by Brian Lumley
What Daham Drakesh did not know (nor even Tsi-Hong, else he would never have dared send a warning of any kind) was that his stolen weapons of mass destruction were no longer a secret, no longer in place, no longer a threat. For two weeks ago Yuri Andropov had informed his counterpart in Peking of the Chungking bomb, and had supplied the intelligence necessary to make the final connection with Drakesh. This in response to a British ultimatum that if he didn’t tell the Chinese authorities, they would.
And as in England, and as in Russia, the Chinese were now waiting for that radio signal out of Tibet, which would inform them of the date and time that the High Priest of Drakesh Monastery was to have commenced Armageddon. The military force at Xigaze would also receive that signal, triggering an overwhelming response. And at the Red Chinese air-bridgehead in Golmud, a fighter-bomber force was waiting even now. So that whether or not this was an act of rebellion by the Tibetan nation, or the crazed scheme of one mad mind, its author would cease to exist at its source, and there was no authority on the entire planet that could condemn China for its action.
None of which was known to Drakesh—and certainly not to Colonel Tsi-Hong, who was after all only a civilian in uniform, an adviser on the possible military applications of ESP-ionage and parapsychology in general. Without his knowing, his superiors had already cleared him. But such had been their attitude during a brief period of covert investigation that he had sensed something in the air, hence his warning to Drakesh. He had simply been covering his back.
Meanwhile, in a secret room only a block or two away from Tsi-Hong’s headquarters on Kwijiang Avenue, a team of watchful scientists smoked brown cigarettes while waiting for a motionless needle on an indicator panel to spring into sudden life. Triangulation systems were already in place; even if the task force at Xigaze Garrison found no conclusive evidence at Drakesh Monastery, these men would know precisely where the signal had its origin.
And their response would be just as precise, and far more effective …
Ten o’clock in Sicily that night, the moon almost at its full, when Anthony Francezci took the call from his brother at Aviemore. Anthony was alone in his private rooms, the heavy drapes thrown back and glass doors open to his balcony. When he heard his brother’s voice he picked up the telephone’s cradle, carried it onto the balcony, and sat down at a wrought-iron table. And with a cold breeze blowing off the moon-silvered Tyrrhenian, to cool both his fever and his fear, he said:
“How goes it, brother?”
On the other end of the line, Francesco frowned at something in his twin’s tone, shrugged it off and at once came to the point. “The time limit is almost up, or it will be in the next twenty-four hours. Have you spoken to Angelo? And if so, did you get anything out of him? One of my assistants has, er, gone sick—you understand? Vincent came down with something, ignored the symptoms, paid the price. I do not think I’ll miss him much, but it means I’m a man short and the job might prove a little harder than I anticipated. And after all, I’m not the only one who is after this contract. That’s one reason I would appreciate a little advance knowledge. Forewarned is forearmed, I know you would agree.”
Anthony said, “Give me just a moment.” Putting the phone down, he stood up and went to the balcony, leaned over, looked down onto the patterned mosaic of courtyard flags, then lifted his eyes to scan across the broad courtyard to the outer wall. Angelo was right: except to an assault squad, this place could be made impregnable. If—and in the light of what Angelo had said, it was a big if—but if Francesco should be successful in Scotland, it could be made just as difficult for him to get back into Le Manse Madonie as for Radu if Francesco were unsuccessful. Convoluted thinking, but Anthony was good at it.
Moreover, the old Thing in the pit was probably also right about Francesco’s reaction when he discovered Anthony’s secret. He wasn’t at all likely to be “accommodating.” Since Francesco was very definitely a throwback to his Starside origins, mercy wasn’t one of his virtues. And the very thought caused Anthony to offer up a mirthless grin to the landscape beyond the outer wall. Ridiculous! For unless tenacity could be considered virtuous, the Wamphyri (including Francesco and obviously himself) had never had any virtues in the first place! Just love of self and a sense of perpetuity, timelessness; and now, for Anthony, this new and awful awareness that in fact it was all coming to an end.
