The Source (23 page)

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Authors: Brian Lumley

BOOK: The Source
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He went into a crouch, affected a combat stance, made as if to hurl himself at Vyotsky. But the big Russian wasn't waiting. Over a distance of only six or seven paces he couldn't possibly miss. He squeezed the trigger, opened up, hosed the warrior across the body with a stream of lethal led—or should have!
But the KGB man wasn't having much luck with his gun. Of all times to have a defective round!—the weapon fired three or four shots and jammed. It had been Vyotsky's intention to stitch the warrior one way across his body, right to left and rising, then the other way, coming back down. A simple “wave” of the SMG should suffice, pouring maybe fifteen to twenty rounds at him, half of which should find their target. But the gun had only released three or four shots, none of them aimed.
The first had sliced a groove along the warrior's left side, laying open the flesh there as if he'd been slashed with a jagged toothed saw; the next had pierced his shoulder under the right collar bone at the joint with his
arm; the rest, two shots at most, had missed entirely. But the two hits had been like hammer blows which would have stopped any soldier of Earth. This wasn't Earth, however, and the target wasn't just a man.
Thrown back and spun around by the force of the impact to his shoulder, he'd gone sprawling flat-out in the dust—where in the next moment he'd sat up and looked groggily all about. Vyotsky, cursing loudly, snatched the magazine from his gun, re-cocked the weapon and glanced into the chamber. A cartridge, struck but not fired, was stuck in the breach. He shook the SMG to try to dislodge the jammed, defective round; no good, it would have to be carefully prised loose. And by now the warrior was back on his feet.
Vyotsky hooked the gun to his belt to keep it out of the way, unhooked the nozzle of his flamethrower. He struck ignition and threw off the safety catch. As the wounded warrior again stumbled toward him, he made one last attempt for peace and adopted the same pose as before, showing the warrior his open palm. Perhaps the other considered it an insult; whichever, all Vyotsky got for an answer was a snarl of rage. Then, even though the warrior had been shot through his right shoulder, still he lifted his gauntlet, flexed its terrible tools and showed them to his opponent.
“Enough is enough!” the Russian growled. He let the other come to within three or four paces, aimed the nozzle of his flamethrower and squeezed the firing stud. The small, licking blue flames at its tip became a searing lance of roaring heat, lashed out and torched the warrior all down the left-hand side of his body. Burning, he screamed his shock and terror and bounded away, bounded again, then threw himself down and rolled in dust and pebbles, finally extinguishing the flames. Smoking, he staggered to his feet, went careening back toward his weird mount. But now that Vyotsky had started this, he'd decided it should be finished.
He advanced after the smoking warrior, aimed his hose a second time—and froze!
The Wamphyri warrior was calling to his mount, harsh, agonized orders which it heard and obeyed. The bulk of its grey body seemed to shrivel while its wings extended into huge sails. It beat them upon the air, flattening out even as it lifted off. Thrust aloft on what seemed to Vyotsky a nest of vast pink worms that uncoiled like springs to give it lift, it was like a huge sheet of lumpy, leprous canvas in the air. Its worm boosters retracted into it, and it came gliding overhead with its manta tail extended, lashing from side to side. As its body took back a little bulk and the wings commenced to beat, so the eyes along its belly reformed, all of them ogling in various directions. Then they spied and fastened on the Russian.
Vyotsky backed off. The flying creature fell toward him; its fish-like shadow overtook him, black as ink; its rubbery underside opened up into a great mouth or pouch lined with barbs. Vyotsky stumbled, began to fall. With a rush of air that carried an unbelievable stench the thing was on him. A flap of flesh scooped him up, cartilege hooks caught in his clothing and cold, clammy darkness compressed him.
His finger was still on the stud of the flamethrower but he daren't squeeze it. Do that here,
inside
the creature, and he'd only succeed in frying himself! There was air to breathe but it was fetid, vile. The whole experience was a livid, living, claustrophobic nightmare that went on and on—
The creature's gasses worked on him like an anaesthetic. Hardly knowing he was losing consciousness, Vyotsky blacked out …
 
