bl.necroscope2-第61部分

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　I　understand；　said　Giresci；　soberly。　But　Harry；　don't　you　think　you　should　speak　to　someone　with　even　more　authority？　I　believe　it　can　be　arranged。
　〃What？〃　Harry　was　taken　aback。　〃Someone　with　more　authority　than　you？　Is　there　such　a　person？〃

　Ahhh！　said　a　new　voice；　a　powerful　voice。　It　was　black　as　the　night　itself　and　deep　as　the　roots　of　hell；　and　it　seemed　to　e　from　everywhere　and　nowhere　at　the　same　time。　Oh；　yesss；　Haarrry；　there　is…or　was…just　such　a　one。　And　I　am　he。　No　one　knows　as　much　about　the　Wamphyri　as　I　do；　for　no　one　has　or　ever　will　live　so　long。　So　very　long；　indeed；　that　when　I　died　I　was　ready　for　it。　Oh；　I　fought　against　it；　be　sure；　but　in　the　end　it　was　for　the　best。　Now　I　have　peace。　And　I　have　Ladislau　Giresci　to　thank　for　giving　me　that　final；　merciful　release。　Since　he　obviously　holds　you　in　the　greatest　esteem…as　do　all　the　dead；　apparently…then　so　must　I。　So　e　to　me；　Harry　Keogh；　and　let　a　real　expert　answer　your　questions。
　It　was　an　offer　Harry　couldn't　refuse。　He　knew　who　it　must　be　at　once；　of　course；　and　he　wondered　why　he　hadn't　thought　of　it　himself。　It　was；　after　all；　the　obvious　answer。
　〃I'm　ing；　Faethor；〃　he　said。　〃Just　give　me　a　moment　and　I'll　be　right　there。　。
　
　
　Chapter　Eleven
　To　this　day；　on　the　outskirts　of　Ploiesti；　towards　Bucharest；　there　stand　gutted　ruins；　reminders　of　the　mundane　horrors　of　war。　The　burned…out　shells　lie　like　half…buried　stony　corpses　in　open　countryside；　strangely　gorgeous　in　the　summer　when　the　old　bomb　craters　are　full　of　flowers　and　brambles　and　wildlife；　and　ivy　climbs　shattered　walls　to　turn　them　green。　But　it　takes　the　winter　and　the　snow　to　make　the　devastation　visible；　to　bring　into　monochrome　perspective　the　gaunt　reality　of　the　region。　The　Romanians　have　never　rebuilt　in　or　near　these　ruins。
　This　was　where　Faethor　Ferenczy　had　finally　met　his　death　at　the　hands　of　Ladislau　Giresci　during　a　Second　World　War　bombing　raid　on　Bucharest　and　Ploiesti。　Pinned　to　the　floor　of　his　study　by　a　splintered　ceiling　beam　when　his　home　was　hit；　he　had　feared　the　encroaching　flames　because　alive；　vampires　burn　very　slowly。　Giresci；　working　for　the　Civil　Defence；　had　seen　the　house　bombed；　entered　the　blazing　ruin　and　tried　to　free　Faethor…to　no　avail。　It　was　hopeless。
　The　vampire　had　known　that　he　was　finished。　With　a　superhuman　effort　of　will　he　had　manded　。Giresci　to　make　a　quick　end　of　it。　The　old　way　was　still　the　only　way。　Since　Faethor　was　already　staked；　Giresci　need　only　behead　him。　The　flames　would　do　the　rest；　and　the　ancient　monster　would　burn　along　with　his　house。
　The　things　he　experienced　in　that　house　of　horror　stayed　with　Giresci　for　the　rest　of　his　life。　They　were　what　had　made　him　an　authority　on　vampirism。　Now　Ladislau　Giresci　was　dead　along　with　Faethor；　but　still　the　vampire　stood　in　his　debt。　Which　was　why　he　would　give　Harry　Keogh　whatever　assistance　he　could；　at　least；　that　was　part　of　the　reason。　The　rest　of　it　was　that　Keogh　was　up　against　Thibor　the　Wallach。
　It　wasn't　yet　winter　when　Harry　Keogh　homed　in　on　Faethor's　incorporeal　thoughts　and　emerged　from　the　M？bius　continuum　into　the　creeper…　and　bramble…grown　ruin　which　had　been　the　vampire's　final　refuge　on　earth。　Indeed；　the　summer　was　barely　turning　to　autumn；　the　trees　still　green；　but　the　chill　Harry　felt　might　have　suggested　winter　to　the　bones　of　any　ordinary　man。　Harry　was　least　of　all　ordinary。　He　knew　it　was　a　chill　of　the　spirit；　a　wintry　blast　blowing　on　the　soul。　A　psychic　chill；　which　is　only　felt　in　the　presence　of　a　supernatural　Power。　Faethor　Ferenczy　had　been　such；　and　Harry　recognised　that　fact。　But　just　as　surely　Faethor；　too；　knew　when　he　was　face　to　face　with　a　Power。
　The　dead　speak　well　of　you；　Harry；　the　vampire　opened；　his　mental　voice　sepulchral。　indeed；　they　love　you！　That　is　hard　for　one　who　was　never　loved　to　understand。　You　are　not　one　of　them；　and　yet　they　love　you。　Perhaps　it　is　because　you　too；　like　them；　are　without　body。　The　voice　took　on　a　grimly　humorous　note。　Why！　it　might　even　be　said　that　you　are。。。　undead？
