by Brian Lumley
Vormulac gave a grunt, perhaps of disappointment. ‘This last-mentioned trio of yours: they, too, might take hours in the performance of their task?’
She shrugged mannish shoulders. ‘As long as it takes. Is it important?’
The warrior-Lord glanced at her, wrinkled his nostrils a very little, otherwise was not intimidated by the Lady Zindevar’s decidedly male aura. For the atmosphere about her was ever pervaded with this manly odour: a cloying stench of sweat and muscle which all her many perfumes together could not hope to obscure. Despite her years, whose number fell not far short of Vormulac’s hundred and fifty, she looked youngish or in her middle-span at most, which said a deal for her lifestyle. Zindevar was no Zolteist, no great ‘ascetic’. Indeed, and in her leather armour - for all that her face was rouged and painted under her visor, and the telltale girth of her bust and behind - she looked far more the warrior than a good many of Vormulac’s handsome young Lords!
Eventually he answered her: ‘It could be important, aye. For I would like to send a few more bats to spy on that tower there, and on those lesser mounds lying scattered all about.’ He indicated the lone stack far out on the boulder plains: a dark fang now and hard to make out, for the hurtling moon had ridden on and the auroral curtain wove too high to make a silhouette. And humped on the plain in disarray, those dark and enigmatic remains of which he’d spoken.
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He turned to Devetaki Skullguise. ‘My Lady, do you have bats with you? Or if not, do you know of any other who brought his familiar creatures with him out of Turgosheim?’
Devetaki answered with a nod, her gold-filigreed, frowning half-mask glinting with reflected starshine. ‘Yes to your second question, my Lord Unsleep … probably. I can’t be certain, of course, for a great many of us made the crossing and we each looked to our own contingents. But to hazard a guess: did you ever know Wamus of Wamscarp to venture anywhere without his familiars? Why, Lord Wamus is him-self a great bat, or as close as he can get!’
‘Good!’ Vormulac was pleased. ‘As always, your advice is the very best, Devetaki, and your common sense easily outweighs the so-called “talents” of so many of your contemporaries.’ He smiled a rare, appreciative if gloomy smile at her. Til talk to Wamus.’
The virgin grandam, probably as old and wise in the ways of Turgosheim (if not in these new, foreign parts) as Vormulac himself, had been a favourite of his for decades. She had long been a member of the gorge’s covert yet governing triumvirate; its other members being Maglore the Mage, and the warrior-Lord Unsleep, of course. So Vormulac was well-acquainted with Devetaki’s history. He knew she professed Zolteism as a creed, and much like himself was an ascetic … within the limits of Wamphyri nature, at least.
Devetaki Skullguise was no girl but a mature woman, regal of stature, proud but not haughty. As to the privileges of her title: she was neither a virgin nor, in the matriarchal sense, a grandam. She desired no bloodsons or daughters to fight over Masquemanse when she was gone (not that she intended to go for a while), for she’d seen more than enough of that as a thrall.
Gifted with a rare beauty, red-headed, long-limbed, full-breasted and unblemished, Devetaki had been taken in the tithe as a girl. Alas, she’d gone to a manse whose master had daughters out of diverse females but no sons. Also, he had no special odalisk, no ‘wife’ as such on whom to
bestow his egg. His vampire daughters vied with each other, naturally, to see which one would become Wamphyri and a Lady. In all likelihood, they would be Wamphyri anyway, but the one who got his egg would be first among them. Now, however, when they saw Devetaki and knew how their father was taken with her, she soon became the victim of their jealousy.
For if he should fall ‘in love’ with her, who could say but that in the heat of passion she might not receive his egg, and so usurp them all? To cut a long story short, she was challenged by the strongest of his girls; she was offered an ironwood knife while her opponent wore a gauntlet; she stabbed the other to the heart and took her head, but in the fighting lost the right half of her pretty face, flensed from the cheekbone.
The Lord of the manse had heard the commotion and came to see. Enraged at the loss of one of his five daughters, furious at the spoiling of Devetaki’s face, and driven to an absolute frenzy by the sight of so much blood spilled in his own manse, all without his permission, he suffered a brainstorm and collapsed. He was old, after all. And his leech, doubtless believing it was all up with him, produced an egg which issued from his mouth.
As the pearly thing skittered this way and that upon the floor, the surviving daughters scrabbled to attract or otherwise obtain it: by scooping it up, by attempting to fall upon it with their mouths, even by opening their bodies to it. But the blood is the life . .. and Devetaki was drenched in blood! Sensing her strength, the egg knew that it had found a worthy host. It turned scarlet in the moment that it touched her; it flowed like living liquid to the raw pulp of her face! And as the others tore their hair, the egg soaked into her. Devetaki was Wamphyri!
