Bloodwars

by Brian Lumley

  But sex? With such as Canker’s moon mistress? Unthinkable … at first. What? But she was untouchable, a goddess! He had made her so. And she sat upon her throne of fine carved cartilage in the dog-Lord’s most private of private chambers, and of all the men and monsters in Mangemanse, his was the only form she ever saw and she was for his eyes only - at first.

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  Except, what good is a goddess without her worshippers? And if she were a goddess, then surely Canker was a god -or would be, if he was not found wanting. And so he must woo her, win her over, convince her of his godhead; he must become god-like in her eyes! And not only in the eyes of his silver moon mistress, but in the eyes of the manse entire.

  Well, he was that already. Or if not a god, a Lord, certainly. But to own a goddess for his mate! Ah, his most improbable dream come true!

  Her name was Siggi. Leaning over her as she slept her fitful sleeps, and slipping into her mind during those few, brief moments when her guard was down and the mind-mist rolled back a little, Canker had learned that much at least. And in another world (the moon, it could only be) she had known an enemy whose name and face formed the core of all her nightmares. Even now, in Canker’s care, she feared him, and moaned his name when silver pearls of perspiration formed gleaming on her brow.

  Turkur!

  Turkur Tzonov!

  A strange and alien name, unheard of among Szgany and Wamphyri alike. But one which Canker’s silver moon mistress would never forget; nor Canker, now that he knew it. And growling low in his throat, peering into her cringing, shuddering mind, he’d even seen the face of this moon monster as Siggi remembered it:

  The broad bronze dome of his head, smooth and hairless, yet glowing with vitality to match the flesh of his face. And in stark contrast the purple, deep-sunken orbits of grey, penetrating eyes which, for all that they were human, nevertheless contained an inhuman Power. Eyes that could look into, or even through a man, which would make this one a great leader among men. Impressive … among men. But Canker was Wamphyri! Still, he sensed the moon-man’s extraordinary fascination, his weird allure.

  And quite definitely he was of the moon; where else would Siggi have known and feared him, if not in that

  hurtling world on high? But quite apart from Canker’s ‘logic’ in this respect, there were also the looks of the man, his colours and demeanour. He glowed no less than Siggi herself, and what little hair he displayed was silver-blond as Siggi’s own; his slender eyebrows, haughtily tilted, highlighting the tanned, sharp-etched ridges of his brows.

  Then there was his nose, sharp-hooked (broken, the dog-Lord suspected, perhaps in a fight; it had mended that way and Turkur had kept it so, possibly as a trophy; except he was not Wamphyri and so should have no say in the matter; yet there was this Power in him that caused Canker to think of him as such, a Lord in his own right), which for all its lack of convolutions gave him the look of a warlord. Aye, and with his well-fleshed mouth above a strong square chin, and cheeks so very slightly hollowed, he was not entirely unhandsome, this proud and haughty warrior-priest of the moon.

  A warrior-priest, proud and haughty …

  Haughty.

  Twice now that word had commended itself to the Lord of Mangemanse as descriptive of this Turkur Tzonov, and twice too often. Siggi feared his memory; or was it his reality that she feared? She had come down to Starside from the moon. And might not this Turkur follow her? What magic did he have, this moon-priest? And if he should come to claim Siggi back, how might Canker answer the challenge?

  ‘With all my heart .. . with all my blood . .. with all my sinew. With all my Wamphyri strength . .. with my oneiro-mancy … with my lycanthropy. With everything I own, and all that I am! Neither man, monster nor moon-thing - no child of Nature, or of the vats, or any alien world - shall ever part us. I, Canker Canison, swear it by my teeth, my balls, by the very blood that thunders in my veins!’

  And rushing to a north-facing window and glaring at the hurtling moon; ‘Let him come, this Turkur. Proud and haughty? Canker will show him proud and haughty! I’JI eat

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  his eyes and face, and send him home on a great black flyer, blind and red and smoking from his wounds, and screaming in the night!’

