by Brian Lumley
Aye, and he knew what he had missed all this time …
She took off her dress for him and sat on his great knee, and as he fondled her, he was now more thrall than she—far more. Then, when he would have her, she made him wait and told him everything, sparing no detail.
Hearing her out, Karl’s rage flared to match his inflamed passions. For just as Wratha had guessed it, so now the Lord of Cragspire likewise knew the author of this thing. His eyes bulged and his snout flattened back and grew ridged and convoluted, like that of a great bat, while the teeth sprouted in his jaws like scarlet scythes! Until he came roaring to his feet with a name on his bloodied lips:
“Radu!”
“But my way,” she insisted, clinging to his arm. “Do it my way.”
“He dies tonight, now—the death he planned for you—changed to a vampire and buried forever. Not in a cave, no, but in a grave fifty feet deep, whose construction I shall supervise personally. Especially its filling!”
“Ah, no,” she advised, “for as we’ve seen, even the best-buried persons sometimes return. And Radu is a traitor you must be rid of always. Do it my way.” And she told him her way. Karl listened, and smiled in his fashion; which in the circumstances was hardly a smile at all. Then:
He called for Radu, who got dressed and attended his Lord at once, wondering what it could be, at this hour of sunup. And in Karl’s quarters Wratha was hidden away, watching and listening to everything.
“Lord?” Radu stood before Karl’s great bone chair.
Karl’s crag of a body hunched there, his scarlet gaze accentuated by the uneven flaring of gas jets in the walls. Such was his doomful silence, that for a moment Wratha feared he’d lost the words. But then: “It is … it is this business of the Szgany thrall, Wratha,” Karl growled, breathing heavily as he reined back on his Wamphyri rage. “I am finding some difficulty sleeping, because it puzzles me. And you know how I hate a mystery.”
Radu shrugged (negligently, Wratha thought), and without Karl’s leave seated himself upon a carved stool. “Where’s the mystery, Lord? Strong-willed in life, she remained unchanged in undeath. Rising up from your fatal kiss, she stole a flyer and departed Cragspire, Turgosheim, the world entire. She flew south for Sun-side, into the risen sun. She is no more.”
Karl nodded. “So we have supposed,” he answered, breathing easier now. “So you … have suggested.”
Now Radu detected the edge in his Lord’s voice and came to his feet. Again his shrug, not so negligent now, as his eyes slid this way and that. “But the evidence was such—”
“—What evidence?”
“Eh? Why, her absence—the missing flyer!”
“Ah! That evidence.” Karl fingered his chin, studied Radu intensely.
And for the third time Radu’s shrug, now absolutely genuine in its bewilderment. “But … what other evidence is there?”
Karl nodded again, and sighed deeply. Then, apparently changing the subject, he said: “Do you know, the other Lords see me as a dolt?”
“What, you, Lord?” Radu’s attempt at astonishment was less than convincing. “I cannot believe it.”
“Oh, you can, you can! You’ve heard it said, I’m sure.”
“Never, Lord! Why, if ever I heard such a …”
“… And yet I fancy,” Karl stopped him short, “that among my ancestors was a scryer of considerable skill. An oneiromancer, perhaps, and one of great power! Which is why I cannot sleep—because of my dreams.”
“Dreams, Lord?”
“Of treachery, aye!”
Radu said nothing, but waited. For after all, a dream of treachery is still only a dream. And in a while, Karl continued: “Do you see that skin there, on the table? That chart of Turgosheim and all the lands around?” He pointed to a table close by. “Look at it closely. For I have marked it.”
Radu stepped to the table, checked the chart, and his eyes were drawn irresistibly to a certain secret place—but secret no more, for Karl had ringed it with a line of black dye! Radu staggered back a pace, regained control of himself as best he could, and said: “I … I see your mark.”
“Come,” Karl crooked a finger, beckoning. “Come here, where I can look upon your face.”
Radu stood before him.
And Karl’s voice was very soft as he said, “Now admit it to me: that you have buried her there, as I saw in my dreams.”
