by Brian Lumley
Later … Nathan was hungry. This time when food came he ate it, and appreciated it. Already his perspective was changing. Once, he read the mind behind a child’s sad eyes peering in at him through the stockade fence: When will it be my turn? Not for a long time, for I’m only six. Aye, but soon enough, soon enough.
Another “Visitor” as evening drew in was Iozel Kotys. His mind was loose as ever; it overflowed with venom, but also with wonder and not a little fear. Who are you, and where from? Out of the west? Is it possible? Not Maglore’s man, as I’ve discovered, though he wants you badly enough now. But who? How? Why?
Nathan looked up at the glaring eyes in the bearded face, which glowered at him through the gapped fence. “Oh?” he said, in a low voice. “And have you spoken with your master, then? Are you his thrall, in mind if not in body?”
And Iozel gasped and went away …
Nathan slept again, long and deep, and woke up cold and cowed. The first stars were out, and beyond the stockade’s wall a fire blazed up. Tables had been set, where barrels of wine stood in a row. A low platform had been erected, with a number of great wooden chairs at its centre. Dobruj was there, striding nervously this way and that, waiting.
Then: it happened all at once.
The stars were blotted out; they blinked off and on again as something black, several things, passed between. There came the throb of powerful wings to fan the fire, as shapes of midnight flowed overhead, settling to a rise in the near-distant grassland border. And finally the tithesmen, Wamphyri lieutenants, were here.
They came striding, four of them—tall, powerful, cruel, arrogant; certain of themselves, showing nothing of fear, only scorn—with lesser vampire thralls bringing up the rear. Nathan saw them through the stockade fence, and knew where he had seen such before. They were much of a kind with Vratza Wransthrall.
No time was wasted: Dobruj met them grovellingly, and was pushed aside. He followed them to the platform where they took seats. And: “Bring them on,” one of them, the chief among them, commanded. His scarlet eyes glanced towards the stockades. “But quality this time, if you please, Dobruj. For I was here a year ago, remember? You won’t be foisting any more scum on me this time!”
The tithelings were paraded, females first. One at a time, eight girls were taken up on to the platform, where the lieutenant ripped their blouses to the waist, exposing their breasts, and lifted their skirts to admire their thighs. And while they stumbled there in tears, trying to cover themselves, he licked his lips and sniffed at them lewdly, like a dog, but without seeming much impressed. In any case: “They’ll do,” he grunted shortly, grudgingly. “And the men?”
As the girls were led away, Nathan was brought out along with the six other young men. He was the fourth put up on to the platform. “Oh?” said the lieutenant. “And what have we here?”
Dobruj answered breathlessly: “A stray—we don’t know from where. I thought maybe he’d come … out of Turgosheim?”
The lieutenant was all of six inches taller than Nathan; pinching his face in a massive hand, he squeezed until Nathan opened his mouth and displayed his teeth, much like a shad examined by a man. “What?” The lieutenant released Nathan, sent him staggering, and turned to Dobruj. “Eh? Out of Turgosheim, did you say? How so?”
Dobruj flapped his pudgy hands. “His clothes, Lord, and his colouring. He’s not a man of these parts. We thought perhaps …”
“Be quiet!” the other told him. “You’re not supposed to think. We don’t need you to think. But this one was never in Turgosheim, believe me! However, he is the best of what we’ve seen, so I’m not displeased. Now, let’s see the rest.”
The other three were brought up together; the lieutenant merely glanced at them, then at Dobruj. “One short,” he growled, warningly, his eyes reduced to crimson slits.
“The eighth comes now,” Dobruj answered, as a scuffling sounded from the edge of the firelight. His men dragged Iozel Kotys into view, kicking and screaming. But as soon as he saw the vampires he fell silent, gasping.
The chief lieutenant looked at him for several long seconds, then at Dobruj. Until from deep in his throat, soft and dangerously low, “Some little joke, perhaps, Dobruj?” He took hold of the headman in the armpit, squeezing him hard there as he drew him close. “I certainly hope not.”
