Necroscope - Deadspeak Part 2

Dumitru was not sure he did believe, but the owner of the voice squeezed in side his head until he cried out: 'Yes! . . . yes, I believe, just as my father s believed.'

Very well, said the voice, apparently placated. Then don't be so shy, D umiitruuu: look upon my works without averting your eyes, without shrinking back. The pictures painted and graven in the walls - the many amphorae in their racks - the salts and powders contained in these ancient vessels.

In the daring torchlight Dumitru looked. Racks of black oak standing ev erywhere, and on their shelves numberless jars, urns: amphorae, as the voic e had termed them. Throughout these rooms in this subterranean hideaway, th ere must be several thousands of them, all tight-stoppered with plugs of oa k in leaden sheaths, all with faded, centuries-stained labels pasted to the m where handles joined necks. One rack had been shattered, thrown aside by a falling ceiling stone; its jars had been spilled, some of them breaking o pen. Powders had trickled out, forming small cones which themselves had tak en on the dust of decades. And when Dumitru looked at these spilled remains . . .

See how fine they are, these essential salts, whispered the voice in his head, which now contained a curiosity of its own, as if even the owner of t hat voice were awed by this ghoulish h.o.a.rd. Stoop down, feel them in your ha nds, Dumiitruuu. The youth could not disobey; he sifted the powders, which were soft as t alc and yet free as mercury; they ran through his fingers and left his hands clean, without residue. And while he handled the salts in this fas.h.i.+on, so the Thing in his mind gave a mental sniff: it seemed to taste of the essence of what it had bade Dumitru examine. And: Ah . . . he was a Greek, this one! the voice informed. / recognize him - we conversed on several occasions. A priest from Greek-land, aye, who kne w the legends of the Vrykoulakas. He'd crusaded against them, he said, and carried his crusade across the sea to Moldavia, Wallachia, even to these ve ry mountains. He built a grand church in Alba lulia, which possibly stands there even to this day, and from it would go out among the towns and villag es to seek out the monstrous Vrykoulakas.

Individuals of the townspeople would name their enemies, often knowing them for innocents; and depending on the power or stature of the accuser, the 'Venerable' Arakli Aenos - as this one was called - would 'prove' or 'disprove' the accusation. For example: if a famous Boyar gave evidence th at such and such persons were bloodsucking demons, be sure that the Greek would discover them as such. But only let a poor man bring such a charge, however faithfully, and he might well be ignored or even punished for a li ar! A witchfinder and a fake, old Aenos, who upon a time accused even myse lf! Aye, and I must needs flee to escape them from Visegrad who came to pu t me down! Oh, I tell you, it was a very troublesome business, that time.

But. . . time settles many a score. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust. When h e died they buried the old fraud in a lead-lined box in Alba lulia, beside t he church he'd built there. What a boon! For just exactly as had been intend ed, so the imperishable lead of his coffin sufficed to keep out the seepage and worms and all manner of rodent malefactor -until a time one hundred year s later when I dug him up/ Oh, yes - we conversed on several occasions. But in the end, what did he know? Nothing! A fraud, a faker!

Still, I evened the score. That pile of dust you sifted there: Arakli Ae nos himself- and ah, how he screeaaamed when I gave him back his form and fl esh, and burned the dog with hot ironsss! Ha-haa-haaa!

Dumitru hissed his horror and s.n.a.t.c.hed back his fingers from the strewn 'salts'. He flapped his hands as if they too were burned with hot irons, b lew on them, wiped them trembling down his coa.r.s.ely woven trousers. He lurc hed upright and backed away from the broken urns, only to crash into anothe r rack which stood behind him. He fell sprawling in dust and powder and sal ts; but his confusion had served to clear his mazed mind a little - which t he owner of the voice at once recognized, so that now he tightened his grip.

Steady now, steady, my son! Ah, I see: you think I torment you to no pu rpose - you believe I derive pleasure from such instruction. But no, no -1 deem it only fair that you should know the gravity of the service you perform. You make unto me a considerable offering: of succour, sustenance, reple nishment. Wherefore I grant you knowledge . . . for however short a time. N ow stand up, stand tall, hear well my words and follow their directions.