Stunned, Radu opened and closed his mouth but said nothing. So that Karl warned him: “Better if you tell me with your own tongue, while still you have one.”
Radu remained dumbstruck.
Karl sighed and spread wide his arms, as in a gesture of defeat. “Then, Radu my would-be son, we must go and dig there, you and I. And all of my thralls and trogs to boot, digging in a certain blocked cave. Until we have dug up what you put down. Then, if my dream has not lied to me … you shall replace her there in the cold, cold earth, forever. But if you’ll be brave and tell me with your own lips how it was, and so save me the trouble …?”
“But…!” Radu’s dam had cracked at last.
“Oh?” Karl cocked his head and looked at him, looked into him. But Radu only hung his head. It was an admittance of sorts—but not good enough.
“Very well,” said Karl, in a voice which was softer yet. “Then go to my bed and bring me the sharpest of those crossed swords from where they decorate the wall. Alas, they are not very sharp, but sharp enough in a strong hand. The one is of iron and the other silver. I dislike silver as well you know, but its grip is of bone and it is the sharpest, and the other hangs there red with rust. So bring me the silver sword.”
Radu looked, saw the dull glimmer of gaslight on ancient Szgany weapons. “Swords …” he said, tonelessly.
“Do it now,” said Karl.
Radu brought the sword. And as he returned with it to Karl many thoughts passed through his mind. To leap on him and kill him … hah!—what madness—try killing a warrior! To kill himself, then, which was far more feasible. Or … perhaps he should try to brazen it out; for surely Karl knew nothing for a fact, not yet, and all of this was a trial by nerves. Later, if it came to the worst, Radu could always make a run for it. That is, if there was to be a later …
By then he was back in front of his master’s chair, and the time for action, perhaps even for thinking, was past. Karl reached out a hand. “The sword,” he said. “Put it down.” Radu did so, and his master took it up—but carefully—by the bone hilt.
Then Karl stood up, and Radu backed off. But: “If you so much as think of running,” Karl warned, “I shall take you down into the bottoms and let the warriors fight over you. Now kneel beside the stool there.” That was easy, for Radu’s knees were giving way. “Good!” said Karl. “And place your hands behind your back, and clasp them. Then lower your neck across the stool. Even so …”
“Master, I …!” Radu’s eyes bulged where he stared at the stone floor.
“Aye?” Karl’s inquiry was almost casual.
“If I say nothing, I lose my head,” Radu gabbled. “And if I speak the truth—even though I have done nothing for myself but everything for you—still I lose my head! Where is the justice?”
“Tell me the truth,” Karl said, “and I swear that I shall not harm you in the slightest degree. Neither myself nor any man or monster in all Turgosheim.”
Radu knew better than to try bargaining, not with his neck across a block. And now his dam broke and the words flooded out of him. “It is … as you have dreamed it! But she was Szgany filth; she was not good enough; she made your bed a mire!”
“Ahhhh!” said Karl.
Radu heard the swish as the sword went up, and screamed, “Master! Your word, not to harm me: neither yourself nor any man!”
“Indeed,” said Karl.
Sensing in that final moment the presence of some other, Radu’s eyes swivelled up—even as Wratha’s silver sword came slicing down. And in the instant of death, still Radu didn’t believe who he saw standing there …<
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Then it was done, Wratha’s way, and in every instance but one Karl had stood by his word. For neither himself nor any man of Turgosheim had killed Radu Cragsthrall.
But a monster …?
II
Some hours after his meeting with Wratha, Karz Biteri, Historian to the Wamphyri, thrall to Maglore of Rune-manse, reported to his master in one of his several workshops and recounted the occurrences of the day. But not in every detail.
When Karz was done, Maglore looked up from his examination of stretched, rune-inscribed skins (the bleached skins of trogs, mainly) and various fragments of carved bone, and said, “Continue.” Simply that. A man of words, he nevertheless knew how to use them sparingly. And the implication of this single word was that he already knew there was more to be known.