Dobruj gulped, gasped his pain and fluttered his free arm. “Lord,” he cried out for his life. “Please listen! All of your provisions have been put aside on travois, exactly as required. Fruits, nuts, honey in jars, grains, beast-fodder by the bale, and wines. As for the barrels you see on the table there: they are extra to the tithe—for you! Take a sip, a taste, I implore you!” One of his men ran forward with a jug. The lieutenant grabbed it up, drank until it swilled his face, and spilled the rest over Dobruj’s head.
“Aye, it’s good!” he said, tossing Dobruj aside. “But what shall I do with this?” He pointed at Iozel , grovelling in front of the platform.
Iozel looked up. “Take me to Maglore!” he cried. “He will have me. I was his upon a time, until he returned me here …”
“Ah!” the lieutenant’s eyes opened wide. “So you are that one! The Seer Mage mentioned you, of course—his spy!”
“There! There!” Iozel grinned, however lopsidedly, aware of Dobruj’s eyes—and the eyes of many another—burning on him. “I knew it would be so.”
“Indeed,” said the lieutenant. “And Maglore told me: “If Iozel is offered in the tithe, by all means bring him in, but don’t bring him to me. For if he is a traitor to his own, how then will he serve me? Ah, but the manses will always require provisioning, and even offensive meat is still meat!” So spake Maglore!”
“No—no!” Iozel jumped up, turned to run.
“Still him!” Dobruj ordered it, grimly and with some satisfaction. And one of his men cudgelled the hermit behind the ear, so that he fell asprawl. With which it was over.
The chief lieutenant came down off the platform and went among the tithelings. He singled out the two comeliest girls, plus Nathan and one other youth, then spoke to the lesser vampire thralls who accompanied him. “These four go with us. The rest are for the march through the pass. Be sure not to lose any on the way.”
He saw them off with their laden travois along a forest track, and without another word headed out of town across the plain to where the silhouettes of flyers nodded grotesquely at the crest of a rise. Nathan and the other youth were each given a small barrel to carry; they and the girls were shepherded ahead; the lieutenants brought up the rear, carrying barrels as if they were weightless. And the rest was dreamlike:
The great grey beasts nodding in the night; the barrels loaded into their fetid pouches; the tithelings made fast at the rear of long saddles, where they were warned: “One false move and we’ll ditch you into space, and see if you can fly like the Wamphyri!”
Then the launching and dizzy climb as hugely arched wings trapped wafts from below; the sick, soaring flight over twelve or thirteen miles of forest, foothills, ragged peaks; finally the sighing, slanting descent between crags, spires, flaring orange and yellow gas jets and reeking chimneys. Down, down into a vampire realm, past grim battlements, ruddily glaring windows and balconies, towards communal landing—and launching-bays in the great dark gorge which was Turgosheim …
In normal circumstances, Maglore would rarely if ever lower himself to attend a draw and allocation of common tithelings; he would send a thrall, to collect his get on his behalf. But these were scarcely normal times, and if Iozel Kotys could be believed this “Nathan” was no common or ordinary Sunsider.
Three “lots” of tithelings had been brought in: four from Vladistown, five from Gengisheim, six out of Kehrlscrag. These were the so-called “cream”, flown in for special treatment; the commoner stuff would follow on foot. But the draw was the same for all: bone sigils in a bag, and luck the only arbiter.
The draw for the best of the batch was worked on a strict roster. Maglore must consider
himself fortunate that it was his turn in the round, else he must do some serious bargaining and even then be lucky to obtain this oddity, this Nathan, before it could be … damaged. But his luck was out (his sigils had already been drawn; he’d got two middling girls and a loutish youth), and so was obliged to wait and do a little bargaining after all. Which was his reason for lingering until Nathan had been “won” by Zindevar Cronesap.
Zindevar wasn’t at the fatesaying in person; neither were the Lords Eran Painscar, Grigor Hakson, and Lorn Halfstruck of Trollmanse. All were busy elsewhere—
occupied or preoccupied with their various creative endeavours, most likely—but lieutenants were there in their stead. Eventually Zindevar’s man had his three—two more males, to go with that “item” which Maglore found most interesting—and headed for the launching bays. Maglore left one third of his get (the surly youth) in the care of one of his two thralls, and with the half-naked, whimpering girls in tow caught up with Zindevar’s unhappy-seeming lieutenant in an antechamber.
