The Source by Brian Lumley

‘But enough about them. Just pray God, if you’re a believer, that you never see one. And especially that you never see one in battle . . .

‘Flying beasts are stationed at various levels. You’ve seen them and know what they look like. They aren’t especially dangerous, not on their own. Grounded they’re clumsy, stupid; aloft they are graceful in their own alien sort of way. For control they are linked closely with their masters – by telepathy. It has to be that way when the Wamphyri ride them to battle. They are the sky-floating command-posts of their masters.

‘One other thing about the Wamphyri in battle: they | have their own codes of combat, their own warped i “values” and ideas about valour, chivalry and such! Can you imagine that? But each one of them changes these values to suit himself, to his own advantage. If ever it gets down to hand-to-hand combat, one against one, the single weapon deemed allowable by high-ranking aerie masters – the Lords and their aides or lieutenants – is the war-gauntlet. Somewhere in the east, in a small Gypsy settlement, those hideous weapons are made to order for the Wamphyri. All metal things are made for them; they have no understanding of metalworking, or more correctly, they have a general dislike for metals. Silver is a poison, iron despised, only gold is relatively acceptable.

‘So, I’ve covered a few points, helped to give you something of a picture of Wamphyri life and how their aeries operate. It’s all too complicated for me to be more specific than that. Now, if you still want to hear it, I’ll go on and tell you about my own experiences in the Lady Karen’s aerie

Jazz had finished bathing and now climbed out of the river. He felt a lot easier, relaxed; the water had washed away most of his coiled-spring tension. He squeegeed the water from his body with the hard edges of his hands, shivered a little in the oh-so-gradually fading rays of the sun where it sat over the horizon’s edge. As he began to dress and before Zek could continue her story, they spotted Lardis returning across the rim of the riverbank.

Jazz had disassembled most of his combat-suit harness, leaving only the belt and upper cross-straps with their various attachments. As Lardis arrived and cast a speculative eye over the several items of gear where they lay spread out, so Zek gave Jazz a helping hand to get himself kitted-up again. He preferred to sleep fully-rigged, or at the very least in ‘skeleton order’, so that he could wake up ready for any eventuality.

Finally, taking out a cigarette and lighting it, Jazz turned to the Gypsy leader – in time to see him twist and yank the pin from a fragmentation grenade!

Jazz drew air in a gasp, threw Zek aside and down, leaped toward Lardis. The other had not yet seen the consternation on Jazz’s face. He frowned at the grenade in his left hand and the pin in his right. Jazz snatched the grenade away from him. He’d been counting in his head: one, two, three –

He hurled the grenade out over the river. Four, five –

It made a small splash – and immediately made a much larger one!

The detonation thundered, but most of the razor-sharp shrapnel was lost in the river. Some fragments whistled where they slashed the air overhead; a fountain of water rose up, sprayed out, fell back; the echoes of the detonation came back from the foothills and the water of the river slapped in wavelets against the bank. Dozens of stunned or dead fish were already floating to the surface.

Lardis closed his mouth, looked at the firing-pin in his hand – hurled it violently away. ‘Eh?’ he said then. ‘What – ?’

Jazz scowled at him, said: ‘Pretty effective fishing!’

His sarcasm was lost on Lardis. ‘Eh? Oh, yes, I suppose it is!’ The squat, bemused man turned away, went to climb the riverbank and calm his people where they came running. ‘Indeed it is!’ he finally, emphatically, agreed. ‘But I think I prefer to do it my way.’ He glanced at Jazz’s weaponry laid out on the riverbank. ‘Er, show me these interesting things of yours some other time. Right now I’ve much to do.’ Jazz and Zek watched him walk away . . .

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