The Last Aerie (13 page)

“… Having had his blood, a good deal of it, now I would enjoy his woman. But first I must deal with his children, lest there be crying and a deal of confusion. There were two Szgany whelps, a girl and boy. The girl was six or seven; I smothered her in her sleep. Her brother was a bairn; I crushed his head. And their mother was …
succulent!
” Wran paused to glance at Wratha. “But I won’t be indelicate. You men can ask me later. For now I’ll tell you only this: she lasted well…

“Later, I trekked back towards the place where I’d left my flyer. The boy child dangled from my belt, trailing blood, which made my spoor easier still to follow. And always I kept my mind shielded. But do you know, such had been my …
extravagance
with the woman, that I actually felt weary! It was as if I had raged, though in truth I had not. My
flesh
had raged a little, perhaps, but … such is the nature of lust. So that what with these excesses of mine, and all the trekking afoot—plus the fact that during the previous day I’d been excited by the prospect of the night ahead, and so had not slept as best I might—I felt depleted. Or perhaps I had supped too well on the blood of the man and what little I’d had from his wife—and the rest of what I had had from her—until I was replete in every sense and now must sleep it off.

“Except, somewhere out there in the night, Vasagi the Suck was likewise afoot. It gave me pause, but eventually I puzzled my way out of the dilemma.

“I hastened to my flyer and curled myself in a belly ridge where the thrusters are lodged. And before sleeping I commanded the beast that if someone approached, namely Vasagi the Suck, I was to be awakened at once. Or if not—if he came gliding and in great stealth or disguised in a mist, remaining hidden until the last moment—then that my creature must thrust me aside to safety, and roll or fall upon Vasagi and so crush him.

“But, no such incursion; I slept the best and possibly the longest sleep of my life! Then, awakening, I sensed sunup some hours away and knew that time was narrowing down. And still my business with the Suck remained unsettled. So … I would try to lure him one last time, and if that failed then I must resort to hunting him.

“I left my flyer, proceeded some small distance on foot, and there built a fire in the lee of a rocky outcrop. I commenced roasting the boy child upon a spit, and before too long felt a presence. The feeling was momentary, but strong. In the night and the dark I fancied I felt eyes upon me, perhaps from on high. And of course I wondered: had Vasagi passed fleetingly overhead? It would seem the most likely explanation; certainly the sweet smell of roasting bairn would be a vast attraction. If so, then he had surely seen me.

“I continued to roast my breakfast, and waited. And in a little while someone came! Ah, but he was clumsy, perhaps too eager? Above me in a nest of rounded boulders, I heard a pebble slither. Did he intend to jump down on me? Possibly. But I was ready, fully rested and wide awake … even eager! He came to his doom, be sure!

“Except—it wasn’t Vasagi! It was this one!” And here Wran pointed dramatically at Nestor.

“However unwittingly, this strange night-prowling Szgany youth had distracted me when, concentrating upon
his
approach, I had failed to detect the Suck’s! Or rather, Vasagi had utilized this one’s clumsiness to mask his own far more sinister slither. And while I was confused, finally he attacked!

Then …

“… Nestor shouted a warning! Also, he put a bolt in the Suck’s shoulder. But can you credit it? The intervention of a Traveller, a Szgany youth, in a grand duel of vampire Lords? It was astonishing, and it was ironic! For to my way of thinking, it evened up the balance admirably. Vasagi had used this lad to get close to me, and paid for his deviousness when Nestor turned on him. But injured, the Suck was yet more dangerous. And in the fight which ensued I sustained grave injuries of my own, mainly to my back. I intend to keep the scars, to illustrate the extent of Vasagi’s ferocity. Perhaps on some future occasion, you may even prevail upon me to display them for you …”

This time, when Wran’s pause threatened to extend itself indefinitely, Gorvi the “Guile put in: “All very interesting, I readily submit, though none of it explains this Nestor’s custody of Vasagi’s egg. Was it won, or illegally … bequeathed? Which is to say, not by the Suck, but by his destroyer, Wran. You’ll concede I have a point. For here sits Gore Sucksthrall, first-chosen lieutenant of Vasagi himself, and rightful aspirant to Suckscar. Must he now stand aside for this Nestor? An unusual procedure, to say the least.”

