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Authors: Brian Lumley

BOOK: The Source
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Khuv had sent them to “talk” to Kazimir Kirescu; it was to be their last opportunity to interrogate the old man before he went on a course of truth-drugs. It would be best if he could be persuaded to volunteer the required information (on Western and Romanian links) for the drugs weren't too good for a man's heart. The older the man, the worse their effect. Khuv had wanted information before Kirescu died, for afterwards it would be too late. This might seem perfectly obvious, but to members of the Soviet E-Branch things were rarely as obvious as they seemed. In the old days when a person died without releasing his information, then they would have called in the necromancer Boris Dragosani, but Dragosani was no more. As it happened, neither was Kazimir Kirescu.
Approaching the old man's cell to see how his men
were making out, Khuv was in time to discover the two just making their exit. Both wore the clear plastic capes or ponchos of the professional torturer, but Rublev's cape was spattered with blood. Too much blood. His rubber gloves, too, where he stripped them from shaking hands. His face was deathly white, which Khuv knew was sometimes the reaction with this sort of man when he'd done a job too well, or enjoyed it too much. Or when he feared the consequences of a gross error.
As the two turned from locking the door, Khuv met them face to face. His eyes narrowed as they took in Rublev's shaken condition, and the condition of his protective clothing. “Nikolai,” he said. “
Nikolai!
”
“Comrade Major,” the other blurted, his fat lower lip beginning to tremble. “I—”
Khuv shoved him aside. “Open that door,” he snapped at Roborov. “Have you sent for help?”
Roborov backed off a pace, shook his long, angular head. “Too late for that, Comrade Major.” He turned and opened up the door anyway. Khuv stepped inside the cell, took a long, hard look, came out again. His dark eyes blazed their fury. He grabbed the two by the fronts of their smocks, shook them unresistingly.
“Stupid, stupid—!” he gasped his rage at them. “That was nothing less than butchery!”
Andrei Roborov was so thin as to be almost skeletal. His cadaverous face was always pale, but never more so than now. There was no fat on him to shake, and so he simply rocked to and fro under Khuv's assault, rapidly blinking his large green expressionless eyes, and opening and closing his mouth. When Khuv had first met him he'd thought:
this man has the eyes of a fish—probably its soul, too!
Nikolai Rublev on the other hand was very much overweight. His features were pink and almost babylike, and even the mildest reproof could bring him to the point of tears. On the other hand his fists were huge and hard as iron, and Khuv knew that his tears were usually
tears of suppressed fury or rage. His rages, when he threw them, were quite spectacular; but he had more sense than to rage at a superior officer. Especially one like Chingiz Khuv.
Finally Khuv let go of them, turned abruptly away and clenched his fists. Over his shoulder, without looking at them, he said: “Fetch a trolley. Take him to the mortuary … no! Take him to your own quarters. And make sure he's covered up on the way. He can wait there for disposal. But whatever you do, don't let anyone see him like … like that! Especially not Viktor Luchov! Do you understand?”
“Oh, yes, Comrade Major Khuv!” Rublev gasped. It seemed he was off the hook.
Still Khuv looked the other way. “Then both of you will prepare and sign the usual accidental death reports and get them in to me. And you'll make sure they're corroborative in every detail.”
“Yes, Comrade, of course,” the two answered as one man.
“Well, then—
move!”
Khuv shouted.
They collided with each other, then made off down the corridor. Khuv let them go so far before calling after them: “You two!” They skidded to a halt. “Nikolai, for God's sake get out of that
cape!”
Khuv hissed. “And neither one of you is to go near the girl, Kirsecu's daughter. Do you hear me? I'll personally skin whichever one of you so much as
thinks
about her! Now get out of my sight!”
They disappeared in short order.
Khuv was still standing there, trembling with fury, when Vasily Agursky came hurrying from the direction of the laboratories. He saw Khuv and sidled toward him. “I was told you'd be seeing to the prisoners,” he said
Khuv nodded. “Seeing to them, yes,” he answered. “What can I do for you?”
