Brian Lumley - Necroscope IV - Deadspeak

Oh? Ha-haa-haaa! Ha-haaa! Terrible laughter filled Dumitru's mind if not his ears. And so finally it's a battle of wills, eh, my son?

A battle of wills? Dumitru's will hardened; he fought for control of his mind, his young, powerful muscles. And: 'I… won't… kill myself for you… old devil!' he gasped.

Of course you won't, Dumiitruuu. Not even I can make you do that, not against your will. Beguilement has its limits, you see. No, you won't kill yourself, my son. I shall do that. Indeed — 1 already have!

Dumitru found his limbs full of a sudden strength, his mind free at last of the Ferenczy's shackles. Licking his lips, eyes starting out, he looked this way and that. Which way to run? Somewhere up ahead a great wolf waited; but he still had his torch; the wolf would back off before its flaring. And behind him…

From behind him in this previously still place, suddenly the air came rushing like a wind — fanned by a myriad of wings. The bats!

In another moment the crushing claustrophobia of the place crashed down on Dumitru. Even without the bats, whose return seemed imminent, he knew he could never find courage to retrace his steps down the false flue, and then through the castle's vaults with their graveyard loot, and on up that echoing stone stairwell to the outside world. No, there was only one way: forward to whatever awaited him. And as the first bats came in a rush, so he hurled himself along the stone ledge -

— Which at once tilted under his weight!

And:

Ahaaa! said the awful voice in his head, full of triumph now. But even a big wolf weighs much less than a man full grown, Dumiitruuu!

Opposite the spiked pit, the ledge and entire section of wall that backed it — an 'L' of hewn stone — tilted through ninety degrees and tossed Dumitru onto the spikes. His single shriek, of realization and the horror it brought combined, was cut off short as he was pierced through skull and spine and most of his vital organs — but not his heart. Still beating, his heart continued to pump his blood — to pump it out through the many lacerations of his impaled, writhing body.

And did I not say it would be an ecstasy, Dumiitruuu? And did I not say I'd kill you? The monster's gloating words came floating through all the youth's agonies, but dimly and fading, as was the agony itself. And that was the last of Janos Ferenczy's torments, his final taunt; for now Dumitru could no longer hear him.

But Janos was not disappointed. No, for now there was that which was far more important — an ancient thirst to quench. At least until the next time.

Blood coursed down the 'V'-shaped channel, spurted from the spout, splashed down into the mouth of the urn to wet whatever was inside. Ancient ashes, salts — the chemicals of a man, of a monster — soaked it up, bubbled and bulked out, smoked and smouldered. Such was the chemical reaction that the obscene lips of the urn seemed almost to belch…

In a little while the great wolf came back. He passed scornfully under the bats where they chittered and formed a ceiling of living fur, stepped timidly where the pivoting floor and wall of the passage had rocked smoothly back into place, and paused to gaze down at the now silent urn. Then… he whined deep in the back of his throat, jumped down into the pit and up onto the runnelled slab above the urn, and crept timidly between the spikes to a clear area at the head of the trench. There he turned about and began to free Dumitru's drained body from the spikes, lifting the corpse from them bloodied shaft by bloodied shaft.

When this was done he'd jump up out of the pit, which wasn't deep here, reach down and worry the body out, and drag it to the Place of Many Bones where he could feed at will. It was a routine with which the old wolf was quite familiar. He'd performed this task on several previous occasions.

So had his father before him. And his. And his…

Savirsin, Romania; evening of the first Friday in August 1983; the Gaststube of an inn perched on the steep mountainside at the eastern extreme of the town, where the road climbs up through many hairpin bends and out of sight into the pines.

Three young Americans, tourists by their looks and rig, sat together at a chipped, ages-blackened, heavily-grained circular wooden table in one corner of the barroom. Their clothes were casual; one of them smoked a cigarette; their drinks were local beers, not especially strong but stinging to the palate and very refreshing.

At the bar itself a pair of gnarled mountain men, hunters complete with rifles so ancient they must surely qualify as antiques, had guffawed and slapped backs and bragged of their prowess — and not only as hunters of beasts — for over an hour before one of them suddenly took on a surprised look, staggered back from the bar, and with a slurred oath aimed himself reeling through the door out into the smoky blue-grey twilight. His rifle lay on the bar where he'd left it; the bartender, not a little gingerly, took it up and put it carefully away out of sight, then continued to wash and dry the day's used glasses.

The departed hunter's drinking companion — and partner in crime or whatever — roared with renewed laughter; he slapped the bar explosively, finished off the other's plum brandy and threw back his own, then looked around for more sport. And of course he spied the Americans where they sat at their ease, making casual conversation. In fact, and until now, their conversation had centred on him, but he didn't know that.

He ordered another drink — and whatever they were drinking for them at the table; one for the barman, too — and swayed his way over to them. Before filling the order the barman took his rifle, too, and placed it safely with the other.

'Gogosu,' the old hunter growled, thumbing himself in his leather-clad chest. 'Emil Gogosu. And you? Touristi, are you?' He spoke Romanian, the dialect of the area, which leaned a little towards Hungarian. All three, they smiled back at him, two of them somewhat warily. But the third translated, and quickly answered:

Tourists, yes. From America, the USA. Sit down, Emil Gogosu, and talk to us.'

Taken by surprise, the hunter said: 'Eh? Eh? You have the tongue? You're a guide for these two, eh? Profitable, is it?'

The younger man laughed. 'God, no! I'm with them — I'm one of them — an American!'

'Impossible!' Gogosu declared, taking a seat. 'What? Why, J never before heard such a thing! Foreigners speaking the tongue? You're pulling my leg, right?'

Gogosu was peasant Romanian through and through. He had a brown, weather-beaten face, grey bull-horn moustaches stained yellow in the middle from pipe-smoking, long sideburns curling in towards his upper lip, and penetrating grey eyes under bristling, even greyer brows. He wore a patched leather jacket with a high collar that buttoned up to the neck over a white shirt whose sleeves fitted snug at the wrist. His fur caciula cap was held fast under the right epaulet of his jacket; a half-filled bandolier passed under the left epaulet, crossed his chest diagonally, fed itself up under his right arm and across his back. A wide leather belt supported a sheath and hunter's knife, several pouches, and his coarsely-woven trousers which he wore tucked into his climber's pigskin calf-boots. A small man, still he looked strong and wiry. All in all, he was a picturesque specimen.

'We were talking about you,' their interpreter told him.

'Eh? Oh?' Gogosu looked from one face to the next all the way round. 'About me? So I'm a figure of curiosity, ami?'

'Of admiration,' the wily American answered. 'A hunter, by your looks, and good at it — or so we'd guess. You'd know this country, these mountains, well?'