by Brian Lumley
‘A warrior!’ he breathed, cold sweat gleaming on his brow. Until now the thing had been hidden by the terrain; it lay in a slight depression, in the lee of a cluster of boulders where Gorvi the Guile had left it. Tzonov could make out the heaving motion of scales as the thing breathed, the jetting of hot air through nostrils six inches wide, the glimmer of starlight on chitin. ‘We had better get after the men, Bruno,’ he whispered. ‘And from now on the order is absolute silence!’
‘What is it?’ Yefros called up to them, his nervous voice echoing out and away. As if in answer, they heard for the third time that primal, threatening rumble of sound. And, magnified in the lenses of the nite-sites, Tzonov saw an armour-plated, prow-like head lift listlessly from the earth, and a flicker of eyes like scarlet lamps in the — face? — of the disturbed monster.
Tzonov handed the binoculars back to Krasin, glanced down once, furiously, at Yefros and jumped. Landing expertly, soundlessly, in the dust, he straightened up and grabbed the locator by the throat, cutting off any further questions. And: ‘Fool!’ he hissed. ‘Locator? Oh, and do you want to be located? If you would go on Jiving . .. keep … fucking … quiet! Releasing the other, he thrust him away and told him: ‘Catch up with the section — but quietly!’
As Yefros threw a narrow-eyed, accusing glance at his superior and stumbled away, rubbing at his throat, Krasin came down from his observation point. In a barely audible whisper he said, ‘I think the thing’s asleep! We may have disturbed it a little, that’s all.’
They hurried to catch up with the rest, and in the blue-tinged night of Starside, made all possible speed for the
mouth of the pass. From behind but gradually fading, the uneasy rumbling of the warrior followed them most of the way . ..
In the pass, several surprises were waiting. Because of the low trajectory of the sun and the elevation of the barrier range, it had been night on Starside for some hours now; but it soon became apparent that on Sunside darkness had fallen much more recently.
Following a barely discernible trail through the scree of shattered boulders tumbled from the heights, in something less than an hour the squad passed through a dog-leg defile and saw ahead . .. the very last trace of a sunset? Strange, until Tzonov remembered that a day and night in the vampire world were the equivalent of a whole week in his. The sun hod set on Sunside, but a slowly fading crack of amethyst light yet remained to show where it had sunk down out of sight. Pale though that glow was, it threw the walls of the pass and the distant crest of a rising saddle into silhouette. And in so doing it became, as it were, the ‘light at the end of the tunnel’ for Tzonov’s men. This world, even this pass into Sunside, had seemed full of morbid alien auras - rightly so. But now in the glow of this faint crack of light the spirits of the men were lifted; they even began to exchange small talk - albeit in whispers.
The second surprise was nothing of nature but an artifact, perhaps of men. But Tzonov, who knew some few things at least about this vampire world, had his doubts. For some time he had been keeping himself apart from Yefros, walking at the head of the section with Krasin. Now, he called for the locator to join them, and in the light of electric torch-beams they picked out the rough-hewn features of a towering edifice.
Here, where the bed of the gorge had narrowed to a bottleneck at the foot of sheer canyon walls, the east face had been carved into a rearing keep or observation post ideally sited to guard the pass; or perhaps it was a
268
269
Wamphyri way-station, where lieutenant slave-takers had rested during the long trek back to Starside with Szgany captives. Tzonov’s understanding, however, was that the last members of the Old Wamphyri had died out sixteen years ago when nuclear missiles had been fired into Starside from Perchorsk. Which meant that this castle could only be a relic of old times and no longer in use.
But on the other hand … Tzonov had seen a warrior creature back there on the plain of boulders, and he’d had it from Siggi Dam how Nathan had been punished, even banished from Sunside/Starside, by a new breed of Wamphyri. Indeed, it had been one of Tzonov’s fears (ostensibly, at least) that Nathan might be a spy for vampire masters, sent to check out the lie of the land before the Lords themselves came through. Also, as Tzonov and the section had climbed the foothills’ gradient to the pass, he and Bruno Krasin had paused and turned for a moment to gaze out over Starside. Far in the northeast they’d spied a distant stack, and Tzonov knew that he hadn’t imagined those flickering lights and the smoke going up. There might not be as many of the Wamphyri as before, but there could be no denying that they were here. And … it was sundown, their time.
