Wamphyri!Brian LumleyBook 2 of the Necroscope SeriesMany and multiform are the dim horrors of Earth, infesting her waysfrom the prime. They sleep beneath the unturned stone; they rise withthe tree from its root; they move beneath the sea and in subterraneanplaces; they dwell in the inmost adyta; they emerge betimes from theshutten sepulchre of haughty bronze and the low grave that is sealedwith clay. There be some that are long known to man, and others as yetunknown that abide the terrible latter days of their revealing. Thosewhich are the most dreadful and the loathliest of all are haply stillto be declared. But among those that have revealed themselves aforetimeand have made manifest their veritable presence, there is one which maynot openly be named for its exceeding foulness. It is that spawn whichthe hidden dweller in the vaults has begotten upon mortality...Clark Ashton Smith (As by Abdul Alhazred)They say foul beings of Old Times still lurk In dark forgottencorners of the world, And Gates still gape to loose, on certain nights,Shapes pent in Hell...Robert E. Howard (As by Justin Geoffrey)Chapter OneAfternoon of the fourth Monday in January 1977; the ChateauBronnitsy off the Serpukhov road not far out of Moscow; 2.40 PM middle-European time, and a telephone in the temporary Investigation ControlRoom ringing... ringing... ringing.The Chateau Bronnitsy stood central on open, peaty ground in themiddle of a densely wooded tract now white under drifted snow. A houseor mansion of debased heritage and mixed architectural antecedents,several recent wings were of modern brick on old stone foundations,while others were cheap breeze blocks camouflaged in grey and greenpaint. A once-courtyard in the 'U' of polyglot wings was now roofedover, its roof painted to match the surrounding terrain. Bedded attheir bases in massive, steeply gabled end walls, twin minarets raisedbroken bulbous domes high over the landscape, their boarded windowsglooming like hooded eyes. In keeping with the generally run-downaspect of the rest of the place, the upper sections of these towerswere derelict, decayed as rotten fangs. From the air, the Chateau wouldseem a gaunt old ruin. But it was hardly that, even though the towerswere not the only things in a state of decay.Outside the roofed courtyard stood a canopied ten-ton Army truck,the canvas flaps at its rear thrown back and its exhaust puffing acridblue smoke into the frosty air. A KGB man, conspicuous in his 'uniform'of felt hat and dark grey overcoat, stared in across the truck'slowered tailgate at its contents and shuddered. Hands thrust deep inhis pockets, he turned to a second man dressed in the white smock of atechnician and grimaced. 'Comrade Krakovitch,' he grunted, 'what thehell are they? And what are they doing here?'Felix Krakovitch glanced at him, shook his head, said, 'Youwouldn't understand if I told you. And if you understood, you wouldn'tbelieve.' Like his ex-boss, Gregor Borowitz, Krakovitch considered allKGB low life-forms. He would keep information and assistance to thebarest minimum - within certain limits of prudence and personal safety,of course. The KGB weren't much for forgiving and forgetting.
The blocky Special Policeman shrugged, lit a stubby brown cigaretteand drew deeply on its cardboard tube. 'Try me anyway,' he said. 'It'scold here but I am warm enough. See, when I go to report to ComradeAndropov - and I am sure I need not remind you of his Politburo status- he will want some answers, which is why I want answers from you. Sowe will stand out here until - ''Zombies!' said Krakovitch abruptly. 'Mummies! Men dead for fourhundred years. You can tell that from their weapons, and - ' For thefirst time he heard the insistent ringing of the telephone, turnedtowards the door in the corrugated iron facade of the covered courtyard.'Where are you going?' The KGB man came alive, took his hands outof his pockets. 'Do you expect me to tell Yuri Andropov that the - themayhem - here was done by dead men?' He almost choked on the last twowords, coughed long and loud, finally spat on the snow.'Stand there long enough,' Krakovitch said over his shoulder, 'inthose exhaust fumes, smoking that shredded rope, and you might as wellclimb in the truck with them!' He stepped through the door, let it slamshut behind him.'Zombies?' The agent wrinkled his nose, looked again at thetruckload of cadavers. He couldn't know it but they were CrimeanTartars, butchered en masse in I579 by Russian reinforcements hasteningto a ravaged Moscow. They had died and gone down in blood and mire andbog, to lie part-preserved in the peat of a low-lying field - and tocome up again two nights ago to wage war on the Chateau! They had wonthat war, the Tartars and their young English leader, Harry Keogh, forafter the fighting only five of the Chateau's defenders still lived.Krakovitch was one of them. Five out of thirty-three, and the onlyenemy casualty