“I've just been to see Direktor Luchov. He has
returned me to full duty. I'm on my way to see the creature—my first visit in a week! If you would care to accompany me, Major Khuv?”
Right now that was the last thing Khuv would “care” to do. He glanced at his watch. “As it happens I'm headed that way,” he said. Anything to get Agursky away from here before Roborov and Rublev returned with their surgical trolley.
“Good!” Agursky beamed. “If we can walk together, perhaps I can ask for your help in a certain matter. In the strictest confidence, you may be able to make a significant contribution to my—to
our
—understanding of that creature from beyond the Gate.”
Khuv glanced at the strange little scientist out of the corner of his eye. There seemed something different about him; it was hard to put a finger on it, but some change had occurred in him. “I can make a contribution?” Khuv raised an eyebrow. “In connection with the creature? Vasily—do you mind if I call you Vasily?—I'm here to protect the Prokjekt from, shall we say, outside interference? As a policeman, a spycatcher, and investigator—as any and all of these things I already make my contribution. As for any other aspect of work at the Projekt: I have no control over the staff as such, no ‘official' knowledge of any facet of the scientific work that goes on here. I control my own handful of men, yes, and I protect the specialists from Moscow and Kiev; but outside of these routine duties it is difficult to see how I can be of any assistance to you in your work.”
Agursky was not put off; on the contrary, his voice was suddenly eager. “Comrade, there's a certain experiment I would like to try. Now, any theoretical work I perform with the creature is my concern entirely, of course—but there's something I need which is quite beyond everyday requirements.”
Again Khuv glanced at him, glanced
down
on him, because beside the tall KGB Major, Agursky seemed
almost a dwarf. His bald pate coming through its crown of dirty-grey fluff made him seem very gnome-like. But his red-rimmed eyes, made huge by his spectacles, put him in a much less comical perspective. He was like some strange, devious bottle-imp given the guise of a man.
Devious!—that was the word Khuv had searched for to describe the change in Agursky. There was now something sly about the little man, something furtive.
Khuv put his mental meanderings aside, uttered a none too patient sigh. He had never much cared for the little scientist, and now cared for him even less. “Vasily,” he said, “has the Projekt no procurement officer? Is there no quartermaster? A great deal may hinge upon our understanding of that beast. I'm sure that whatever you require for your work can be obtained through the proper channels. Indeed, I would say you have an absolute priority. All you have to do is—”
“The proper channels,” Agursky cut in, nodding. “Exactly, exactly! But that is just precisely the problem, Comrade Major, The channels are perhaps too proper …”
Khuv was taken aback. “Your requirement is improper? Unusual, do you mean? Then why on earth don't you ask Direktor Luchov about it? You've just been to see him, haven't you? I should think Viktor Luchov can lay his hands on just about any—”
“No!” Agursky caught his elbow and drew Khuv to a halt. “That is exactly my problem. He would not—definitely
not
—sanction this requirement.
Khuv stared at him. There were beads of sweat on the man's upper lip. His eyes, unblinking, burned on Khuv through the thick lenses of his spectacles. And the KGB Major thought:
a requirement Luchov wouldn't sanction?
He noticed that Agursky's hand was trembling where it gripped his elbow. It was suddenly very easy to jump to the wrong conclusion. Khuv broke abruptly
away from the other, brushed at the sleeve of his jacket, drily said:
“But I thought you were off the bottle, Vasily? The break was a little too sudden for you, was it? And now your supplies have run out and you require a re-stock,” he nodded his mock-understanding. “I should have thought that the soldiers could easily fill your needs from the barracks at Ukhta. Or perhaps it's more urgent than that, eh?”
“Major,” said Agursky, his expression unchanging, “the
last
thing I need is alcohol. In any case, I assume that you are joking, for I've already made it clear that this has to do with the creature. Indeed, it has to do with fathoming the very
nature
of the creature. Now I repeat: the Projekt cannot legitimately fill my requirement, and certainly Luchov would never sanction it. But you are an officer of the KGB. You have contacts with the local police, authority over them. You handle traitors and criminals. In short you are in a position—the
ideal
position—to assist me. And if my theory works out, you would have the satisfaction of knowing that you were in part responsible for the breakthrough.”