　〃If　there's　one　thing　I've　learned　about　vampires；〃　Harry　answered　evenly；　〃it's　that　they　love　riddles　and　word　games。　But　I'm　not　here　to　play。　Still；　I'll　answer　your　questions。　Why　do　the　dead　love　me？　Because　I　bring　them　hope。　Because　I　intend　no　harm　but　only　good。　Because　through　me　they　are　something　more　than　memories。〃
　In　other　words；　because　you　are　〃pure〃？　The　vampire's　words　dripped　with　sarcasm。
　〃I　was　never　pure；〃　said　Harry；　〃but　I　understand　your　meaning　and　I　suppose　you're　near　enough　right。　Which　might　also　explain　why　they'll　have　nothing　to　do　with　you。　There's　no　life　in　you；　only　death。　You　were　dead　even　in　life。　You　were　death！　And　death　walked　with　you　wherever　you　walked。　Don't　pare　my　condition　with　undeath…I'm　more　alive　now　than　you　ever　were。　When　I　arrived　here　and　before　you　spoke；　I　noticed　something。　Do　you　know　what　it　was？
　The　silence。
　〃Exactly。　No　cock　crowing。　No　birdsong。　Even　the　droning　of　bees　is　absent　here。　The　brambles　are　lush　and　green　but　they　bear　no　fruit。　Nothing；　no　one　will　e　near　you；　not　even　now。　The　things　of　Nature　sense　your　presence。　They　can't　speak　to　you　like　I　can；　but　they　know　you're　here。　And　they　shun　you。　Because　you　were　evil。　Because　even　dead；　you're　still　evil。　So　don't　sneer　at　my　〃pureness〃；　Faethor。　I　shall　never　be　alone。〃
　And　after　a　moment's　silence；　Faethor　said　thoughtfully；　For　one　who　seeks　my　help；　you　don't　much　hide　your　feelings。
　〃We　are　poles　apart；〃　Harry　told　him；　〃but　we　do　have　a　mutual　enemy。〃
　Thibor？　Why　then　have　you　spent　time　with　him？
　〃Thibor　is　the　source　of　the　trouble；〃　Harry　answered。　〃He　is；　or　was；　your　enemy；　and　what　he　left　behind　is　my　enemy。　I　hoped　to　learn　things　from　him　and　was　partially　successful。　Now　he'll　tell　me　no　more。　You　offered　help；　and　here　I　am　to　accept　your　offer。　But　we　don't　have　to　pretend　friendship。〃
　Guileless；　Faethor　said。　That　is　why　they　love　you。　But　you　are　right：　Thibor　was　and　is　my　enemy。　However　much　I've　punished　him；　1　can　never　punish　him　enough。　So　ask　what　you　will　of　me；　and　I'll　answer　all。
　〃Then　tell　me　this；〃　said　Harry；　eager　once　more。　〃After　he　hurled　you　from　your　castle　in　flames；　what　became　of　you　then？〃
　
　I　shall　be　brief；　Faethor　answered；　because　I　sense　that　this　is　only　part　of　what　you　desire　to　know。　Cast　your　mind　back　then；　if　you　will；　one　thousand　years　into　the　past。。。
　
　Thibor　the　Wallach；　whom　I　had　called　son…to　whom　I　had　given　my　name　and　banner；　and　into　whose　hands　I　had　bequeathed　my　castle；　lands　and　Wamphyri　power　had　injured　me　sorely。　More　sorely　than　even　he　suspected。　That　cursed　ingrate！
　Thrown　down　from　the　walls　of　my　castle　in　flames；　I　was　burned　and　blinded。　Myriad　minion　bats　fluttered　to　me　as　I　fell；　were　scorched　and　died；　but　dampened　the　flames　not　at　all。　I　crashed　through　trees　and　shrubs；　tumbled　in　a　thousand　agonies　down　the　steep　side　of　the　gorge；　was　torn　by　trees　and　boulders　alike　before　striking　bottom：　But　my　fall　was　broken　in　part　by　the　foliage；　and　I　fell　in　a　shallow　pool　which　put　out　the　flames　that　threatened　to　melt　my　Wamphyri　flesh。
　Stunned；　as　close　to　true　death　as　a　vampire　might　e　and　remain　undead；　still　I　put　out　a　call　to　my　faithful　gypsies　down　in　the　valley。　I　know　you　will　understand　what　I　mean；　Harry　Keogh。　We　share　the　power　to　speak　with　others　at　a　distance。　To　speak　with　the　mind　alone；　as　we　do　now。　And　the　Szgany　came。
　They　took　out　my　body　from　the　still；　salving　water　and　cared　for　it。　They　carried　me　west　over　the　mountains　into　the　Hungarian　Kingdom。　They　protected　me　from　jars　and　jolts；　hid　me　from　potential　enemies；　kept　me　from　the　sun's　searing　rays。　And　at　last　they　brought　me　to　a　place　of　rest。　Ah！　And　that　was　a　long　rest：　for　recuperation；　for　reshaping；　a　time　of　enforced　retirement。
　I　have　said　Thibor　had　hurt　me。　But　how　he　had　hurt　me！　I　was　sorely　damaged。　All　bones　broken：　back　and　neck；　skull　and　limbs。　Chest　staved　in；　heart　and　lungs　a　mangle。　Skin　flayed　by　fire；　torn　by　sharp　branches　and　boulders。　Even　the　vampire　in　me；　which　occupied　most　parts　and　portions；　was　battered；　torn　and　scorched。　A　we