Harry Keogh himself. Amazing odds, unless one countedthe Tartars. But one could hardly count them, for they had been deadbefore it started...These were Krakovitch's thoughts as he entered what long ago hadbeen a cobbled courtyard - now a large area of plastic-tiled floor,partitioned into airy conservatories, small apartments and laboratories- where E-Branch operatives had studied and practised their esoterictalents in comparative comfort, or whatever condition or environmentbest suited their work. Forty-eight hours ago the place had beenimmaculate; now it was a shambles, where bullet-holes patterned thepartition walls and the effects of blast and fire could be seen onevery hand. It was a wonder the place hadn't been burned to the ground,completely gutted.In a mainly cleared area - the so-called Investigation Control Room- a table had been erected and supported the ringing telephone.Krakovitch made his way towards it, pausing to drag aside a large pieceof utility wall which partly blocked his path. Underneath, lying half-buried in crumbled plaster, broken glass and the crushed remains of awooden chair, a human arm and hand lay like a huge grey salted slug.Its flesh was shrivelled, the colour of leather, and the bone where itprojected in a knob at the shoulder was shiny white. It was almost afossil. There'd be many more fragments such as this yet to bediscovered, scattered throughout the Chateau, but apart from theirrepulsive looks they'd be harmless - now. Not so on the night of thehorror. Krakovitch had seen portions like this one, without heads orbrains to guide them, crawling, fighting, killing!He shuddered, moved the arm aside with his foot, went to thetelephone. 'Hello, Krakovitch?''Who?' the unknown caller snapped back. 'Krakovitch? Are you incharge there?' It was a female voice, very efficient.
'I suppose I am, yes,' Krakovitch answered. 'What can I do for you?''For me, nothing. For the Party Leader, only he can say. He's beentrying to contact you for the last five minutes!'Krakovitch was tired. He hadn't slept since the nightmare, doubtedif he'd ever sleep again. He and the other four survivors, one of thema raving madman, had only come out of the security vault on Sundaymorning, when the air was finished. Since then the others had madetheir statements, been sent home. The Chateau Bronnitsy was a HighSecurity Establishment, so their stories wouldn't be for generalconsumption. In fact Krakovitch - being the only genuinely coherentmember of the survivors -had demanded that the case in toto be sentdirect to Leonid Brezhnev. That was Standing Orders anyway: Brezhnevwas the top man, personally and directly responsible for E-Branch,despite the fact that he'd left all of it to Gregor Borowitz. But thebranch had been important to the Party Leader, and he'd seen everythingthat came out of it (or at least anything of any importance). Also,Borowitz must have told him quite a bit about the branch's paranormalwork - literally ESPionage - so that Brezhnev should be at least part-qualified to pass judgement on what had happened here. Or so Krakovitchhoped. In any case, it had to be better than trying to explain it toYuri Andropov!'Krakovitch?' the phone barked at him. (Was this really the PartyLeader?)'Er, yes, sir, Felix Krakovitch. I was on Comrade Borowitz'sstaff.''Felix? Why tell me your first name? You expect me to call you byyour first name?' The voice had a hard edge, but it also sounded likeits owner was eating something mushy. Krakovitch had heard several ofBrezhnev's infrequent speeches; this could only be him.'I... no, of course not, Comrade Party Leader.' (How the hell didone address him?) 'But I - ''Listen, are you in charge there?''Yes, er, Comrade Party - ''Forget all that stuff,' Brezhnev rasped. 'I don't need remindingwho I am, just answers. Is there no one left who is senior to you?''No.''Anyone who's your equal?''Four of them, but one's a madman.''Eh?''He went mad when... when it happened.' There was a pause; then,the voice went on, a little less harshly: 'Do you know Borowitz isdead?''Yes. A neighbour found him in his dacha at Zhukovka. Theneighbour was ex-KGB and got in touch with Comrade Andropov, who sent aman here. He's here now.''I know another name,' Brezhnev's thick, gurgling voice continued.'Boris Dragosani. What of him?''Dead,' and before Krakovitch could check his tongue, 'thank God!''Eh? You're glad one of your comrades is dead?''I... yes, I'm glad.' Krakovitch was too tired to answer in anyway but truthfully, straight from the heart.'I think he was probably part of it; at least, I believe he broughtit down on us. His body is still here. Also the bodies of our otherdead - and that of Harry Keogh, a British agent, we think. And also - ''The Tartars?' Brezhnev was quiet now.Krakovitch sighed. The man wasn't a slave to convention after all.'Yes, but no longer... animate,' he answered.
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