Tzonov shrugged off a feeling of foreboding, dismissing it like an itch between his shoulder-blades, and gave his attention to the great gaunt keep. In any case, he felt sure his men had the measure of anything they might find here. Nothing that lived could possibly face up to their weapons. Except .. . he’d seen film of the early Perchorsk encounters, and now remembered some of the things that had come through into the core. They had been stopped, yes, but it hadn’t been that easy …
The men were waiting for him to say something. He turned to Yefros and asked, ‘Well, what do you make of it?’
The locator was peering at the castle built into the face of the cliff, concentrating upon it, searching through its massive walls. Nervously alert, bird-like, his shining black eyes
moved from feature to feature, getting the feel of it. He took in its awesome starlit gauntness, its texture of blue-gleaming stone (which looked and felt more like bone), the inhuman soullessness of bleak, frowning facades; its battlements carved of solid rock, notched into gaping embrasures, or merlons thrusting up into towers and turrets; its flying buttresses, and the menacing chutes of its gargoyle corbels.
‘Well?’ Tzonov said again.
Torch-beams reached out, swept up and up the face of the great keep. Ledges in the virgin rock had been carved into massive steps, causeways climbing from one level to the next. Vertiginous arches made bridges to parts of the architecture which were otherwise inaccessible, where the overhanging face jutted or generally obstructed; cowled window-holes gloomed like dark eyes in the star-silvered stone, frowning down on the midgets ogling from the shadows.
‘Well?’
‘Wait,’ Yefros muttered peevishly. He still hadn’t forgiven Tzonov, and wanted him to know it. Also, he wanted his talent appreciated. Why should Tzonov get all of his admiration, while Alexei Yefros got nothing in return?
Looking into Yefros’s black eyes, Tzonov read the locator’s thoughts, his disappointment: that his superior had such scant regard for him. Maybe in future he should treat him more kindly — while he needed him, anyway. But for the time being: he knew that Yefros was doing his job, that he was diligently ‘searching’ the keep, and so kept his peace. And the locator continued his mental exploration.
The structure started maybe fifty feet up the cliff face, half-way to the top of a lone, projecting stack. In the chimney between cliff and pillar, stone steps were visible zigzagging upwards to the mouth of a domed cave. Presumably this cavern entrance was extensive, with its own passageways into the keep proper. Higher still, the fortifications spread outwards across the face of the cliff like a weird stone fungus, covering Nature’s efforts with the lesser but more purposeful works of … men? Well, men of sorts.
270
271
But plainly the builders of the keep weren’t here now. No figures moved on the battlements or on the stairways; no lights shone in the windows, turrets or high balconies. The place was deserted, which Yefros now confirmed:
‘No one is in there. It’s empty. But there are - I don’t know - echoes?’
‘Echoes?’ Tzonov waited.
Yefros shrugged. ‘It’s as if the keep itself were undead. As if the very stones waited …’
‘But you sensed, or located, no one, nothing?’
Yefros looked puzzled, undecided, even harassed. But finally he answ
ered, ‘No, I located … no one.’ It was the first time Tzonov had seen him uncertain of his talent.
By now Tzonov was convinced that the place was even more ancient than he’d at first thought. In the old times there had been wars between the Wamphyri Lords, blood-wars, when this keep would have been a fortress proper. It certainly seemed unlikely that a structure like this - so well fortified and apparently impregnable - had been built to fend off common Szgany tribesmen! But there was no reason why ‘common’ men couldn’t defend it.
That’s our refuge till morning,’ he said. ‘Which in turn means we have three days here, Earth-time.’ And turning to Krasin: ‘See to it.’