“No luck, then?” he said, coming up behind him.
“Eh?” Taken by surprise, the man turned, saw Maglore and said, “Oh!” He bowed clumsily. “My Lord Maglore!” His confusion was understandable; it wasn’t usual for Wamphyri Lords to pass the time of night with the lieutenants of other Lords or Ladies; even one’s own lieutenants could scarcely be considered worthy persons. Then Maglore’s query struck home.
“Luck?” the man’s face turned sour as he eyed Maglore’s girls. “It appears that you at least have more than enough! As for Zindevar …” He shrugged sorrily.
Maglore nodded. “She won’t be happy with just three lads, be sure.”
“Huh!” the other scowled, then rounded on his charges and glared at them for being male.
Nathan, no less uncertain and afraid than his fellow prisoners, was nevertheless fascinated to recognize Maglore from two separate sources; one was his name (Iozel Kotys had mentioned him as a former master); the other was his awesome and awe-inspiring aspect. He was without question that same “mage” glimpsed however mistily in the eye of Thikkoul’s mind as he gazed on Nathan’s stars to read his future: the one of whom he’d warned, He would use you, learn from you, instruct and corrupt you.
So that where the other captives cringed back, averting their eyes from Zindevar’s lieutenant as he rounded on them, Nathan continued to stand tall and gaze upon Maglore. It was merely his way—the Szgany way, innocent and even naive—and never intended as a slight or an insult, neither to Maglore nor even to the bullying lieutenant. But that one’s eyes blazed up like fires as he mistook Nathan’s natural curiosity for dumb insolence.
“What?” he roared, catching Nathan up by the front of his jacket and shirt. “Why, you—!” He held him like that a moment, then hissed and thrust him violently away, and snatched back his hand as if he’d been stung. Nathan’s jacket was torn open; a button popped at the neck of his shirt; Atwei’s silver locket, which he had replaced around his neck, dangled into view. And the lieutenant still astonished, gazing at his huge, iron-hard hand. Then:
“What?” he said again, a whisper this time, as finally he noticed the locket at Nathan’s neck. “Silver? Can I believe it? Would you poison me, then? You … prissy … little …!”
Pointing a shaking hand at the locket, he grated: “Take it off! Throw it down!”
Nathan did so, and stood with his back to the hewn stone wall. The lieutenant stepped forward snarling, stamped on the locket with a booted foot. It flew into several pieces, and a tight curl of hair sprang free. “Hah!” The man pounced, snatched up the black wisp and showed it to Nathan. “And this?”
“A …a keepsake,” Nathan gasped. “The pubic hair of … of a maiden.”
“Indeed!” The man grinned, kicked bits of locket in all directions, held out his free hand palm up for Nathan to see. The flesh of his palm was grey, calloused, horny. Even as Nathan watched, it formed sharp scales or rasps like some hideous flensing weapon. Then the lieutenant clasped his hands together, crushing the lock between them. And with a grinding motion he reduced the tight coil to so much black snuff, inhaling it with gusto, in pinches, into eager, quivering nostrils.
“Hah! Delightful!” he crowed then, smacking his lips. “And was she beautiful?”
“She was Thyre,” Nathan at once answered him, with a great deal of bravery and more than a little satisfaction. If he was going to die it might as well be now. “She was a desert trog!”
For a moment there was a silence broken only by the whimpering of Nathan’s fellow tithelings. Then … the lieutenant’s grey-mottled face turned greyer still as he swelled up huge as if to burst. He grabbed Nathan by the throat with one hand, and drew back the other to slap him. Just one such slap would ruin Nathan’s face forever. Except—
“Now, hold,” said Maglore, quietly, yet in a voice which brooked no argument. “Only damage him and it’s no deal. And I shall tell Zindevar you lost her a pair of lovely little playmates for her bed.”
The lieutenant’s hand froze in mid-air; his head swivelled on his bull neck and he glared at Maglore, then frowned and said: “What deal?” Finally he remembered his manners, blinked and relaxed a little. And: “Lord Maglore,” he said, “I mean no disrespect, but it is the Lady Zindevar commands me, not you.”
