The Source (25 page)

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Authors: Brian Lumley

BOOK: The Source
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“Him in His Western Garden?” Jazz tried it for himself.
She smiled a half-smile, slowly nodded. “Arlek was wrong about you,” she said. “And so was I. You do learn fast. It's The-Dweller-in-His-Garden-in-the-West.”
“Same difference.” Jazz shrugged, and then it was his turn to frown. “But that sounds sort of placid to me. Hardly monstrous!”
“That's as it may be,” she answered, “but the Wamphyri fear it or him or whatever mightily. Now, I've told you how they're forever squabbling, warring with each other? Well, in one circumstance—to one extent—they're entirely united.
All
the Wamphyri. They'd give a lot to be rid of The Dweller. He's legended to be a fabulous magician whose home is said to lie in a green valley somewhere in the central peaks to the west. I say ‘legended,' but that might give the wrong impression. In fact it's a very recent legend, maybe as little as a dozen Earth years. That's when the stories started, apparently. Since then he's been said to have lived there, marked out his own territory, guards it jealously and deals ruthlessly with would-be invaders.”
“Even the Wamphyri?”
“Especially the Wamphyri, as far as is known. The Wamphyri tell horror stories about him you wouldn't believe. Which, considering
their
nature, is really saying something!”
As she finished speaking, so there was movement
northward in the pass. Arlek and his men sprang immediately alert; they called forward their wolves, took up their arms. Jazz saw that they had torches smeared in a black, tarry liquid ready for lighting. Others stood ready with flints.
Arlek hurried over, hauled Jazz to his feet. “This could be Jasef,” he said, hoarsely, “and it could be something else. The sun is almost down.”
To Zek, Jazz said: “Are those flints of theirs reliable? There's a book of matches in my top pocket. And cigarettes, too. Seems they didn't want them, only the heavy stuff.” He'd spoken in Russian and Arlek hadn't caught his meaning. The Gypsy turned his leathery face inquiringly in Zek's direction.
She sneered at him, said something that Jazz didn't catch. Then she unbuttoned Jazz's pocket, took out the matches. She showed them to Arlek, struck one. It flared at once and the Gypsy cursed, gave a great start, struck it aside out of her hand. The look on his face was one of shock, total disbelief.
Zek quickly snarled something at him and this time Jazz caught the word “coward!” He wished she wouldn't be so free with that word, not with Arlek. Then, very slowly and deliberately, as if she talked to a dull child, she hissed: “For the torches, you fool, in case this is not Jasef!”
He gawped at her, blinked his brown eyes nervously, but finally he nodded his understanding.
In any case, it was Jasef. An old man with a staff, assisted by two younger Gypsies, came hobbling gratefully into the last few feeble rays of sunlight. He made his way straight to Arlek, said: “There was a watcher, a trog. But the trog's master, the Lord Shaithis, had given him the power to speak over great distances. He saw the man—this one, Jazz—come through the pass, and he reported it to Shaithis. Shaithis would have come at once, but the sun—”
“Yes, yes—get on with it,” Arlek snapped.
Jasef shrugged his frail shoulders. “I did not speak to this Szgany trog face to face, you understand. Worse things might have been lurking in the keep. I stayed outside and spoke to him in my head, in the manner of the Wamphyri.”
“Of course, that's understood!” Arlek was almost beside himself.
“I gave the trog your message, and he passed it on to his Wamphyri Lord. Then he told me to return to you.”
“What?” Arlek was obviously dumbfounded. “Is that all?”
Again Jasef could only offer his shrug. “He said: ‘Tell Arlek of the Travellers that my Lord Shaithis will speak to him in person.' I have no idea what he meant.”
“Old fool!” Arlek muttered. He turned away from Jasef—and Zek's radio crackled where its aerial projected an inch or two from her pocket. Its tiny red monitor light began to blink and flicker. Arlek gasped and leaped backwards a full pace, pointed at the radio and stared round-eyed as Zek produced it. “More of your foul magic?” he half-accused. “We should have destroyed all of your things long ago—and you with them—instead of letting Lardis give them back to you!”
