Necroscope 9: The Lost Years (69 page)

At various times he was a Crusader, an Uighur warrior, a warlord under Temujin; then a general under Genghis’s grandson, Batu. As ‘Fereng the Black,

“Son” of the Fereng,’ under Hulegu he played apart in the extermination of the Assassins, and he was there at the fall of Baghdad in 1258. Why, the dog-Lord
has even reasoned it out that it was this Faethor who fought on the side of the Mongols and Karl Drakul at the batle ofAin Jalut! Ah, but what a pity that Radu
kiled Karl and missed
him,
this damned Ferenczy!

And so, yet again, we see how the histories of the Wamphyri are complex …

But let me get on:

Faethor had two sons that Radu heard of in his time, though he never came up against them. They were Thibor, Faethor’s egg-son - a fierce Watach who was
a Voevod for the rulers of both Russian and his native land - and Janos, a bloodson out of Gypsy stock. The last my Master heard of Thibor was in the late
1340s, shortly before the plague drove him

to seek refuge in the resin. At that time Thibor was a Voevod in Romania. In the last two hundred years, however - certainly in the last hundred, excluding the
war years - it has been easier to travel in Europe. On behalf of my Master, Radu, I’ve done some research abroad and believe I know something of Thibor.

As stated, Thibor was a Voevod for a long line of Walachian princes: the Mirceas, Vlad Tepes (whose evil reputation had a great deal to do with Thibor, I
fear), Radu the Handsome - but no relation to
my
Radu, be sure - and finally Mircea the Monk, who seems to have been sore afraid of him … too afraid to let
him live, perhaps? At any rate, that is where Thibor’s trail ends, as a warlord in the service of Mircea the Monk.

And then there was Janos Ferenczy, who first made himself known as a young man in the early part of the 13th Century. He was a thief, a pirate, a
corsair
on
the broad bosom of the Mediterranean. During the Christian-Moslem conflicts of the Crusades, he was one of the pety princelings looting them who had
looted others! He had a castle in the Zarundului heights (his father Faethor spent many years there, too), to which he would return periodicaly. And there is
evidence to suggest he was a necromancer, for which there might be a simple explanation. As Faethor’s bloodson, Janos could use this necromancy to enhance
or supplement his meagre Wamphyri powers, which are frequently weaker in blood-than in egg-sons or -daughters. Not that it could have done him much
good; he seems to have disappeared at the end of the 15th Century, about the same time as Thibor.

So, it’s my conclusion that Faethor, Thibor, and Janos are al dead and gone. My Master… isn’t so sure. He tells me the Wamphyri have a habit of turning
up in the strangest places, at the most inconsiderate times. And he’s certain that Ferenczys - more than one, and at least one Drakul: this ‘D.D.’, of course -
survive to this day …

But now there are more complications and we’re obliged to go back, back, al the way bach to Waldemar Ferrenzig. Waldemar was a lusty one and fertile,
and his sister wasn’t the only one he slept with. There were records in a museum in olden Moldavia that I read al of sixty years ago. Alas, when I went back
recently the museum was no more; what they’d missed in World War I they hit in World War II, and the museum was a bumed-out ruin. But I remember what I
read originaly:

That before Svyatoslav, in Kiev, there was a Boyar like a prince who was banished out of the city west, ‘to the farthest corners of the land,’ who built a great
house ‘under the mountains on the border of Moldavia’… the Khorvaty! His name was ‘Valdemar Fuhrenzig,’ but I can only believe he was Waldemar. As to
why he was sent out of Kiev … wel, he was Wamphyri!

Those were Viking days, and the
Varyagi
were establishing their trade routes to the Greeks along Kievan Russia’s eastern rivers. Wel, despite that
Waldemar was banished from the land, he liked to go into the woods

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for days on end, hunting boar in the great forests that sprawled west of the River Bug. And one day he came across a Varyagi encampment.

Normally there would be no trouble; oh, they were fierce men, these Vikings, but they were traders, too. And the Ferenczy had
a party of retainers, his thralls, along with him. But this time it was different. The Vikings were heading north for the Baltic and
home, and they had a beautiful woman with them, stolen out of some port on the Black Sea. So far, she had suffered no harm; they would
sell her back home, to be some Prince or King’s raven-haired, dark-eyed wife.

