The Last Aerie

by Brian Lumley

  “Agreed,” said Wratha. “But how?”

  “Wait!” Nestor got to his feet, and faced her across the hearth. “Are you now considering a raid on Settlement, the Lidescis?” He had to turn her from it. If Misha was there, among the Szgany Lidesci, then he must wait until his olden enemy—his Great Enemy, his brother—returned to claim her. But these were thoughts he guarded closely and kept to himself.

  “I’ve always considered it,” Wratha answered, her girlish face twisting into something else entirely. “And I’ve tried it, with disastrous results! Now I want revenge, for all they have destroyed which was mine, and for all of my frustration!”

  “And you’ll have it,” he said, “but not now. Shortly, but not now.”

  “When, then?”

  “When we’re strong enough. When we’re so strong that all the traps and lures, shotguns and giant crossbows, silver and kneblasch and everything else they can throw at us just won’t be enough! That’s when.” And when Nathan returns, to be with the one he stole from me.

  Canker’s turn to be curious. “Shotguns?”

  Nestor blinked, frowned, shook his head, and closed his eyes for a moment. “A … a memory, I think, from my past, my time among them. Shotguns, aye. Their weapons which fire pellets of silver. Weapons out of … another world? But I … I can’t remember more than that. Let it be.” His furrowed forehead cleared.

  Wratha waited until she was sure he was himself again, then asked, “And how do you suggest we go about making more supplicant tribes? These people were settled when first we came here, town dwellers in the main. But now they’re Travellers as in the old days. Or, like this Lardis Lidesci and his lot, they inhabit crumbling old towns by day, and sneak into their hidey-holes at night.”

  Nestor nodded. “This is how I see it. We send our metalworking friends as messengers out into the woods and along the old Szgany trails, to carry our promise abroad: goodwill and long life to any Szgany tribe or group who will work for us on Sunside. They will be required to pay us a tithe in all of their good things, in return for which we’ll spare them, even as we spare the metalworkers. In their new security, they can then settle down again in permanent camps and towns. They shall hunt, gather, farm for us, as in Turgosheim. Except we shall stick to our promise and not take flesh and blood. But any who don’t see fit to work for us—” he shrugged “—they are fair game.”

  “Fine,” Canker growled. “And just suppose we do manage to set up a system of tithe-paying Szgany camps. How do we protect them from Wran and the others?”

  “They’ll set up their own,” Nestor answered. “If they hit our supplicants, we hit theirs. It’s as simple as that. As for following Lardis’s example: he is in the west while our metalworkers dwell in the east. It seems unlikely that the methods of the Lidescis have spread so far abroad.”

  “It might work at that,” Wratha mused. “And in any case, anything is better than inactivity. Very well, we’ll try it. The night is still young. What say we attend to our new recruits, get a little rest, then fly out to see our supplicant gauntlet makers and give them our instructions?”

  Canker didn’t seem too happy with this arrangement, but: “Very well,” he growled. “But will it take all of us? I’ve not yet had the chance to properly … explore the night’s get. My new females interest me. I have my needs, as well you know.”

  “We’re all in the same position,” Nestor told him. “All of our new people require proper indoctrination. And you … how much time do you need for the rutting, anyway?”

  Canker grinned. “Damn you, Nestor!” he said, but without malice. “You read me as well as you read one of your dead people!”

  “We’re in this together,” Wratha said, “and so we must see it through together. Six hours before dawn we set out, just we three and a couple of lads apiece, and a warrior each to act as guard dogs.”

  As they prepared to go their separate ways, Canker said, “I can’t wait to see Wran’s face when he hears of our success this night!”

  And Wratha told him, “He has already heard it.” She smiled a wicked smile, then tilted her chin and looked demure. “Surely you know I have spies in all the manses … well, no longer in Suckscar and Mangemanse, not now that we’re colleagues. But in Guilesump and Madmanse, certainly. I instructed certain persons in my employ to watch our movements very closely, and to report them to their supposed masters. Spies are not only useful for picking up information, but also for spreading it abroad. Wran and Spiro know what we’ve done tonight, aye, and so does Gorvi the Guile. And it’s my guess they’re together even now, making plans of their own to bring them up to par. Except we have the lead, and so they must work hard at it.”