The walls, go to the walls, Dumiitruuu. Good! Now trace the frescoes - with your eyes, my son, and with your hands. Now look and learn: Here is a man. He is born, lives his life, dies. Prince or peasant, sinne r or saint, all go the same way. You see them there in the pictures: holy men and blackguards alike, moving swiftly from cradle to grave, rus.h.i.+ng headlong from the sweet, warm moment of conception to the cold, empty abyss of dissol ution. It is the lot of all men, it would seem: to become one with the earth, and all the lessons learned in their lives wasted, and their secrets remaini ng secret unto them alone forever . . .

Oh?

But some there are whose remains, by circ.u.mstance of their interment - l ike the Greek priest, perhaps - remain intact; and others, perhaps cremated and buried in jugs, whose powdered ashes are kept apart from the earth and p ure. There they lie, a crumbled bone or two, a handful of dust, and in them all the knowledge of their waking seasons, all the secrets of life and somet imes of death - and maybe even conditions between the two - which they took with them to the grave. All lost.

And again I say . . . oh?

And you will say: but what of knowledge in books, or knowledge pa.s.sed down by word of mouth, or carved in stone? Surely a learned man, if he so desire, may leave his knowledge behind him for the benefit of others to co me after?

What? Stone tablets? Bah! Even the mountains are worn down and the epoc hs they have known blown away as dust. Word of mouth? Tell a man a story an d by the time he retells it the theme is altered. After twenty tellings it may not even be recognized! Books? Given a century and they wither, two and they become so brittle as to snap, three -they crumble into nothing! No, d on't speak of books. They are the most fragile of things. Why, there was on ce in Alexandria the world's most wondrous library . . . and where pray are all of those books now? Gone, Dumiitruuu. Gone like all the men of yestery ear. But unlike the books, the men are not forgotten. Not necessarily.

And again, what if a man does not desire to leave his secrets behind him?

But enough of that for now; for see, the frescoes are changed. And here is another man . . . well, at least we shall call him a man. But strange, fo r he is not only conceived of man and woman. See for yourself: for parent he has . . . but what is this? A snake? A slug? And the creature issues an egg , which the man takes in unto him. And now this most fortunate person is no longer merely human but . . . something else. Ah! - and see - this one does not die but goes on and on! Always! Perhaps forever.

Do you follow me, Dumiitruuu? Do you follow the pictures on the wall? A ye, and unless this very special One is slain by some brutal man who has th e knowledge - or dies accidentally, which may occur upon a time - why, then he will go on forever! Except. . . he has needs, this One. He may not sust ain himself like ordinary men. Rather, he knows better sources of sustenanc e! The blood is the life . . .

Do you know the name of such a One, my son?

'I ... I know what such men are called,' Dumitru answered, though to an outside observer it would have seemed that he was speaking to a vault empt y of life other than his own. 'The Greeks call them "Vrykoulakas", as you h ave made mention; the Russians "Viesczy"; and we travellers, the Szgany, we call them "Moroi" - vampires!'

There is another name, said the voice, from a land far, far away in sp ace and time. The name by which they know themselves: Wamphyri! And for a moment, perhaps in a certain reverence, the voice paused. Then: Now tell me, Dumiitruuu: do you know who I am? Oh, I know, I'm a voic e in your head, but unless you're a madman the voice must have a source.

Have you guessed my ident.i.ty, Dumiitruuu? Perhaps you've even known it al l along, eh?

'You are the Old One,' Dumitru gulped, his Adam's apple bobbing, throat dry as a stick. 'The undead, undying patron of the Szgany Zirra. You are J anos, the Baron Ferenczy!'

Aye, and you may be a peasant but you're in no wise ignorant, answered the voice. Indeed, I am that One! And you are mine to command as I will. Bu t first a question: is there one among your father Vasile Zirra's band whos e hands are three-fingered? A child, perhaps, male, born recently, since la st you Szgany were here? Or perhaps a stranger you've seen on your travels, who desired to join your company?

A strange question, some would think, but not Dumitru. It was part of t he legend: that one day a man would come with three fingers on his hands in stead of the usual four. Three broad, strong fingers and a thumb to each ha nd; born that way and natural enough; neither surgically contrived nor even grotesque to look upon. 'No,' he answered at once. 'He has not come.'

The voice gave a mental grunt; Dumitru could almost see the impatient shrug of broad, powerful shoulders. And: Not come, the voice of Janos Fere nczy repeated his words. Not yet come.

But the att.i.tude of the unseen presence was mercurial; it changed in a moment; disappointment was put aside and resignation took its place. Ah, we ll, and so I wait out the years. What is time to the Wamphyri anyway, eh?

