Blood Brothers

by Brian Lumley

  Desiring to see without being seen, to know without being known, Nestor went more quietly yet. He moved like a cat along the trail, and keeping to the darkest shadows passed under the flyer in its launch site. But in a while, higher up the slope and vague in the deceptive light, he saw a second creature. So, two of the flying beasts, and apparently no one in attendance. It could only be a small hunting party.

  Though it seemed unlikely that such dull, stupid creatures would be used as observers, still Nestor took no chances but kept himself hidden anyway. A further fifty paces, and … what was that down there, where an outcrop of boulders tumbled to meet the trees? A fire?

  It was a fire, flickering red and yellow in the lee of boulders; smoke rising in a grey spiral, carrying a whiff of roasting—what, rabbit?—to Nestor’s nostrils and making his mouth water. And … was that a figure hunkered down, as if turning a spit? Some Szgany loner, fixing himself an early breakfast? It was surely so; for the Wamphyri weren’t keen on roasted meat. And they weren’t much for rabbits, either! But didn’t this idiot know there were vampires about, two of them at least; or three, if Nestor included himself?

  He glanced back over his shoulder. The pre-dawn mist was rising, obscuring the trail. No sign of the creatures perched on the hillside now; they were there, of course, but had disappeared utterly in mist and gloom. This fool at his fire was surely unaware of them. But the Wamphyri must return soon. And Nestor had no doubt but that they would be aware of him!

  The man had food; Nestor was hungry; he could warn him, share his breakfast. And no treachery to the Wamphyri, his own kind, in this. He was an outcast after all. And his appearance would fool this loner even as it had fooled Brad Berea. But in any case, best to take precautions.

  Nestor’s crossbow was ready, loaded. Taking care to avoid loose pebbles which might be dislodged, he climbed down boulder to boulder; while below him the fool at the fire coughed where he turned his spit, grunting and grumbling to himself as if he were the only man in the world! Nestor got close, very close, until suddenly the hunched figure fell silent and sniffed the air, looked up and began to turn his head.

  The man would be armed; Nestor didn’t want another bolt in him; he ducked down behind rocks, waited, gradually nerved himself to look out, even to cry out, and so warn the other of his presence. The mist was thickening, and it had a slimy feel to it. Nestor felt his flesh creeping as he looked out between a “V” in the rocks.

  The loner was still there, crouched down. But—

  —He was no longer alone!

  Emerging from a dark copse to one side, and flowing like some swift and deadly shadow over the mist-wreathed ground, a second figure approached him. But there could be no mistaking this one—or his intentions. He was Wamphyri, and his mind was full of murder! Even in silhouette and little more than a dark blot, still his face was freakish; a jutting bulge of a head with a stunted, vibrating tentacle extended towards his victim.

  Nestor scarcely required it, but as if to finally prove this creature’s nature it glanced at him—the merest glance—where it sped silent as smoke to its target. Its eyes were red as coals, burning in the hideously misshapen, quivering mask of its face!

  Unable to contain himself—jerking with an involuntary, spastic movement—Nestor stood up, and a pebble was squeezed out from beneath his sandal! The man at the fire heard it clattering in the rocks; he swivelled on his heel, came to his feet in one smoothly flowing movement. But in so doing he turned his back on the thing bearing down upon him!

  Without conscious thought—all instinct—Nestor cried out a warning, aimed his crossbow, discharged the weapon at the vampire. It seemed he knew, again by instinct, where his loyalties lay. He reacted as a Traveller, Szgany, and not the changeling that he thought he was. Or perhaps it wasn’t as complex as that. Maybe it was simply that when the tentacle-faced monster had looked at him with its scarlet eyes, Nestor had known that he was next!

  Almost within striking distance of his intended victim, the vampire Lord was hit in the neck, sent staggering. And as Nestor lost his footing and came sliding over the dome of the last great boulder to crash down on his back, so the would-be “victim” snatched up a brand and turned towards his attacker. Nestor lay there on his back, winded, gaping at the two. For now in the full firelight he could clearly see his mistake: that both of these creatures were Wamphyri!

  II

  The Wamphyri Lords Wran (the Rage) Killglance and Vasagi the Suck glared at each other red-eyed across Nestor where he lay on his back, winded. They ignored him; they would not let him distract them from their quarrel, their duel, their mutual hatred. Now that he had shot his bolt he was nothing to them anyway. But from Nestor’s point of view, they were awesome, huge—and hugely malevolent.

