Bloodwars

by Brian Lumley

  . .. Which was a timely recollection, for surely that was Canker’s great bark of a laugh even now?

  As the echoes of that uproarious laughter came drifting down into the banquet hall, the Lady Wratha gave a mental nod of recognition and exasperation. For, aye, indeed it was Canker’s laugh, preceding the dog-Lord as lightning precedes the thunder . ..

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  II

  Wratha, Wran, Spiro

  As the echoes of Canker Canison’s laughter died away, Wratha returned from her mental meanderings, glanced all about Nestor’s banquet table, and contained herself as best she could. The heat of her inward conjecturing, specifically with regard to Lord Lichloathe (the resurgent possibility of a rival lover in Sunside), had not been so great that it had wrought any noticeable physical change in her. To all intents and purposes - and with the acceptable exceptions of her conch-like ears, convolute snout, scarlet eyes and divided tongue - she was just like a young and beautiful girl; the practised and effortless metamorphism of her leech hid the monster under the skin.

  Indeed, it hid it well, so that no one - not even a Lord of the Wamphyri — would suspect the century of time which she had lived, not until she was angered sufficiently that the monster became ascendant and the facade of her skill was stripped away. Then …

  … The Lady’s change at such times was legendary, a veritable transformation, an incredible katabolism: like watching the ten-day decay of a ripe apple to a spotted mouldering fungus lump, but all accelerated or compressed to a period of ten nightmarish seconds. And then it would be seen that indeed the female of the species is the most dangerous, and the most venomous! But for now:

  The monster was hidden, and Wratha was beautiful. Nothing of the leadenness of the Lords about her! Her skin was pale as milk, unblemished. Her jet-black shining hair fell in plaits to her shoulders, which were fitted with a

  torque of finely worked gold. Depending from this golden harness, ropes of plaited bat-fur formed a smoky curtain to her knees - smoky, but by no means opaque. For as she moved, so the ropes would sway, revealing a soft curved breast or brown nipple, rounded hip and smooth thigh, delicate arms and hands where they broke through. And so (and quite deliberately, for Wratha was proud of her skill), she scarcely kept herself secure from viewing. It was a distraction, which kept the Lords from scanning her mind by occupying theirs.

  Paradoxically, but not unusually, Wratha’s eyes were least in evidence. Protected by a scarp of carved bone upon her brow, their fire was subdued by the ornamentation of blue glass ovals at her temples and matching earrings in the fine-furred lobes of her ears. This, too, was deliberate; for if Wratha’s deceit were at all visible, then surely it was in her eyes. Which is to say that, however inarticulately, nevertheless the Truth of her being was shouted from them, so that she must make every effort to deaden their unquiet voice and disguise their undead evil. Slightly protuberant - until she was enraged, when they bulged - they gave away that which the Lady would keep secret or at least hidden, and so formed her most vulnerable feature. But in any case, hers was a grotesque deceit.

  Apart from which, and the usual anomalies of vampirism, Wratha might well be Szgany (which indeed she had been, upon a time): a clean-limbed Gypsy girl from Sunside, whose flesh was still untried. But beauty is only skin-deep, and so much for looks . ..

  The Lady sat at one end of the long table with her chief lieutenants flanking her. Gorvi and his two sat along one side, which they shared with Spiro and his ruffians. Nestor, Grig and Zahar occupied the other side, along with Wran the Rage and his pair. But at the dog-Lord’s request, the head of the table had been left free for him. Spread before them were various appetizers: halved wolf- and bear-hearts floating in blood; suckling shad basted in its mother’s milk;

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  various joints, rare-roasted and thick-sliced, from the same mature beast; bowls of fruit and pitchers of weak ale. Spoils of the tithe, naturally, but nothing ostentatious; not so much a banquet as a buffet.

  Nestor Lichloathe was on his feet; he too had heard Canker’s laughter from on high, and his gaze rested upon a balcony overlooking his great hall, with a corridor behind that led to the landing bay. Sure enough, the dog-Lord was there, and with him his silver moon mistress … what little was to be seen of her, as yet. Why (Wratha thought), she was as much covered - all swathed and shielded from the sight of men, and of Wratha - as Nestor himself!