  Canker and Nestor grinned and made for an exit, and Wratha called after them, “Until later.” But in Nestor’s mind: Not too much later. See to your new thralls and return. I’ll have a hot bath waiting, and something even hotter!

  She knew it was a promise he couldn’t resist …

  For the next four months all went as planned, or as nearly as possible. Supplicant camps proved hard to get started, and at first were made up of very small Szgany groups. But once they were established and uneasy contact with the vampire Lords and Lady had been made—when the first tithes were taken, and no blood spilled—the idea caught on. For the Szgany east of the pass were tired of running. They knew that the cowardly metalworking Wamphyri supplicants lived comparatively easy lives (at least that they were safe and settled, not wandering in the wilderness or starving in foothill caverns), and like them they were now prepared to pay for protection—so long as the tithe was of goods, not flesh and blood. It was hardly a satisfactory existence, but at least it was bearable and a life of sorts. It had to be better than living in constant fear of vampire raids, of being eaten or enslaved and dragged into Starside as meat on the hoof.

  Gorvi and the Killglance brothers had been quick to take up the challenge. That was how they saw Wratha’s new alliance with Nestor and Canker: as a challenge, of course. Despite that the Lady claimed her group’s activities were purely defensive—which well they might be, for the possibility of an invasion out of Turgosheim was by no means negligible—still this full-speed buildup of muscle was very worrying to them. What if no outside threat materialized? How then would Wratha and her allies use their warriors and men at arms? To annex the rest of the stack? Possibly.

  But while Gorvi, Wran, and Spiro joined forces, they drew the line at setting up tithe camps of their own. It was easier and faster to concentrate their existing forces in mass attacks on Sunside, as Wratha had done at first, to fill their manses with lieutenants, thralls, warriors, and flyers, and generally bring themselves to battle-worthiness. And because the Lady’s forces were for the moment superior, the ulterior triad must grit its teeth and hold off from raiding on her new supplicant camps. But the toll they took on the rest of the Travellers, especially in the regions west of the pass, was massive.

  And so the last aerie was filled with life of sorts, and Wratha was satisfied—to a point. But there remained several thorns in her side, which she could neither salve nor remove. The sharpest of these was Nestor Lichloathe’s refusal to raid on Settlement. Wratha had guessed the reason (that Misha, his unrequited love, was there, which he would not jeopardize), but without knowing Nestor’s real motive: that he was waiting for his Great Enemy to return out of far places to claim her in his own right. Then he would make his move, and claim both of them …

  When they were not raiding, collecting tithe, seeing to the administration of their manses, Nestor and Wratha spent most of their time together. It was a mutual fascination, and one that waxed rather than waned. When she was on her own, Wratha found herself thinking of Nestor—always. Since he was now accessible, she’d mainly given up her mental invasions of his privacy, but she could never give up her consuming preoccupation with the thought of him: his beautiful young body, his sexual energy, and his determination—which rivaled her own—to be a leader among men, eve
n among the Wamphyri. That might become a problem one day, for there can only be one leader of leaders. But that day was still a long way off. A joint bone-throne, maybe?

  In which case, obviously Wratha’s love-thralls would have to go. Except … they already had! Where Wrathspire was concerned they were less than drones now. Why, she hadn’t taken a man—any kind of man—since that first time with Nestor! She’d not needed to, for she was satisfied in that respect as never before. And of course, he would have to give up his vampire women. But there again, it appeared he’d already chosen that course for himself. He no longer so much as looked at his female thralls; even his old flame out of Sunside, Glina, with her supposed “innocent” sex, had been unable to tempt him. On those few occasions when Wratha had spied on him out of habit, she had seen that he now kept to himself, except for herself.