Oh, years to go, and possibly even centuries, but no longer years without limit, and certainly not without … certain restrictions. (He thought of his father’s confinement and shuddered.) And the bitter knowledge, too, that when he was gone—“put out of the way,” if he was lucky—his brother Francesco would go on. If the dog-Lord Radu were defeated in the hour of his resurgence, and if Francesco returned to Le Manse Madonie, and to a position of power, unopposed.
Angelo believed that Francesco was heading for a fall. So why not make sure of it? “Forewarned is forearmed,” true. But in this case not to give ample warning—indeed to reverse the process—would be treachery. Again Anthony’s grim, mirthless grin, as he thought: So there you have it! And am I not a true “original” after all?
He sat down again, picked up the telephone. “Brother, are you there?”
“Where else would I be?” came Francesco’s impatient growl. “What took you so long?”
“I’m on my balcony and wanted to close the door,” Anthony lied. “We should keep our conversations private. Why advertise the fact of Vincent’s, er, incapacity? It would only alarm our people needlessly. And I’m conscious of my insularity. Divided like this we’re that much weaker, brother.”
“Speak for yourself,” the other’s voice was a sneer. “What, are you lonely, then? Is the place getting you down? Or can it be that you crave something other than the company of the bastard Thing we call—”
“Francesco!” Anthony snarled a caution … and watched the fingers of his free hand where they gripped the stem of a wineglass elongating like wrinkled boneless worms! Against his will they wrapped themselves round the glass and crushed it, whipped in their own—in his own—blood, until they encountered empty space, then slipped from the table’s rim and went slithering to the floor!
And: “Ah! Ahhh!” he cried, his eyes staring in their dark, shadowed sockets.
“Tony?” (Francesco’s squeak, from the telephone that Anthony had let fall to the table.) He jumped up, grabbed his wild hand, gritted his teeth and demanded obedience from his wilful flesh. His entire left arm felt like jelly; it writhed and bulged at the elbow, tried to put out another arm—or something—from the joint, then gradually, mercifully stiffened as his will won and the rampant metamorphic process reversed itself.
And very slowly—and reluctantly, Anthony thought—his pulsing bloodied tendrils shrank, drew back and reshaped themselves into a hand, as his arm solidified again …
“Tony?” (From the phone.)
Trembling, he picked it up, said, “On the telephone, where business is concerned, we are always so careful. You might have compromised things. You got me worked up, I’m afraid.” (To say the very least!) “I … I broke a glass and, uh, cut myself.”
And again there was that something in Anthony’s voice that his brother had never heard before. Or perhaps he had. Ah, yes! And Francesco could see Anthony’s face even now: his morbid expression. And that awed tone he always got in his voice—that catch in his throat—whenever they visited Bagheria, the Villa Palagonia with its lunatic array of carved stone monsters. Perhaps Anthony had been there, to stand in awe of those loathsome statues yet again. At which, in a way, Francesco came closer to the truth than he could ever have imagined.
“Are you … all right, Tony?” Francesco’s voice was curious now, and Anthony knew he must bring himself yet more firmly under control.
“Yes—yes, of course I am!” he said, fighting a terrible thing within—an inner voice crying that he wasn’t all right, and far from it. “Now be … be civil, will you, and I’ll tell you what Angelo told me.”
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br /> “Get on with it, then.”
“The hound is finished. The contract is yours. You’ll win, hands down. The opposition will collapse. As for the rival outfit: you may encounter some token resistance from them … but it will provide the ideal opportunity to put them out of business for good. Costs to you: minimal …” Treachery, but it scarcely registered. No sick feeling in Anthony now, just pleasure.
“That’s it?” Francesco sounded puzzled. “Angelo didn’t go into details?”
“You are to do what you’ll do. Your plans will suffice. No details, no.”
“As easy as that?” (Surprise, now.) “After all the … the ‘shaggy dog’ stories he’s told us? Listen, I’ve got Angus with me—local liaison, you know?—and he says it won’t be easy at all! He’s been here a long time, Tony, and he’s wise to the way of things in these parts.”
“I can only tell you what Angelo told me,” Anthony replied, with a typical shrug in his voice. “He says you’ll have it easy. What more can I say?” (But then, in order to display at least a semblance of concern, participation): “How are things locally? Are you all set up?”
