by Brian Lumley
He shook his head, frowned, fingered his chin. “But … how can you know?” And now her smile was warmer.
“Oh, I read palms,” she said, tossing her ringlets back out of her eyes. “Like my mother before me. Except, why it’s easier far to read faces! And as I said, your face—especially those eyes of yours—tells a long, sad story.” She reached out and touched his brow. “Such lines, and so very deep, in a face so young …” She shook her head, wonderingly. But before he could question her further:
“Enough of that for now,” she said. “Come over here, to my tent. Nikha says you need a wash. We can take care of that. And then I’ll get you a blanket.”
Close to her tent she set up a tripod and bowl, and brought hot water from the fire. A piece of bark provided a cleansing, milky sap, with which Nathan scoured his face and hands. But watching him, Eleni .saw him wincing whenever he stretched his arms.
He had removed his leather jacket but still wore his shirt. “Take it off,” she said.
He looked at her sideways, questioningly. They were alone in the clearing now, almost. The men were off hunting; women tended their offspring or performed other duties; Nikha was seeing to his beasts. “Take what off?”
“Your shirt. When you bent over it rode up your back. I have seen your bruises. Were you beaten?”
Beaten? No, merely tossed aside—but by a Thing as strong as four men! The thing that took my Misha. “A Lord of the Wamphyri very nearly killed me,” he finally answered. “I suppose I was lucky.”
He tried to reach over his shoulder and grasp the fabric of his shirt, but couldn’t. Perhaps it was as well; Nikha had come back and was sitting on the steps of his vehicle. Seeing Nathan glancing that way, Eleni asked him: “Are you concerned that my brother is watching us? Well, you shouldn’t be.” And before he could answer she took the hem of his shirt in both hands and lifted it, and as he bent forward stripped it from his back.
“Now your brother will know I’m forward,” he groaned. “Or that you are!”
And now for the first time she laughed, and her laugh was as husky as he had guessed it must be. “Nathan, Nikha will be delighted!” she told him. “Can’t you see that he’s still trying to marry me off?” But as she saw the extent of his bruising her laughter died away. And: “You suppose you were lucky?” she repeated him. “But your back should have been broken in three places! Now wait.”
She ran to Nikha and past him into the caravan, and was back in a moment with ointment wrapped in a leather pouch. “It smells, but it’s good!” she said, applying the stuff liberally to his back. “Next sunup the sting will have gone, and by midday the bruises fading. I guarantee it. When we pass through the townships, we Gypsies guarantee all of our products!” And again she laughed.
Then she helped him on with his shirt, took him into her tent and gave him a blanket. Her bed was a huge watertight skin stuffed with down, herbs and dried ferns; more than sufficient for Nathan’s needs, he made no complaint. As he lay down she threw the blanket over him, and almost before she left the tent and closed its flap he was asleep …
Numbers formed a whirlpool which sucked Nathan in, whirled him round and around, and dragged him unprotesting down the central funnel of warping algebraic equations. To anyone else it would be a nightmare, but not to him. Unlike the dead, who could have talked to Nathan if they wished it but never did, the numbers were his friends. In a way, they did “talk” to him; except he didn’t have the math to understand their language. In a world largely without science, Nathan had no math at all. What would probably have been instinctive, intuitive in him from his first serious lesson, had never had the chance to develop. Not yet.
But he did understand that the numbers could sometimes carry him—his thoughts at least—to other places, other minds. It was a telepathic talent he shared with Nestor, part of which was to reach out with his mind and make a connection with that of his twin. Another part of it, which was his alone, allowed him to contact and speak with his wolves. In his waking hours this might only be accomplished by an effort of conscious will, and even then it had sometimes failed him, but when he slept it was quite beyond his control. For then his talent seemed to work on its own, or occasionally with the help of what Nathan had long since named “the numbers vortex”.
Now he was in that vortex, but only for a moment. For in the next he felt himself expelled, hurled out and down—into water! Into the river!