For Jazz Simmons, “in the thick of it” meant about five seconds in which to make up his mind; it was what might have been if Zek Föener hadn't been there to advise him. He'd made his mind up in two seconds,
and as shadows began separating from the main shadow of the cliff was on the point of turning decision to action when she cautioned him with: “Jazz—don't shoot!”
“What!”
He was incredulous. The shadows were men who came loping to surround the pair. “Don't shoot? Do you know these people?”
“I know they won't harm us—” she breathed, “that we're more valuable to them alive than dead—and that if you fire a single shot you'll not live to hear its echoes! There'll be a half-dozen arrows and spears lined up on you right now. Probably on me, too.”
Jazz put up his gun, but slowly, grudgingly. “This is what's called faith in your friends,” he growled, without humour. And he looked at the wary, crouching gang of men who surrounded them. One of them finally straightened up, stuck his chin out, addressed Zek. He spoke in a harsh gabble, a dialect or tongue which for all the world Jazz felt he should recognize. And Zek answered in a tongue he
did
recognize. Recognition as least, if nothing more. It was a very basic, somewhat disjointed Romanian!
“Ho, Arlek Nunescu!” she said, and: “Tear down the mountains and let the sun melt the castles of the Wamphyri, but what's this!? Do you waylay and molest fellow Travellers?”
Now that Jazz knew the tongue, he could more readily concentrate on understanding it. His knowledge of the Romantic languages was slight but not entirely without value. Some of it came from his father, a little less from his later academic studies, the rest he supposed from instinct; but he'd always had a “thing” for languages anyway.
The man Arlek—indeed, all of these men ringing them in, and others where they now came out of hiding—were Gypsies. That was Jazz's first impression: that they were Romany. It was stamped into them and just as recognizable as it would be in the world now left
behind, on the other side of the Gate. Dark-haired, jingling, lean and swarthy, they wore their hair long and greased and their clothes loosely and with something of style and flair. The one thing about them that struck a wrong chord was the fact that several of them carried crossbows, and others were armed with sharpened hardwood staves. Apart from that, Jazz had seen the like of these people in countries all over the world—the old world, anyway.
Gypsies, tinkers, wandering metalworkers, musicians and … fortune tellers?
“Tear down the mountains, aye,” Arlek answered her greeting now, speaking more slowly, thoughtfully. “You know the things to say, Zekintha, because you steal them from the minds of the Travellers! But we've been saying ‘tear down the mountains' as long as men remember, which is a very long time, and they're still standing. And while the mountains are there the Wamphyri remain in their castles. And so we wander all our lives, because to remain in one place is to die. I have read the future, Zekintha, and if we shelter you you'll bring down disaster on Lardis and his band. But if we give you into the hands of the Wamphyri—”
“Hah!”
her tone was scornful. “You're brave with Lardis Lidesci away in the west, seeking a new camp for you where the Wamphyri won't raid. And how will you explain this to him when he returns? How will you tell him you plotted to give me away? What, you'd give away a woman to appease your greatest enemies and make them stronger? The act of a coward, Arlek!”
Arlek took a deep breath. He drew himself up, took a pace toward her and raised his hand as if to strike. A dark flush had made his face darker yet. Jazz lowered the muzzle of his weapon until it touched Arlek's shoulder, pointing into his left ear. “Don't,” he warned in the man's own tongue. “From what I've seen of you I don't much care for you, Arlek, but if you make me kill you I'll die, too.” He hoped the words he'd used made sense.
Apparently they did. Arlek backed off, called forward two of his men. They approached Jazz and he showed them his teeth in a cold grin, showed them the gun, too.
“Let them have it,” Zek said.
“I was thinking about it,” he answered out of the corner of his mouth.
“You know what I mean,” she said. “Please give them the gun!”
