The Last Aerie (56 page)

There are screams and there are screams. Jason Lidesci’s silent deadspeak screams that hideous night reached out in all directions. They echoed across the barren boulder plains, reverberated in the passes, flowed up and over the mountains into Sunside. The dead in all their many places heard him, and knew what was his torment … and could not offer a word of comfort, in case Nestor heard them and came to investigate. Filled with the most awful, impossible agony as he felt his flesh tear and his bones come loose at the joint, Jason’s screams were such as to wake the dead, except they dared not wake. For a necromancer was among them.

“His face!” Nestor demanded yet again, and twisted the arm one last time, without giving his victim a chance to recover. And when at last Jason’s shrieking and sobbing subsided, finally Nestor’s order was obeyed.

A face—Nathan’s face, Nestor’s olden enemy’s face, his Great Enemy’s face—came floating up from the pulsing red and black pit of pain which was Jason’s mind, and firmed into being where the necromancer could see it.

And he knew it!

Blond hair, blue eyes, and pale as can be. Handsome in a sad, shy sort of way. Szgany, and yet not Szgany. And suddenly Nestor remembered how sometimes he’d been ashamed to call Nathan his … to call him … his … his …
his!

His mind went blank, numb, rigid as the rock of the mountains themselves.

But Jason’s mind—apart from his unspeakable agony, or perhaps because of it—was suddenly crystal clear. For looking in on Nestor’s deadspeak thoughts, he knew what the necromancer had searched for … and also the mind-warping shock of what he’d discovered. And:

Oh, yes,
he sobbed in Nestor’s mind.
You are correct. And while you championed him as a boy, later there were times when you wouldn’t even accept him. Now you know why I couldn’t believe you had forgotten him. For indeed that face I showed you was the face of Nathan Kiklu. A far better man than you, Nestor, for all that he was your twin brother!

Nestor jerked to his feet, recoiled from the truth of it like a startled deer. He who had been the torturer was now in turn tormented. His Great Enemy was his brother? Not identical, no, but Nathan and Nestor Kiklu? The same flesh? From the same womb? They had been Szgany together: Nestor, Misha, Nathan and Jason. As children, they’d played, laughed and cried together. And indeed in those childhood days Nestor had played at being a vampire Lord. But that was before he became Lord Nestor of the Wamphyri.

And so for the very briefest of moments Nestor was reunited with his past, until his vampire saw the danger in it and worked to erase the error. The metamorphic synapses which had welded in that moment of memory came apart again, and Nestor came apart, too, from what human impulses had started to galvanize him.

His thoughts were deadspeak, and Jason Lidesci had known them.
For a moment I saw you again, Nestor, he said. The real you. Ah, but you’re Wamphyri now, and the real you no longer exists. Or if it does, then it’s only to serve the beast in you.

Nestor pointed a trembling hand at the corpse, and said to Gorvi: “Take that away! Do what you will with it! Destroy it!”

“What?” Gorvi was astonished. Silent until now, he’d been patient and seen this pantomime out to its end: Nestor speaking to a corpse, and emptiness for answers. Oh, there’d been an atmosphere of sorts, something in the air, but nothing of any real substance. And now this: the so-called “necromancer” trembling like a girl, apparently afraid of a dead man. “But you’ve learned nothing!”

“I’ve learned enough!” Nestor turned on him. “Perhaps too much. Old hatreds are awakened; a mischief I had thought was forgotten returns to plague me; memories come and go, which I am better off without… I think.”

“But what of the Szgany Lidesci?” Gorvi was outraged. “We had a deal!” His face was suddenly twisted with suspicion. “Or perhaps you’ve reneged, learned what it suits you to know and keep to yourself, and you’re now backing down.”

“Fool!” Nestor spat at him. “The Szgany Lidesci? Settlement? But when I go raiding on Sunside, it’s a habit of mine to land on the crags over the foothills and look down on that battered fortress of a town. And when I do I know the place, I remember it, however briefly! But attack it? Attack them, the Szgany Lidesci? No, never! Or at least, not yet. Not until He returns.”

“He?” Gorvi was mystified.

