Necroscope 9: The Lost Years (44 page)

In his descent into Sunside, Radu was quick and surefooted as a wolf, but a wolf with al the agility and climbing skils of a man.

Head first, with his chest and belly close to the earth, he dug in the heels of his hands to brake himself, sliding and skittering where the way was treacherous.

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Upright but bent forward, he loped where the going was level and easy. Whenever he found his way barred by cliffs, he reverted to human skills and clambered like a man, and at al times he stuck to the shadows as much as possible. For his eyes were suited to the night; he saw as clearly as in daylight. Or beter, for he was Wamphyri! But as yet he wouldn’t have recognized the word, or known that it described his condition, even if he’d heard it shouted.

In the first quarter of the night Radu was down into the foothills. Now the night was dark, lit only by starshine, for the orbit of the hurtling moon had taken her beyond the rim of the world. Which was just as wel; her gravity no longer enraptured Radu’s mind, and he was more himself… or he would be, if not for his symbiont. And in fact his leech
was
a true symbiont, for it gave as wel as took. Now, if Radu were wounded, the vampire would heal him. Now his strength was that of eight or nine men - even ten, if need be. Now he was near-indefatigable, not to mention near-immortal! For barring accidents or an atack of the utmost ferocity, or a disease such as leprosy which even his leech could not cope with, he would not die.

Not that Radu knew any of this; these were wonders he was yet to discover, mysteries as yet unfathomed - or irredeemable depths as yet unplumbed. Al he knew was that he felt…
wel,
fiter, faster, and fiercer than ever before, and that his body burned with an inner fire; also that he was a force to be reckoned with greater than he’d ever been, but not nearly as great as he would be. But mainly he knew that he had the ability to right several great wrongs.

Revenge, aye, against the Zirescus and the Ferenczys!

And this would be what he gave to his leech; this was his part of the unspoken, unspeakable, unbreakable pact: that what he
apparently
did for himself, he in fact did for the vampire. Radu knew how to kill, and now must learn how to enjoy it. His life had been governed by fear and hatred; now his own hatred, enhanced tenfold by his vampire, would be an instrument with which to
inspire
fear. His human passions, hitherto suppressed, contained within the dam of his humanity, could now spill over in an inhuman orgy of emotion and violence beyond the range of common men. He could feel it in his blood.
Wamphyri!

And the weirdest thing of al was this: that not even his leech knew these things! Al it ‘knew’, and this by some alien instinct, was that its host was a strong one, and that through him it lived. And al it had was its metamorphism, its tenacity, its awful hunger. For the fuel of its degenerate, regenerative engine was blood - which was why that engine was geared to drive Radu’s lust for life, and for death. Aye, even at the expense of every life he touched from this time forward .

. .

Coming upon the camp of the Zirescus, Radu was cautious. The camp’s watchdogs (wolves reared from pups) would be out in the dark forest, silent but alert.

Trained, they wouldn’t bark to scare an intruder

off but simply tree him, then whine or howl till someone came to discover what was what. Or, if their victim should choose to fight, they’d just as soon hamstring him behind his knees, and bark to attract their masters. Al very daunting.

Yet Radu was not overly concerned. For somehow he felt he understood the ways of wolves; he believed he could handle them even as he’d handled the great white she-wolf of the wild. Perhaps even better than he’d handled Singer … now.

Sure enough, when they came to sniff him out, Radu held out his arms to them, and after a moment they crept close and licked his hands where he stood in the forest’s shadows. Then, when they would whine, he cautioned them with a low
‘Tut-tut!’
Until they were silent.

And while he could sense that they were worried, stil they
were
silent. For al of this was at a time when the Wamphyri were unknown in western Sunside; as yet, and apart from the frightful campfire tales of the occasional lone traveller (old wives’ tales at best), the Zirescus had no real knowledge of the terror out of Starside’s towering aeries that even now ravaged in the eastern woods. Thus the Zirescu wolves had not been trained against such as Radu - but after tonight they would be.

