Wamphyri! Brian Lumley

‘No wonder he runs wolves, this one!’ Thibor’s squat companion grunted. His words acted like an invocation.

They came down the cliff-hugging track from the castle, and not just four off them. A flood of them, a wall of grey fur studded with yellow jewel eyes. And they came at the lope, full of purpose.

‘A pack!’ cried Thibor’s friend.

‘Too many to fight off,’ the Voevod shouted back. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Arvos start forward, towards the oncoming wolves. He reached out a leg, tripped the old gypsy.

‘Grab him!’ Thibor commanded, drawing his sword.

The squat Wallach lifted Arvos as easily as he would lift the dead, dry branch of a tree, swung him out over the abyss and held him there. Arvos howled his terror. The wolves, scant paces away, came to an uneasy halt. Their leaders threw up pointed muzzles, howled mourn-fully. It was for all the world as if they waited upon some command. But from whom?

Arvos stopped his yelling, turned his head and gazed wide-eyed at the distant castle. His gullet bobbed spastically with his gulping.

The man who held him glanced from the wolves to Thibor. ‘What now? Do I drop him?’

The huge Wallach shook his head. ‘Only if they attack,’ he answered.

‘You think the Ferenczy controls them, then? But . . . is it possible?’

‘It seems our quarry has powers,’ said Thibor. ‘Look at the gypsy’s face.’

Arvos’ gaze had become fixed. Thibor had seen that look before, when the old man used the frying-pan mirror down in the village: as if a film of milk had been painted on each eyeball.

Then the Gypsy spoke: ‘Master?’ Arvos’ mouth scarce moved. His words were the merest breath, vying with the mountain breeze at first but rapidly growing louder. ‘Master? But Master, I have always been your faithful -‘ He paused suddenly, as if cut short, and his filmed eyes bulged. ‘No, master, no.r His voice was now a shriek; he clawed at the hands and brawny arms that alone sustained him against gravity, shifted his once more clear gaze to the ledge and the wolves where they gathered themselves.

Thibor had almost felt the surge of power emanating from the distant castle, had almost tasted the rejection which had surely doomed the Szgany to his death. The Ferenczy was finished with him, so why delay it?

The leading pair of wolves, massive beasts, crept for-ward in unison, muscles bunching.

‘Drop him!’ Thibor rasped. Utterly pitiless, he urged, ‘Let him die – and then fight for your own life! The ledge is narrow – side by side we’ve a chance.’

His companion tried to shake the old man loose but couldn’t. The gypsy clung like thorns to his arms, fought desperately to swing his legs back onto the ledge. But already it was too late for both men. Heedless of their own lives, the pair of great grey wolves sprang as one creature, as if triggered. Not at Thibor – not even looking at him – but directly at his squat comrade where he tried to break Arvos’ grip. They struck together, dead weight against a lurching double-silhouette, and bore the apish Wallach, Arvos, and themselves out over the rim and down into darkness.

It was beyond Thibor. He gave it only a moment’s thought. The pack leaders had sacrificed themselves in answer to a call he had not heard – or had he? But in any case, they’d died willingly for a cause he could not possibly comprehend. He still lived, however, and he wouldn’t sell his life cheaply.

‘All of you, then!’ he howled at the pack, almost in its own tongue. ‘Come on, who’ll be first to taste my steel?’ And for long moments not a beast of them moved.

Then –

Then they did move, but not forward. Instead they turned, slunk away, paused and looked back over lean shoulders.

‘Cowards!’ Thibor raged. He took a pace towards them; they slunk further away, looked back. And the Wallach’s jaw dropped. He knew – suddenly knew – that they weren’t here to harm him, only to ensure that he came on alone!