“Nothing can get past us unseen,” Francesco answered. “For the last day and a half we’ve been on standby. The final stages of the contract are crucial, of course. But we have the chopper—er, for ‘aerial surveillance’?—in order to cover the high ground, you know? And we’ve picked up a lot of quality hardware from Italian friends in Newcastle. Then there are gut feelings, and mine tell me it’s going down on schedule. So Angelo is probably correct. Let’s face it, he’d fucking better be!”
“Nothing more to say, then,” said Anthony. “Except you’ll keep me informed?”
“I’ll be in touch as soon as there’s anything definite to report. Take care, brother.”
“You too,” said Anthony, and put the phone down—
—To sit there feeling his face doing things that weren’t entirely his idea, and listening in the back of his mind to his father’s distant, lunatic laughter …
Radu had called to them, and Alan-on-the-Moor—Alan Goresci, the real Beast of Bodmin, itinerant farmhand, footloose odd-job man and ravaging slaughterer of livestock, but so far only livestock—and young Garth Trevalin had answered his call. Moon-children, descendants of thralls out of the past, they had come to Radu’s aid, but not without the assistance of Auld John. And in finding their way to him they had proved Francesco Francezci quite wrong: they could get past him unseen. But what were they after all but a pair of skiers from the south-west out to enjoy the last decent snows of the season? By no means fully-fledged thralls, the musk, the aura of the Great Wolf was not attendant to them; their thoughts were neither guarded nor searching, and except for an ancient taint their blood was human.
They had met in Edinburgh and hired a car and gear, then driven up to the Spey Valley and found lodgings in Newtonmore well to the south of Aviemore and the Cairngorms. Sensing them there, sniffing out their location, the dog-Lord had passed it to Auld John, who had taken a circuitous route to them, avoiding Aviemore and the surrounding countryside. Thus the Ferenczys had been avoided, too.
As for the remaining Drakuls: their new lieutenant commander out of India was a powerful telepath. It would be difficult for anyone to avoid such as him. Especially since in the night, last night, he had received his final orders from his Master in Tibet. From now on he was to engage his enemies at every opportunity, and while keeping it covert as possible, he was to take out as many as he was able. Radu Lykan was still the main target, of course, but secrecy was no longer the top priority. Not in a world on the verge of nuclear war …
And so, while Anthony and Francesco Francezci conversed by telephone between Scotland and Sicily, and in Tibet Daham Drakesh pondered his Doomsday scenario, the dog-Lord’s three remaining moon-children (who, with the exception of B.J. Mirlu, were the last descendants of many hundreds he had once enthralled) came together quietly in Newtonmore, where Auld John told the others how it was to be:
“Lads,” he began, “ye’ll understand ah’m no too happy tae be the bearer of bad tidings. But hear me out and ah’ll tell ye true. And if Him in his high place has spoken tae ye, ye’ll ken mah words are frae His own mouth. The wee mistress, Bonnie Jean Mirlu … she is ‘nae up tae it. She has taken a lover and cares more for him than for the Master! Oh, she’ll hear His call and go tae Him, but no wi’ a guid heart. And the dog-Lord cannae be sure she’ll no try tae do Him harm! Aye, it’s that bad. B.J.’s that smitten wi’ this … this bleddy man!”
The three were at a table in a quiet corner of the smokeroom of a small pub. Beyond bull’s-eye windows, a few scattered flakes of snow drifted on the cold, still air. And Alan Goresci, a man as wiry and lean—and wolfish—as John himself, whispered, “But why haven’t you put paid to this man, John? This—what, ‘Harry,’ did you say? If you know him, and if you’ve met him … I mean, where’s the problem?”
“Aye, Ah wiz comin’ tae it,” John answered. “But it’s no that easy. See, this yin’s verra important! Tae the Master himsel’! Why, it could even be that this Harry is the ‘Mysterious One’ that Radu has been waiting on a’ these years! His ‘Man-Wi’-Two-Faces,’ one o’ which could even be the dog-Lord’s own!”
“Eh?” Young Garth Trevalin put in. He looked a youth but was in fact thirty-five years old to Alan Goresci’s fifty and John Guiney’s more than sixty. For the blood, and even a taint in the blood, is the life. “What’s that you say? He has Radu’s face?”