“Does your telepathy let you walk naked in lions' dens?” he asked her. One of the Gypsies had taken hold of the barrel of the SMG, the other's hand closed on Jazz's wrist. Their eyes were deep, dark, alert. Jazz was aware that crossbow bolts were trained on him, but still he asked: “Well? It's your show, Zek.”
“We can't go back to Starside,” she quickly answered him, “and the Travellers guard the way to Sunside. Even if we got out of this—got away from them—they'd find us again eventually. So give them the gun. We're safe for now, at least.”
“Against my better judgement,” he growled. “But really I suppose there's nothing else for it.” He released the magazine and slipped it into his pocket, handed over the gun.
Arlek smiled crookedly. “That, too,” he pointed at Jazz's pocket. “And the rest of your … belongings.”
Hearing the language spoken, using it, was inspirational. Jazz's talent for tongues searched out and found him a few words. “You're asking too much, Traveller,” he said. “I'm a free man, like you. More free, for I make no deals with the Wamphyri so that I may live.”
Arlek was taken aback. To Zek he said: “Does he read the thoughts in men's heads, too?”
“I hear only my own thoughts,” Jazz spoke first, “and I speak my own words. Don't talk
about
me, talk
to
me.”
Arlek faced him squarely. “Very well,” he said. “Give us your weapons, your various … things. We take them so that you may not use them against us. You
are a stranger, from Zekintha's world; so much is obvious from your dress and your weapons. Therefore, why should we trust you?”
“Why should
anyone trust you!?
” Zek cut in, as Arlek's men began taking Jazz's equipment. “You betray your own leader while he's away seeking safe places!”
To give them their due, some of the Travellers shuffled their feet and looked a little shamefaced. But Arlek turned on Zek and snarled: “Betrayal? You speak to me of betrayal? The moment Lardis's back's turned you run off! Where to, Zekintha? Your own world, even though you've said there's no way back there? To find yourself a champion, maybe—this man, perhaps? Or to give yourself to the Wamphyri and so become a power in the world? I
would
give you to them, aye—but only in trade for the safety of the Travellers—not for my own glory!”
“Glory!” Zek scoffed. “Infamy, more like!”
“Why, you—!” He was lost for words.
Jazz had meanwhile been stripped of his packs, his weapons, but not of his pride. Strangely, now that he was down to his combat suit he felt safer; he knew he wouldn't be shot for fear of the havoc he might wreak with his awesome weapons. At least he could stand man to man now. Even if he couldn't understand all of Arlek's words—and even though many that he could understand rang true—still he didn't like Arlek's tone of voice when he spoke to Zek like that. He caught the Gypsy's shoulder, spun him round face to face. “You're good at making loud noises at women,” he said.
Arlek looked at Jazz's hand bunching his jacket and his eyes opened wide. “You've a lot to learn, ‘free man,'” he hissed—and he lashed out at Jazz's face with his clenched fist. His reaction had been telegraphed; Jazz ducked his blow easily; it was like fighting with a clumsy, untrained schoolboy. No one in Arlek's world had ever heard of unarmed combat, judo, karate. Jazz
struck him with two near simultaneous blows and stretched him out. And for his troubles he in turn was stretched out! From the side, one of the Gypsies had smacked him on the side of the head with the butt of his own gun.
Passing out, he heard Zek cry: “Don't kill him! Don't harm him in any way! He may be the one answer to all your troubles, the only man who can bring you peace!” Then for a moment he felt her cool, slender fingers on his burning face, and after that …
… there was only the cold, creeping darkness …
 
Andrei Roborov and Nikolai Rublev were lesser KGB lights. Both of them had been seconded to Chingiz Khuv at the Perchorsk Projekt—known as a punishment posting—for over-zealousness in their work; namely, Western journalists had snapped them beating-up on a pair of black-market Muscovites. The “criminals” in the case had been an aged man-and-wife team, selling farm produce from their garden in the suburbs. In short, Roborov and Rublev were thugs. And on this occasion they were thugs in serious trouble.

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