Dumitru made no answer. In examining the faded frescoes he had reached a part of the wall which showed several very gruesome scenes. The frescoes were like a tapestry, telling a story in pictures, but these pictures were str aight out of nightmare. In the first, a man was held down by four others, on e to each limb. A fifth tormentor in Turkish breeches stood over him with a curved sword raised high, while a sixth kneeled close by with a mallet and s harp stake of wood. In the next picture the victim had been beheaded and the stake driven through him, pinning him down - but a huge, fat, sluglike worm or snake was emerging from his severed neck, so that the men about him rear ed back in horror! In a third picture the men had encircled the Thing with a ring of torches and were burning it; likewise the head and body of its once -host, upon a pile of f.a.ggots. The fourth and penultimate scene of the set w as of a priest, swinging his censer in one hand, while with the other he pou red the vampire's ashes into an urn. Presumably it was a rite of exorcism, o f purification. But if so, then it was mistaken, wasted.

For the final scene was of the same urn, and above it a black bat in fligh t, rising like a phoenix from the ashes. Indeed, the very sigil of the Ferencz y! And: Aye, said Janos darkly, in Dumitru's head, but not until the advent of th e three-fingered man. Not until he comes, the true son of my sons. For only t hen may I escape from one vessel into the next. Ah, for there are vessels and there are vessels, Dumiitruuu, and some of them are of stone . . .

Again the youth's mind had started to unmaze itself. Of his own will, su ddenly he saw how low his torch had burned where he'd placed it in a stone b racket on the wall. He took it down and tremblingly lit another from it, wav ing it a little to get the flame going. And licking his dry lips, he looked at the myriad urns and wondered which one held his tormentor. How easy it wo uld be to shatter the thing, scatter its dust, thrust his torch amongst thos e sentient remains and see if they'd burn a second time.

Janos was not slow to note the resurgence of Szgany will, or to read the threat in the mind he'd mastered. He chuckled voicelessly and said: Ah, not here, not here, Dumiitruuu! What? You'd have me lie among sc.u.m? And could i t be I heard you thinking treacherous thoughts just then? Still, you'd not b e of the blood if you didn't, eh? And again his evil chuckle, following whic h: But you were right to rekindle your torch: best not let the flame die, Du miitruuu, for it's an exceeding dark place you've come to. Also, there's yet a thing or two I want to show you, for which we'll need the light. Now see, there's a room to your 'right, my son. Go in through the archway, if you wi ll, and there discover my true lair.

Dumitru might have struggled with himself . . . but useless; the vampire 's grip on his mind had returned more solid than ever. He did as instructed, pa.s.sing under the arch and into a room much like the others except for its appointments. No racks of amphorae or frescoed walls here; the place was mor e habitation than warehouse; woven tapestries were on the walls, and the floor was of green-glazed tiles set in mortar. Centrally, a mosaic of smaller t iles described the prophetic crest of the Ferenczy, while to one side and cl ose to a ma.s.sive fireplace stood an ancient table of dense, black oak.

The wall hangings were falling into mouldering tatters and the dust la y as thick here as anywhere, but yet there was a seeming anomaly. Upon the desk were papers, books, envelopes, various seals and waxes, pens and ink s: modern things by comparison with anything else Dumitru had seen. The Fe renczy's things? He had a.s.sumed the Old One to be dead - or undead - but a ll of this seemed to suggest otherwise.

No, the Baron's viscous mental voice contradicted him, not mine but the property of. . . shall we say, a student of mine? He studied my works, and might even have dared to study me! Oh, he knew well enow the words to call me up, but he did not know where to find me, nor even that I was here at a ll! But alas, I fancy he's no more. Most likely his bones adorn the upper r uins somewhere. It shall delight me to discover them there one day, and do for him what he might so easily have done for me!

While the voice of Janos Ferenczy so darkly and yet obscurely reminisce d, so Dumitru Zirra had crossed to the table. There were copies of letters there, but not in any language he could read. He could make out the dates, though, from fifty years earlier, and something of the far-flung postal add resses and addressees. There had been a M. Raynaud in Paris, a Josef Nadek in Prague, one Colin Grieve in Edinburgh, and a Joseph Curwen in Providence ; oh, and a host of others in the towns and cities of as many different lan ds again. The writer to all of these names and addresses, as witness his ha ndwriting on the browned paper, was one and the same person: a certain Mr H utchinson, or 'Edw. H.', as he more frequently signed himself.