Khuv's eyes narrowed. The little man was wily, full of surprises, not his usual self at all. “Just what is this ‘theory' of yours, Vasily? And you'd better tell me about your ‘requirement,' too.”
“As to the first,” (for the first time since their conversation began, Khuv saw Agursky blink his eyes, nervously, two or three times in rapid succession,) “I can't tell you. You would probably consider it preposterous, and I'm not even sure of it myself. But as for the second—”
And without further pause he told Khuv what his requirement was …
Deal with the Devil
WHEN JAZZ SIMMONS REGAINED CONSCIOUSNESS HE SAW that he was where he'd fallen, except now his hands were tied behind him. Zek, who hadn't been trussed, was busy moistening his brow and lips with a water-soaked rag. She sighed in relief as he came to.
Arlek sat close by on a flat stone, watching her at her ministrations. Others of the clan or tribe moved in shadows which had lengthened a little, murmuring with low background voices. As Jazz struggled to sit up, so Arlek came across and stood over him. He fingered a lump under his ear where Jazz had hit him, displayed a right eye rapidly turning black and closing.
“I never saw anyone fight like you,” he stiffly complimented his captive. “I didn't even see you strike me!”
Jazz grunted, propped himself against a boulder and brought his knees up a little. “That was the idea,” he said. “There's a lot more I could show you, too, like how to fight the Wamphyri. That's what my weapons were for: to keep me alive in a world where things like the Wamphyri rule. Where the hell do men stand in the scale of things on this world, anyway? Why bargain with the Wamphyri, or bow and scrape to them, when you can fight them?”
Despite his painful face, Arlek laughed out loud. Other Travellers heard him, came forward; he quickly repeated what Jazz had said. “Fight the Wamphyri, indeed! We are only lucky they spend so much time fighting with each other! But defy them?
Hah!
You don't know what you're saying. They don't fight with Sunsiders, they just make slaves of them. Have you
seen
a Warrior? Of course not, else you'd not be here! That's why we're Travellers, because to remain in one place is to be at their mercy. You don't ‘fight' the Wamphyri, my stupid friend, you just stay out of their way—for as long as you can.”
He turned away, walked off with his followers. Over his shoulder he called back: “Talk with the woman. It's high time she told you something about this world you've come to. At least then you'll have some understanding of why I'm giving you—both of you—to Shaithis of the Wamphyri …”
Wolf loped out of the shadows, licked Jazz's face. Jazz scowled at the animal. “Where were you when Zek and me were fighting, eh?”
“When
you
were fighting,” she corrected him. “Wolf wasn't in it. Why should I risk his life? I told him to be still. He's just back from seeing his brothers. The Travellers have three or four of them, all raised from cubs.”
“Funny,” Jazz said after a moment, “but you struck me as a woman who'd bite and scratch a lot.” He didn't mean it as a reproach, but it was and he regretted it immediately.
“I would,” she said, “if there was any point. But I'd look silly trying to bite a dozen Travellers and their wolves, now wouldn't I? My first concern was for you.”
Jazz sighed. “I suppose I went off half-cocked, didn't I? But I thought you said we'd be safe?”
“We might have been,” she said, “but while you've been lying there Arlek's had word from a runner that Lardis Lidesci is on his way back from the west. Arlek
knows Lardis won't give me to the Wamphyri, and so he'll do it himself—now! There'll be a price to pay when Lardis hears about it, but Arlek's got this group on his side and believes that in the end Lardis will have to go along with him or split the tribe. In any case, by the time Lardis gets here it will be too late.”
Jazz said: “Can you touch me behind my ear just here?
Ow!
That feels tender!”
“It's soft,” she said, and he thought he detected a catch in her voice. “God, I thought you were dead!” She squeezed cold water onto the back of his head, let it soak into the place where his hair was matted with blood. He looked beyond her to the south, to where the sun had gone down a little more, crept a little more to the east.