And because he had searched for Nestor, now he was Nestor. He was one with his brother’s mind. He knew what Nestor knew, felt what he felt, observed what he observed. Which was nothing.
Nathan knew what “dead” minds feel like. This was it, and yet at the same time it was less than death. For the dead know many things, and this mind—Nestor’s mind—knew nothing at all! And Nathan believed he knew what that meant: that his brother was freshly dead, and as yet had learned nothing from all of those others who had gone before.
He felt what Nestor felt: nothing. Or perhaps he did feel or was aware of something: the gentle flow of cold, cold water—his lungs full of the stuff, which weighed like lead to drag him down—and the first, tentative nibble of some small, curious fish. He observed what his brother observed: nothing. Or if not that, a drift of dark green weed sliding slowly across his blurred, submerged view, to fill the screen of his gaping, glazing eyeballs … before the final darkness closed in!
And with that he knew that Nestor was dead, drowned, and gone from him forever.
He started awake —
—To find Eleni Sintana down on her knees beside him, her brown eyes wide and anxious where they stared into his. She had hold of his shoulders, holding him down under the water. Except … there was no water. And at last he breathed, stopped struggling, allowed her to push him back into his own depression in her bed. And:
“A dream?” she inquired, her concern clearly apparent.
Nathan nodded, felt cold sweat drip from the tip of his nose. More than that, Eleni, he wanted to say, but couldn’t, because he knew that she wouldn’t understand. But looking up into her face, her eyes … she so reminded him of his mother … and of Misha … he wished she would wrap her arms around him, for his protection.
He saw that she was going to—until Nikha’s soft voice sounded from the door of the tent, saying: “We’re about ready to eat, Nathan. Will you join us?”
And the spell was broken.
Nathan joined the others to eat, but he was quiet and had no appetite. There was nothing wrong with the good food, nothing wrong with the company, just with him. For he knew now that he was alone, entirely alone, and that what he’d mistaken for his awakening into this world had only been the beginning of the end. The Wamphyri had wrought reality out of a fantasy—changed everything, made him aware of his place here, and given him an identity—only to rob him of his roots. Now he was drifting, as Nestor’s body had drifted, and not even the weeds of what might have been to anchor him.
For the last link had been broken, Nestor was dead, and Nathan felt in his heart the coldness of his brother’s watery grave …
And two miles down river, in a shingly bight, a burly, bearded fisherman cried out, tossed aside his rod, went plunging into the water to his thighs.
He had been monitoring the progress of a log drifting out of the main current and into the shallows of the backwater. And knowing that fish sometimes swim in the shadow of floating debris, he had thought to see a big one accompanying this piece of driftwood. But lolling closer to the bank, suddenly the log had given a lurch and turned over, and in the next second the fisherman had seen that what had come adrift from it to slip down into the clear water was anything but a fish!
That had been a moment ago; now Brad Berea waded to the log and thrust it aside, sank to his knees in the shingle, and gathered up the body of a young man from where it bumped slowly along the bottom. The youth’s clothes were ragged, waterlogged; he was limp, cold … dead? Well, very likely. But his flesh seemed firm, his limbs were stil
l flexible, and his lips were not entirely blue.
In fact Nestor Kiklu was dead or as close as could be, and had been for several long seconds, but as yet his spirit had not flown the flesh. What his brother Nathan had experienced was not true death but the final sleep which leads up to it, except this time that sleep had been interrupted.
Brad Berea carried Nestor to the bank, dragged him out feet first to let the water rush out of him, and thumped his chest until he coughed up mud, small weeds and more water. Coughed them up, lay still … and breathed!
He breathed—however raggedly, shallowly—and slowly but surely a semblance of life crept back into him.
Into his body, at least…
After their meal, Nikha Sintana and his people took their rest. Later, they would spread out into the forest and hunt more diligently; for they must find game now, in the daylight hours, to see them and their families through the long night ahead. After the hunting—assuming it was successful—they’d be more at their ease; they would play, make music, talk over their short-term plans. The plans of travelling folk were ever short-term, Wamphyri or no; but by midday they would be back on the trail again.