And three sunups later, when the Lord of the manse died, she ascended to a Lady …
Then, one by one, without too much ado, she did away with the other sisters and so became sole heir to one of the
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mightiest manses in Turgosheim. And from then on she made it plain how she had got her egg; not through the seduction of her Lord or by usurping him, or through any act of lust or ‘love’, but simply because the vampire seed had ‘known’ who should be its rightful recipient. And to this day she had never admitted to being an odalisk in the first place. Hence ‘virgin’; and the ‘grandam’ in her title referred to her long years as mistress of Masquemanse, not to her progeny, for there was none.
As for ‘Skullguise’: the cognomen resulted from a small affectation. When Devetaki’s mood was good she wore a smiling half-mask over the naked bone; when it was sour or serious she wore a frowning half-mask; but when she was most angry - then she wore no mask at all.
Vormulac’s praise had obviously pleased her. Saying nothing at all, she turned her face away and took her smiling mask from her belt to replace the scowl she’d been wearing.
On the other hand, Laughing Zack Shornskull (despite his customary chuckle) was not pleased at all. ‘Lord Vormu-lac,’ he said, ‘time’s wasting. Why send more bats to look at that lone tower when you can send men? If Wratha is there, and unless she has built herself a powerful army … why, my contingent alone has her measure! And if she did have such an army, do you honestly believe she’d still be in hiding? No, not Wratha - she would be fighting!’
Vormulac, for all that he was the warrior-Lord, knew as much about true war as the others: very little. He was expert at settling feuds and putting down insurrection, but his knowledge of logistics, strategy — the science or basic elements of war - was rudimentary, to say the least. He did know, however, that he had men and beasts to feed, and must find adequate shelter for them before sunup; and that he must yet fight a bloody war, whenever that should come.
But he also knew Wratha was devious to a fault, and that Laughing Zack probably underestimated her. And with regard to Lord Shornskull himself: Vormulac was finding it irksome, the ways in which this fool aped him - the way he
stuck so close and copied his thrall’s hairstyle, and pretended a comparable status - so that all in all it might be a good thing to put him out of sight a while.
‘Are you suggesting that you personally investigate that stack out there?’ The warrior-Lord’s iron-grey moustaches twitched a very little where they dipped to meet his goatish beard. It was a sure sign of his displeasure (Vormulac did not care to be advised by lesser men), but Zack chose to ignore it.
‘Have you something against the idea?’
‘Nothing at all - on the contrary, I like it! A warlord should appreciate those among his generals who take the initiative. Perhaps you would like to command the crusade entire?’
Now Zack bac
ked off a little. ‘My only desire is to save time, Lord Vormulac.’
‘Good! Then be on your way. And Zindevar here can go with you, to organize a party of her own to investigate those fires. I’ve matters to talk over with Devetaki.’ It was a cursory dismissal, which this time Zack had the common sense to recognize. A nod of his head to Devetaki, another to Vormulac, and he made for his flyer. Zindevar likewise, but scowling as she went.
When they had gone, Vormulac said: ‘He irritates me.’
‘Because you’re forty years older, wiser, stronger,’ Devetaki told him. ‘It’s that Zindevar who irritates me - the crone! Now, what matters are these you would discuss?’
‘Eh? Ah, no - that was mainly to be rid of them, though there are things to talk about, certainly. Devetaki, I think I may go down with Zindevar and see what’s what with those fires. Similarly, I want you to take a reconnaissance party and go on ahead, perhaps as far as that light in the foothills. Except I would caution you: mind how you go. Aye, for I value your company and friendship as much as your counsel. And now, give me the benefit of your good advice and tell me: what else should I do to ensure that all runs smooth?’
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Two things only,’ she told him without pause, ‘and let these suffice. One: always insure that your men and creatures are fed and watered; that they have what small pleasures are due them, and sleep out of harm’s way where the sun may not find them. Two: hold tight your rein on spoilers and troublemakers; these Lords were feudal before our time, and would be again without that we curb them.’
He nodded. ‘Devetaki, as always you are my right arm. And now let’s get to it…’
They took a little longer coming than Wratha had thought, and there were not so many of them. Also, they came in something of stealth, or ‘quietly’ at least. Which is to say: they, too, kept their minds shielded. Which was all to the good: no telltale thoughts issued out from the last aerie, and no sly alien probes sought entry. The telepathic aether seemed sterile. Too sterile.
From on high, Laughing Zack Shornskull looked down on the upper ramparts of Wrathstack and thought (to himself), I don’t like it! Nothing stirs - well, except for those ancient penants, all sluggishiiy aflutter — neither a thought nor even a bat; yet a place as massive as that must surely have its colonies? And he chuckled, however grimly. A trap? An ambush? Or is she simply hiding? What disaster could have befallen the Lady, that the proud and haughty Wratha -even Wratha the Risen - has gone to earth like some Sunside fox? Or … could it be that the place is truly deserted?
