by Brian Lumley
Glina looked at Nestor, whose eyes followed Brad where he began to climb. There wasn’t much in those eyes, but they did have soul. Brad was hard-voiced, but he was soft-hearted, too, and Glina believed Nestor knew it. “I’ll sit and talk to him a while,” she said. “I think he knows what I’m saying, but it doesn’t mean much to him, that’s all. Maybe we’ll walk down to the river under the stars. Nestor likes that.”
Brad thought: Oh, and what else does he like? “What, the strong, silent type, is he?” He called down, grinning despite himself. He went through the curtains to take off his clothes, and hung them on pegs in the rafters. Shortly he was in bed.
Down below, Glina listened a while to the creaking of her father settling himself, the low, murmuring voice of her mother cautioning him to: “Shhh! Be quiet … the young ‘uns … here, let me.” And then the rhythmic sounds of their sex. Little privacy in a timbered cabin.
Then Nestor’s arm went around her waist, and his hand up under her blouse, to squeeze her large breasts. It was an automatic response to being left alone with her; something which he had learned to expect, to enjoy; something which Glina had taught him. “Yes, yes,” she breathed in his ear, stroking him through his trousers with her fingertips. “But not here.” And he followed her out of the open door and into the night.
The night wasn’t yet cold; they walked slowly at first in bright starlight, then more hurriedly, finally breathing heavily, almost panting along a well-worn path to the river. And on the sand and shingle bank they threw off their clothes and fell on top of them, and she guided him jerking into her flesh. She knew how it would be but surrendered to it, as she had since the first time. But since Glina had been the one to lead him on right from the start, she could hardly complain. And he was a man, and filling her he filled the loneliness, too.
The first time …
That had been when he was back on his feet again, five or maybe six sunups after her father had rescued him from the river. Until then Glina had washed and tended his wounds, fed him, cared for Nestor generally. And she’d rocked him in her arms when, in a fever, he’d called out strange names, shouted his passion at unknown persons and wept bitterly over obscure grievances and disappointments. Despite what Brad Berea said about him now, then there had been fire in Nestor.
But as the fever went out of him so the silence entered, and for a while his eyes had been empty.
In a little while he’d been strong and made no complaint about work. He hunted with a crossbow, fished, used an axe and carried wood and water well enough. Twice a week, when he went to bathe in the river, Glina spied on him. He was big and stirred her inside.
Once, three years ago when she was sixteen, the Bereas had gone into Twin Fords. Brad required new tools; her mother wanted a new dress, pots, pans; Glina just wanted to see and be seen. Then some boy might make inquiries, and find his way to the cabin to see her. Forlorn hope, for even then she had known she was homely: her brown, lustreless hair, nose just a little too sharp, heavy buttocks. She’d been to Twin Fords as a child, often, and had seen the many pretty girls there.
That time when she was sixteen, some young couple had got married. There’d been a party, music, laughter, and in the evening there would be drinking and dancing. An old friend of her father’s had said they could stay the night. Well, Brad Berea knew how to drink and dance, and he had seen how Irma needed it. It seemed only fair.
But while Brad and Irma whirled to the wild music, Glina was simply … whirled away! A Gypsy lad shared his wine with her, and walked her behind a tree where the branches came down low. Now, she couldn’t even remember how he’d looked. But then he had been the handsomest boy in town, and unlike Nestor he’d known exactly what to do. His mouth had sucked the breath from her lungs, and lifting her skirts he’d slipped into her slick as an eel. Afterwards … he was gone as quick as he came. No one had known but Glina—oh, and the boy, of course—but she’d dreamed of him almost every night since, right up until Nestor came. And then she’d dreamed of Nestor.
One day when her father was off hunting, and her mother washed clothes and stored vegetables, Glina had finished her tasks about the cabin and gone down to the river where Nestor was fishing. She deliberately wore a short dress and a blouse buttoned to the waist. And as soon as she was out of sight of the cabin, she’d quickly unbuttoned the top of her blouse to show the inner curve of her soft breasts.