“An old adversary, my Great Enemy. He …
stole
something which was mine…” Nestor hesitated a moment, frowned, stroked his aching brow, then continued. “I think … I think he stole a
woman
from me, Szgany, a girl of Settlement, and ran away. If she lives there still, with the Lidescis, I’m sure that one day she’ll lure him back as the moon lures Canker Canison. But only let her die in some ill-conceived raid, where our losses may be greater than those of the Szgany, and then he’ll have no reason to return and I could lose him forever. Aye, and my red revenge gone with him!”

“A woman?” Gorvi was tired of this now. It wasn’t going his way at all, and that was too bad. “Are you letting some Szgany slut eat at you? Is that what this is all about? Some ancient rivalry? But the past is the past, Nestor. We live for today, and for tomorrow, and for as
long
as we live! The past is dead and gone but the undead go on forever, or as long as blood allows.”

“Enough!” Nestor growled. “I have a course to run. The dog-Lord has told me that it’s a devious thing to read the future, for while events are set, the manner of their occurring is not. Well, I fancy that for me there’s a certain danger in reading the past. If I was meant to know it I wouldn’t have forgotten it in the first place. When the time is right, then I’ll know how it was. This lich—this Jason Lidesci—is a link with things which could change me. And I prefer to remain as I am. For now, at least. So do what you will, but I’m finished here. I’ll call my men, Zahar and Grig, who are waiting to go hunting on Sunside.”

“We had a deal!” Gorvi stormed again.

“And now it’s broken!” Nestor snarled. “Challenge me if you will, to a duel on Sunside.”

“Don’t tempt me, pup!” Gorvi shrank back, but Nestor read the treachery in his heart. And also his secret mind. The Guile had taken no chances: there were men of his here even now!

They came from behind the glaring hemisphere of the Gate, a pair of bulky, leather-clad lieutenants. Against Gorvi alone, Nestor had a chance. But against the three of them? He glanced towards his flyer, but Gorvi’s lads were already putting themselves in the way. They wore gauntlets, and one of them tossed a third gauntlet to his evilly grinning master.

Nestor said, “So. And this was how it would be. I was to rob this lich of his secrets, so that you could murder me and take them for your own. You were against me from the first.”

Gorvi took a sly, flowing pace forward, and his voice was oily, dangerous as he said: “What, and did you think they named me the Guile for nothing?”

Before they could close in on him, Nestor turned and ran. But only for a moment. For suddenly there came the dull, heavy throbbing of propulsors as a black-pulsing shadow flowed over the boulder plains. An aerial warrior, one of Nestor’s creatures, performed a slow, low circle. While in the sky directly overhead, a pair of flyers formed their wings into air-traps and settled towards a landing. In their saddles, gazing down, Grig and Zahar Lichloathe looked fair set to fight.

Now Nestor turned to face Gorvi, calling out to him in a low voice:

“I know
exactly
why they call you the Guile: because you are sly, devious, and secretive. That’s why I, too, came prepared. And do you still want to fight, now that the odds are on my side? Then go right ahead. But think on this: if you lose your life, it won’t be the end. For we’ll meet again, in Suckscar. And you won’t be so secretive then—I guarantee it!”

Gorvi called off his men and waved them back to their flyers where they were hidden away to the rear of the hell-lands Gate. And as he climbed into his own saddle:

“We are no longer friends, Lichloathe,” he called out.

Nestor snorted and answered, “We never were. What? Should I have you for a friend when many a trustworthy scorpion goes wanting? Back to your dungeons, Gorvi, and scheme some better schemes.” And to his lieutenants:

Stay
aloft. We head for Sunside. In the forest just a mile south of Twin Fords there’s a Szgany hiding place. I’ve sensed it before. Sometimes they use it, others they don’t. Well, and if they’re in tonight, we’ll have them.
As for his warrior:

You, creature … go home. Back to your pen. On my return, there’ll be a tidbit or two.

And as the loathsome construct turned and fired its propulsors for Wrathstack, so the necromancer mounted up and in a little while was airborne with his lieutenants. Then, wheeling their beasts in a star-spattered sky, all three set course for the great pass and the sweet red fruits of Sunside …

… Except the night was anything but fruitful.