  The Lady stared, as did the others, but Nestor paced to the sweep of his great stone staircase and called up to Canker: ‘Come down, my friend. Alas, but you’re late and the food is cold.’

  ‘I had a little trouble,’ Canker barked, lying with great proficiency. ‘A creature of mine went mad, and I saw it as my personal duty to slaughter him for the provisioning. But -‘ he shrugged, - ‘it was bloody work, and afterwards … all to be made tidy. And so you must excuse us that we’re late.’

  He led his mystery woman down the stairwell, with two great shaggy lieutenants - a pair of his ‘pups’ - following close behind. These were not the dog-Lord’s bloodsons as such (his children born in Mangemanse were all infants as yet), but when Canker took thralls out of Sunside, he usually picked wolfish-looking ones, so that in other circumstances these two might easily have been his bloodsons. As leader of the pack - patriarchal, as it was - all of the dog-Lords’s thralls and lieutenants were his ‘pups’, of course.

  At the bottom of the sweeping staircase Canker paused for effect, turned to Nestor and bowed stiffly. He was dressed all in red: red vest and cloak, and baggy red breeks. The hair on his head shone red to match the cores of his eyes; it was the fox in him, of course, but startling nevertheless. Nestor had never seen him so well-groomed. But in another moment the dog-Lord’s wild wolf laughter rang out

  again, then turned to howling as he threw back his head, went to all fours and, in order to give full vent, shook from head to toe. Finally the ringing echoes died away; Canker fell silent and flowed upright, shook himself again - an entirely voluntary action this time, as if to shake off a mood - and glanced all about his host’s great hall. Then:

  ‘My Lord Nestor,’ he panted. And to the rest: ‘My Lords, and Lady. I am genuinely sorry I’m late, but as you know I’ve no sense of timing. Why, I was probably late at my own whelping! And if I’m lucky I may even be late to my grave. As for these little gatherings of ours, too infrequent by far, it must seem that I’m always late! Wasn’t it so at Wran’s reception in Wrathspire that time, when he’d rid us all of Vasagi the Suck? Two and a half years ago, as I recall, but I remember it well!

  That was when the young Lord Lichloathe first came among us out of Sunside, and fell heir to Suckscar. Aye, and fortunate for Canker that he did. For it was Nestor who taught me the moon music with which to lure my silver mistress down from the moon. And I learned his tune and perfected my art, and likewise perfected my organ of warrior bones hoisted up from olden battlefields. But it was at Wran’s reception that I first broached the idea, tootling a small Szgany flute for your amusement. And you were amused, of course, for you thought me mad . ..’ His lips curled back from great wolf jaws and he grinned a toothy grin, then held up a massive paw.

  ‘Now don’t deny it -‘ (though no one had) - ‘you thought me crazed, a victim of the moon as my father before me. But no, the moon is not my tormentor but my friend and mentor, who sent me dreams of a silver mistress: a message from the moon! For I have a talent - oneiromancy, with which I read the future and the truth in dreams - and knew that she was real. And hour on hour, night after night, I played my moon music and sang to her on high, knowing she would heed me and come down to be mine in Mangemanse . .. which she did!

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  ‘But here I have been remiss, for I’ve kept her to myself. Indeed, I shall continue to do so - and let him die most agonizingly who dares so much as lay a hand, or even considers such an act!’ The soft black leather of his lips again drew back to display the gleam of elongat
ed canines, and a low, threatening growl escaped his throat. But a moment later: ‘As for the fact of her being,’ he continued, ‘it’s high time you all knew what I’ve done, what Canker has achieved with his moon music and in his “madness”. Wherefore, lo and behold, I give you Siggi!’

  Until now she had been wrapped in a robe of purest white albino bat-fur, her face hidden behind a shimmering veil hanging from a crown of figured cartilage. As the dog-Lord finished speaking, however, he took the crown from her head and gave it to one of his whelps, then carefully unfastened the robe and lifted it from Siggi’s marble shoulders, until she stood there almost exactly as first seen in the dim false dawn of Starside and the preternatural glow of the hell-lands Gate.

  Almost exactly as first seen. But of course that had been some three months ago . ..

