Wamphyri! Brian Lumley

‘More riddles — meaningless mouthings — madness!’ Thibor spat the words out. He was helpless and he knew it. If this monstrous being wished him dead, then he was as good as dead. And it was no use to reason with a madman. Where is the reason in a madman? Better to insult him face to face, enrage him and get it over with. It would be no pleasant thing to hang here and rot, and watch maggots crawling in the flesh of men he’d called his comrades.

‘Are you finished?’ the Ferenczy asked in his deepest voice. ‘Best to be done now with all hurtful ranting, for I’ve much to tell you, much to show you, great knowledge and even greater skills to impart. I’m weary of this place, you see, but it needs a keeper. When I go out into the world, someone must stay here to keep this place for me. Someone strong as I myself. It is my place and these are my mountains, my lands. One day I may wish to return. When I do, then I shall find a Ferenczy here. Which is why I call you my son. Here and now I adopt you, Thibor of Wallachia. Henceforth you are Thibor Ferenczy. I give you my name, and I give you my banner: the devil’s head! Oh, I know these honours tower above you; I know you do not yet have my strength. But I shall give it to you! I shall bestow upon you the greatest honour, a magnificent mystery. And when you are become Wamphyri, then —‘

‘Your name?’ Thibor growled. ‘I don’t want your name.

I spit on your name!’ He shook his head wildly. ‘As for your device: I’ve a banner of my own.’

‘Ah?’ the creature stood up, flowed closer. ‘And what are your signs?’

‘A bat of the Wallachian plain,’ Thibor answered, ‘astride the Christian dragon.’

The Ferenczy’s bottom jaw fell open. ‘But that is most propitious. A bat, you say? Excellent! And riding the dragon of the Christians? Better still! And now a third device: let Shaitan himself surmount both.’

‘I don’t need your blood-spewing devil.’ Thibor shook his head and scowled.

The Ferenczy smiled a slow, sinister smile. ‘Oh, but you will, you will.’ Then he laughed out loud. ‘Aye, and I shall avail myself of your symbols. When I go out across the world I shall fly devil, bat, and dragon all three. There, see how I honour you! Henceforth we carry the same banner.’

Thibor narrowed his eyes. ‘Faethor Ferenczy, you play with me as a cat plays with a mouse. Why? You call me your son, offer me your name, your sigils. Yet here I hang in chains, with one friend dead and another dying at my feet. Say it now, you are a madman and I’m your next victim. Isn’t it so?’

The other shook his wolfish head. ‘So little faith,’ he rumbled, almost sadly. ‘But we shall see, we shall see. Now tell me, what do you know of the Wamphyri?’

‘Nothing. Or very little. A legend, a myth. Freakish men who hide in remote places and spring out on peasants and small children to frighten them. Occasionally dangerous: murderers, vampires, who suck blood in the night and swear it gives them strength. “Viesczy”, to the Russian peasant; “Obour”, to the Bulgar; “Vrykoulakas” in Greek-land. They are names which demented men attach to themselves. But there is something common to them in all tongues: they are liars and madmen!’

‘You do not believe? You have looked upon me, seen the wolves which I command, the terror I excite in the hearts of the VIad and his priests, but you do not believe.’

‘I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again,’ Thibor gave his chains a last, frustrated jerk. ‘The men I’ve killed have all stayed dead! No, I do not believe.’

The other gazed at his prisoner with burning eyes. ‘That is the difference between us,’ he said. ‘For the men I kill, if it pleases me to kill them in a certain way, do not stay dead. They become undead . . .‘ He stood up, stepped flowingly close. His upper lip curled back at one side, displayed a downward curving fang like a needle-sharp tusk. Thibor looked away, avoided the man’s breath, which was like poison. And suddenly the Wallach felt weak, hungry, thirsty. He was sure he could sleep for a week.

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