Nikha’s idea, which he had told to Nathan while they ate, was this:
He and his party would follow the old trail south to the narrow strip of prairie where it bordered on the furnace deserts. He knew the location of a spring there, which in all his years of wandering had never dried out. There was no shortage of game, and the fruits of the forest were always plentiful. In the woods at the edge of the prairie, well away from the customary haunts and routes of other Travellers, there Nikha’s group would disguise their caravans in the thickets, stain them green to match the foliage, and pitch their tents under cover of the great trees.
In short, they would quit travelling for a while at least, if only long enough to see how the wind blew. And if it seemed they had chosen a good, safe spot, then perhaps they’d make it permanent. Settling there would go against the grain with Nikha, of course; it would be a solitary, ingrown existence with no company to mention and no external contacts. But at least they would exist, and more or less on their own terms.
As for the Wamphyri: there would be richer pickings for them elsewhere. Word of their return would be spreading even now, but many townships would not hear of it until it was too late. In Twin Fords and other towns, there were plenty of old people who could not or would not move; these must soon fall prey to the vampires. And there would be a great many parties of refugees on the move outwards from threatened towns along the southern flank of the barrier range, whose leaders had forgotten or never known the skills necessary for survival in the wild. For a certainty, the Wamphyri would pick these off first.
In Settlement and possibly a handful of other places, men would stand their ground, fight and inevitably die. The vampires loved to fight, and such bastions of defiance would present irresistible challenges. All of which should provide Nikha and his party a breathing space, ample time to settle into their secret place, discover hiding holes and prepare themselves against every hideous eventuality.
One of the first things they would do would be to breed more watchdog wolves, and train them to be alert for strange sights, sounds, smells …
With luck the vampires would never find their camp—or if they did would discover it deserted, its people fled into the woods or grasslands. And as any fool must see for himself, the closer you live to the sunrise, the safer you are from vampire slavery, death and undeath. Why should the Wamphyri bother to fly across all these miles of woodlands, when they could reap their tithe of blood so much closer to home? For to raid in the southern extremes of Sunside would mean a greater distance to travel back to Starside, before sunup. It was a small point but it seemed to make sense.
As to why Nikha told Nathan all of these things: simply, he hoped to tempt him along. And so Nathan saw that Eleni had been right: Nikha was angling to catch her a husband before he and his people disappeared into solitude. Well, and Nathan supposed he could do much worse. But before that—
—His thoughts were all for Misha, despite that she was lost or dead … or worse than dead. Misha and Nestor, yes. If only Nathan could see Nestor again, find him and take him from the river, and give him a decent grave. For while the teeming dead couldn’t bring themselves to speak to Nathan, he was sure they would allow him a little time, a few words, with his own brother at least. The chance to make things right with him?
Which was why, when they had finished eating and talking, he mumbled awkward excuses and headed for the river. Eleni said nothing but went to her tent; but Nikha Sintana, on his way to his bed in the caravan, came after Nathan at once and took his arm. “Won’t you come with us, then?”
“I can’t,” Nathan answered. “Maybe I would, for Eleni’s sake, if she’d have me—and if you think I’d make her a capable husband, of course. But first I must try one last time to find Nestor’s body. Find and bury him, so that I’ll know where he is always. For I think … that he must be quite close to this place. I have a feeling, that’s all.”
“I understand,” Nikha nodded, and gave Nathan a skin with a route marked on it, to bring him to their camp. “We’ll sleep now, then hunt, finally move on,” he said. “By midday we shall be gone from here, and by sundown we’ll be in our place, which I’ve kept in mind these many years. How long will you search?”
Nathan offered a despairing shrug. “Until I can no longer hope to find him. Perhaps there’s no hope even now, but I must try. And Nikha, even then I can’t swear I’ll be back. There are things in my head … I have memories as fresh as yesterday … it’s not easy to swing this way and that, like a reed in the wind. It only looks easy.”