“Bah!”
This from Wratha. “What’s so unusual, Gorvi? Think back on your own ascension, as I often think on mine. It’s the getting there that’s important, not the means. Aye, the
getting
there, and the
wanting
to be there! And yet … it would seem you’ve asked a valid question: was it done out of spite, maliciously conceived and contrived by Wran the Rage, or was Nestor receptive? And I ask another: if the latter, how so? For in all my days I’ve never yet heard of a Traveller who
desired
to be Wamphyri—not before the fact, at least.”

Canker Canison sat up straighter, slapped a hand flat on the table and barked: “Only one person to ask!” And turning to Nestor, where so far he’d sat silent: “You, Nestor. You have a vampire egg in you. But did you desire to be Wamphyri, or was it forced upon you?”

“What the hell odds does it make?” Wran roared, coming to his feet. “Wratha has it right: it’s
getting
there that counts. As for eggs: don’t we bequeath them where we will? We do, when we have the choice. Well, when last I saw Vasagi the Suck, he had no choice. I pegged his broken body out to burn. And now I wish I’d let his leech and egg burn with him!”

“May I speak?” Gore Sucksthrall growled, but quietly. And when they looked at him:

“It seems to me that the Lord Wran engineered this thing,” Gore said. “Not to thwart me—of course not, for I am nothing as yet—but to punish his old enemy the Lord Vasagi, who was my master. It would seem a grand jest, to transfer the Suck’s egg to this … this innocent. And of course, cowed by Wran and afraid of us all, this unworthy receptacle sits here, numb and dumb, and praying it’s all a dream. Myself, I
would
aspire to Suckscar, and no question about it. Except a usurper has Vasagi’s egg. Doubtless it was torn from my master’s body, or fled him upon his death. Which seems to me the easiest way to regain it—and
now
, before the egg becomes a leech, or while the vampire is still a tadpole. Wherefore I challenge this Nestor to a trial of combat. The time, place and manner of his death, I leave to him.”

Gore was right. Deep in Nestor’s core, Vasagi’s seed was as yet a tadpole. Be that as it may, already it could sense the strength of its host—and his weaknesses. But the latter only served the parasite’s purposes; rather, they worked to its benefit. Nestor had no history, nothing to cling to, and therefore no resistance to the seething metamorphosis taking place within him. On the other hand, his vampire had no real “intelligence” as such; as yet embryonic, its sole purpose was to enhance the darker facets of its host, while simultaneously blunting his human compassion and deadening his sensibilities. In so doing, it honed to a razor’s edge those skills necessary to Nestor’s—and of course its own—survival. For above all else, the vampire is tenacious.

And Gore was quite wrong: instead of sitting there “numb and dumb”, Nestor had taken his small but deadly crossbow from his belt and into his lap, fitted its bolt, and now only required to load it. While the first of these actions had been easy, going all unseen behind and below the bulk of the great table, the last would take some small effort and could never be accomplished in secret, especially now that all eyes were on Nestor. He hesitated … there was still time enough … he would wait and see what he would see.

Canker, on Nestor’s immediate left, had doubtless seen his furtive movements; he said nothing but simply said there, feral eyes blazing, holding his dog’s breath and glancing from Nestor to Gore and back again. Gore had meanwhile put both of his huge hands flat on the table and looked about ready to stand up.
His
eyes were likewise feral—and full of murder. He had made his challenge; if it went unaccepted, or even unanswered by Nestor, plainly Gore would have the right to act.

Nestor sat stiff as a ramrod and looked at Gore. The man was a vampire; he had put on flesh and bulked out until he was almost as massive as a Lord; clad in heavy leather, he made two of Nestor. On the other hand, he was unarmed; even more important, he had no egg. Perhaps Nestor could talk him down. For as well as tenacious, the vampire is devious.