Maglore was one hundred and sixty years old. By Wamphyri standards he should be in his prime, but he looked old. He and certain others of the Lords and Ladies—mainly the so-called “high-caste” of the Wamphyri—were modern disciples of Turgo Zolte: so far as possible, they followed Zolte’s olden ascetic die-turns. These were simple and all based upon one ideal:
To fight vampirism throughout life and undeath, even including the ultimate condition of vampiric contagion, which is to be Wamphyri! To deny oneself—and therefore one’s parasite—those things which are the fuel of all evil works: blood, the carnal lusts of the flesh, suspicion and hatred of one’s fellows, and the pride which comes before a fall. In short, to be Shaitan’s opposite, or as much opposed to him and his ways as possible. It had been a losing battle for Turgo Zolte and all his followers ever since, but still they tried. And it accounted for Maglore’s shrivelled aspect; for as he’d learned well enough, though still he would deny it, the blood is the life.
Yes, Maglore looked old, but Karz knew that he didn’t need to. On those infrequent occasions when he called for his woman, then he would appear young again, and the Historian would know that he had taken the blood of a man.
“Continue, master?” Karz looked blank, and for all that he should know better wondered what Maglore was thinking.
“My thoughts are mine alone!” the Mage told him at once, in a voice that rustled. “Unlike yours, which are to me like scenes in a shewstone, except when I’m not given to exertion and would prefer to hear them from your mouth—such as now! Or perhaps you’d have me look more deeply inside your head? That can be arranged, though it might cause you some small pain. Yet I admit to temptation; for who knows how many other secret things I’d find in there, kept back from me, eh? Now, stop playing the fool and tell me about Wratha: what else did she say and do?”
Karz had not wanted to annoy Maglore, for which reason he’d held in reserve various parts of his conversation with Wratha the Risen: for instance, that part in respect—or lack of it—to the self-styled aristocrats of Turgosheim, such Lords as Maglore and his peers, who were thought of as elders, sedate and sedentary in their ways. But now, at the Mage’s prompting, Wratha’s words were recalled and floated back to the surface of his mind:
“… Obey me now, Historian … make no more speeches of warriors mewling in their vats … these are the fears of old, old men, whose learning has stunted their manly appetites …”
Maglore read her words there in Karz’s mind, and smiled however bitterly. “Huh.” he grunted. “Because we deny ourselves—because we are, well, yes, it may be said, kind rather than cruel, inquiring rather than inquisitorial, and retiring rather than rampant—she thinks us dodderers! Nothing new in that. But is that all? Threats to you and insults to me? If so, then you prize my sensitivity much too highly, Karz, for Wratha has been known to say far worse things than these! So tell me now, what else did this so-called “Lady” say and do?”
Karz looked at his master and was at one and the same time fascinated and repulsed by him, who once was a man. His deeply scored skin like stained, ancient leather grooved by time and use; his white eyebrows tapering upwards into temples whose coarse, receding hairline lay as strands of grey lichen on his sloping dome of a head; the crimson orbs which were his eyes, deep-sunken in their purple sockets: eyes which were narrowing now moment by moment, as Maglore’s patience grew thin.
Karz snapped out of it. “Why, she walked among the tithelings, Lord!” he burst out. And then, more stumblingly (for he knew how unseemly it was to criticize the Wamphyri), “Which is not … not according to … which goes against… which—”
“—Which was simply wrong!” Maglore finished it for him; and reminded him: “We are alone here, Historian! If you offend here, to whom shall I report you? I am your master, who makes punishment—if and when it is required.”
“Yes, Lord.”
“Say on, then.”
Karz nodded, moistened his dry lips, and continued: “One of the young male tithelings was tall, very strong, proud and even forward. He invited with his posture and hot eyes; he did not flinch when Wratha smiled at him and tried the muscles of his arms, nor lowered his eyes when she stood close—very close—to him.”
“More fool him!” Maglore growled. “What then?”
“As I took the tithelings away for assignation, she told me: “Tell the assignor that I have … noticed this one.” Which I did.”
“And?”
“A strange thing,” Karz answered (but here he hung his head a little, as if ashamed of his own Szgany blood). “The assignor was Giorge Nanosi, called Fatesayer, thrall to all and to none. He is no one’s favourite and calls no Lord master, but merely performs his duties … impartially.”