  So, she no longer had any rivals here in the last aerie.

  But in Sunside … ?

  Towards the end of that same four-month period of great activity and productivity, one sunup in the twilight hours before night:

  Nestor and Wratha had taken a meal together in the Lady’s apartments. They’d shared common but satisfying fare: suckling pig roasted on a spit over glowing ironwood embers, and sliced Sunside fruits in aromatic Szgany brandy; all washed down with a peppery wine. Then they’d made love and slept wrapped in each other’s arms awhile, and had woken up to find themselves making love again! Afterwards, Wratha had made a last attempt to bring Nestor round to her way of thinking and convince him that they and Canker should now launch a massive joint attack on Settlement—ostensibly to bring down Lardis Lidesci. Being Nestor, of course he’d once again refused to be swayed.

  Now, while she felt frustrated within herself, paradoxically the Lady felt nothing of anger towards Nestor. How could she possibly be angry with him, her lover, the young and handsome Lord Nestor Lichloathe of Suckscar? So that she issued a wry, silent snort and wondered:

  Ah, but then again, how can a Lady of the Wamphyri possibly feel so … so what? So soft? So hurt? So much like some common Szgany slut on Sunside? So … jealous? But jealous of what? An unknown girl out of his past, even out of his mind? Some figment of his impaired memory? Why, for all I know this Misha is a hag—or dead even—or someone Nestor would find unworthy now that he is Wamphyri!

  But for all her attempts to apply cold logic to her confused emotions, still the Lady paced the floor of her bedroom, to and fro while her lover lay sleeping in her great bed. And glancing sideways at him from time to time, she considered her options; or rather her … her what? Her plight? That she was in love with him?

  Was it love, she wondered yet again, for maybe the hundredth time? Certainly something was wrong with her. It wasn’t simply that he was always on her mind. No, for more than just a thought, Nestor was in her eyes, her nostrils, her ears and mouth; and Wratha knew that she could never have enough of him in her body!

  When they were apart:

  She could taste him on the sensitive buds of her forked tongue. She could smell him—the pungent odour of his body, sweat, parts—like the scent of some weird Sunside orchid. She could feel him driving into her core, and see his face above her face: how his mouth fell open and his eyes closed, the perspiration forming on his brow in the instant that he fired his juices into her. And she could feel the hot splash of those juices, too, laving her insides: the way his sperm lived in her, tens of thousands of mindless minuscule lives … until her parasite leech released its own juices, like an acid to burn these tiny intruders.

  Of course, that last didn’t have to be. She could will it otherwise if she so desired. She could still her leech and let Nestor’s seed live, and bring forth a child. But for what? She required no bloodsons, to grow up into men who would covet her manse and position. And yet … it would be an experience, to produce a child out of Nestor’s seed and her egg—her human egg, of course …

  Hah! But wasn’t that just the trouble? Thinking of Nestor, she even thought like a woman … like the common Szgany women of Sunside …

  … Like this Misha?

  And had she wanted his children, too?

  That last thought increased Wratha’s frustration fourfold and even made her feel angry towards him! She whirled towards her great raised bed … and saw that he was stirring. She had thought he was asleep, but what if he’d been merely drowsing? Had he been listening in on her thoughts? Was he even now?

  She shielded them at once. Her pride … Nestor must never know how deeply he … the strength of … he must never know! For such knowledge would make him strong and Wratha weak.

  He groaned and raised himself up a little on one elbow, and she forced a smile and said, “Oh? Awake at last, are you? And nothing stirring? Well, that makes a change! If I didn’t know you were Wamphyri, I might suppose you were merely human after all! But see, I’ve brought a little wine.”

  She poured smoky Szgany wine from a jug into a goblet and took it to him. And at the top of the wooden steps she kneeled beside him where he lay naked and spread-eagled.