  It was his Wamphyri vow …

  Siggi got used to him. She even got used to his guardian creatures which prowled the mazy corridors of his manse when their master was abed or hunting in Sunside. She very soon ‘acclimatized’; which is to say she accepted her lot, for to a mind vacant as hers, this was all she had ever known. The manse and all its monsters were home, and Canker her protector. Moreover, he adored her. And for all the knowledge that she had lost, stolen from her mind in the magmass bowels of Perchorsk by the madman Turkur Tzonov, still Siggi retained her sensuality, her overpowering animal magnetism, that essence of womanhood which was hers in abundance.

  And she needed. In all her life since she was fourteen, Siggi had not gone without a man. She could not remember them now, but she remembered how; she knew how. And as always, and as is the case with most sensual women, she felt the attraction of power. In Mangemanse there was only one Power, one raw source of furious energy, and its name was Canker Canison. As for his ‘pups’, his bloodsons, lieutenants, thralls: oh, they were men - despite the taint of their master’s animalism — but Canker himself was magnificent! And to a mind wiped clean of ideals — of the idea of Man the beatific, the noble, the honourable — Canker was the ideal! f

  Romantic? The dog-Lord was that. He would take her to the north-facing gallery which housed his incredible instrument of hollow bones, adjust the baffles to let in the winds that blew off the Icelands, and play his mighty organ with all the verve, if not the skill, of a veritable maestro. And while the rest of Wrathstack groaned at the resulting cacophony, Siggi the moon mistress would laugh and applaud, and even be brought to tears by the joy of Canker’s music - or perhaps by its pain. But he would never suspect it, for she knew he played for her.

  And all the time he kept her upon a pedestal, far above all earthly desires, and never a single carnal thought in the dog-Lord’s cesspit vampire mind, not about Siggi; for she was his silver moon mistress, whose flesh was holy of holies, and he was only a great dog. He would not corrupt her, nor change her in any way. And when she went to her bed, Canker would be there, asleep upon a pallet outside her door. For instead of a dog-Lord, he’d become like unto a watchdog. And a faithful dog at that.

  But with or without her memories, Siggi was still Siggi and a lustful woman. Because Canker was all she knew (because she had nothing for comparison), she wanted him; and anyway, he was almost as much man as dog. In the end she seduced him, and even suspecting it might destroy her led him to her bed. Astonished, believing he dreamed a most marvellous albeit forbidden dream, he went to her.

  Then, knowing her flesh was frail, Canker was gentle with her; perhaps too gentle, so that she must become the aggressor. At which the great and terrible beast was conquered; not alone by beauty, but also by urges as alien and powerful as his own, until he became a toy for a woman out of another world.

  Innocent in her way, Siggi couldn’t know it, but in toying with Canker Canison she toyed with her very soul…

  Canker must show his moon mistress to the stack, to the aerie as a whole, to all the Lords and chiefest of the lieutenants, and even to the Lady Wratha . .. most certainly to her.

  Hah/ Let that one see a real lady!

  Except it was not the dog-Lord’s way to welcome visitors into his manse. Mangemanse was a secret place, and its wolfish master kennel-proud. So he spoke to the necromancer Lord Nestor Lichloathe in neighbouring Suckscar, his one true friend in all Wrathstack, and with some few small misgivings Nestor made the arrangements. The Lords and Lady were invited up — or down in Wratha’s case — into

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  Suckscar, to a grand reception in honour of Siggi, Canker’s silver moon mistress.


  But a reception for a commoner, a thrall, a ‘mere woman’? Even a woman from another world? It was unheard of! And yet the Lords were curious, each and every one of them. And Wratha the Risen even more so.

  So it was that in the eleventh sundown following Siggi’s arrival in Starside, her reception took place in Suckscar and the vampire Lords and Lady came to discover the nature of this remarkable creature who had so captured the dog-Lord’s previously rabid heart and monumental imagination. Nor would their curiosity be disappointed.