The wolves were satisfied (half-satisfied, at least) that Radu was not a threat; he sent them about their business, then advanced upon the camp. The night was young and there were men about the central fire. Radu was more than wel acquainted with the habits of the Zirescus; he knew where to find old Giorga’s caravan on the outskirts of the encampment. That is, if the fat old bastard were stil alive! Of course that last was as yet a mater for conjecture: what with the Old Zirescu’s swinish eating and drinking habits and al, and the ungovernable nature of his temper. But z/he yet survived … well, the future extent of his span was hardly conjectural at al! It would end right here, right now, this very night. And Radu’s father would be waiting to greet him in hel.

Yet… Radu held back, waiting in the shadows a while to think things out. For it seemed somewhat bold to simply walk up to Giorga’s wicker door, knock and wait for a reply. If the old man were to look out through a peephole, suspect something and cry out -what then? The stars were too bright, the night too clear. Better if there were a ground mist, to soften the sound of Radu’s approach or the clatter of any brief scuffle. Better if the damp, fertile earth and the trees of the forest were to exhale the moisture they’d gathered during the day, and throw a soft lapping blanket of white over the entire camp. Except, the earth and the trees couldn’t do that - could they?

In some worlds it would be thought of as witchcraft, magic, the supernatural. And perhaps in Radu’s world, too. Yet in the Himalayas of Earth, Tibetan priests are known to test themselves by faling asleep in water turning to ice, and upon waking generate sufficient bodily heat to melt it! And the firefly turns on the lamp in his own body without

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burning himself, and by its light finds a mate. And certain creatures winter through in a state of hibernation where others would surely die a freezing death. But here in this world … despite that Radu knew little or nothing of such things, suddenly he sensed a measure of his power -of a
new
power, in Sunside/Starside.

Radu was like - no, he
was,
or would be if he wiled it - a catalyst! His presence in these woods was alien, even as he himself was alien to mundane mankind; the very chemistry of his body, no longer a human or entirely natural chemistry, had the power to bring about changes in natural things. He felt it burgeoning within him; he had desired something and now would wil it. He would
breathe
a mist, and cause the forest itself to reciprocate!

And with the metamorphic assistance of his leech, he did exactly that. The pores of his body opened and seemed to steam; the mist poured off him as if he were dry ice; his heavy breath issued from his lips as an expanding evil essence that bilowed out from him and appeared to cal lesser mists out of the woods and up from the very earth itself. And on the outer rim of the Zirescu encampment, Radu flowed within his mist to reach up and tap lightly on the wicker door of Giorga’s caravan.

‘Eh? Who?’ (Radu would know that bass, grumbly, rumbling voice anywhere; the Old Zirescu
was
still alive.) ‘What is it? Can’t a man catch up on a little sleep around here?’ There came the sound of movement from within, a smal barred window opened inwards, and a puffy, bearded, squinting and red-eyed face appeared behind the bars. Radu stood at the foot of the caravan’s steps and kept his face averted. His vampire mist obscured him a little where it sweled, roled, and sent up wispy tendrils, serving to hide his actual identity, but the sparse and ragged clothing of a mountains loner gave him away as a stranger. And:

‘Eh?’ Giorga mumbled again, but sharper now. ‘What, a wanderer, come at night to try the hospitality of the Zirescus? So why bother me? There are men at the campfire, I’m sure. Go sing for your supper there.’ Giorga was probably drunk; certainly his brandy breath was strong in Radu’s nostrils. But before the old man could close his window:

‘I haven’t come to take anything but to
give
something,’ Radu told him, disguising his voice as best possible - which wasn’t in fact difficult, except now he must also disguise it from a growl! And continuing: ‘Giorga Zirescu, I bring a warning. But I can’t talk out here—’ And he glanced quickly this way and that, as if worried that he might be overheard. ‘—So let me in, and I’ll tell you of the doom that hangs over you and yours even now!’

‘A warning?’ the other gasped. ‘A doom? Whatever can you mean?’ And more harshly, commandingly: ‘Speak up, man, and perhaps I’ll hear you out!’

Radu straightened up but kept his face averted. ‘I’m not one of yours,

Giorga, that you can speak to me like an underling. I’m a loner, yes, a wanderer … ah, but the places I’ve wandered, and the things I’ve heard! They say that Giorga Zirescu grows old and fat and sodden, and his sons no better than young shads in the rut, and the Zirescu women all slatterns who would open their legs to dogs rather than take the pigs his men have become!’

