More Than Mortal (19 page)
Authors: Mick Farren
She waited until they were out on the open downland before she steeled herself for this next stage in the devious game. “Why don’t you let him run?”
“Suppose I lose you?”
Destry was glad Renquist was slightly ahead, and that he only turned once to glance back at her. It took all her skill and energy to contain her violent reluctance. “I’m
sure … you and Dormandu will find your way back. Besides, a horse like him needs to exercise at full gallop.”
sure … you and Dormandu will find your way back. Besides, a horse like him needs to exercise at full gallop.”
“If you don’t mind.”
“No, give him his head, goddamn it.”
Renquist only had to put his heels to the big black’s flanks, and he was off. Within seconds, even their twin auras were out of her sight. Destry slowly turned the gelding and headed back to the Priory with a distinct sense she’d lost something very important to her. Dormandu would never again be her exclusive property. She sincerely hoped it would all turn out to be worth the sacrifice.
The great horse ran, and Renquist exulted. He forgot about the troika and their strange machinations. He forgot about Destry’s ambivalence about his riding the Uzbekian. He was transported back across the centuries to the days when the horse under him had virtually been an extension of himself. He carried no lance or saber, and no boyars galloped at his heels, but he could almost imagine the thunder of their following hooves. The broad black body rose and plunged beneath him as he gripped with his knees, hardly using the reins, letting Dormandu run a free straight course, at full steeplechase pelt, but still using a subtle pressure to remind the beast he was master. The downland over which they passed seemed to roll like the sea, and the hillside moonlight and the mist in the vales and hollows whipped his face and exposed hands in the slipstream of their passing. The leather jacket billowed, and he half wished he had worn a full-flowing cape as in the days of old.
The entire experience brought back many memories and also the wistful realization that nosferatu were never truly designed to inhabit the cities of modern times. His kind should not find themselves the shifty nocturnal kindred of rats and limping urban pigeons. Their true heritage was to roam like the wolf, wild and free, and yet, just as the wild wolves had been decimated by trappers
and the cattlemen’s bounty hunters, the nosferatu had been forced to adapt to the restraints and limitations of so-called civilization. The days were gone when the blood of peasants chilled at the first hard-rhythmic drumming of night-riders’ hooves and the lordly undead could descend at whim on croft, hut, or cottage—and extinguish sorry mortal lives for their survival and satisfaction in a howling feast of lunar abandon. The wild freedom of the ride invoked a wealth of thoughts of what had been and what might have been, a nostalgia for all the proud savagery exchanged for the security of the invisible profile. The unfortunate truth was that contemporary nosferatu skulked. They were furtive. They might skulk as Renquist and his peers did, under the opulent cloak of material luxury, but they skulked all the same. Human-style wealth provided a small sop to their pride. For a being who didn’t die, it was small challenge to amass a fortune in the capitalist nations and equally easy to rise to dangerous power and lethal political influence in any totalitarian regime. Renquist knew, however, deep inside, it was only a sophisticated and glossy substitute for a wholly abandoned, but still mourned, feral and untamed life of the ranging predator.
and the cattlemen’s bounty hunters, the nosferatu had been forced to adapt to the restraints and limitations of so-called civilization. The days were gone when the blood of peasants chilled at the first hard-rhythmic drumming of night-riders’ hooves and the lordly undead could descend at whim on croft, hut, or cottage—and extinguish sorry mortal lives for their survival and satisfaction in a howling feast of lunar abandon. The wild freedom of the ride invoked a wealth of thoughts of what had been and what might have been, a nostalgia for all the proud savagery exchanged for the security of the invisible profile. The unfortunate truth was that contemporary nosferatu skulked. They were furtive. They might skulk as Renquist and his peers did, under the opulent cloak of material luxury, but they skulked all the same. Human-style wealth provided a small sop to their pride. For a being who didn’t die, it was small challenge to amass a fortune in the capitalist nations and equally easy to rise to dangerous power and lethal political influence in any totalitarian regime. Renquist knew, however, deep inside, it was only a sophisticated and glossy substitute for a wholly abandoned, but still mourned, feral and untamed life of the ranging predator.
In the far distance, he could see the lights of a farm, or, in these days, possibly the country home of an investment banker or media entrepreneur. The temptation was strong to throw temptation literally to the winds and ride furiously down on the habitation, drag all he found from their television sets and their gin and tonics, and make them victim to his personal orgy of bloody destruction. He reined in Dormandu, and the horse halted, his breathing scarcely labored, despite a gallop of two or more miles. Renquist merely sat in the darkness, in the saddle of the Uzbek, and stared. Such a violent atrocity was appealing, but so foolhardy, Renquist knew it had to be strictly relegated to the realm of fantasy and what-if. He wasn’t prepared to accept responsibility for
the hue and cry that would follow the slaughter of an English family in their home.
the hue and cry that would follow the slaughter of an English family in their home.