Sitting down beside Nestor, she’d made a great play of lifting her dress so that her thighs would show, and talking to him she’d held his face towards her and leaned forward, tempting his eyes to her cleavage. And he had looked at her. There had been something in his eyes at least, even if she couldn’t say what. But despite that while she talked to him she leaned her hand on his thigh and squeezed it, always when she stopped speaking and relaxed, his attention would return to the river and his line.
Committed, finally Glina had stripped naked, waded into the water, and bathed there right in front of him. He wasn’t likely to tell anyone, after all. No longer able to fish, Nestor had watched her; and as she came out of the river gleaming wet, breasts lolling, at last he had stood up. Then … she’d definitely seen something in his eyes, and a little more than something in his hand.
Hurrying him out of his clothes, she had kissed him all over that body she’d so cared for, and guided his hand to her aching flesh while she sucked on his rod. And Nestor: he might be damaged in his mind, but his body was whole; it wasn’t long before the fire in his loins sparked faint, fleeting, disjointed memories in his head. And then …
… It had been as it was now, as it had been ever since.
In the sun-dappled shade of a willow, driving into her as if to split her, Nestor’s face had been a mask of—what?—hatred? Oh, he had wanted her body, desperately desired to pour all of his angers, his frustrations into her, and so empty himself of them for a little while at least. But it wasn’t love or even lust that he felt. No, for if anything Nestor took revenge against something which even he had forgotten, something which he had never understood in the first place.
His hands had crushed her breasts, which were scarcely hurt but yielded to the pain, the pleasure, and his mouth had crushed her mouth. And Nestor had moaned as he came again and again into her, and she felt the burn of his hot spray deep in her core. He had moaned a name—Minha? Minya?—Misha! And it was like a curse coughed from his damp slack mouth as his right hand left her breasts to tighten on Glina’s throat.
But Glina was no weak little thing to be throttled. Now as then, she took his hair, yanked back his head, grasped him with her sex and sucked the last drop of loathing out of him; until he fell exhausted on his side, and rolled over on to his back. And then she hugged him, and sobbed while she worked his shrivelling flesh in her hand. She sobbed for herself, because she wasn’t this Misha who had hurt him so much—whom he must have loved—and for Nestor himself, because he had been hurt so much …
And so Glina loved him, and was in turn “loved”.
Later she used him, sat on him where her hands had brought him back to life. But because his eyes were dull again and his body’s responses simply that, responses, she took cold pleasure in it…
On their way back to the cabin, suddenly Nestor paused and his face turned up to the sky. He sniffed—an animal sound—and his dark eyes flashed starshine. A moment later and Glina felt, sensed, heard it too. And gasped!
The moon was floating low over the distant barrier range. But there was more than moon and stars in the sky. Small dark shadows flitted high overhead; they blotted out the starlight and passed on. Then larger, more sinister manta shapes came gliding behind, while bringing up the rear —
—Something pulsed and throbbed, faint at first but growing louder.
“Down!” Glina whispered, dragging Nestor to his knees in a clump of night damp bushes. And a pair of Wamphyri warriors went spurting and pulsing overhead, their chitin armour tinged blue in the glitter of the stars.
A b
reeze had come up; it formed the blue-grey exhaust gases of the warriors into a veil across the sky; it fell on the forest in an acrid stench of something dead and crawling with maggots. Glina held her breath, but Nestor breathed deep. And suddenly … he was alert! Brushing her hand away, he stood up, came slowly erect as the shapes of nightmare passed from view. He saw the sentient, liquid eyes of the warriors swivelling and scanning in their underbellies, and never knew how lucky he was that they didn’t scan him. The hunting party sped off into the deepening night, heading north and slightly west.
And: “Wamphyri!” Glina breathed, when they had gone.
“Wamphyri.” The word burned like cold fire.
Nestor looked at her. He was pale; there was recognition, a question in his eyes. His mouth twitched a little, and spoke at last. “Wamphyri?”
“Shhh!” she cautioned, despite that they had gone.