As for the books: they meant nothing to Dumitru. A peasant, however mu ch travelled and practised in certain tongues and dialects, such t.i.tles as the Turba Philosopho-rum, Bacon's Thesaurus Chemicus and Trithemius's De Lapide Philosophico meant nothing to him. Or if they did, he made no real connection.

But in one book which still lay open, and despite the dust lying thick o n its pages, Dumitru saw pictures which did mean something, and something qu ite horrific. For there, in painstaking and pain-giving detail, were shown a series of the most hideous and brutal tortures, the like of which caused hi m - even half-hypnotized as he was - to flinch and draw back a little, dista ncing himself from the page. But in the next moment his eyes were drawn to t he rest of that room's appurtenances, which until now had not impressed them selves upon his mind; that is, to the great manacles fastened to the walls b y heavy chains, to certain badly corroded implements idly tossed to the floo r in one corner, and to the several iron braziers which still contained the ashes of olden fires. Before he could give these items any further attention, however, if he had wanted to: Dumiitruuu, crooned that gurgling voice in his head, now tell me: have you ever thirsted? Have you ever wandered in a dry desert, with never sight nor sign of water, and felt your throat contract to a throbbing ulcer thro ugh which you can scarce draw breath? Well, possibly you may have known a t ime when you felt dry as salt, which might help you to understand something of the way I feel now. But only something of it. Certainly you have never been as salt. Ah, if only I could describe my thirst, my son!

But enough; I'm sure now that you perceive something of my arts, my me aning, my power and destiny, and that the requirements of One such as I ha ve importance far above any question of common life and lives. And the tim e has come to introduce you to the final mystery, wherein we both shall kn ow the most exquisite ecstasies. The great chimney, Dumiitruuu - go in.

Go into a chimney, a fireplace? Dumitru looked at it, felt the urge to dra w back from it, and could not. Ma.s.sively built, the fire-scarred hole was all of four feet wide and five high, arched over and set with a central keystone a t its top; he need stoop only a little to pa.s.s inside. Before doing so he lit another torch - a pause which Janes Ferenczy saw as a sign of hesitancy. Quick ly now, Dumiitruuu, the awful voice urged, for even in dissolution - no, espec ially in dissolution - my need is not to be kept waiting. It is such that I ca nnot endure it.

Dumitru pa.s.sed into the fireplace, held up his torch to light the place.

Above him soared a wide, scorched flue, which angled back gradually into th e wall. Holding his torch away, the youth looked for light from above and sa w only darkness. That was not strange: the chimney must pa.s.s through several angles in its climb to the surface, and of course it would be blocked where the upper regions lay in ruins.

Bringing the torch close again, Dumitru saw iron rungs set in the slopin g back wall of the flue. In its heyday, the castle's chimneys would need swe eping from time to time. And yet ... there was no acc.u.mulation of soot such as might be expected; apart from a superficial scorching, the chimney seemed hardly used at all.

Oh, it has been used, my son, Janos Ferenczy's mental voice chuckled obsc enely. You shall see, you shall see. But first, step aside a little. Before y ou ascend there are those who must descend! Small minions of mine, small frie nds . . .

Dumitru crushed back against a side wall; there came a fluttering, rapi dly amplified by the chimney into a roar, and a colony of small bats whose hurtling bodies formed an almost solid shaft rushed down and out from the f lue, dispersing into the subterranean vaults. For long moments they issued from the flue, until Dumitru began to think they must be without number. But then the roaring in the chimney diminished, a few latecomers shot by him, and all was silence once more.

Now climb, said the Ferenczy, again closing his grip on the mind of his m ental slave.

The rungs were wide and shallow, twelve inches apart and set very firmly into the mortar between the stones. Dumitru found that he could carry his t orch and, using only his feet and one hand, still climb easily enough. After only nine or ten rungs the chimney narrowed considerably, and after as many again flattened through about forty-five degrees to become little more than an upward-sloping shaft. Within the s.p.a.ce of a further twenty feet the rung s petered out and were replaced by shallow slab-like steps; the 'floor' then levelled out entirely and the 'ceiling' gradually receded to a height of so me nine or ten feet.

