‘Eh? The dead, talking to you?’ Harry slowly shook his head in astonishment. ‘There must be something they want pretty badly.’
Aye, but not for themselves, Harry – for you! They’ve spoken to me of a quest, your quest, and asked for my guidance. And in this they’ve shown a deal more wisdom than you. For who would know better the secret source of vampires than an ex-member of the Wamphyri himself, eh?
Harry gaped. The source of vampires! The place where they originated! The world in which they were spawned, to come through into this world – as they had now started to come through the gate in Perchorsk!
‘And do you know this secret source?’ Harry couldn’t conceal the eagerness in his voice and thoughts. ‘Did you yourself come from that place?’
Myself? Was I once an inhabitant of that world of vampire legend? Ah, no, Harry – but my grandfather was.
‘Your grandfather? Do you know where he lies, where his remains are buried?’
Buried? Old Belos Pheropzis? Alas, no, Harry. The Romans crucified and burned him a hundred years before your Christ. And my father: the last word I had of him was that he was lost at sea, somewhere off the mouths of the Danube in the Black Sea, in the Year 547. He was a mercenary for the Ostrogoths against Justinian, but of course he was on the wrong side. Ah, we Wamphyri were a fierce lot in our day! There was a living to be made, if you’d the stomach for it.
Then how can you help me?’ Harry was perplexed. ‘It seems to me that something like a thousand years separates your grandfather’s era and yours. Whatever he knew about his origins – about this source world – must have died with him.’
But there are legends, Harry! There are memories, stories Old Belos told his son Waldemar, which he in turn passed down to me. They are as fresh now in my mind as they were the day I heard them. I kept them fresh, for they were the only Wamphyri history I was ever likely to know. I was still in thrall to my father at that time. If Thibor, that ingrate, had ever spent his apprenticeship with me, then I would have passed the legends down to him. But of course he never did. Now, if you in your turn would learn these things – which might well provide the clues you need to complete your quest – then come to me in my place and talk to me, as we talked once before.
Faethor’s voice was faint now. Killed in a bombing raid in World War II and burned to ashes, what was left of him had seeped into the earth where once stood his house on the outskirts of Ploiesti toward Bucharest. It must be an effort for one such as he to speak across all these miles, after all this time. On the other hand, Harry was well aware of the devious nature of the vampire – of all vampires. To his knowledge they rarely did anything which was not of benefit to themselves. But there again, in the past Faethor had not been orthodox. Harry could never ‘like’ or ever really ‘trust’ him, but he did in a way respect him.
‘No strings?’ he said.
Strings? I’m a dead thing, Harry. Nothing remains of me but my voice. And only you can hear it – and the dead, of course, when they choose to listen. Even my voice is fading with the years. But. . . (Harry sensed his shrug) do as you will. I am merely respecting the wishes of the dead.
Harry would have to be satisfied with that. ‘I’ll come,’ he told the other. ‘But as well as hungry for knowledge, I’m plain hungry too! Give me an hour and I’ll be there.’
Take your time, Faethor answered. I’ve plenty of it. But do you remember the way? His voice was dwindling now, shrinking into deep distances of mind.
‘Oh, I remember it well enough!’
Then I’ll wait for you. And then, perhaps, the Great Majority will see fit to leave me in peace . . .