Necroscope 4: Deadspeak Read Online Free PDF Page A

But:
    “There’s no answering cry,” said the younger, eventually. “He’s alone, that old wolf.”
    “For now,” the other nodded. “Aye, alone—but he’s been heard all right, take my word for it. And he will be answered, soon enough. Following which …” She shook her head and hurried on.
    The other caught up with her. “Yes, following which?” she pressed.
    The older woman peered at her, scowled a little, finally barked: “But you must learn to listen, Anna! There are some things we don’t much talk about up here—so if you want to learn, then when they are talked about you must listen!”
    “I was listening,” the other answered. “It’s just that I didn’t understand, that’s all. You said the old wolf would be answered, soon enough. And … and then?”
    “Aye, and then,” said the older one, turning towards her doorway, where bunches of garlic dangled from the lintel, drying in the sun. And over her shoulder: “And then—the very next morning—why, the Szgany will be gone! No trace of them at all except maybe the ashes in their camp, the ruts in the tracks where their caravans have rolled, moving on. But their numbers will have been shortened by one. One who answered an ancient call and stayed behind.”
    The younger woman’s mouth formed a silent “O”.
    “That’s right,” said the first, nodding. “You just saw him—adding his soul to those other poor souls inscribed in the cairn on the rock …”
    That night, in the Szgany camp:
    The girls danced, whirling to the skirl of frenzied violins and the primal thump and jingle of tambourines. A long table stood heavy with food: joints of rabbit and whole hedgehogs, still steaming from the heat of the trenches where they’d baked; wild boar sausages, sliced thin; cheeses purchased or bartered in Halmagiu village; fruit and nuts; onions simmering in gravy poured from the meats; Gypsy wines and sharp, throat-clutching wild plum brandy.
    There was a festival atmosphere. The flames of a central fire, inspired by the music, leaped high and the dancers were sinuous, sensuous. Alcohol was consumed in large measure; some of the younger Gypsies drank from a sense of relief, others from fear of an uncertain future. For those who had been spared this time around, there would always be other times.
    But they were Szgany and this was the way of things; they were His to the ends of the earth, His to command, His to take. Their pact with the Old One had been signed and sealed more than four hundred years ago. Through Him they had prospered down the centuries, they prospered now, they would prosper in all the years to come. He made the hard times easier—aye, and the easy times hard—but always He achieved a balance. His blood was in them, and theirs in Him. And the blood is the life.
    Only two amongst them were alone and private. Even with the girls dancing, the drinking, the feasting, still they were alone. For all of this noise and movement around them was an assumed gaiety, wherein they could scarcely participate.
    One of them, the young man from the cairn, sat on the steps of an ornately carved and painted wagon, with a whetstone and his long-bladed knife, bringing the cutting edge to a scintillant shimmer of silver in the flicker of near-distant firelight. While in the yellow lamplight behind him where the door stood open, his mother sat sobbing, wringing her hands, praying for all she was worth to One who was not a god—indeed, to One who was the very opposite—that He spare her son this night. But praying in vain.
    And as one tune ended and bright skirts whispered to a halt, falling about gleaming brown limbs, and moustached men quit their leaping and high-kicking—in that interval when the fiddlers sipped their brandy before starting up again—then the moon showed its rim above the mountains, whose misted crags were brought to a sudden prominence. And as mouths gaped open and all eyes turned upwards to the risen moon, so the mournful