He was about to turn the horse, when he saw the second set of lights, and these lights were moving, apparently coming in his direction, a pair of headlights, the yellow of cats’ eyes. He first thought they were those of the Priory Range Rover. Marieko was coming to find him, perhaps following his and the horse’s auras, to take him to Morton Downs and the mysterious excavation? Then he heard the sound of the vehicle’s engine. Fine-tuned but elderly, it was no Range Rover, and oddly, it seemed to be moving within its own cloud of mist. In almost the same second, he perceived the auras of those inside. The car’s passengers, if indeed it was a car, appeared to consist of a nosferatu and two almost comatose humans. The humans could have been Bolingbroke and Grendl, but they weren’t, and the nosferatu was definitely not one of the Ravenkeep females. He was male, old, perhaps as old as Lupo, and making no attempt at concealment. Even employing a totally unreasonable degree of modesty, Renquist had to assume this was no bizarre coincidence, and he was the ultimate target of this unknown nosferatu inexplicably motoring through the countryside. The choice confronting him was simple and binary: he could investigate or flee.
Had the vehicle merely contained humans, he would simply have melted away into the darkness, but a strange nosferatu making such an out-of-the-midnight-blue appearance dictated Renquist stand his ground, come what may. Admittedly, he was unarmed, but he felt the odds were in his favor, and he could best any lone undead who might come against him. He remained in the saddle, though, waiting for the vehicle to draw closer. The precaution was reasonable. He was fairly certain Dormandu could outrun any ambush or assault, and even if it didn’t come to that, the mounted rider had the psychological advantage over the individual on foot.
Once Renquist had decided to remain, the headlights
seemed to come toward him with excruciating slowness. Also, the car continued to be surrounded by its own grey-white cloud, thick to the point of miasma and coloring the headlights their unique tint of yellow. Renquist was aware mist-movers still existed among the undead, but he knew they were few and far between and usually centuries old. He had experimented with it on a number of occasions but found himself unable to master the technique. Weather just wasn’t his forte.
seemed to come toward him with excruciating slowness. Also, the car continued to be surrounded by its own grey-white cloud, thick to the point of miasma and coloring the headlights their unique tint of yellow. Renquist was aware mist-movers still existed among the undead, but he knew they were few and far between and usually centuries old. He had experimented with it on a number of occasions but found himself unable to master the technique. Weather just wasn’t his forte.
Apparently, this mist-mover was so habitual, he carried his cloud with him even when riding in an automobile. As the surreal vehicle came closer, its antiquity was obvious. A Rolls-Royce 2025, Renquist thought, the 1933 model, but he would be the first to admit his knowledge of cars was far from precise. As it finally approached him, it vanished for a few seconds into a shallow fold in the downs and then reappeared again, close to where he waited on the bare hillside. The Rolls halted some fifty feet from him. Dormandu tensed and stepped a couple of paces sideways. As Renquist quieted the stallion, it snorted loudly and tossed its head once; then it showed no more signs of agitation, even when the driver’s door opened and a figure stepped out.
“My Lord Renquist?”
The nosferatu looked quite as old as Renquist had anticipated. A skeletal stick figure, dressed in Victorian undertaker’s weeds with a venerable rust on them, and with a weathered, near-mummified face little more than skin stretched over a high-cheekboned skull and a prominent, hawklike nose. He rolled the rs in both the words
Lord
and
Renquist.
“My Lorrrrd Rrrrenquisssst.” He had the same combination of burr and lisp on which the actor Sean Connery had built his entire vocal style.
Lord
and
Renquist.
“My Lorrrrd Rrrrenquisssst.” He had the same combination of burr and lisp on which the actor Sean Connery had built his entire vocal style.
Renquist didn’t move. He and Dormandu remained motionless. Let this strange nosferatu come to him. “I’m a master, not a lord.”
“Aye, well, Master Renquist, I bring ye greetings an’ a gift.”
Renquist maintained his caution. “A gift?”
“From m’ lord th’ Fenrior of Fenrior.”
“Your Lord Fenrior?”
“Tha’s right.”
“And who might you be?”
“Th’ name’s Gallowglass, Master Renquist, an’ I serve m’ lord i’ all things.”
“Do you, indeed?”
The angular figure advanced on Renquist, trailing tatters of mist marking his progress from the car. “M’ Lord Fenrior also requests an’ requires ye visit wi’ him when ye’ve finished tarryin’ wi’ yon vampire lassies.”
“Requests and requires?”
“Tha’s how he put i’. Tha’s how he usually puts things.”
“Your Lord Fenrior is a plain speaker?”
“He prides himself on i’.”
“Where I come from, we do not use
vampire.”
vampire.”
Gallowglass nodded with the air of one who learns something new every day—and very little of it meets his approval. “Aye. I did hear tell o’ such airs an’ graces. On Fenrior land we call things by th’ plain words rather than the pretty.”
“So it would seem.”
“So I can tell m’ lord he can be expectin’ ye presently?”
“I will certainly visit with him, but it could be I’ll be ‘tarrying wi’ the lassies’ for a while. I have business with them that may prove important.”
Gallowglass halted ten feet from Renquist. “M’ lord understands th’ wee Chinagirl ha’ been leading ye merry dreamin’ already.”