  “Treacherous bastard!” Wran snarled at Vasagi, waving his sputtering brand in the other’s hideous face and kicking Nestor out of the way. “So, you thought to come upon me under cover of this fool’s blundering approach, eh? What, and did you think it likely I’d mistake his clatter for your own oily slither?” (In point of fact he had done just that.)

  Vasagi’s wet, glistening siphon was like the piston shaft of some alien penis; it made an almost sexual, sucking sound as it slid in and out of its sheath in the tip of his defensively mobile trunk or tentacle. He tugged at Nestor’s bolt, which had penetrated the base of his thick, corded neck above his left shoulder and emerged at the back, having missed the spinal column by a hair’s-breadth. He made no answer that Nestor could hear, but Wran the Rage heard it well enough:

  Killglance, you spotted dog! Only good fortune and this Szgany scum together saved you from my single, clean, killing thrust. So now you face my gauntlet—before I ram my probe deep in your spine, to drain your cringing leech.

  He was more voluble than was his wont; it was bluff and Wran knew it; Vasagi dared not let him see the true colour of his secret thoughts. His wound was not serious: an inconvenience, at worst. But even a bee sting can swing the balance of a fight, and the youth’s bolt was more than a bee sting. Wran knew that the Suck was off balance, so why prolong it?

  Holding the blazing firebrand awkwardly in his left hand, he flicked back his cloak from his right side and so displayed his gauntlet. It glittered red and yellow in the firelight as he flexed his hand within its metal sheath. Vasagi feinted to the left, the right; his movements were quicksilver; even with the ironwood bolt skewering his neck at an angle from side to back, still he was no mean opponent.

  Still sprawling on his back but no longer winded, Nestor attempted to scramble away from the two. But the Suck was moving in the same direction. As Vasagi made a lunge at Wran, his feet got tangled in Nestor’s threshing legs. That was the opening Wran needed. While Vasagi stumbled he moved in, hurled his torch into the Suck’s writhing face and shrinking eyes, grasping his facial anomaly behind the wad of muscle which propelled its siphon. And with Vasagi’s gauntlet tearing his back open to the ribs, Wran aimed a blow at his enemy’s proboscis.

  Wran’s mind telegraphed his grisly intention; Vasagi saw it coming; he had no answer except to scream a desperate mental denial: Nooooo!

  Such was the force of the Suck’s telepathic terror that even Nestor heard it. With Harry Keogh’s blood running in his veins, and with his own share of his brother’s as yet undeveloped mentalist talent, Vasagi’s mind-shriek got through to him and froze him to the marrow. Somehow he lurched upright, but incapable of flight he simply fell back against the outcrop.

  While Vasagi had somehow avoided his enemy’s first blow, still Wran had not relinquished his hold on the Suck’s proboscis. Now the Rage flexed his metal-clad hand in a certain way, and in the moment before he struck a razor spine like the curved frill on a lizard’s back sprang erect from his gauntlet’s knuckles to Wran’s wrist. And Nestor saw the rest of it as a blur of bloody motion.

  Wran’s gauntlet sliced into the Suck’s shuddering snout and cut it half-way through, and with a tearing, sawing, snatching action, Wran qu
ickly completed the job. Then he stepped back a pace to toss the severed trunk and its siphon tip hissing into the fire, and laughed at Vasagi where he staggered to and fro, clawing at his crimson face.

  Despite Wran’s own agony—the fact that the back of his cloak had been torn open, and bloody tatters of meat hung from his gouged ribs—he laughed! “Ah, and what shall they call you now?” he crowed. “Vasagi the Slobber?”

  Vasagi’s face spurted blood from the sleeve of raw flesh which had housed his probe. His pain was greater than Wran’s, so much so that tears of agony started out of eyes half-blind from the other’s torch-thrust. He held out his gauntlet before him, waving it to and fro like a blind man’s stick. But there was no mercy in Wran the Rage. Still baying with laughter, he moved in and snatched up the blazing brand again. Vasagi turned to flee, stumbled blindly over sharp, jutting rocks, and went down.

  Wran was on him in a flash; he leaped … came down massively with both booted feet on Vasagi’s outstretched gauntlet forearm. Bones snapped sickeningly, and even Vasagi managed a gurgling shriek—an actual sound—through the scarlet orifice which was his ruined face.