Zek had been startled, too, but only for a moment. Now she said: “I got them back because there was no harm in them and they were useless to you. Also because they were mine. Unlike you, Lardis isn't a thief! I've told the Travellers many times that this thing is for communicating over great distances, haven't I? But because there was no one to talk to it wouldn't work. It's a machine, not magic. Well, now there
is
someone to talk to, and he wants to communicate.” And to Jazz, in a lower tone: “I think I know what this means.”
He nodded, said: “Those ace cards you mentioned?”
“Right,” she answered. “I think the Lord Shaithis already has one—or if not an ace, certainly a joker. He's got Karl Vyotsky!” Then she spoke into the radio:
“Unknown call-sign, this is Zek Föener. Send your message, over?”
Her radio crackled again, and a once-familiar voice, shaky, a little urgent and breathless but fairly coherent, said, “You can throw out the radio procedure, Zek. This is Karl Vyotsky. Do you have Arlek of the Travellers with you?” He sounded like he wasn't too sure of what he was saying, as if he simply relayed the requirements of some other.
Jazz said, “Let me speak to him,” and Zek held the radio to his face. “Who wants to know, Comrade?” he asked.
And after a moment's silence, in a tone which was suddenly pleading: “Listen, British: we're on different sides, I know, but if you foul me up now it's all over for me. My radio is acting up. Sometimes it receives and other times it doesn't. Right now I have excellent elevation—you wouldn't believe the elevation I have—but still I don't trust this radio. So don't waste any time with games. I can't believe you'd let me live once just to kill me now. So if this Arlek is with you, please put him on. Tell him Shaithis of the Wamphyri wants to talk to him.”
Arlek had heard his name spoken twice, and Shaithis's name several times. The conversation obviously concerned himself and the Wamphyri Lord. He held out a hand for the radio, said: “Give it to me.”
If Jazz had held the radio he would have thrown it down, stamped on it and wrecked it. No communications, no deal. Zek might well have had the same idea, but she wasn't quick enough. Arlek snatched the radio from her, fumbled with it for a moment and finally, a little awkwardly, said: “I am Arlek.”
The radio crackled some more, and in a little while a new male voice said: “Arlek of the Travellers—of the tribe of Lardis Lidesci—it is Shaithis of the Wamphyri who speaks to you. How is it you have the power and not Lardis? Have you replaced him as leader of the
tribe?” The voice was the darkest, most menacing Jazz had ever heard. But at the same time, while there was something inhuman about it, it was definitely the voice of a man. Deep and rumbling with controlled strength, forming each word perfectly and with unswervable authority, the owner of that voice knew that whoever he spoke to, that person was an inferior.
Arlek had quickly mastered the radio. “Lardis is away,” he said. “He may return and he may not. Even if he does, still there are Travellers with me who are dissatisfied with his leadership. The futures are not at all clear. Many things are possible.”
Shaithis got straight to the point. “My watcher has told me you have the woman who was the Lady Karen's thought-thief, the woman Zekintha from the hell-lands. Also, you have a man from the hell-lands, who is a magician and bears strange weapons.”
“These things your watcher tells you are true,” Arlek answered, more at ease now.
“And is it also true that you desire to come to some agreement with me in respect of this man and woman?”
“That is also true. Give me your word that in future you will not raid on the so-called tribe of Lardis, and in turn I'll hand over to you these magicians from the hell-lands.”
The radio was silent and it appeared that Shaithis was considering Arlek's proposition. At last he said: “And their weapons?”
“Also their belongings, yes,” Arlek answered. “All except an axe, which belonged to the man. This I claim for myself. Even so, the benefits for the Wamphyri Lord Shaithis will be great. Strange weapons to aid you in your wars, devices such as this communicator, which you apparently understand well enough, and their magic to use as you will.”
