes, the very duplicate of this sphere you've mentioned at Perchorsk. But Perchorsk is in the upper Urals, and Belos's exit-point was far removed from there.
“So where did Belos surface?”
“Surface” is the wrong word. Rather he “descended.” Inside the sphere he fell. He was aware of falling—as if into hell! It was as if he plunged down the throat of a great white luminous shaft whose walls were so far distant he could not see them. He fell, and yet at no great speed, or so he believed. And he must have been correct in that belief, for when he emerged he was
still
falling! He fell out of the sphere—the gate of entry—into this world.
“Where?” Harry was eager again.
Underground!
“Like at Perchorsk?”
Unlike Perchorsk. Belos gathered his senses, looked all around. The sphere he had fallen through was imbedded in the ceiling of a great horizontal borehole, over a ledge of smooth dripstone. Through the bed of the bore rushed a black, gurgling river. Belos knew not where it came from, nor where it went. All around the sphere where it hung suspended, great holes were apparent in the ceiling—like these magmass holes of yours at Perchorsk. Likewise in the ledge where Belos had landed. The extent of the cave, and its ledge, was not great. Where the river rushed from cave into darkness, the gap between ceiling and water came down to a few inches. The ledge was large enough for a man to wall maybe ten paces this way, ten paces that, before it narrowed down and smoothed into the glistening wall of the bore. There was no way out. Or there was, if a man had the stomach for it.

Other books

Love & Freedom by Sue Moorcroft
Ice Cream Man by Lane, Melody
Mrs. Jeffries Weeds the Plot by Emily Brightwell
touch by Haag, Melissa
Hurricane Bay by Heather Graham
A Desperate Wager by Em Taylor
Path of Honor by Diana Pharaoh Francis