Those vibrations which Nestor had sensed during previous hunting trips turned out to be the lure for an as yet untried Szgany ambush routine, and he and his lieutenants almost became its first victims. Landing at a suitable site in the forest and heading for the source of the vibrations—the fading smell of cooking, the scent of Szgany flesh and blood, the body-heat of humanity, and their dreams, and the night whispers of those who were awake and stood guard—the first Nestor was aware of the trap was when Grig took a bolt in his shoulder too close to his heart, which knocked him off his feet and robbed him of most of his strength, and Zahar yelled a warning that would awaken the entire forest. Following which the Szgany were everywhere.

Obviously this was one Traveller group which had learned from the example of Lardis Lidesci and his people.

Nestor and Zahar were fortunate indeed. Kneblasch-soaked, silver-tipped crossbow bolts came within an inch; a great tree, sawn through at its base and held in place with guy-ropes, came crashing down, its lopped-off branches sharpened to stakes that hammered into the forest loam; nets weighted with silver hissed down out of the treetops, and a fine mist of reeking kneblasch oil fell like a poisonous rain from on high. Then:

An ambusher fired the underbrush! Catching at the greasy shrubbery, flames leapt rapidly from branch to branch. A ring of fire was formed which trapped the three, turned night into day and robbed them of their night-vision advantage.

Dragging Grig behind them, and slicing through a tangle of nets with their gauntlets, Nestor and Zahar fled. And Grig was lucky, too, because another Lord might well have left him to his fate. But Nestor had only the two lieutenants and could scarcely afford to lose one of them. It was as simple as that and nothing of loyalty in it; a vampire, especially a Lord of the Wamphyri, worries about his own life first. Indeed that’s
all
he worries about.

All three were scorched, sickened by the kneblasch, humiliated by the outcome: to have been routed by a handful of men! For Nestor it was maddening, infuriating—and worse to come when they got back to their flyers.

Grig’s mount was finished. Flopping like a crippled moth on its underbelly, where more than half of its thrusting limbs had been sliced through with machetes, the creature made sounds like a mewling infant. Blinded by burning far—with its manta wings still smouldering where the same substance had made great black holes in them—it lolled there, cried its bewilderment, nodded its scorched and blackened head.

Nestor’s flyer had also suffered; stabbed several times in the neck before it had rolled on its attacker to crush him, it leaked its fluids and was barely airworthy. If he could fly it back to Suckscar in one piece, the beast would heal in time. But it was a big if. Only Zahar’s creature was one hundred percent fit, for it had learned from the trials of the others and had rolled on its two attackers before they could do any real damage. Their crushed bodies were a mess beneath the creature, where gore and guts had erupted from gaping mouths and other orifices.

Less than an hour ago, Nestor and his men had landed on a gently sloping, wooded hillside which would normally make a good, easy launching site. Now, angry, confused and in haste, they made a less-than-graceful exit. Zahar had taken Grig up behind him on his good flyer, while Nestor rode alone on his weakened beast. But their sliding, slithering, bone-jolting launch was much less than satisfactory, and they left a wide swath of flattened bushes in their wake. All of which served to fuel Nestor’s fury.

No sooner were they safely aloft than he ordered Zahar home and followed on awhile before landing on a south-facing plateau in the barrier mountains. There he rubbed spittle into his flyer’s wounds to hasten the healing, then let the beast rest and settle down while he stood on the rim, gazed down on Sunside, and considered the events of the last few hours. And as his anger cooled he recognized the truth of it: that they had been disastrous events, all of them.

First, the loss of a useful flyer, not easy to replace. Second, his man Grig was badly wounded and wouldn’t be good for anything for several sundowns. And third, Gorvi the Guile was now his sworn enemy, and without doubt would try to make trouble for him. (Well, nothing much changed there, at least!) But as for the rest: a great deal lost for no gain whatsoever. Nestor’s frustration was vast, and not only as a result of tonight’s shambles. For in the back of his mind—but ready to surface at a moment’s notice—there was his frustration in respect of …

The Lady Wratha!

She was here! She had heard his thoughts! She was smiling at him, in his mind! Her superior mentalism! He had let himself be seen for what he was: a lovesick child! (
The
warm, silky feel of her hard nipples and soft breasts, which whenever he thought of her set the palm of his hand tingling just as it had tingled that night on the roof of Wrathspire.
) Except he could see now how easy it would have been for her to put it there, to insert such a vision into his inexperienced mind.

But if she had wanted him to think of her that way—