Krasin gathered the squad to him in a semicircle, allowed those who wished to smoke to do so, told them: The place seems deserted. In you go, search and secure - but carefully! Sort out defensive positions, and prepare a roster for guard duties. Then back out here to gather fuel. Among this rubble there are trees fallen from the heights. Gather wood and let’s have some fires going. Then we’ll break out the rations. Any questions? No? Then get to it…’
At its base, where the stack stood free of the cliff and formed the keep’s foundation stone, it was surrounded by a wall whose ends joined up with the cliff face. The wall was of massive masonry, stood twelve to fifteen feet high, and was crowned with merlons and embrasures. Every other
merlon had been shaped into a stone dragon, with a gaping mouth that formed a circular corbel chute. But these dragons were of no mundane design; they had the lean bodies of wolves poised to leap, the folded wings of bats, and the faces … of men. Well, of monsters at least.
Huge, ages-blackened, iron-studded gates leaned open on rusted hinges. Embellished with the same awesome dragon motif, their welcome seemed cynical, to say the least. The squad went through them at the run in teams of four: one left, one right, two covering; a breathless pause of five seconds to secure positions, then a leapfrog movement forward as the next team followed on. Tzonov, Yefros and Krasin came on behind, moving from one secured position to the next. And so into the courtyard, and from there to the steps and cavern entrance; finally into the keep itself.
Sprawling across the face of the cliff, the keep’s extensive surface area was greatly disproportionate to its depth. The builders hadn’t hollowed out the cliff to any great extent but had used natural caves wherever possible. Quite obviously, and just as Tzonov had supposed, the place must have been a way-station and observation post. Dust lay thickly layered wherever time or the elements had deposited it, with never a foot- or claw-print to disturb it other than the fresh, sharp-etched imprints of combat boots.
The men relaxed a little. Defensive points were manned; wood was gathered; in less than half an hour, smoke and cooking smells went up from chimneys cold for fifty years. Tzonov said nothing, but as he looked at the great girth of the fireplaces and the size of the rusted iron spits, he couldn’t help thinking: The last time that people cooked here, people were cooked here!
It was a nightmarish thought . .. but not nearly as nightmarish as the huge mummified grey thing which one of the men discovered in a previously unexplored observation tower, where access had been difficult, due to fallen masonry.
Tzonov was with Krasin when the shuddering soldier
272
273
reported his find, and was at once arrested by the man’s answer to Krasin’s abrupt: ‘What is it?’
‘It’s something I found, sir. I … stumbled against it -touched it - and it’s dead. But what it is? Well, it isn’t a man …’
They returned with him to his discovery, and on the way Tzonov called for Yefros to accompany them. In the tower over the gorge they shone their torches where the soldier pointed, and Tzonov understood what he’d meant. Quite definitely, the thing was not a man. But a long time ago, it might have been several men.
The thing was as big as a horse, but … there could be no further comparison with anything of Earthly origin. Except perhaps men. Its many legs and feet, and single pair of arms and hands, were short and stubby but manlike. Rather: if men wore them, they would not look out of place.
The thing had fallen over on its side and died there. It must be dead, for it was partly mummified … the dry air had kept it from corruption. Tzonov got down on one knee, shone a torch on the thing close up. Take three men, cut them across their bodies about nipple height and fold them forward at the waist one behind the other. Then fuse them, chest to buttocks and so on, all three into one. Now take the excised material and mould it into a long, flexible neck, with nothing much of a head but a mouthful of grinding teeth, rudimentary nostrils and ears, and (most importantly) a great many eyes along the neck and tapering nub of a head, so providing your - your what? Your alien, six-legged centaur? Or simply your observer? - your thing, anyway, with the means to scan in every direction simultaneously.
That was what this abomination was: a Wamphyri construct, a sentinel whose sole function had been to keep watch over the gorge. Except its eyes were fused shut now in merciful death. So it seemed.
The entire - creature - was covered in thick, leathery skin; where this had desiccated and cracked open, it was seen to be more in the nature of animal hide an eighth of an
inch thick. Protection against the cold, during monotonously long nights of duty in the keep? Possibly.