  Nestor’s mouth was dry as kindling. He glanced here and there in the oh-so-gradually brightening air, looked for his crossbow. It had tumbled with him from on high, gone clattering into the scree. He saw a dull gleam among the rocks and edged towards it, but yet continued to watch the now totally unequal fight.

  Wran kicked at Vasagi’s gauntlet hand until the weapon came loose, then booted it out of reach. Half-blind, siphon-severed, ungauntleted, and his arm flopping loosely, still the Suck tried to stumble to his feet. Every time he almost got up, Wran kicked his feet from under him again. Finally, close to exhaustion, Vasagi flopped and jerked on the ground. Then Wran went to one knee beside him, grasped the ironwood bolt in his neck, and twisted it until the other’s writhing was almost a vibration of sheerest agony.

  Nestor’s trembling hand dragged his crossbow out from a crack in the rocks. He primed it two-handed, undipped the spare bolt from its housing under the tiller. And—

  “Aye, load your weapon,” Wran’s deep bass voice growled from only four or five swift paces away. “Load it, and bring it here.” Nestor obeyed the first instruction, but as for the second: he aimed the crossbow at Wran. The other straightened up but kept a booted foot on the writhing Vasagi’s neck. “Well then,” he said, his scarlet gaze rapt on Nestor, “and what are you waiting for? Shoot me, if you’re sure you can hit my heart. But if you’re not, best do as I say.”

  Nestor found his voice. “You … are Wamphyri!”

  Wran nodded. “And you’re a fool! But a fool who probably saved my life. Who saved me a deal of trouble, anyway. I owe you for that. But only fire that bolt into me, I’ll owe you a great deal more. And I’ll pay you back bit by bit, until your screams ring out so loud as to bring down the avalanches! Now then, boy. Don’t make me wait but put your bolt in this loathsome thing’s heart.” He took his foot off the other’s neck and Vasagi sat up.

  Nestor looked at him, and was more frightened of him now than he’d been before … such a hideous, pitiful sight … it would be a mercy to kill him. He had only one bolt. He looked at the ugly, broken, bleeding Vasagi, and at Wran. The latter was more the man; he was—what, handsome? Handsomely dressed, anyway. He looked every bit the vampire Lord that Nestor had always pretended, imagined, and now believed himself to be.

  “Hah!” Wran snorted. “No guts for it, eh? But when I give orders, I expect my thralls to jump!”

  “Thrall?” Nestor growled back. “I … am the Lord Nestor!”

  “Eh?” Wran frowned, stepped away from Vasagi, took a pace towards Nestor. “You’re what? A Lord, did you say?” Behind him, Vasagi took up a jagged rock in his left hand, came flowing to his feet.

  Nestor yelled, “Look out!” And Wran hunched his shoulders, ducked down, stepped aside. An instant later, Nestor’s bolt was sent thrumming through the air to bury itself to the flight in Vasagi’s already scarlet tunic. Except this time when the Suck was knocked down, he stayed down …

  The bolt had struck close enough to Vasagi’s heart to paralyse him. With Nestor’s aid, Wran dragged him by the legs, flopping, away from the rocks and up the slope to a place where the hard earth faced squarely south. There he pegged him out face-down, to await the rising sun.

  “Of course, we shall be long gone from here by then,”

  Wran said. “A pity, for I fancy I’d relish the Suck’s screams as the sun reduces him to so much smoulder!”

  “His screams?” Nestor looked in horror at the pegged-out thing. “But how can he scream?”

  “With his mind,” Wran explained. And Nestor remembered how he had “heard” Vasagi’s shriek of denial as Wran went to sever his proboscis.

  “Ah!” he said.

  Wran turned his scarlet gaze upon him and snorted. “Huh! You don’t know too much for a “Lord”, do you?” He grinned, in his way. “And just what sort of a “Lord” are you, anyway?”

  “An outcast,” Nestor lifted his chin. “Cast out of Star-side. And now I’m on my way back.”

  “Really!” the other nodded, fingered his wen soberly. The lad amused him. “Cast out, you say? For some heinous crime or other, perhaps? Against the Wamphyri?”