A stray beam lit her face, let him see her clearly and really close up for the first time. She was a bit grimy, but under the dirt she was very beautiful too. She'd be in her early thirties, only a few years older than Jazz himself. Maybe five-nine, slim, blonde and blue-eyed, her hair shone in the beam of sunlight; it looked golden and bounced on her shoulders when she moved. Her combat suit, tattered as it was getting to be, fitted her figure like a glove; it seemed to accentuate her delicate curves. Right here and now, Jazz supposed any woman would have looked good to him. But he couldn't think of one he'd rather have here. Or, (he corrected himself,) rather
not
have here. This was no place for any woman.
“So what's happening now?” he asked, when the cold water had taken some of the sting out of his neck and head.
“Arlek tracked me using the talents of an old man, Jasef Karis,” Zek told him. “It wasn't too hard. There was really only one place I could head for: through the pass to the sphere, to see if I could make it back home. Anyway, Jasef's like me, a telepath.”
“You told me the wild animals here had a degree of
ESP,” Jazz reminded her, “but you didn't say anything about the people. I'd got the impression that only the Wamphyri had these talents.”
“Generally, that's true,” she answered. “Jasef's father was taken prisoner in a Wamphyri raid; this was a long time ago, you understand. He escaped from them and came back over the mountains. He swore that he hadn't been changed in any way. He'd escaped before the Lord Belath could make a mindless zombie of him. His wife took him back, of course, and they had a child: Jasef. But then it was discovered that Jasef's father had lied. He had been changed by the Lord Belath, but he'd made his escape before the change could commence in him. The truth finally came out when he became uncontrollable—became, in fact, a thing! The Travellers knew how to deal with it; they staked it out, cut it in pieces and burned it. And afterwards they kept a close watch on Jasef and his mother. But they were OK. Jasef's telepathy is something come down to him from his father, or from the thing that Lord Belath put into him.”
Jazz's head swam, partly from the throbbing pain where he'd been clubbed but mainly from trying to take in all that Zek was telling him. “Stop!” he said. “Let's concentrate on the important stuff. Tell me what else I'll need to know about this planet. Draw me a map I can keep in my head. First the planet, then its peoples.”
“Very well,” she nodded, “but first you'd better know how we stand. Old Jasef and one or two men have gone on into the pass to see if there's a watcher—a guardian creature—in the keep back there. If there is, Jasef will send a telepathic message through it to its master, the Lord Shaithis. The message will be that Arlek holds us captive, and that he'll use us to strike a bargain with Shaithis. In return for us, Shaithis will promise not to raid on Lardis Lidesci's tribe of Travellers. If it's a deal, then we'll be handed over.”
“From what Arlek was saying about the Wamphyri,”
Jazz said. “I'm surprised they'll even be interested in making a deal. If they're so much to be feared, they can just take us anyway.”
“If
they could find us,” she answered. “And only at night. They can only raid when the sun's down below the rim of the world. Also, there are some eighteen to twenty Wamphyri Lords, and one Lady. They're territorial; they vie with each other. They scheme against each other all the time, and go to war at every opportunity. It's their nature. We'd be ace cards to any one of them—except the Lady Karen. I know for I was hers once, and she let me go.”
Jazz tucked that last away for later. “Why are we so important?” he wanted to know.
“Because we are magicians,” she said. “We have powers, weapons, skills they don't understand. Even more so than the Travellers, we understand metals and mechanisms.”
“What?” Jazz was lost again. “Magicians?”
“I'm a telepath,” she shrugged. “To be ESP-endowed and a true man—or a woman—is a rare thing. Also, we're not of this world. We come from the mysterious hell-lands. And when I first arrived here I had awesome weapons. So did you.”
“But I'm not ESP-talented,” Jazz reminded her. “What use will I be to them?”
She looked away. “Not a lot. Which means you'll have to bluff your way.”
“I'll have to what?”
“If in fact we go to the Lord Shaithis, you'll need to tell him you … can read the future! Something like that. Something it's hard to disprove.”