Shaithis seemed swayed.
“Hmm!
You know that I am only one Lord and there are others of the Wamphyri? I can only speak for myself.”
“But you are greatest of the Wamphyri!” Arlek was sure of himself now. “I do not ask for your protection, merely that if the occasion should arise, then that you'd obstruct the other Lords in their raids. There are many Travellers and we are, after all, only one small tribe. You would not raid upon us, and you would ensure—if it please you—that the raids of your fellow Lords were made that much more difficult to accomplish …”
Shaithis's voice sank deeper yet. “I recognize no ‘fellow' Lords, Arlek. Only enemies. As for placing obstructions in their way: I do that already. I always will.”
“Then you would perhaps do it more diligently,” Arlek pressed. And he repeated: “We are a small tribe, Lord Shaithis. I make no request in respect of Travellers of any other ilk.”
Zek tried to snatch the radio from him but he turned his back on her. Two of his men grabbed her arms, held her still. “Black-hearted, treacherous—!” She was lost for words.
“Very well,” said Shaithis. “Now tell me, how will you give the two to me?”
“I shall bind them securely,” Arlek answered, “and leave them here in this place. We are some little way beyond the keep in the pass.”
“Their weapons will be left close to hand?”
“Yes,” Arlek squared back his shoulders, flared his nostrils. Even in his treachery his dark eyes were bright. It was all going according to plan. The Wamphyri were a curse; but with the curse lifted, even partly lifted … it would not be long before Lardis Lidesci would be usurped.
“Then do it now, Arlek of the Travellers. Bind them, leave them there, and begone! Shaithis comes! Let me not find you there upon my arrival. The pass is in any case mine … after dark.”
 
 
They lay there alone, in darkness, with only the sound of their own breathing. To the south Arlek and his band moved off; it appeared that Wolf had gone with them. As the sounds of their hurried departure echoed back, Jazz said: “I still think that beast of yours didn't make much of a guard dog.”
“Be quiet,” she said. And that was all. She lay very still. Jazz turned his head, stared north up the pass. Only the cold gleam of starlight that way. He strained his ears. Nothing, as yet.
“Why be quiet?” he finally whispered.
“I was trying to get through to Wolf,” she answered. “He would have attacked them at any time—and been killed for it. I held him back. He's been a good friend and companion to me, and it wasn't the time.
Now
is the time!”
“For what?”
“You've seen his teeth—they're sharp as chisels! I've called to him. If he heard me, and if he's not too involved with the other wolves, he'll return. We're bound with leather, but given a little time …”
Jazz rolled over to face her. “Well, at least we should have plenty of that. I saw the Wamphyri castles on the stacks. They were miles away. And then there's the length of the pass, too.”
She shook her head. “Jazz, even now it's almost too late.” As she spoke, Wolf came loping, tongue lolling. Behind him the southern gap of the pass was lit with a fast-fading golden haze.
“Too late?” Jazz repeated her. “You mean because the sun's down?”
“That wasn't my meaning,” she answered. “And anyway, it isn't down. A mile south of here, the pass rises briefly to a shallow crest, then dips sharply and turns a little toward the east. From there it's a steep, steady slope down to Sunside. The sun's just over our horizon, that's all. On Sunside there are still many
hours of light left. But—Shaithis will be here very soon.”
“He has transport?” Jazz was puzzled, half flippant
“Yes, he has,” Zek answered … “Jazz, I can't turn face-down. There's a large rock sticking in me. But if you can manage it, then I'll tell Wolf to chew on your bindings.”
“You're crediting old Lupus here with a deal of intelligence,” Jazz was sceptical.
“A mind-picture is worth a thousand words,” she said.
“Oh!” Jazz said. He struggled to turn face-down, but—
“Before you do,” she said, breathlessly, “will you kiss me?” She wormed herself fractionally closer.

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