She implored Waldemar”s help as a gentleman. Obviously he was a Boyar, for he had his men with him, his dogs, his hawks.

But the Ferenczy’s men were thralls’, his dogs were wolves, and his hawks as bloodthirsty as he himself!

Wel, there was no more of the story in the old Moldavian museum, but at least I was able to ascertain this lady’s name. She was a Sicilian
Princess, or at least of royal blood. Alas, she was also illegitimate, with no actual claim to the region from which
she took her name: Constanza de Petralia. And Petralia is a village or town in Sicily’s Le Madonie.

It was worth a trip to Sicily; I spoke to several historians; the code of silence is extensive! But finally I was able to consult certain records.

Constanza de’ Petralia had returned to Sicily in 866. No sooner was she home than she gave birth to twin boys, one of which was
hideously deformed and destroyed at birth. The surviving child was named - of all things - Angela! Far more important, on coming of age
he changed his surname: to Ferenczini! His mother came into property, money. She was over-indulgent with her son, who was
much-travelled: Corsica, Italy, Romania and Moldavia. But there the trail peters out, and to my knowledge there are no more
Ferenczinis today. As for Ferenczy: its a common name in all regions throughout and bordering the Carpathians.
But—

—
The
real
Ferenczys are still out there somewhere …

B.J. was finished with that part of it. Harry now knew (to the best of her knowledge,) as much as she knew. In fact the Necroscope knew a great deal more; so much more that
he
could easily have told B.J. what had become of Faethor and Thibor Ferenczy! Except it wouldn’t be easy, couldn’t even be dragged out of him if it also meant compromising his talents. But in any case she didn’t ask, for that was something she would never have suspected in a million years.

Why should she?

B.J. was tired now; it had taken a massive effort of will to maintain her wolf-shape and the energy of her scarlet Wamphyri eyes. But she had needed to be sure that the knowledge she imparted would sink in, stay there and not get misrepresented. For he was a strange one, this Harry

Keogh, and B.J. couldn’t afford any more episodes or mistakes like the telephone farce.

And on that subject, after she had relaxed a fraction and flowed back into human form:

‘Harry, about your telephone. Why change the number? What was that all about?’

He stared unblinking into her eyes, feral now in the dark blot of her head, where it was silhouetted against the glowing halo of his reading-lamp across the room. ‘I was scared of it,’ he croaked from a bone-dry throat.

She said: ‘Salivate, moisten your throat, feel well, and talk normally. But remain asleep, and hear and obey.’

‘Of course,’ he answered after a moment, when the knob of his throat had stopped bobbing.

‘But why were you frightened of the ‘phone?’

He shrugged (because hypnotized or not, he really didn’t know). But he could guess. ‘Bad dreams, maybe? I don’t want to hear anything bad about Brenda and the baby …’

B.J. could understand and accept that. But it couldn’t be allowed to go on; she must have contact with him. ‘Get an answering machine,’ she said. ‘If you start to hear something that you don’t like, you can switch it off. Or you can monitor your calls, and simply cut them off as and when it suits you.’

‘Good!’ Harry nodded.

‘But of course you won’t switch off when it’s me on the line, because our little rule still applies. You’ll hear—’

‘—Is that mah wee man?’ Harry cut in, talking normally.

‘And you’ll see—’

‘—The moon, your eyes—’

‘—And a wolfs head in silhouette, yes.’

‘Radu’s head,’ he nodded.

‘Indeed.’ B.J. was pleased. ‘But now we really must talk about this search of yours - for Brenda and the baby, I mean.’ But that wasn’t what she meant at all; in fact she didn’t even want him to find them. He needed a new direction, that was all, to which his

‘search’ would be peripheral. His conscious purpose would seem the same to him, but subconsciously …?•

‘Also, you’re not as fit as you should be. We have to get you in shape.’

‘I’ve been intending to,’ Harry answered.