The most puzzling feature in Tzonov’s estimation was an upward-projecting, featureless nodule at the base of the neck; its short stem was knuckled like a spine, but its bald, bulbous terminal might easily be a second cranium, with a smaller brain housed in a skull only half the size of a normal human head . ..
‘Alexei.’ He glanced up at the locator. ‘What do you make of this?’
Yefros was standing beside him, gazing down on the thing in disgust. ‘I don’t know.’ He shook his head. ‘But there was once a theory, mainly fallen into disrepute now, that certain dinosaurs evolved secondary brains in their spines to control their armoured tails. They were too big and lumbering; it was Nature’s way of balancing the deficiency of slow thought processes and reflexes. This, however -‘ he shook his head again, gulping audibly as he backed away - ‘is nothing of Nature. I believe it is the echo I talked about. It was made by men, and it was made … of men? Yes, and a long time ago. And one more thing, Turkur. It isn’t dead yet! Not quite dead, anyway …’
In the last few seconds, Tzonov had become aware of a sick smell rising from the shrivelled, crumpled thing. Externally it was fairly well-preserved. But internally .. .? Now, as an eyelid cracked open in the near-mummified neck, and others in the blob of a head, he kicked himself backwards away from it, sprawling in the dust.
Some of the eyes were black sockets, dribbling a thick, tarry, morbid substance; others were yellow with pus. But one at least was clear . .. and stared directly, however vacantly, at Turkur Tzonov! His talent was instinct in him. Even sprawling there, he could read the thing’s feeble mind as clearly as a living man’s, and actually felt the faint pulse of thoughts which it sent hurtling towards Starside from the telepathic ganglion in its secondary brain:
Master … my Lord . .. there are … men … in the … keep!
275
274
That was all. But the rotting eyes of the undead horror continued to follow the four as they left the turret and descended gratefully into the company of other human beings …
In a little while they returned with flame-throwers and burned the watcher where it lay.
Later still, Tzonov ordered his own sentries to be especially wary for the duration of their stay. After all, he knew that the creature had transmitted a final message to someone, somewhere. In that last, however, he was mistaken. The thing had tried, certainly - but uselessly. And, just like the blazing observer itself, as chemical fire reduced it to roiling smoke and greasy ashes, Tzonov had no way of knowing that its message had not and could never be received.
He himself had been able to ‘read’ the thought by virtue of his eye-to-eye telep
athy. But as for anyone else: the creature could only communicate with its master, whichever Lord had ‘built’ it.
And the maker and master of the watcher, the great Lord Shaithis of the Wamphyri, had been dead now for more than sixteen years …
II
Reconnaissance
There was no way that Turkur Tzonov could know it, but a few scant minutes after he and his half-platoon had left Starside to enter the mouth of the great pass - and therefore into the shelter and doubtful safety of the gorge’s shadows and shielding rock walls - the Lady Wratha and her much depleted Wrathstack army passed half a mile beyond the glaring hemisphere of the Starside Gate, on her way back to the last aerie. The dimly flickering lights that Tzonov and Krasin had seen in that solitary stack’s windows were Wratha’s beacons guiding her home.
But if he and his section had entered the pass only a minute or so later, then despite all of their human ingenuity and much-vaunted firepower they might never have entered it at all. For then Wratha or Canker, Gorvi, Wran or Spiro, or even some senior lieutenant, might well have detected the aroma of human flesh, picked up human thoughts, or by some other means unique to their individual Wamphyri senses or talents, become ‘aware’ of the presence of men in Starside.
Or there again, perhaps not. Certainly the Lady and Lords had more important things on their minds; indeed, it could well be that Tzonov and his men owed their survival to Wratha’s concern for her own. For the Lady’s eyes scanned Starside’s skies this night, not its land. And her senses were alert for intruders, not refugees.
Do you have a plan? Wran the Rage’s query entered Wratha’s mind undisguised, urgent and anxious. With a battle in the offing, there was no time for bluff and bluster.