‘What!’ Giorga’s eyes bulged at the window. ‘Who says these things? Who dares issue these lies? I have no truck with neighbours, so who’s to know that… that I …’

And Radu looked at him sideways, just a glance, but a look that said it all. ‘Yes, go on. Who’s to know, that you … ”

The other calmed down a little, snarled, ‘I’ve no time for gossip. Sticks and stones may hurt me, but catcalling …’

‘Sticks and stones, aye,’ Radu repeated him. ‘And crossbow bolts -and men who lust after your land, because they believe you’re not fit to hold it?’ And when that sank in:

‘Eh?!’ Again Giorga’s gasp. ‘Is that it? Land thieves? But this is
my
land, as it was my father’s before me! So someone’s after me for my territory, is that it? A land feud? But no one has the right! Tell me more.’

‘I would, gladly,’ Radu answered with a shrug, beginning to turn away. ‘Except it would seem that the one they call the Old Zirescu is much too proud to talk face to face with a loner and wanderer. It seems he’s too high and mighty! And should I stand out here in this damp and clinging mist, without even a sip of your good plum brandy to warm my throat? No, I reckon not. So now you’ll just have to guess where they’ll strike … and how many … and when. Well, and good luck to you …’

Turning his back on the caravan, Radu made as if to stride away. But:

‘Wanderer, whoever you are, wait!’ Giorga’s voice was anxious now, all of the bluster driven out of it. ‘And yes, you’re right: I’m an ungrateful old wretch at times! But come in, come in and warm yourself. Brandy, did I hear you say? Why, I could use a drop myself! And look, I’ve a jug of the very stuff right here!’ The bolt was drawn back, and Radu heard the creak of the caravan’s wicker door.

In another moment, soundlessly, he turned and was up the wooden steps, and something of his mist flowed inside with him. What’s more, Giorga Zirescu had
invited
him in of his own free will!

Well, with a little help from Radu’s lying leech …

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Il

RED REVENGE!

‘Land?’ Giorga asked again, after handing Radu a leather jack. ‘Is that what this is all about?’

Radu took a sip of the sharp-tasting brandy - the merest sip - then put the jack down. It had been a long time and he needed a clear head. ‘It’s about land, and life, and death,’ he said, and his voice was very deep, very gruff, as for the first time he turned his face fuly in Giorga’s direction. And in the light from the Old Zirescu’s lamp, he searched for some sign of recognition, but found nothing in the red-flecked, boozy, bulging eyes of the other. If he had - if Giorga had shown even a glimmer of recognition - then his time had come, be sure. His night visitor had already determined that it had come anyway, but al in good time, when Giorga had been given to know why.

‘Well, we’re face to face,’ the old man told him. And that was true enough; in the close confines of Giorga’s caravan they couldn’t be anything else. ‘So now let’s have it: explain yourself. As for land and life and death, they’re al one. If a man must fight to keep his territory, then he fights. His land is his life, and it’s where he’s buried when he dies!’

‘And wil his people fight with him, or wil they run away because they hate him?’ Radu’s voice was deeper yet, a rumbling growl issuing from his throat, his suddenly chaotic emotions.

‘No,’ the Old Zirescu pushed his face closer yet. ‘They’ll
fight -
because they fear him! Here in these western forests, since time immemorial, the Zirescus have always been strong. In my time, I, Giorga, have been strongest of al! I had to be.’

‘In your time, aye,’ Radu nodded. ‘But do you mean strongest, or hardest? Were you strong with your people, or hard on them?’

By now the old man had sobered a litle. His gaze was curious as he sat down on the wooden frame of his bed and looked Radu up and down.

If he’d seen this man before he was sure he would remember him. What, a man as tal as this; why, he must be al of six foot three!

And his

strange looks … those eyes of his: yelow in the lamplight. And his grey hair, swept back like a mane to fal over his colar. His slightly pointed ears and long, hairy hands … Then again, the loners were al weird in their ways and looks - this one especialy! Why, his words were almost… what, accusing?