“Ah!” John grinned in his fashion. “But ye see, mah meanin’ was more that Radu could have his!”
At which Garth frowned and shook his head. “I still don’t understand.”
“Well maybe it’s not for common men to understand,” Alan-on-the-Moor elbowed Garth none too gently in the ribs. “Maybe we aren’t supposed to understand. Eh, John?”
“Oh, but ye are!” Auld John assured them. “Then, when we go up tae Him tomorrow, ye’ll know what it’s a’ about. See, he fears he may have lain too long, fears the disease might be in him despite the long centuries he’s waited it out. Or if no the Black Death, his body may have surrendered tae time itsel’. But Radu, this wolf of wolves—why, he was a god! He’d no want tae come back tae us like some auld, rusty hinge that’ll break the first time ye bend it. He would be young again, romp among the lassies, get bloodsons and be the true Lord and leader his kith and kin across the world have a’wiz waited for.”
“Huh!” Alan scowled. “His kith and kin? What, a handful of nobodies like us?”
But Auld John only gave his head a shake and muttered, “Oh ye o’ little faith! Do ye no ken what a wee bite can do, Alan-on-the-Moor? And you a Goresci at that, whose forefathers come not only out o’ olden times but frae a far strange world, too! It’s the full o’ the moon, man! And Ah ken how the likes o’ ye can feel it pulling like a tide in yere blood. How long, d‘ye reckon, for Radu tae make himsel’ a pack? And wouldn’t ye just love tae run wi’ him under the moon? The two o’ ye, aye, young Garth too: his lieutenants in the woods and wilds o’ tomorrow? Gods, ye’d be, tae all the yobs and ex-politicians and lawyers and shite o’ today’s so-called ‘society!’”
By which time the two had been leaning forward across the table, eager for John’s every word. And: “When he’s up there’ll be no stopping him,” John continued. “But getting up’s the problem. If he’s been wasted by time or the plague he’ll need a new body. And dinnae ask me how, but he can do it. He can take this Harry Keogh and transfer intae him! Radu’s mind and powers, in this young man’s body. It’ll be like starting anew—but never frae scratch. For this time he’ll take men and women o’ power. And just like the plague in its time, he too will rage across the world tae make it his.”
“When do we climb?” Seduced by the fever in John’s words, young Garth’s voice was husky, trembling.
And glancing from face to face, seeing the fire in their half-feral eyes, Auld John grinned and nodded his head to make his
knotted mane bob. “Have ye kept it up? Have ye been practicing yere climbing? The way’s hard, Ah’ll make no bones o’ it. Even the easy route can be treacherous tae them as dinnae ken it. It’ll be a trial in itsel’! But we have tae go, tae bring the great auld wolf up out o’ his sleeping place. And we must be there first, Radu’s allies when Bonnie Jean arrives.”
“Oh?” Alan-on-the-Moor frowned. “Is B.J. so far gone then, that he can’t trust her in any degree?”
“But did Ah no say so?” John answered. “Why else would he call tae such as you and me, leaving his wee mistress out? Aye, Ah’ve spoken tae him and Radu knows his business. He fears that B.J. will try tae keep this Harry to hersel’. And if bad comes tae worst, that could be the end o’ Radu.”
“But she was so true!” Young Garth was mystified. “I mean, after all these years, why would she change?”
“Perhaps ye’ve hit on it,” John told him. “Change, ye said … and aye, Ah’ve seen it for mahsel’. She’s no the lassie she was. What, B.J. Mirlu, a lassie? Man, she can triple mah years and still manage tae look like—like a …”
“ … Like a girl?” Young Garth prompted him.
“Aye, but she is ’nae. But she is more like the Master than we are. Too like him, and he will’nae have it!”
“Wamphyri?” (This from Alan, so low they could barely make him out.) And Auld John blinked yellow eyes in the smoky light, and nodded.
“Ah’ve seen it for mahsel’,” he repeated. “Often. Cut her, she heals, but so quickly! And when she’s mad … oh, ye would’nae want tae make Bonnie Jean Mirlu mad …” He shook his head.
“Then what’s to choose between them?” Garth, in his “innocence,” asked the logical question.