  Siggi had not been seen when Canker first brought her to the last aerie. And even if she had been, then, slumped across his saddle in a swoon, she would have been thought just another captive taken by force out of Sunside. No one but Nestor Lichloathe knew how Canker’s silver mistress looked, her stunning colours, shape, or fabulous design in general. Nor would they, until the last possible moment.

  Canker was a sly showman, even as sly as the fox in his mixed ancestry; he had a sense of the dramatic and appreciated the delicious tingle of anticipation, the sudden shock of revelation, the stunned astonishment of denouement. He revelled in upstaging all other actors at every given opportunity: in this instance, Siggi’s reception. And since posturing was integral to his character, Canker was never on time. He preferred the grand entrance.

  Nestor Lichloathe had announced the reception (or more properly a gathering, in celebration of the success of a recent alliance of the Lords in their efforts to turn Wrath-stack into a fortress proper, and their thralls and creatures into an army) following a raid on the Szgany of Tireni Scarp some eighty miles west of Settlement. Under Yanni Tireni, their leader, the folk of Tireni Scarp were ferocious as the Szgany Lidesci; they didn’t have Lardis Lidesci’s weird weapons, but their skill with lures and pitfall traps, and their accuracy with silver-tipped, kneblasch-soaked cross-

  bow bolts, and ballistae-hurled fireballs was phenomenal. So that just like Lardis’s people, the Szgany Tireni had survived without returning to the wild and becoming Travellers.

  But on this occasion, the raid had been successful, and a number of thralls had been taken alive without cost to the Wamphyri; yet another reason to celebrate. And in accordance with Canker’s instructions, Nestor had mentioned in passing the fact that the dog-Lord would present the new Mistress of Mangemanse at that same affair, a reception of sorts in Suckscar, which Nestor would host. Canker had of course made himself scarce at the time, so avoiding any banter or questions in this respect. With his sense of the dramatic, he’d wanted Siggi to come as a complete surprise. Which she would …

  The time had been set: four hours before sunup, allowing plenty of time for strutting, wagering, eating and drinking before all must depart in the early dawn, back to their various manses and the security of their dark places. Nestor had retired to Suckscar to make the necessary arrangements. Wratha and her chiefest lieutenants would come down on foot out of Wrathspire, and the dog-Lord and his whelps were well-acquainted with the way up from Mangemanse (though in fact Nestor knew they would come by flyer, and late, of course, in order that Canker could make his entry in accustomed style). As for the rest:

  Wran and Spiro Killglance and their men could not come through Mangemanse (Canker would never allow it) and so must fly; and Gorvi the Guile could scarcely be expected to climb almost half a mile vertical out of Guilesump, which meant he too would use a flyer. A landing-bay must be made ready, with lieutenants and thralls in attendance to handle the flyers.

  Nestor had seen to everything; it was no great effort; he owed the dog-Lord this much, at least.

  Came the time appointed.

  Deceptively dandyish, Wran the Rage was first up.

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  Accompanied by his first- and second-lieutenants, Wran was magnificent in a wolf-grey cloak, crimson cummerbund, black bat-fur trousers and leather boots; he sniffed the air superciliously and tweaked the small black wen on his chin. His brother, the ever-scowling Spiro Killglance, followed close behind. As was his wont, he dressed in rags; likewise his men. Nestor greeted them in the landing-bay, instructed his thralls in the temporary stabling of their beasts, and had a lieutenant escort them down into the great hall beneath his private quarters.

  Minutes later, as the gauntly sinister Gorvi the Guile and his lieutenants made their approach, Nestor’s man Grig reported Wratha’s arrival by internal stairwell. The Lady was acquainted with this route into Suckscar; Nestor’s guardian creatures were accustomed to her; in any case, he had ordered that there be no let or hindrance, and so she had passed in safety with two of her men.

  Which left only Canker and his pups, and his silver moon mistress, of course. But all of the others were in Suckscar a good half-hour before Canker put in his appearance, and during that time Nestor had done his best to entertain them, despite that in the main he despised them.