Nikha nodded. “Very well. But if you should decide that … well, however you decide, only be sure to reach us before sundown, for after that there’ll be no fire to guide you, and it might prove dangerous to come too close unannounced.”
Then they clasped forearms, and through the trees Nathan could feel Eleni’s eyes upon him until he passed from sight into the undergrowth …
He searched the river bank until the middle of the afternoon, when the ground on his side of the river turned into a bog and became impassable, and the overhanging branches were so full of creepers and rank, secondary foliage that the water was shaded, dappled, opaque. If his brother was down there, there could be no finding him now. As for burying him: Nestor would be buried already, in the weeds which had been part of Nathan’s “dream”.
Now, too, Nathan must decide what to do. Earlier, he had seemed to feel something for Eleni Sintana. Or perhaps he had simply felt it for himself: a yawning void, an aching need. In any case, he had a choice: join the Szgany Sintana in whatever future would be theirs, or return to Settlement and be Lardis Lidesci’s son, replacing the one he’d lost. Whichever he chose to be—husband to Eleni, or a son to Lardis—he would be a replacement, not the real thing; and he would always know that he was the second choice.
Settlement seemed a long way off from Nathan, and he knew it could never feel the same if he went back there. If a girl passed by he would look at her, hoping it was Misha. When the women stamped their feet and snapped their fingers thus and so in the dance, he would think of his mother. And if some brash youth came striding, laughing along the road, it would always be Nestor from this time forward. No, the town would be full of ghosts now; indeed, Settlement itself would be a ghost.
But Eleni Sintana was warm and alive …
And what of his vow against the Wamphyri? All very well, when there was a chance that Nestor lived. Together, united under a banner of vengeance, the two of them could have fought alongside Lardis Lidesci and taken whatever revenge was available to them, before they too paid the price. They could have, but no longer. For Nestor was drowned and cold. And again the thought came to Nathan: Eleni is warm and alive.
It was a little more than half-way through the afternoon; there were still some twenty-five hours of full daylight left
, and five or six more of twilight; Nathan was feeling worn out, as low as he had ever felt, and quite at the end of his tether. Over a period of time which would equal almost four days in the time-frame of the world beyond the Starside Gate—of which as yet Nathan knew nothing other than that it was there—he’d managed to snatch only a few hours sleep. Now he must sleep, and sleep his fill, before heading south for … for the encampment of the Szgany Sintana, where the forest met the savannah.
Back up the river he had passed a tiny sandy island with a few reeds, shrubs and trees. Now he made his weary way back there, waded out to the island, curled up under a bush half in the shade, and almost at once fell into an exhausted, dreamless sleep. His last conscious thought as the darkness came down was that he would sleep for a good seven or eight hours, and still have plenty of time to trek to Nikha’s camp before sundown.
But the fact was that both physically and mentally Nathan was far more depleted than he thought. And while he slept … on Starside the vampire plague-bearers were wide awake, active, and filled to overflowing with their loathsome poisons, their unspeakable ambitions …
Though as yet the rays of a slowly setting sun continued to paint the higher peaks of the barrier range a dazzling gold, its cleansing glare had lifted from the face of that one remaining aerie, whose name upon a time was Karenstack. And in the hour of the sun’s passing, Wratha the Risen had called a meeting in her vertiginous apartments; several of her familiar bats had been dispatched into the stack’s lower levels, where Wratha’s renegades understood their messages far better than men understand the whining of dogs. And now the changeling vampire Lords attended her, however sullenly.
They had all been up and about since the arrival of their first new thralls out of Sunside: allotting quarters, “victualling” their beasts, choosing lieutenants and instructing them in their duties, apportioning work to commoner thralls … and last but not least, sating themselves, of course. Which surely accounted for Canker Canison’s ravaged look, for where females were concerned he was ever the Great Dog. In Settlement he had excelled himself: at least two thirds of his recruits from the Szgany Lidesci were women.