‘And I have a sneaking suspicion that you’ve been having a hard time of it with alcohol?’,

A frown at once etched itself deep into Harry’s forehead. ‘Alcohol? Well, not so much booze in general as that damned red wine of yours! It seemed to have … something for me?’

‘Something for you?’ B.J. shook her head. ‘Not any more, Harry. As

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MANSE AND MONASTERY: AERIES!

of now it’s something you can do without. From this moment on you don’t need it; indeed, the very thought of it is enough to make you feel sick! Is that understood?’

‘Oh, yes!’ Harry breathed his relief - but a moment later his face turned pale, his stomach lurched and he belched.

‘It’s okay now. Put it out of your mind and you’ll be just fine.’ She had to smile as he sighed and snuggled closer to her warmth, her ‘safety’. ‘And after we’ve talked over these other things - your search and what-all - then we’ll be able to get some sleep.’

‘Afterwards, yes,’ said Harry, and she felt the need building in him, beginning to swel against her thigh.

She might have laughed - in surprise, delight, whatever - but knew it would only sap her concentration. And with him she needed all the concentration she could muster. With him, yes.

With this oh-so-mysterious Harry Keogh …

BONNIEJEAN: BIRTHDAY PARTY.

HARRY: GETTING IN SHAPE, AND

FUNDING HIS SEARCH.

In the morning, B.J. was up first. It was a few minutes after six, and the light still burgeoning from the east. In the garden the birds had been twitering for some time: enough noise to wake the Necroscope up, albeit gradualy.

He came awake knowing that it was going to be hel again, and was pleasantly surprised, or more properly relieved beyond measure, to find that it wasn’t. No headache, no fluff in his head where his brains used to be, no sore throat, and no great urge to drink … anything! Except maybe a mug or two of black coffee. At which he remembered that both his pantry and fridge were empty.

B.J. was upstairs; he could hear the shower. He dressed quickly, made a Mobius jump into town, the local newsagent’s, which doubled as a grocery-cum-post office, and just three or four minutes later was unloading stuff into the fridge; which, as B.J. came down and found him in the kitchen, looked like he was taking stuff
out
of the fridge, to prepare breakfast.

‘You have a wash, brush your hair, clean your teeth - and whatever -while I do it,’ she said.

‘Yes, Ma!’ He cocked his head on one side, raised an eyebrow, asked: ‘Any other instructions?’

‘Oh, you’re okay,’ she laughed. ‘But in bed you’re a ten, so why lower your average when you’re up?’ And eyeing his groceries, ‘Funny, last night when I was geting supper, I didn’t think you had anything in.’

‘You didn’t look in the freezer compartment,’ he mumbled, waved his arms. ‘The cupboards … ”

She shrugged. Til manage something.’ And, as he headed upstairs: ‘And buy a new toothbrush. That one tastes awful!’

Make yourself at home!
he thought. But he knew he should feel pleased. So why didn’t he? Maybe because he - his place - had been invaded? This had been a private place. He and it could be as they were

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here. Now he had to be someone else; and there it was again: the reminder that he
was
someone else! And it was possible he even felt guilty, too. But why, he couldn’t honestly say. For after al, he wasn’t the heavy in the piece. It was Brenda who had left him …

Breakfast was good, very. And for the first time in God-only-knows how long - with most of his guilty feelings and doubts melted away - the Necroscope actualy
felt
good! But then, as the sky turned a lighter shade of grey, and B.J. made ready to leave him, he didn’t. For with her out of the way he’d be back to thinking in ever-decreasing circles again, and doing nothing much else …

… Or perhaps not. For in fact it seemed he did have a few things to do now. They were there in the back of his mind, anyway, probably headed-off down the diversion that was B.J. But he knew that if he concentrated he’d get back on track again.

Til cal one of my girls,’ B.J. said, breaking into his thoughts. ‘Sandra. I’ll catch her before she sets out for work. She lives not too far away.’

‘Sure, if you like,’ Harry told her. Which satisfied her that this realy was his place and not some kind of safe house for the people he had used to work for. If it had been, surely he wouldn’t want too many people to know about it. But no, he fited in here; the house had Harry Keogh writen al over it.