  And: ‘Behold!’ Canker said again. ‘She is awake!’ And to a man, and a woman, they knew what he meant. For despite that as yet she was still his silver moon mistress, and her colours alien and beautiful beyond reason, they could each of them see that this would not, could not last.

  Silver-blonde her hair, and skin a fading gold . .. aye, for now. And desirable in her various parts to drive men wild, true. But rumour had had it that her eyes were blue as the sky under the northern auroras, and plainly they were not. So that Wratha knew she was no longer the only Lady in Wrathstack.

  ‘Awake!’ Canker barked again, a single word - but all of them knew what it meant:

  That Siggi had been asleep. And a long, cold, breathless sleep at that: the sleep which changes life to undeath. Moreover, he’d drained her to the dregs, or, if not that, his passion had been such that. ..

  ‘.. . Indeed!’ he snarled, cutting all such inference short. ‘For just as I lured her down from the moon, so she has lured my egg out of me. Accept her, for she has ascended, this Lady, and is Wamphyri!’

  Crimson-eyed, she clung to the dog-Lord’s arm, smiled however vacantly yet in no way naively, and showed them her pure white teeth. And they saw in the ribbed deeps of her scarlet, yawning mouth, how already the dark cleft of Siggi’s pointed tongue was deepening for division .. .

  The dream had been Canker Canison’s and yet it had involved others - especially the Lady Wratha - and had been dreamed as from their point of view, as if seen through their eyes as well as Canker’s own. Though rare, this was hardly strange to him; it had happened before and was phenomenal of his oneiromancy, which allowed him to see the truth of his dreams. This time, he’d seen how Wratha’s concern for Nestor Lichloathe was much like his own, despite that their motives were different. For while his was born out of love for the man (so far as the Wamphyri are capable of brotherly love), hers was based mainly in love of self, which nevertheless requires the confirmation or consummation of another. That was why she could be dispassionate about Nestor one moment and furious the next, when she wondered if there was some other and remembered this ‘Lidesci bitch’ in Sunside.

  As for Canker: he knew there was another, also that Nestor’s old scars were itching again, those mental scars out of his mainly forgotten youth. However obliquely, Canker and Lord Lichloathe had even talked about it on occasion: about Nestor’s Great Enemy among the Szgany Lidesci. What’s more, the dog-Lord knew that Nestor had tried to put this unknown rival down, with near-disastrous results! So that Wratha the Risen’s suspicions had only confirmed what Canker already knew: that indeed there was an unknown woman in Nestor’s past.

  But … it was all a very tangled skein, and anyway

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  Canker’s head hurt … and the night wind was cold where it whipped back his hair, driving a thin trickle of blood into his eye .. . and -

  -What?

  He tried to sit up and couldn’t budge but an arm. Loosely lashed to his saddle, he was face-down on the one side, bent in the middle, and legs all a-dangle on the other. And viewed down below before it faded into mist and smoke and distance, a scene straight out of hell!

  Explosions - bright, glaring, blasting, but louder and deadlier far than anything the Szgany Lidesci had used before - their smoke and roaring voices drifting up on the night air, along with the howl of maimed warriors and the dying sputter of failed propulsors. And mewling flyers limping aloft on blazing wings, only to go tumbling back into fire and smoke. A warrior airborne, its bladders exploding as a shrilling rocket scored a direct hit; the crippled beast floundering to earth, where ant-like figures fell upon it with oil and torches, and turned it to a living bonfire. A frenzied, metallic cachinnation as of giant cicadas, accompanied by stuttering flashes of bright white light and the death screams of men and monsters … but mainly of thralls, lieutenants, flyers, warriors.

  In short, a rout!

  And: ‘What. ..?’ Canker wondered again, this time out loud.

  Flying alongside, Nestor Lichloathe knew that he was conscious and called out, ‘Canker, your left hand and arm are free. I tied your left foot with a slipknot. Only reach down and tug on the rope, your leg will come free. Meanwhile, and as you’ve no doubt gathered, we’re on our way home.’ And then more viciously, through grinding teeth, ‘… where I suppose we’ll look at each other stupidly, lick our wounds, and count our fucking losses!’