“Great!” said Jazz, dully. “Like Arlek, you mean? He said he'd read the future of the tribe.”
She faced him again, shook her head. “Arlek's a charlatan. A cheap, trick fortune-teller, like many of Earth's Gypsies. Our Earth, I mean. That's why he's so much against me, because he knows my talent's real.”
“OK,” said Jazz. “Now let's put
our
Earth right out of our minds and tell me some more about
this
Earth. Its topography, for example?”
“So simple you won't believe it,” she answered. “I've already described the planet in relation to its sun and moon. Very well, now here's that map you asked for:
“This is a world much the same size as Earth as near as I can make out. This mountain range lies slightly more south than north, points east and west. That's using the compass Earth-style. The Wamphyri can't stand sunlight. Just like the old legends of home say, too much sunlight is fatal to vampires. And they
are
vampires! Sunside of the mountains, that's where the Travellers live. They are human beings, as you've seen. They live close to the mountain range for the water it gives them, and for the forests and game. Sunup they live in easily erected homes, at night they find caves and go as deep as possible! The mountains are riddled with fissures and caverns. Ten miles or so south of the mountains, there are no Travellers. There's nothing there for them to live on. Just desert. There are scattered nomad tribes of aborigines; at high sunup they occasionally trade with the Travellers; I've seen them and they're barely human. Several steps down from Australia's bushmen. I don't know how they live out there but they do. One hundred miles out from the mountains and even they can't live. There's nothing there at all, just scorched earth.”
Despite his discomfort, Jazz was finding all of this fascinating. “What about east and west?” he said.
She nodded: “Just coming to it. These mountains are about two and a half thousand miles east to west. This pass lies something like six hundred miles from the western extent of the range. Beyond the mountains west are swamps; likewise to the far east. No one knows their extent.”
“Why the hell don't the Travellers live close to the
swamps?” Jazz was puzzled. “If there are no mountains there, then there's no protection from the sun. Which means there can't be any Wamphyri.”
“Right!” she said. “The Wamphyri live only in their castles, right here behind these mountains. But the Travellers can't go too far east or west, because the swamps are vampire breeding grounds. They are the source of vampirism, just as this world is the source of Earth's legends.”
Jazz tried to take that in, shook his head. “You've lost me yet again,” he admitted. “No Wamphyri there, and yet vampires breed in the swamps?”
“Maybe you weren't listening to me earlier,” she said. “I can understand that. It's like Arlek said: you've a lot to learn. And only so much time in which to learn it. I told you that the Wamphyri are what happens when a vampire egg gets into a man or woman. Well, the true vampires live in the swamps. They breed there. Every now and then there's an upsurge; they break out and infest the local animals. And they'd do the same to men, too, if there were any there. The Wamphyri go back to a time when men were infested. Now they do their own infesting.” She shuddered. “The Wamphyri
are
men, but changed by the vampires in them.”
Jazz took a deep breath, said: “Whoah! Let's get back to topography.”
“Nothing more to tell,” she answered. “Starside are the Wamphyri castles and the Wamphyri themselves. North of them lie the icelands. One or two polar-type creatures live there, but that's all. They're legendary anyway, for no living Traveller ever saw one. Oh, and at the foot of the mountains on Starside, between the castles and the peaks, that's where the troglodytes live. They're subterranean, sub-human, too. They call themselves Szgany or trogs and hold the Wamphyri as gods. I saw specimens mothballed in the Lady Karen's storehouses. They're almost prehistoric.”
She paused for breath, finally said: “That's it, the
planet and its peoples in one. There's only one thing I've left out—that I can think of at the moment, anyway—because I'm not sure of it myself. But you can be certain it's something monstrous.”
“Monstrous?” Jazz repeated her. “Most of what I've heard is that! Let's have it anyway, and then I've got some more questions for you.”
“Well,” she frowned, “there's supposed to be something called ‘Arbiteri Ingertos Westweich.' That's from a Wamphyri phrase and it means—”

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