“Aye, and she’ll command that you are disembowelled!” Maglore chuckled, however humourlessly, “—If you don’t take these girls into Cronespire in exchange for that one foppish youth. Make up your mind, quick!”
Now the other was suspicious. He glanced at Nathan again. “Oh? And what is it with him? Why would you want this one, who is either an idiot, or just plain insolent, or both? Bringing silver into Turgosheim, indeed! What madness! Don’t the Szgany teach their Sunside brats anything these days?”
Maglore shrugged, and answered mysteriously, “There is Sunside and there is Sunside, and Szgany and Szgany, and what is taught in one place may not be deemed necessary in another … not yet. But this one—” he shrugged again,”—I like his colours, which are weird. Also, he seems stupidly docile, dumb, even innocent; he shall follow me around Runemanse like a pet. As for Zindevar: she shall have these girls to tweak, which is bound to stand you firmly in her favour.”
A moment’s pause for thought, and: “Done!” Zindevar’s lieutenant released Nathan, sent him flying along the wall and out of his sight behind Maglore. And the Mage of Runemanse told his girls:
“Go with this gentleman and he will take you to your new mistress, a very lovely Lady who will show you many wonderful things!” Hearing which, even Zindevar’s “gentleman” burst into baying laughter, as Maglore took Nathan’s shoulder and quickly walked away with him …
Along the way to Runemanse—a route covering almost two and a half miles of caves, crags, causeways; often climbing internally through communal cavern systems, or externally over vertiginous chasms and up dizzily spiralling walkways of bone and cartilage—Maglore kept up an onslaught of seemingly innocuous questions. But Nathan knew for a fact that his interest was anything but innocent, which was made obvious by the veritable barrage of mental probes which Maglore used in a prolonged simultaneous attempt to penetrate the shield around Nathan’s secret mind. Given the chance (if Nathan were to relax his guard for a single moment), he knew that these probes would at once enter and explore the innermost caverns of his brain.
Even before meeting Maglore, Nathan had known that the Wamphyri Lord was a telepath; however stupidly—unwittingly, whatever—Maglore’s spy Iozel Kotys, the so-called “mystic”, had given him away. But Nathan could never have anticipated the full range of the Seer Lord’s mind, whose insidious energies seethed in his vampire skull like the smoke of balefires, sending out curling black tendrils of thought in all directions.
In order to maintain and reinforce the telepathic wall with which Nathan had surrounded himself, he used the subterfuge of asking questions of his own: he knew how difficult it would be for Maglore to scry upon his m
ind and construct meaningful answers to his questions at one and the same time. And why shouldn’t he question? Nathan knew that Maglore would not harm him, not yet at least and perhaps not ever. No, for Thikkoul had foreseen a long stay for him in Runemanse, but nothing specifically harmful that Nathan could remember.
The sun rises and sets, Thikkoul had read in his stars, and sunups come and go in a blur where you wander in a great dark castle of many caves. I see your face: your hollow eyes and—greying hair?
Well, that last was ominous, admittedly. But now that Nathan was here, what had he to lose? Very little of his own, for in Turgosheim his life was nothing; but still there were certain interests he must protect. His knowledge of the Thyre, for instance: their secret places over and under the desert; also his familiarity with old Sunside, where Wratha and her renegades (and in a little while the vampires of Turgosheim) would do to his people what had been done here. He must give nothing of such knowledge away to benefit the Wamphyri, not if there was a way to avoid it.
“Why didn’t we fly to Runemanse?” he asked Maglore where they crossed a swaying bridge of sinew and arching, alveolate cartilage. “Do you have no flyers?”
“I have one, aye,” Maglore answered, offering him a curious, perhaps indulgent glance. “It is in use now, where a man of mine flies back a surly Kehrlscrag youth to Runemanse. But flyers are for the younger Lords, my son, and for the generals to ride out and command their armies. Oh, I have made a flyer or two in my time, but mainly I prefer to walk. When I can go on foot I do so, but where the way is too sheer or distant I fly. Personally, I dislike great heights; for gravity is a curious force and insistent. I have never flown in my own right, as certain Lords are wont to do, for that requires an awesome strength, and alas my body is feeble—by comparison.” But he did not say with what.