  Well, he scarcely despised Wratha the Risen, but appeared more than a little wary of her, and kept his mind shielded from her probes at all times. Being female she was curious, and more than mildly peeved; in the last few weeks their affaire had all but fizzled out; she was unable to explain the change come over her former lover. Not only was Nestor’s attitude radically different but also his character, even his mien. He seemed to have assumed the guise of a mystic, a recluse, like one of the gaunt old men of Tur-gosheim; or rather, like a young Vormulac Unsleep or a Zolteist ascetic like the Seer-Lord Maglore. Indeed, Nestor’s change was startling, especially to one who had known him as Wratha had known him. Nothing remotely ascetic about that Nestor, not as Wratha had known him. But:

  This sudden fad of his for wrapping up, keeping himself

  covered, like a child in swaddling clothes - almost as if he were ashamed of his flesh — or as if he were shy of some blemish or other .. .

  But on the other hand, well … Nestor’s ascension to a Lord of the Wamphyri had been lightning fast, when the Change That Shapes had moulded him like a soft candle in a flame. It had seemed that he was a natural, a vampire born, but perhaps it had been too fast and something had been burned out of him other than his humanity. Or there again, it could be that recognition, awareness of his vampire condition had changed him, the fact that his universe had now expanded beyond all previous boundaries. It was ever traumatic, the Change That Shapes, but sometimes more so. In which case, he might yet change back again and be what he had been (not human, no, for that was gone forever, but vigorous and … what, alive again? Well, undead, at least), when finally his blood had settled down and his vampire leech had determined his destiny.

  Or was it something else entirely? Where now was the zest and the lust and the dark thrill of being: the thrill of being Wamphyri? It had been vibrant in him; he had revelled in it. Even without his parasite’s drive, his own had been as a roaring fire in him, so that he’d blazed with its heat and glowed red in his dark heart. Wratha knew, for she had felt it there. And she had loved him, in and out of her bed. Loved the touch and the smell and the very thought of him. But all gone now. And ah!. .. she missed it.

  She missed it but .. . not that much. For one erection is much like another, and a man is only a man, after all. The fire had burned too brightly, that must be it. Which was a concept that Wratha could accept: the idea that perhaps she, the Lady herself, had sucked it out of him; that she, Wratha the Risen, had reduced him to less than her needs, until she no longer had need of him at all.

  She could accept that, yes.

  And yet…

  … What if she was wrong?

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  What if Nestor shielded his mind, not to hide his weakness, but to protect a strength, a passion beyond her comprehension? Beyond her Wamphyri comprehension, because everything that was human in her had long since fled the seething, searing corruption of her leech? Was that it? Did he yet retain a capacity - an entirely human capacity - for love? For the true, living love? For love inadmissible by virtue of his nature? For love unrequited?

  For a lo
ve out of his mainly unremembered past.. .?

  Which was a concept Wratha could not accept, never! That she had exhausted him - fine. But that some other had distracted or abstracted him - never!

  There had been this Szgany wench, Misha, a Lidesci bitch out of his vague and shadowy past. When Nestor’s mind had been more accessible, Wratha had discovered her there, still in his thoughts despite that he was Wamphyri. And for all of the past that his damaged mind had forgotten, he’d remembered her well enow, and his hatred for the one who had stolen her from him.

  That was why he’d gone with Zahar that time into Sun-side, to settle an old score. Almost three months ago, aye, and he’d never been the same since. For all her much vaunted mentalism, Wratha never had discovered what happened that time. But now that she remembered it, she could clearly see how it coincided with his change. All of which had gone unnoticed at the time, for events of moment had been crowding thick and fast. ..

  … Such as the reunification of the aerie under Wratha, the foundation of supplicant Szgany tribes east of the great pass, the creation of a tithe system similar to the one they’d known in old Turgosheim, from the proceeds of which to build their armies against the chance of some future invasion.

  Events of moment, aye, and all coming at more or less the same time. Not to mention a few of lesser importance; such as the dog-Lord rinding his so-called ‘silver moon mistress’ all lost and alone, wandering on the boulder plains in the vicinity of the Starside Gate .. .