Seconds passed and he spoke again, urgently. “Wamphyri?”
Brad Berea came rushing along the path from the cabin. He was buttoning his jacket, his breath forming plumes in the suddenly cold air. “Nestor … and Glina!” He brushed Nestor aside, fell on his daughter and hugged her. “We heard them—their warriors—and I knew you were out here. But we’re well hidden away in the trees and they passed us by, again …”
Nestor took his arm, and Brad looked at him in surprise. “Eh?” he said. “What’s this? Life in the dummy? Has it scared some wits into him, then?”
“Again?” said Nestor. “They’ve passed us by, again?”
“A yellow mocklark!” Brad grunted. “He repeats my words like a bird, without understanding a one of them!”
“Wamphyri!” Nestor suddenly shouted, and grabbed Brad by the throat. But Brad was strong, and now that the danger was past he was also angry. He tripped Nestor and knocked him flying into the bushes.
“Father!” Glina cried. “He was only frightened!” But she wondered … Nestor’s eyes had been so strange watching those monsters fly overhead … she had sensed his fascination.
Nestor stood up and she took his arm. “Aye, look after him,” her father grunted, turning back toward the cabin. “For if he goes for me again you’ll be tending his cracked skull a second time!”
As he faded into the darkness, Nestor whispered: “Again? Have they passed … before?”
“When you were sick,” she told him. “It was like tonight, just an hour or so after the sun was down. They had been doing some early hunting. We saw them heading home again, toward the Northstar, which shines on Starside’s last aerie.”
“The Northstar!” he said, turning his head unerringly in that direction, and gazing at the evilly glittering star, frozen like a chunk of ice over the barrier range. “Heading home. The Wamphyri…”
“Come on,” she said, almost dragging him along the path. “Let’s get in.”
But not far from the cabin she pushed him against a tree and felt to see if there was life in him yet. There was still time, barely. Sometimes, even though she’d had him more than once, he would be ready; but not tonight. And as she took his hand again and led him back to the cabin, still his eyes were fixed on the low silhouette of the mountains, and the star of ill-omen which lit them. And in Nestor’s mind, all unheard:
Home—the Northstar—the last aerie—the Wamphyri! Compared to which, the lure of Glina’s body was nothing …
He left the cabin silently, in the long night. And when Glina woke up to answer a call of nature she saw his bed, empty.
Such a howling then! It woke up the two in the loft. Her father came down and told her: “What, gone? But he’ll probably be back … if not, good riddance! Only one master here, Glina, and I don’t much care for a dog that bites his master’s hand.”
Then, seeing that Nestor had taken a crossbow and knife, he cursed him long and loud. But what the hell: it wasn’t his good crossbow. And certainly the idiot would need some protection, out there on his own in the night.
In a while Brad went back to bed, and even through Glina’s sobbing he slept like a baby …
Lured irresistibly by the Northstar, Nestor travelled through the night-dark woods. Where streams were shallow he waded them, and where gullies looked dangerous he skirted around. But always his point of reference was the ice-chip star glittering cold on the barrier mountains. Beyond those mountains lay Starside, the last aerie, home of the Wamphyri. And now that he had seen them again, soaring dark against the night, at last everything had seemed to come together.
Nestor knew he’d been there before; he couldn’t remember the circumstances, but he had been there. Perhaps Starside was his source, his origin. Certainly it was his destiny. Maybe he was an outcast, a changeling freak banished from his own kind to make his way as best he might in the world. Well, and now he was on his way back again.
As for Sunside:
He had enemies here; he must be careful along the way; men had pursued him, hurt him, would kill him if they could! He had scars to prove it. And he remembered … things. All of his time with the Bereas, he had remembered them but could not, dared not, speak of them. Once, without thinking, he had told Brad Berea, “I am the Lord Nestor.” But after that he’d said no more. For like his many unfocused thoughts and memories, his tongue was a traitor; it would betray him; there had been enough of betrayals already.