  The necromancer was more animated, certainly in his emotions, than Canker had seen him in a three-month. But the dog-Lord had a headache and problems enough of his own . ..

  On the left flank and a short distance to the rear, Spiro and Wran Killglance watched Canker free himself, straighten up in the saddle and loll there like a drunkard, and thought as one man: Damn it to hell!

  Twins, it was no great feat to share their thoughts while keeping them guarded from the others. And:

  The man-hound Jives! Wran the Rage grunted.

  What did you expect? Spiro scowled across at his brother. That a knock on that great thick wolf-head would kill him?

  WouJd that it had! That way, at least something wouid be salvaged from this night.

  Aye, you’re right. Spiro’s mental nod of agreement. Quite a lot salvaged, come to think of it. For I’d have been up into Mangemanse in a trice, and all that’s his would be mine!

  Wran’s lewd grin. What, all of it? He licked his lips and flashed a picture of Siggi at his brother. Including this?

  All of it! answered the other.

  Wran’s grin slid away as if wiped clean off his face in the slipstream of air. Spiro’s attitude irritated him greatly these days, had done so ever since he made his first kill with his evil eye. But it hadn’t always been so. Back in Turgosheim those many years ago, the twins had been united in mutual fear and hatred of their father and his killing eye, until at last they’d murdered him. But now .. .

  .. . The longer Wran lived in close proximity to his brother in Madmanse, and the more he looked at him, the more he thought to see the spitting image of their father, old Eygor Killglance himself, looking back at him out of Spiro’s killing eyes. Which was a thought he not only kept from the rest of the Wamphyri but also (or especially?) from his twin.

  Well? said Spiro abruptly, as if ready for an argument.

  And caught off-guard for a moment, Wran finally repeated him: Well? Was there a question?

  You know there was. I said that in the event Canker had been seriously incapacitated, then I’d take Madmanse and all that went with it. And you … said nothing, which seems to me to pose a question in itself. Do you disapprove?

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  Wran’s mental shrug. Not really. For who knows, maybe we have been cooped up together too long, both in Tur-gosheim and in Wrathstack. And it was always the plan that you would have a manse of your own some day. But this Siggi … is a lot of woman. Would you keep her all to yourself, too? A bit greedy, isn’t it?

  Oh? And do you fancy her? Spiro was scowling even harder now. But I thought Wratha was your meat?

  Again Wran’s shrug. Wratha will suit me fine, if she can be tamed. But you saw her when all went crazy back there? Oh
, she can fool men looking the way she does, like a young wanton out of Sunside. But when she’s wrathful.. .

  … And his mind flew back some ten to fifteen minutes in time, to picture Wratha as they had seen her atop the dome of the great rock in those moments before and after she forced their attacker over the rim to his death:

  Her cry of rage - turning to a cackle even as she turned to a hag - as she urged her mount forward and issued her mental command: Grasp him, lift him, dump him from the edge! And Wratha’s monstrous metamorphosis; not only in the tone of her voice but also in her face and figure.

  Wran had witnessed it before, as had Spiro and Canker -aye, and Gorvi, too, wherever he was now - some three and a half years earlier, at an extraordinary meeting of the Wamphyri in Vormulac Taintspore’s melancholy Vormspire in Turgosheim, at which Lord Vormulac (called Unsleep) had presided. And Wran knew that it was Wratha’s vampire leech reacting to her emotions, her shock and anger, by pumping its essence into her veins in the same way that lesser mortals pump adrenalin. It was her parasite’s response: to gird the Lady for whatever trial was in the offing. But the change it wrought in her was seen as terrible even by the utterly terrible Wamphyri, even by Wran the Rage himself:

  For the girl was gone from her saddle in a matter of moments, and in her place … a witch!

  Wratha had gained spindly, craggy inches in height, seem-

  ing to elongate vertically, as beneath her leather armour the healthy bloom of her flesh turned leaden as a Lord’s and her cheeks shrank inwards to age her to gauntness. The convolutions of her nose had taken on much clearer definition; its flat flange turning darkly moist, with nostrils that flared and gaped. The overlapping leaves of her leather breastplate collapsed like a last sigh as, beneath it, her breasts flopped to flaccid dugs.