  “I don’t know,” Nestor shook his head, ran a hand through his hair, felt the plate of new bone where his scalp was thick and rough at the back. “I don’t … remember.” Wran looked deep into his dark eyes; they seemed dazed, and the mind behind them not entirely there. Obviously this one had survived some raid or other—barely! But he was well enough now, physically at least.

  “So, you’d be a Lord of the Wamphyri, eh?” Wran nodded again. An amusing scheme was taking shape in his mind. How it would work out he didn’t know, must wait and see. But as far as Vasagi the Suck was concerned, certainly it would give Wran the last and loudest laugh. “Well, it’s not everyone who gets to be a Lord,” he said. “But in your case-maybe I can arrange it.” Then he glanced south and saw the pale stain blossoming on the horizon, and his red eyes narrowed at once. “Except we must do it quickly.”

  “Do what?” Nestor was innocent as a child. He started as Vasagi made a slobbering sound and blew red bubbles, and began to come awake.

  Wran made no answer but his eyes were totally evil, menacing—inviting?—when he asked: “Are you … hungry?” He glanced at Vasagi. “Me, I’m hungry, and this one has a leech in him. If our roles were reversed, he’d do the same to me.”

  Again Nestor felt prompted to ask, Do what? But he kept the question to himself and backed away. For Wran had gone to his knees, and his metamorphic face was less manlike now. His mouth was a gash that opened like a trapdoor, impossibly wide. Teeth grew visibly in that crimson hole, elongating, curving like white daggers from the ruptured ridges of his jaws. They were fangs, with eye teeth like knives; their “blades” were long as Nestor’s own knife, and overlapped Wran’s trembling lower lip! His nose—dark and squat before, with large black nostrils—grew yet more convoluted, quivering, sensitive as a bat’s. And his eyes seemed almost to drip blood.

  “Aye, leave me now,” he coughed the words out, shooting Nestor a look that brooked no argument. “But not too far. And when I call out for you, come at once.” His blunt fingers tore Vasagi’s tunic open, and commenced to knead the ridge of his exposed spine.

  Nestor left him, went stumbling back down to the trail, and along it to the dying embers of Wran’s fire. The roasted meat smell was heavy in the air now. Some wild creature moved there, a fox or feral dog, scurrying at Nestor’s approach. It grabbed up the spit and meat entire from where it lay toppled to one side, dropped the hot food and slunk into the shadows, returned in a moment to snatch up the meat again.

  Nestor had not looked at Wran’s roast before; but now, as it lay there smoking, and as the fox—it was a fox, yes—snapped it up a second time, he saw what it was. At least, he believed he saw what it was. And then he no longer wish
ed to know what it was, except its shape was something his mind couldn’t erase: the blackened form of a tiny Szgany infant! The “bait” which Wran had used to alert Vasagi to his presence here and lure him to his doom.

  “Nestor, attend me now!” Wran’s shout drifted down to him through the thinning mist. Nestor looked up, saw how the dawn was advancing. Above the barrier range, the Northstar’s glitter was much reduced. Ah, but as he saw that star of ill-omen the idea returned to burn as brightly as ever, and his horror shrank down. What, fear? Trembling? Trepidation? No, for this was his legacy. He was the Lord Nestor, and he was going home.

  He returned to Wran and saw what he had done, what he was even now about: a nightmarish act or acts! But Nestor’s sensitivities were severely blunted, reduced, even reversed. What would so recently have horrified him merely fascinated him now. These were things which he had somehow forgotten or been caused to forget, which he must now remember, re-learn, if he was to be successful in Starside. Perhaps his failure to appreciate such things in the first place was responsible for his current privations!

  Wran saw his morbid fascination and nodded. “Well, you’re a rare one, I’ll grant you that. I gave you the opportunity to run for it—it’s almost dawn; I have to go; I would not have pursued you—but you’re still here. You really do want to be Wamphyri.”

  Nestor only half heard him, glanced at him, saw that his face and mouth were more nearly “human” again, however bloody. But mainly he gazed at Vasagi: his back laid open to the naked bone, and something black—his leech?—writhing there, but feebly, like a dying snake of black muscle, half welded to his spine within his body. The black thing had been punctured and leaked crimson, the richest colour Nestor could imagine, whose shade matched precisely the blood on Wran’s face and lips.

  In a voice filled with wonder but little or no fear, finally Nestor asked: “What caused you to fight? For plainly you are both Wamphyri.”