Maglore nodded, and what was human in him thought: This Karz Biteri is a wasted man. But if he were my thrall proper, then the waste would be so much greater. Among his own sort, doubtless he would be a great thinker, even a wise man. Which is why I have made no change in him but left him a man entire, or almost: for the originality of his thoughts, which are not merely images of my own. I allow him the freedom of thought, for he has a mind and is a thinker! And because he considers me a “fair” or “reasonable” master, he is faithful in his way and accepts my concerns for his own. Ah, but it’s hard enough to be a common man, Szgany, in Turgosheim, without being a thinker too! Hence this brush with Wratha the Risen, when the words she overheard were mainly mine but from his mouth …
But that which was inhuman in him thought: On the other hand, and as he gets older, this honesty and outspoken spontaneity could become a problem. And so, in a year or two—when he has translated all of the remaining histories—it might be in my interest to favour him and replace those brittling bones of his with far more flexible stuff. For with his agile brain, why … Karz Biteri would make me a crafty flyer!
All this in a moment’s thought, while out loud he said: “Giorge Nanosi, called Fatesayer for obvious reasons? I know him, aye. So—what struck you as strange?”
“First,” Karz continued, “Giorge examined the tithe-lings and separated out those which he considered inferior. These were taken away for processing. The … the requirements of Turgosheim; the provisioning; the needs of the manses and spires.”
“Yes, yes,” Maglore waved a hand, dismissing a concept which to Karz was sheerest horror.
Then,” the Historian went on, ‘the Fatesayer lined up the rest and began drawing out the sigils from his leather bag, to which I was witness, as is the custom. First in line stood that young man whom Wratha had … noticed. Giorge had put him there. And lo, the first bone shard he drew from the bag bore Wratha’s sigil: a kneeling man with bowed head!”
“Yes, yes,” Maglore growled again. “I know her blazon well enough.” And then, if not explosively with a deal more animation: “Corruption, Karz! What? Why, it might have been named after her! Not Wratha the Risen but Wratha the Sunken—into the quag of her own corruption! And you know it, and the Lady knows you know. Wherefore, in future, avoid her at all cost. For I value you.”
“I avoid all of them, Lord,” said Karz, before he could still his tongue.
But Maglore only nodde
d, and said: “Corruption, aye. But should I be surprised? No, for all of us—the Wamphyri entire—are corrupt! We are not our own masters but governed by our creatures, even as we govern our thralls. Except where we are merely corrupt, Wratha is corrupt!”
Karz said nothing but merely waited, and Maglore finally went on, “Did I ever tell you her story?”
Karz nodded. “Yes, Master. To the point where she killed Radu Cragsthrall.”
“Then let me finish it,” the other sank back in his chair and steepled his hands. “For it’s as well that men know this witch and her ways, as long as they steer clear from knowing her too well…”
“Wratha lived with Karl a year in Cragspire. But she was not Mistress of Cragspire, only of Karl … which we may suppose she found irksome. It may also be supposed that eventually she would get his egg, but eventually can be a long time.
“Now, Cragspire was one of the tallest spires; at sunup the rays of the sun, striking between the high mountain peaks, turned all its upper ramparts to fatal gold. For which reason Karl shielded the windows of his chambers with heavy curtains of good black bat fur. His several small warriors within the aerie, and the sun without, were all the protection he needed in those hours when the Wamphyri prefer their beds.
“Came that season when the sun is hottest and the coarser produce of Sunside—nuts, fruits, grains and wines—never more plentiful, when Wratha made her move. She exhausted Karl with her sex upon his bed (no small feat in itself!), and made him drunk with good wines. Then, when he was sound asleep, she bound him to the bed with chains. It has even been said that she sprayed the forbidden kneblasch oil about the room, more deadly to him than to her, for she was but a vampire while he was Wamphyri! Mind you, I can’t swear to the last, but as for the rest: it is exactly as Wratha boasted of it to the other Ladies after the deed was done.