Now Dumitru found himself in a narrow, featureless stone pa.s.sageway no m ore than three feet wide and of indeterminate length, where a feeling of utm ost dread quickly enveloped him, bringing him to a crouching halt. Trembling and oozing cold sweat - with his heart fluttering in his chest like a trapp ed bird, and clammy perspiration sticking his clothes to his back and thighs - the youth thrust out his torch before him. Up ahead in the shadows where they flickered beyond the full range of illumination, a pair of yellow trian gular eyes - wolf eyes and feral -floated low to the floor and reflected the torch's fitful light. They were fixed upon Dumitru.

An old friend of mine, Dumiitruuu, Janos Ferenczy's voice crawled in hi s mind like mental slime. Just like the Szgany, he and his kith and kin hav e watched over me many a year. Why, all manner of curious folk might come w andering up here but for these wolves of mine! Did he perhaps frighten you?

You thought him below and behind you, and here he is ahead? But can't you see that this is my bolthole? And what sort of a bolthole, pray, with just one way in and out? No, only follow this pa.s.sage far enough, and it emerges in a hole in the face of the sheer cliff. Except . . . you shall not be re quired to go so far.

The voice scarcely bothered to disguise its threat; the Ferenczy would not be denied his dues now; his grip on Dumitru's mind and will tightened l ike a vice of ice. And: Proceed, he coldly commanded.

Ahead of the youth the great wolf turned and loped on, a grey shadow tha t merged with the greater darkness. Dumitru followed, his step uncertain, hi s heart pounding until he thought he could actually hear the blood singing i n his ears, like the ocean in the whorl of a conch. And he wasn't the only o ne who could hear it.

Ah, my son, my son! The voice was a gurgle of monstrous antic.i.p.ation, of unbridled l.u.s.t. Your heart leaps in you like a stag fixed with a bolt! Such s trength, such youth! I feel it all! But whatever it is that causes such panic in you, be sure it is almost at an end, Dumiitruuu . . . The pa.s.sage widened ; on Dumitru's left the wall as before, but on his right a depression, a tren ch running parallel, cut in the solid rock - indeed in bedrock - that deepene d with each pace he took. He extended his torch out over the rim and looked d own, and in the deepest section of the trench saw ... the rim and narrow neck of a black urn, half-buried in dark soil!

The rim of the urn - like a dark pouting mouth, with lips that seemed to expand and contract loathsomely in the flickering light - stood some five f eet below the level of Dumitru's path. Beyond the urn, the bed of the trench had been raised up. Cut in a 'V, like a sluice, it sloped gently downwards to a raised rim channelled into a narrow spout which projected directly over the mouth of the urn; in the other direction, the 'V-shaped bed sloped upwa rds and out of sight into shadows. The raised rim of rock and carved spout a bove the urn looked for all the world like guttering over a rain barrel, and like guttering they were stained black from the flow of some nameless liquid.

For several long moments Dumitru stood trembling there, gasping, not fu lly understanding what he saw but knowing with every instinct of his being that whatever it was, this contrivance was the very embodiment of evil. And as he oozed cold, slimy sweat and felt his entire body racked with shudder s, so the voice of his tormentor came again in his staggering mind: Go on, my son, that terrible voice urged. A pace or two more, Dumiitruuu, and all will become apparent. But carefully, very carefully - don't faint or fall from the path, whatever you do!

Two more paces, and the youth's bulging eyes never leaving that terrible urn, nor even blinking - until he saw the place where the trench came to an e nd: a black oblong like an open grave. And as the light of his torch fell wit hin - what that terrible s.p.a.ce contained!

Spikes! Needle-sharp fangs of rusted iron, filling that final gap side to side and end to end. Three dozen of them at least - and Dumitru knew their m eaning, and the Ferenczy's terrible purpose in an instant!

Oh? Ha-haa-haaa! Ha-haaa! Terrible laughter filled Dumitru's mind if not h is ears. And so finally it's a battle of wills, eh, my son?

A battle of wills? Dumitru's will hardened; he fought for control of his min d, his young, powerful muscles. And: 'I ... won't . . . kill myself for you ...

old devil!' he gasped.

Of course you won't, Dumiitruuu. Not even I can make you do that, not aga inst your will. Beguilement has its limits, you see. No, you won't kill yours elf, my son. I shall do that. Indeed - 1 already have!

Dumitru found his limbs full of a sudden strength, his mind free at last of the Ferenczy's shackles. Licking his lips, eyes starting out, he looked th is way and that. Which way to run? Somewhere up ahead a great wolf waited; bu t he still had his torch; the wolf would back off before its flaring. And behind him . . .

