Necroscope 4: Deadspeak by Brian Lumley Read Free Book Online

yourself: for parent he has … but what is this? A snake? A slug? And the creature issues an egg, which the man takes in unto him. And now this most fortunate person is no longer merely human but … something else. Ah!—and see—this one does not die but goes on and on! Always! Perhaps forever.
    Do you follow me, Dumiitruuu? Do you follow the pictures on the wall? Aye, and unless this very special One is slain by some brutal man who has the knowledge—or dies accidentally, which may occur upon a time—why, then he will go on forever! Except… he has needs, this One. He may not sustain himself like ordinary men. Rather, he knows better sources of sustenance! The blood is the life …
    Do you know the name of such a One, my son?
    “I … I know what such men are called,” Dumitru answered, though to an outside observer it would have seemed that he was speaking to a vault empty of life other than his own. “The Greeks call them “Vrykoulakas’, as you have made mention; the Russians “Viesczy’; and we travellers, the Szgany, we call them “Moroi’—vampires!”
    There is another name, said the voice, from a land far, far away in space and time. The name by which they know themselves: Wamphyri! And for a moment, perhaps in a certain reverence, the voice paused. Then:
    Now tell me, Dumiitruuu: do you know who I am? Oh, I know, I’m a voice in your head, but unless you’re a madman the voice must have a source. Have you guessed my identity, Dumiitruuu? Perhaps you’ve even known it all along, eh?
    “You are the Old One,” Dumitru gulped, his Adam’s apple bobbing, throat dry as a stick. “The undead, undying patron of the Szgany Zirra. You are Janos, the Baron Ferenczy!”
    Aye, and you may be a peasant but you’re in no wise ignorant, answered the voice. Indeed, I am that One! And you are mine to command as I will. But first a question: is there one among your father Vasile Zirra’s band whose hands are three-fingered? A child, perhaps, male, born recently, since last you Szgany were here? Or perhaps a stranger you’ve seen on your travels, who desired to join your company?
    A strange question, some would think, but not Dumitru. It was part of the legend: that one day a man would come with three fingers on his hands instead of the usual four. Three broad, strong fingers and a thumb to each hand; born that way and natural enough; neither surgically contrived nor even grotesque to look upon. “No,” he answered at once. “He has not come.”
    The voice gave a mental grunt; Dumitru could almost see the impatient shrug of broad, powerful shoulders. And: Not come, the voice of Janos Ferenczy repeated his words. Not yet come.
    But the attitude of the unseen presence was mercurial; it changed in a moment; disappointment was put aside and resignation took its place. Ah, well, and so I wait out the years. What is time to the Wamphyri anyway, eh?
    Dumitru made no answer. In examining the faded frescoes he had reached a part of the wall which showed several very gruesome scenes. The frescoes were like a tapestry, telling a story in pictures, but these pictures were straight out of nightmare. In the first, a man was held down by four others, one to each limb. A fifth tormentor in Turkish breeches stood over him with a curved sword raised high, while a sixth kneeled close by with a mallet and sharp stake of wood. In the next picture the victim had been beheaded and the stake driven through him, pinning him down—but a huge, fat, sluglike worm or snake was emerging from his severed neck, so that the men about him reared back in horror! In a third picture the men had encircled the Thing with a ring of torches and were burning it; likewise the head and body of its once-host, upon a pile of faggots. The fourth and penultimate scene of the set was of a priest, swinging his censer in one hand, while with the other he poured the vampire’s ashes into an urn. Presumably it was a rite of exorcism, of purification. But if