  As he took the goblet and slaked his thirst, she tilted her head to one side, smiled again (but softly this time, and almost as naturally as the girl she pretended to be), and said, “Look at you, Nestor, all sated and sprawled there, defenceless as a child. Why, I could have poisoned that wine with grains of silver! While you were sleeping, I could have anointed you with oil of kneblasch, or plunged a silver dagger into your heart. Even now I could call one of my guardian creatures to slurp your soft flesh. Is it that you’ve no fear, or simply that you love and trust me?”

  “It could be all three of those things,” he answered with a grin, “or none of them. But mainly it’s that I can’t get up off my backside!” And only half-mockingly he added, “What, and do you intend to kill me, then? As you killed Karl the Crag in your bed in Cragspire? If so, then do it now while I’m happy.”

  “Karl was my master,” she answered, frowning. “Or thought he was. But he was not my lover. I’ve never had a lover, until you.” She reached out and gentled his flaccid, lifeless parts. They were bruised, but what is that to a vampire Lord? Then, still frowning, she said, “But … happy? Did you say happy?”

  She found it odd that he would use such a word, for vampires were rarely if ever happy. Happiness … just wasn’t part of their landscape. Wratha must put it down to the fact that he wasn’t long Wamphyri, and still occasionally thought in Szgany terms. Oh, the Wamphyri knew well enough how to enjoy: how to revel in scarlet extravagance, and glut themselves with their excesses; how to laugh and roister, thrill and exult, usually at the expense and pain of their victims. Certainly they understood pleasure: the gratification of their enhanced appetites and lusts in feasting, drinking, and fornication—but again and always at the expense of others.

  Indeed, that was their only “happiness”: the outrage and agony of common humanity. But Wratha suspected that Nestor had meant the true happiness, which astonished her. So that again she asked him, “And are you … happy, Nestor?”

  “I think so.” He clasped her to him. “I have all that a man needs, and in you more than any man could ever need! What more is there? Unless there’s some special delight which you haven’t yet shown me.”

  Holding her like that, with his chin over her shoulder, Nestor’s face was hidden. Wratha suspected that he hid it deliberately; also his feelings, his true thoughts: that indeed there was something more. But not something which she could give him. And scanning his mind—and meeting with a blank wall—her suspicion seemed confirmed.

  Turning her face away so as not to show her disappointment, she pushed him away, hurried down the steps, and passed through into her dressing room. Dressing, she heard him call out: “Wratha? Is there something?” What’s more, she felt his querying probe in her mind and immediately brought down mental shutters to close him out.

  “No, nothing,” she called back to him. “But night falls fast and we’ve business to attend to.” What she really mean
t was that she had business to attend to.

  On Sunside.

  Killing business …

  8

  Wratha’s Rout—Glina’s End

  Wratha’s orders were simple: put the women to death, all of them.

  Not ravish them, or stun them and drink from the scarlet streams of their hearts, or by any other means molest and vampirize them, but simply kill them out of hand—dead! All of the women, the girls, even the smallest infant females of the Szgany Lidesci wherever they were found. And not just for the duration of this raid, but in all future raids, too.

  For if there were no women, Wratha told herself contrarily (for of course she knew her real purpose in ordering this enormous atrocity), then eventually there would be no children; and without children the troublesome Lidescis would fade away and vanish in a single generation. Which is not a long time to one who has lived as long and remained as young as Wratha the Risen, or at least young in appearance. It was her way of making logical an entirely illogical command. For if the same rules were applied in all of Sunside, then Nestor’s prognosis would come true and it would be Turgosheim all over again.

  But the truth of it was that her order would only apply here, in Lidesci territory, and her reason for issuing it was likewise simple: pure (or impure) jealousy, with perhaps a jot of vengeance thrown in for good measure, to cover her previous losses. Mainly the Lady was jealous of a past in which she had no part, and of a supposed love which she could not even begin to understand. For she had never known love—not as a common woman—until Nestor, and feared that she might never know it again. Savagely territorial, the Wamphyri do not give up their possessions easily. And Lord Nestor of Suckscar now belonged to Wratha the Risen, though not as much as Wratha belonged to him.