From behind him in this previously still place, suddenly the air came rus hing like a wind - fanned by a myriad of wings. The bats!

In another moment the crus.h.i.+ng claustrophobia of the place crashed down on Dumitru. Even without the bats, whose return seemed imminent, he knew h e could never find courage to retrace his steps down the false flue, and th en through the castle's vaults with their graveyard loot, and on up that ec hoing stone stairwell to the outside world. No, there was only one way: for ward to whatever awaited him. And as the first bats came in a rush, so he h urled himself along the stone ledge - - Which at once tilted under his weight!

And: Ahaaa! said the awful voice in his head, full of triumph now. But even a big wolf weighs much less than a man full grown, Dumiitruuu!

Opposite the spiked pit, the ledge and entire section of wall that backed it - an 'L' of hewn stone - tilted through ninety degrees and tossed Dumitru onto the spikes. His single shriek, of realization and the horror it brought combined, was cut off short as he was pierced through skull and spine and mo st of his vital organs - but not his heart. Still beating, his heart continue d to pump his blood - to pump it out through the many lacerations of his impa led, writhing body.

And did I not say it would be an ecstasy, Dumiitruuu? And did I not say I'd kill you? The monster's gloating words came floating through all the you th's agonies, but dimly and fading, as was the agony itself. And that was th e last of Janos Ferenczy's torments, his final taunt; for now Dumitru could no longer hear him.

But Janos was not disappointed. No, for now there was that which was far more important - an ancient thirst to quench. At least until the next time.

Blood coursed down the 'V'-shaped channel, spurted from the spout, spla shed down into the mouth of the urn to wet whatever was inside. Ancient ash es, salts - the chemicals of a man, of a monster - soaked it up, bubbled an d bulked out, smoked and smouldered. Such was the chemical reaction that th e obscene lips of the urn seemed almost to belch . . .

In a little while the great wolf came back. He pa.s.sed scornfully under t he bats where they chittered and formed a ceiling of living fur, stepped tim idly where the pivoting floor and wall of the pa.s.sage had rocked smoothly ba ck into place, and paused to gaze down at the now silent urn. Then ... he wh ined deep in the back of his throat, jumped down into the pit and up onto th e runnelled slab above the urn, and crept timidly between the spikes to a cl ear area at the head of the trench. There he turned about and began to free Dumitru's drained body from the spikes, lifting the corpse from them bloodie d shaft by bloodied shaft. When this was done he'd jump up out of the pit, which wasn't deep here, reach down and worry the body out, and drag it to the Place of Many Bones where he could feed at will. It was a routine with which the old wolf was q uite familiar. He'd performed this task on several previous occasions.

So had his father before him. And his. And his ...

2.

Seekers

Savirsin, Romania; evening of the first Friday in August 1983; the Gasts tube of an inn perched on the steep mountainside at the eastern extreme of t he town, where the road climbs up through many hairpin bends and out of sigh t into the pines.

Three young Americans, tourists by their looks and rig, sat together at a chipped, ages-blackened, heavily-grained circular wooden table in one corner of the barroom. Their clothes were casual; one of them smoked a cigarette; t heir drinks were local beers, not especially strong but stinging to the palat e and very refres.h.i.+ng.

At the bar itself a pair of gnarled mountain men, hunters complete with r ifles so ancient they must surely qualify as antiques, had guffawed and slapp ed backs and bragged of their prowess - and not only as hunters of beasts - f or over an hour before one of them suddenly took on a surprised look, stagger ed back from the bar, and with a slurred oath aimed himself reeling through t he door out into the smoky blue-grey twilight. His rifle lay on the bar where he'd left it; the bartender, not a little gingerly, took it up and put it ca refully away out of sight, then continued to wash and dry the day's used glas ses.

The departed hunter's drinking companion - and partner in crime or what ever - roared with renewed laughter; he slapped the bar explosively, finished off the other's plum brandy and threw back his own, then looked around f or more sport. And of course he spied the Americans where they sat at their ease, making casual conversation. In fact, and until now, their conversati on had centred on him, but he didn't know that.

He ordered another drink - and whatever they were drinking for them at th e table; one for the barman, too -and swayed his way over to them. Before fil ling the order the barman took his rifle, too, and placed it safely with the other.

