Necroscope 4: Deadspeak Read Online Free
awesome Wamphyri Lords, only the Lady Karen, a gorgeous once-Traveller whose vampire tenant has not yet reached full maturity, renegues and flees to The Dweller, warning him of the coming war.
The battle is joined: the Lords Shaithis, Menor Maim-bite, Belath, Volse Pinescu, Lesk the Glut and many others, with all their hybrid warriors and Trog minions, against The Dweller and his small party of humans.
But Harry Keogh is with The Dweller, and The Dweller is … Harry Jr.! By means of a timeslip, Harry Jr. is not the mere boy his father expected but grown to a young man in a golden mask, and this is the world to which he has transported his poor demented mother—for her safety and peace of mind! Yes, and until now he has provided amply for all her needs—and his own. For individually the Wamphyri Lords were no match for him and his “science”. Now that they are united, however … Harry Sr. has arrived just in time.
By ingenious use of the Möbius Continuum, and of the Necroscope powers of father and son, Shaithis and his vampire army are defeated, their aeries destroyed, all bar the Lady Karen’s. She goes back there, and Harry Keogh visits her. He seeks to free her of her vampire, not for her sake but for his son’s—for The Dweller has become infected with vampirism. Harry will use Karen to test a theory, hopefully provide a cure.
He drives Karen’s vampire out and destroys it. Alas, he also destroys her. She had been Wamphyri, and now she is a shell. When one has known the magnified emotions—the freedom from guilt, timidity and remorse—the sheer lust and power of the Wamphyri, what is there after that? Nothing, and she throws herself from the aerie’s battlements.
But The Dweller still has a vampire in him, and back in the Garden where his band of Travellers are rebuilding their shattered lives and homes … Harry Jr. is ever more aware of his father’s hooded eyes, watching him intently …
I: Castle Ferenczy
T RANSYLVANIA, THE FIRST WEEK OF S EPTEMBER 1981 …
Still an hour short of midday, two peasant wives of Halmagiu village wended their way home along well-trodden forest tracks. Their baskets were full of small wild plums and the first ripe berries of the season, all with the dew still glistening on them. Some of the plums were still a little green … all the better for the making of sharp, tangy brandy! Dark-robed, with coarse cloth headsquares framing their narrow faces, the women cheerfully embroidered tidbits of village gossip to suit their mood, their teeth flashing ivory in weathered leather as they laughed over especially juicy morsels.
In the near-distance, blue wood smoke drifted in almost perpendicular spirals from Halmagiu’s chimneys; it formed a haze high over the early-autumn canopy of forest. But closer, in among the trees themselves, were other fires; cooking smells of spiced meats and herbal soups drifted on the still air; small silver bells jingled; a bough creaked where a wild-haired, dark-eyed, silent, staring child dangled from the rope of a makeshift swing.
There were gaudy caravans gathered in a circle under the trees. Outside the circle: tethered ponies cropped the grass, and bright-coloured dresses swirled where bare-armed girls gathered firewood. Inside: black-iron cooking pots suspended over licking flames issued puffs of mouthwatering steam; male travellers tended their own duties or simply looked on, smoking their long, thin-stemmed pipes, as the encampment settled in. Travellers, yes. Wanderers: Gypsies! The Szgany had returned to the region of Halmagiu.
The boy on the rope in the tree had spotted the two village women and now uttered a piercing whistle. All murmur and jingle and movement in the Gypsy encampment ceased upon the instant; dark eyes turned outwards in unison, staring with curiosity at the Romanian peasant women with their baskets. The Gypsy men in their leather jackets looked very strong, somehow fierce, but there was nothing of
The battle is joined: the Lords Shaithis, Menor Maim-bite, Belath, Volse Pinescu, Lesk the Glut and many others, with all their hybrid warriors and Trog minions, against The Dweller and his small party of humans.
But Harry Keogh is with The Dweller, and The Dweller is … Harry Jr.! By means of a timeslip, Harry Jr. is not the mere boy his father expected but grown to a young man in a golden mask, and this is the world to which he has transported his poor demented mother—for her safety and peace of mind! Yes, and until now he has provided amply for all her needs—and his own. For individually the Wamphyri Lords were no match for him and his “science”. Now that they are united, however … Harry Sr. has arrived just in time.
By ingenious use of the Möbius Continuum, and of the Necroscope powers of father and son, Shaithis and his vampire army are defeated, their aeries destroyed, all bar the Lady Karen’s. She goes back there, and Harry Keogh visits her. He seeks to free her of her vampire, not for her sake but for his son’s—for The Dweller has become infected with vampirism. Harry will use Karen to test a theory, hopefully provide a cure.
He drives Karen’s vampire out and destroys it. Alas, he also destroys her. She had been Wamphyri, and now she is a shell. When one has known the magnified emotions—the freedom from guilt, timidity and remorse—the sheer lust and power of the Wamphyri, what is there after that? Nothing, and she throws herself from the aerie’s battlements.
But The Dweller still has a vampire in him, and back in the Garden where his band of Travellers are rebuilding their shattered lives and homes … Harry Jr. is ever more aware of his father’s hooded eyes, watching him intently …
I: Castle Ferenczy
T RANSYLVANIA, THE FIRST WEEK OF S EPTEMBER 1981 …
Still an hour short of midday, two peasant wives of Halmagiu village wended their way home along well-trodden forest tracks. Their baskets were full of small wild plums and the first ripe berries of the season, all with the dew still glistening on them. Some of the plums were still a little green … all the better for the making of sharp, tangy brandy! Dark-robed, with coarse cloth headsquares framing their narrow faces, the women cheerfully embroidered tidbits of village gossip to suit their mood, their teeth flashing ivory in weathered leather as they laughed over especially juicy morsels.
In the near-distance, blue wood smoke drifted in almost perpendicular spirals from Halmagiu’s chimneys; it formed a haze high over the early-autumn canopy of forest. But closer, in among the trees themselves, were other fires; cooking smells of spiced meats and herbal soups drifted on the still air; small silver bells jingled; a bough creaked where a wild-haired, dark-eyed, silent, staring child dangled from the rope of a makeshift swing.
There were gaudy caravans gathered in a circle under the trees. Outside the circle: tethered ponies cropped the grass, and bright-coloured dresses swirled where bare-armed girls gathered firewood. Inside: black-iron cooking pots suspended over licking flames issued puffs of mouthwatering steam; male travellers tended their own duties or simply looked on, smoking their long, thin-stemmed pipes, as the encampment settled in. Travellers, yes. Wanderers: Gypsies! The Szgany had returned to the region of Halmagiu.
The boy on the rope in the tree had spotted the two village women and now uttered a piercing whistle. All murmur and jingle and movement in the Gypsy encampment ceased upon the instant; dark eyes turned outwards in unison, staring with curiosity at the Romanian peasant women with their baskets. The Gypsy men in their leather jackets looked very strong, somehow fierce, but there was nothing of
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