The Source by Brian Lumley

Jazz half-turned. Vyotsky had appeared round the sharp corner. His cruel lips drew back from his teeth as he lined-up his SMG on the pair he pursued. But from behind him:

“Alive, Karl, do you hear?’ Shaithis’s voice warned, that much closer now. Vyotsky’s eyes went wide with fear. He glanced back. Jazz took the opportunity to swing his own weapon in Vyotsky’s direction, squeezed the trigger. To hell with keeping quiet!

The gun chattered, and whining bullets chewed at the cliff like metal wasps, hurling chippings in Vyotsky’s face. Instinctively he fired back, and a lucky round snatched Jazz’s gun from his hands, sent it spinning out over the abyss. As the sling was yanked from his shoulder, only the chimney of rock stopped him from being drawn after it.

Zek clutched at Jazz and they clung together. And –

‘Step over here,’ said a cool, low voice from the shadows.

A figure was there, in the cave under the overhang, tall, slim, cloaked. Male, he wore an impassive golden mask over his face. Starlight gleamed on the gold. Jazz was struck with the thought that he looked like the Phantom of the Opera! ‘Who – ?’ he gasped.

‘Quickly!’ said the newcomer. ‘If you want to live.’

‘Stand still!’ Vyotsky shouted, but Jazz and Zek were already moving to obey the stranger. As they stepped toward the cave, so he came out to meet them. Vyotsky saw him. Because of his cloak, at first the Russian mistook him for one of Shaithis’s lieutenants.

The stranger held out an urgent hand to the pair, held up his cloak almost as if to shield them. He drew them toward him . . .

So much Vyotsky saw, but in the next moment. . . the big Russian blinked, used his free hand to rub furiously at his eyes. They’d gone – all three, gone! But he hadn’t seen them step back into the cave.

A huge hand fell on Vyotsky’s shoulder and he froze. Shaithis’s monstrous voice hissed in his ear: ‘Where are they? Did your weapon strike them? I hope for your sake it did not!’ Vyotsky didn’t look back, simply continued to gape at the empty ledge ahead.

‘Well?’ Shaithis’s fingers dug into Vyotsky’s shoulder.

‘I didn’t hit them, no,’ the Russian gulped, shook his head. ‘There was someone else. A man in a cloak, and a mask. He came . . . and he took them!’

‘Took them? A man in a cloak and – ?’ Shaithis’s breath was hot on Vyotsky’s neck. ‘A mask of gold, perhaps?’

Now Vyotsky looked at him – and at once shrank back, cringing from the horror of his face. ‘Why . . . why, yes. He came – and he went! And they went with him . . .’

‘Ahhh!’ Shaithis hissed. ‘The Dweller!’ His fingers were like the jaws of a steel clamp, crushing Vyotsky’s shoulder. For a moment the Russian thought he intended to hurl him down from the ledge.

‘It … it wasn’t my fault!’ he gibbered. ‘I found them, followed them. Maybe they slipped into the cave there. Maybe all three of them are there!’

Shaithis sniffed the air, his blunt snout quivering. ‘No,’ he finally said. ‘Nothing. No one. You failed me.’

‘But -‘

Shaithis released him. ‘I won’t kill you, Karl. Your spirit is puny but your flesh is strong. And there are uses to which good strong flesh can be put in the aerie of Shaithis of the Wamphyri.’ He turned away. ‘Now follow me down. And be warned: do not try to run away. For if you do that a second time it will make me very, very angry. I would give you to my favourite warrior. All except your quivering heart, which I would eat myself!’

Vyotsky watched him commence the descent, gritted his teeth and slowly lifted the barrel of his gun.

Without looking back, Shaithis said: ‘Yes, by all means do, Karl – and we shall see which one of us is caused the most pain.’

The Russian’s tense expression slowly slackened, relaxed. How could you fight beings like these? What hope did any man have of ever defeating or even damaging something like Lord Shaithis? He let out his pent breath, gulped, put his weapon on safe and followed timidly on behind the other where he made his way down from the ledge.