'Gogosu,' the old hunter growled, thumbing himself in his leather-clad chest. 'Emil Gogosu. And you? Touristi, are you?' He spoke Romanian, the di alect of the area, which leaned a little towards Hungarian. All three, they smiled back at him, two of them somewhat warily. But the third translated, and quickly answered: Tourists, yes. From America, the USA. Sit down, Emil Gogosu, and talk to us.'

Taken by surprise, the hunter said: 'Eh? Eh? You have the tongue? You're a guide for these two, eh? Profitable, is it?'

The younger man laughed. 'G.o.d, no! I'm with them -I'm one of them - an American!'

'Impossible!' Gogosu declared, taking a seat. 'What? Why, J never before heard such a thing! Foreigners speaking the tongue? You're pulling my leg, right?'

Gogosu was peasant Romanian through and through. He had a brown, weather -beaten face, grey bull-horn moustaches stained yellow in the middle from pi pe-smoking, long sideburns curling in towards his upper lip, and penetrating grey eyes under bristling, even greyer brows. He wore a patched leather jac ket with a high collar that b.u.t.toned up to the neck over a white s.h.i.+rt whose sleeves fitted snug at the wrist. His fur caciula cap was held fast under t he right epaulet of his jacket; a half-filled bandolier pa.s.sed under the lef t epaulet, crossed his chest diagonally, fed itself up under his right arm a nd across his back. A wide leather belt supported a sheath and hunter's knif e, several pouches, and his coa.r.s.ely-woven trousers which he wore tucked int o his climber's pigskin calf-boots. A small man, still he looked strong and wiry. All in all, he was a picturesque specimen.

'We were talking about you,' their interpreter told him.

'Eh? Oh?' Gogosu looked from one face to the next all the way round. 'Ab out me? So I'm a figure of curiosity, ami?'

'Of admiration,' the wily American answered. 'A hunter, by your looks, a nd good at it - or so we'd guess. You'd know this country, these mountains, well?'

'There isn't a man knows 'em better!' Gogosu declared. But he was wily, t oo, and now his eyes narrowed a little. 'You're looking for a guide, eh?' 'We could be, we could be,' the other slowly nodded. 'But there are guid es and there are guides. You ask some guides to show you a ruined castle on a mountain and they promise you the earth! The very castle of Dracula, they say! And then they take you to a pile of rocks that looks like someone's pig sty collapsed! Aye, ruins, Emil Gogosu, that's what we're interested in. For photographs, for pictures . . . for mood and atmosphere.'

The barman delivered their drinks and Gogosu tossed his straight back. '

Eh? Eh? You're going to make one of those picture things, right? Moving pict ures? The old vampire in his castle, chasing the girls with the wobbling bre asts? G.o.d, yes, I've seen 'em! The pictures, I mean, down in old Lugoj where there's a picture-house. Not the girls, no ... sod-all wobbly t.i.ts round he re, I can tell you! Withered paps at best in this neck of the woods, my lads ! But I've seen the pictures. And that's what you're looking for, eh? Ruins Oddly, and despite the brandy he'd consumed, the old boy seemed to have sobered a little. His eyes focussed more readily, became more fixed in their orbits as he studied the Americans each in his turn. First there was their interpreter. He was a queer one for sure, with his knowledge of the tongue a nd what all. He was tall, this one, a six-footer with inches to spare, long in the leg, lean in the hip and broad at the shoulders. And now that Gogosu looked closer, he could see that he wasn't just American. Not all American, anyway.

'What's your name, eh? What's your name?' The hunter took the young man'

s hand and made to tighten his grip on it ... but it was s.n.a.t.c.hed back at on ce and down out of sight under the table.

'George,' the owner of the refused hand quickly replied, reclaiming Gogosu 's startled-to-flight attention. 'George Vulpe.'

'Vulpe?' the hunter laughed out loud and slapped the table, making the ir drinks dance. 'Oh, I've known a few Vulpes in my time. But George? What kind of a name is George to go with a name like Vulpe, eh? Now come on, l et's be straight, you and I... you mean Gheorghe, don't you?'

The other's dark eyes darkened more yet and seemed to brood a very little, but then they relaxed and exchanged grin for grin with the grey eyes of their inquisitor. 'Well, you're a sharp one, Emil,' their owner finally said. 'Shar p-eyed, too! Yes, I was Romanian once. There's a story to it, but it's not muc h . . .'

The gnarled old hunter returned to studying him. 'Tell it anyway,' he sa id, giving Vulpe a slow once-over. And the young man shrugged and sat back i n his chair.