The nosferatu didn’t appear to be armed, but Renquist was still watchful. Also, he was less than happy with Gallowglass’s attitude. He might be the loyal vassal to his lord, but he was assuming too readily that Fenrior was Renquist’s natural superior. Renquist decided he needed to be chided back into his place. He sat stiffly
in the saddle, showing plainly he was on the verge of mild offense. “Marieko Matsunaga is Japanese, not Chinese, and, above all, she is nosferatu.”
in the saddle, showing plainly he was on the verge of mild offense. “Marieko Matsunaga is Japanese, not Chinese, and, above all, she is nosferatu.”
Gallowglass, however, was unrepentant. “All’re heathens o’ th’ Orient t’ m’ Lord Fenrior.”
“That would seem a narrow view.”
“Tha’ wouldna’ be f’ me t’ comment upon, Master Renquist. But, if ye’d not find i’ out o’ place, I’d offer a word o’ advice.”
“Only a fool doesn’t take advice.”
“The Fenrior o’ Fenrior doesna’ take kindly t’ bein’ kept waitin’.”
“I’ll remember that.”
“Aye.”
“You mentioned something about a gift?”
“Aye, tha’ I did.”
They seemed to have struck an impasse. Neither spoke, and then Gallowglass turned and started walking back to the Rolls. “Ye’ll ha’ t’ step down fra’ tha’ great beast o’ yorn.”
Renquist hesitated. Was this the start of the ambush he feared? The concern must have shown in his aura because Gallowglass laughed. “Din’a fret y’self, Master Renquist. No skulduggery lays i’ wait. If m’ lord wanted ye’ gone, ye’d be gone by now.”
Renquist swung down from the saddle. “You think so?”
Gallowglass glanced back. “I ken ye have a mighty reputation, Master Renquist, but i’ this land ye are only one, an’ the Fenrior ha’ many at his beck an’ call, an’ even more i’ his debt.”
Renquist followed Gallowglass to the Rolls, leading the horse. “So I wouldn’t have a chance?”
“No chance at all.”
Gallowglass now leaned into the car, beckoned, and then stepped back. In response to the gesture, two young women, humans, scarcely more that teenagers, crawled from the car with difficulty and stood unsteadily. Gallowglass
had the pair so tightly controlled, they were effectively brain-dead. “Lord Fenrior doubted th’ lassies were feedin’ ye anything more substantial than plastic blood fra’ th’ infirmary, so he instructed me t’ bring you these.”
had the pair so tightly controlled, they were effectively brain-dead. “Lord Fenrior doubted th’ lassies were feedin’ ye anything more substantial than plastic blood fra’ th’ infirmary, so he instructed me t’ bring you these.”
The girls were cheaply and vapidly pretty. Short dresses, high heels, sequins, and temptation lipstick. One had long black hair worn with a fringe that covered her forehead and all but hid her now vacant eyes. The other had short blond hair slicked down with mousse. They were not prostitutes, more likely good-time nightclub girls from some provincial city. “O’ course, they’re no up t’ th’ ones we breed ourselves, but those ones din’a travel well, y’ken?”
Fenrior bred his own humans? Renquist stored this piece of information for future use. “I have no complaints. In fact, I appreciate Lord Fenrior’s thoughtfulness. Please tell him that.”
Gallowglass nodded and then indicated that Renquist should select his first victim with the air of a messenger who has a long way to go before dawn. “I’ll willin’ly hold y’ horse for ye.”
“He’s strong.”
“He’ll be no trouble.”
Renquist handed Gallowglass the reins. “His name’s Dormandu.”
“Come, Dormandu. Walk wi’ me.”
The black horse whickered softly but then went willingly with the emaciated Gallowglass. Nosferatu and horse moved off to a discreet distance, and by way of extra privacy, Renquist found himself and the two zombie girls surrounded by a screen of glittering mist. If this was the way he served his lord, Gallowglass had to be a valuable asset. Renquist pointed at the dark-haired girl, ordering her to come to him. While the blonde remained blank and motionless, the dark one swayed very slowly toward him, as though in the grip of an immensely powerful but far from unpleasant narcotic. A fine smoke trail,
all that was left of her consciousness, curled from magenta to deep blue, frightened but also lethargically excited. Lost from reality and completely unable to translate what was happening to her, she was vacuously happy something was bringing her the shadowy and mysterious drama so completely lacking in drab real life. Gallowglass was very good. She would embrace every one of her last moments with a previously unpracticed passion. She stood in front of him, stiff and unseeing, but then one level of control seemed to give way, and she sagged into Renquist with a confused sigh. “I don’t understand.”
all that was left of her consciousness, curled from magenta to deep blue, frightened but also lethargically excited. Lost from reality and completely unable to translate what was happening to her, she was vacuously happy something was bringing her the shadowy and mysterious drama so completely lacking in drab real life. Gallowglass was very good. She would embrace every one of her last moments with a previously unpracticed passion. She stood in front of him, stiff and unseeing, but then one level of control seemed to give way, and she sagged into Renquist with a confused sigh. “I don’t understand.”
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