Once, he had a friend, a so-called “brother”, a child who played with him when he himself was a child. But he had been a traitor whose cheating thoughts were hidden behind a screen of numbers, which he’d used like a plague to torment Nestor, even in his dreams. Now: that one was his greatest enemy!
Once, Nestor had loved a girl, who did not love him back. She, too, was treacherous. But like it or not she would “love” him one day. And she would die loving him. It was his vow.
Once, he had had a flyer. He remembered its fate: boiling away into rottenness in the hills. He also remembered taking a bolt in his side; and the river whose cold caresses had nearly drowned him; and Glina, whose warm caresses had given him his manhood. If she had known who and what he was … perhaps she would not have been so eager. Not even the homely Glina.
I am the Lord Nestor, of the Wamphyri!
But a Lord in exile, stripped of his powers, who was now returning home …
He trekked through all the hours of night, effortlessly. Given purpose, he was tireless. But there would be time enough for sleep in the daylight, before moving on again towards his Starside destination. And always the North-star tugging at him, and the miles flying under his feet.
He let instinct guide him. Only set his sights on that bright blue ice-shard in the sky, and let his body take over … the idea itself would do the rest. The hours sped by to match the miles; eventually his footsteps faltered; his body was not as tireless as he’d thought.
He drank from a stream, washed the grit of the forest from his eyes, sat down with his back to a tree. Almost without knowing it he slept, and woke up shivering, lost, wondering where he was. But the Northstar was there, and the idea lived again. As he got his limbs in motion, so his hot blood pounded and soon he was warm.
He came upon an encampment of Szgany. There were guards out, with at least one wolf. No doubt alerted by their watchdog, the men heard him, called out a password; Nestor made no answer but hurried on. They released their animal, which came bounding in his tracks and found him at once. He turned snarling, aimed his bolt right down its throat. But … the wolf wagged its tail, came sniffing, jumped up to lick his face! Dimly then, Nestor remembered how he and … he and … one other (someone close? But he had no one who was close!) had had a way with canines. As a child, wild dogs had come out of the woods to play with him; domesticated wolves, “guard dogs” like this one, had permitted the very roughest of games without turning on him; wild wolves in the hills had moved cautiously, but without animosity, out of his path.
He’d never made anything of it. Nor did he now. Indeed, he saw the wolf’s friendliness as a stupid mistake. He wasn’t Szgany. He w
as the Lord Nestor! But he was one and they were many, and they would be smarter than their tame wolf.
He moved on …
In the night he wasted a deal of time: sleeping, trekking around obstacles, getting mired in this or that bog. But seen through breaks in the trees, black against the dark-blue sky and ice-blue stars, the mountains drew ever closer. Likewise the dawn.
Where the forest thinned out and grew into foothills he rested a while, gazed out over Sunside and saw the first pale blush of light on the horizon. Hours yet to the true dawn, and more to go to sunup, but this was the start of it. Nestor had no fear of the sun: it was part of his freakishness, that the sun had no power over him. His flyer had not been so fortunate. That … puzzled him, but it was so.
He seemed to remember a pass through the mountains. But where would that lie? To the east or to the west? He thought east. But as he made to follow an old and half-familiar trail through the foothills—
—A sound, even movement up ahead! Grey shadows in the pre-dawn dusk, which was as yet much closer to night than day. Nestor loped silently through a ground mist swirling round his ankles like a disturbed shroud. On his right hand, the forest, and on his left the foothills rising towards the barrier range. But up there where the way was steep: something huge, grey and weird, projecting over the rim of a bluff, nodding and swaying against the dark-blue sky. It scanned the night with dull, disinterested eyes in a diamond-shaped head at the end of a long, tapering neck. An unmistakable design: a flyer! Ideally situated for launching, it waited there. Which could mean only one thing: that somewhere down here its vampire master, a Lord or lieutenant of the Wamphyri, was even now abroad in the night!
Night for the moment, aye, but dawn was fast approaching. Whoever was the beast’s keeper, he’d have to be back soon. If he was not already here …