When it seemed the tableau could hold no longer—that Gore must now get up, come round the table, dispose of Nestor and claim his rights—that was when Nestor spoke. But even now alien stuff was at work in him, and as well as being tenacious and full of guile, in circumstances like these the vampire is often abrupt and aggressive:

“It happened much as Wran told it,” he began, in a voice deep, dark and arresting, “yet also as
you
have it, Gore Sucksthrall. I was coming to Starside, the last aerie, to be a Lord. Except I believed I already
was
Wamphyri—or had been—and I had forgotten or been robbed of my inheritance. Why, I still believe it, even now! It was as if I cried out to be Wamphyri! All of which I made known to Wran the Rage. And I’m in Wran’s debt, it’s true, for in his own sweet way he …
reminded
me, of certain procedures. So that however you would have it, the fact remains that I am now Wamphyri! And I caution you, Gore: be my thrall and live, or —”

“Or?” Gore was on his feet. “What? I should become
your
thrall … or?” He was grey as lead, puffed up, bloated with rage and lust. Lust for Nestor’s blood, egg, life, all three. He licked his lips greedily, knotted his fists into clubs at his sides, thrust his head forward menacingly. For a moment his eyes stood out like yellow plums in his face. Then …

He moved! But as for coming
round
the table, nothing so refined. Gore Sucksthrall took the shortest route and came over it!

Platters large and small went flying, jugs of wine were hurled aside, as the lieutenant swung up onto the table, took one pace forward, and crouched down to launch himself full in Nestor’s face. Nestor came to his feet, knocking his chair on its side as he threw himself backwards. And in his few remaining seconds, he loaded his crossbow. Roaring with rage, Gore was already in mid-flight; too late he saw the weapon in Nestor’s hand; Nestor didn’t have time or need to aim but merely pointed … and pulled the trigger!

The bolt took Gore dead center between the eyes, caved in the bridge of his nose, smashed through his brain and only came to a halt when its head bit through the back of his skull in a splintering of bone and splash of blood. Dead in mid-air, or as dead as a vampire can be while still he has a head, his mouth chomped and drooled vacuously as he flew. But his eyes no longer saw, and his outstretched hands were limp as rags.

Nestor stepped lithely aside as Gore crashed down upon the polished stone floor and skidded to a crumpled halt. Possibly he could survive even now, as a crippled mute if nothing else. Certainly his metamorphic flesh and bones would heal, and part of the brain repair itself at least. But Nestor’s vampire nature was stirring to life, and he wasn’t about to allow that. These Lords and Lady harboured doubts about his fitness to be one of them. Well, he
was
Wamphyri, and now as good a time as any to show them!

There was one large knife on the table for carving. Nestor could take Gore’s head if he wanted it. But he saw another, far easier way.

Astonishingly, the fallen lieutenant had pushed himself up onto all fours. He was kneeling there, head-down, slopping blood and brains, and shaking like a palsied dog. And a stream of slurred, stuttering, meaningless words or noises was issuing from his morbidly grimacing mouth. Nestor dropped his crossbow to the floor, went to him, grasped his topknot with both hands and dragged him to a window. On hands and knees, Gore skidded in blood, drool, and brain fluid forward onto a fretted cartilage balcony. Nestor got behind him, put a foot firmly on his backside, and shoved. Part of the balcony shattered, and Gore took the pieces with him into space.

Out there, close to three thousand feet of unresisting air, and at its bottom the scree jumbles, dirt and solid rock. When he hit, Gore Sucksthrall would shatter into so much mush and a fistful of jellied pieces. Gorvi the Guile’s flightless guardian warriors would snarl and threaten over what few morsels they could salvage …

Nestor turned from the window, and on his way back to the table picked up his crossbow. Gorvi, malicious as ever, was the first to find his voice. Pointing at Nestor’s weapon, he said,
“That
is forbidden! Not only in Wrath-spire, but even throughout the entire aerie.”

Canker slapped the table and barked, “But we all knew he had it. He’s Szgany, isn’t he? This is how they arm themselves. Szgany, aye, and a mere youth. It’s just that we knew—or we supposed—that he’d never have the guts to use it!”

Nestor stood by his toppled chair, lifted his crossbow by its tiller overhead and said, “If this weapon offends you, then it likewise offends me. So be it.” And he brought it down shatteringly on the table’s rim, so as to break it into pieces. “In any case, I’ve no more use for it. Not now that I have Vasagi’s gauntlet.” And turning to Canker Canison: “You are wrong, Canker. Perhaps I
was
Szgany, but no more.”

All of these had been good moves; coming in quick succession, and startling, they had fixed the attention of the others about the table. Frowning, they stared at Nestor in silence for long seconds. Then Wran grinned, however lopsidedly, and looked along the table at Wratha. “Lady,” he said, “I recall you were saying something about your own ascension? If the stories I’ve heard are true, that, too, was a bloody affair.”