But this massive, mighty stack — deserted .. .?
And as easily and as suddenly as that, Zack’s great wide grinning mouth was moist and flowing with saliva — lust! For the aerie itself! For in Turgosheim, Zackstack was the veriest pimple by comparison; like a heap of pebbles in the bed of the gorge, and only marginally taller than Lorn Halfstruck’s Trollmanse! But this place … why, it could easily equal, or even contain, one third of all Turgosheim’s great manses! If a man were Lord here - if a single man
were Lord and master of the entire stack — why, he could build, house and command such an army, that…
. .. But then, so could a woman!
Zack’s lustful territorial thoughts - the inspiration of his leech - subsided as quickly as they had risen. For in his passion he’d hit upon an inescapable truth: that if Wratha was here, then she was here! No Lord or Lady of the Wamphyri could ever have resisted it, the opportunity to reign over an aerie such as this. To reign supreme!
But on the other hand, this was only one stack, and all the vast expanse of this new Starside still unexplored. Wratha and her five had fled out of Turgosheim that time; was it possible that they all inhabited aeries such as this, strewn far and wide across these boulder plains? In which case, they would not have had time to build their armies, not yet! As a colony, working together, perhaps, but not as individuals, constantly vying with each other.
So perhaps one of the rebels was here. Or, in the case of the Killglance brothers, maybe two of them. But which?
Zack signalled his party to move in closer — especially his eager warriors, who had stood well off so as not to alert with the throb and sputter of their propulsors - and continued to circle the upper levels. And gradually losing altitude, he sank through the sombre night until the blue-tinged, white calcined fangs and sloping roofs of Wrathspire rose up like a castle within his spiral, and the bone-embellished base plummeted far below.
And still nothing stirred, neither a breath nor a thought. So that Zack was given to think (but far less secretively now): Deserted, aye, it could well be. But men and monsters had been here upon a time, certainly, as witness the windows, balconies, chimneys, flying buttresses, platforms, causeways, and .. .
. .. And landing-bays!
Why send in thralls or lieutenants to examine the stack, when there were warriors to do the job? And laughing his most sinister laugh, Lord Shornskull opened his mind and
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called them in, and ordered the first of them down into the yawning cavern mouth of the largest of the uppermost bays.
Then, even as the creature descended, hovering at the rim of the bay with mantle fluttering, gas-bags inflated and propulsors angling this way and that, Zack ‘heard’ it: the faintest echo of telepathic terror, a telltale gibbering in the psychic aether; like the whinny of a cornered goat as the wolves close in:
No, no.’ He mustn’t find me here! Please Jet him go away … awaaay!
Wratha! She was here after all! Alone! Undefended!
And: In! Zack ordered his construct without further pause. Its propulsors fired once; landing limbs uncoiled, reached out; the great armoured body settled to the polished rim of the bay.
Fascinated, Zack’s aerial troops looked on, all eyes zeroed in on the landing-bays, windows, balconies, precarious causeways. If the great aerie had defenders, surely they must show themselves now? Yet all was still, silent. Somewhere within, the Lady hid: Wratha the Risen, a woman at bay! And Laughing Zack would drag her in chains, naked and begging, before Vormulac Taintspore for his not-so-tender mercies.
But Wratha had heard that last! Again her terror was such she could not contain it, but once more issued a futile appeal to faithless fates: Please don’t let him find me! Please make him go away’.
And: In, alJ of you! Zack ordered his troops. There are landing-bays on aJl levels — use them! Find her! Find Wratha and bring her to me. It’s possible she’s alone, but any with her … destroy them! Feed them to the warriors to fuel them back to the barrier mountains. But do not harm Wratha, not a hair of her head. For I fancy Lord UnsJeep has plans of his own for her!
Ill
Starside Ambush - Nestor’s Enquiry — Canker’s Discovery
All eyes were on Wrathstack, and not one of them watching the fire-blackened ruins of the tumbled stacks of the Old Wamphyri where they littered the plain of boulders for miles all around. Since the closest of these shattered stumps and the mounds and tumuli of their debris lay something more than a mile away, and the more immediate visual lure of the last aerie and the drama about to be enacted there was so strong, this was scarcely surprising. But as Zack’s forces approached and carried out cursory examinations of the ledges and landing-bays on the various levels, while Zack himself stood off to survey and command the activities of his party, so a massed emergence and launching was taking place from several of the fallen stacks.
Most of Wrathstack’s major entranceways were in the east-facing wall of the aerie; Wratha’s ambush came from the west. And as the rumble of Zack’s warriors’ propulsors disguised the throb and stutter of Wratha’s, so the gauntly looming mass of the aerie itself served to hide their approach from view.
Zack had five warriors: three of his own and two borrowed specifically for this detail. One of the latter was a giant of a beast of Vormulac’s design and construction: in Zack’s estimation, too unwieldy by far. The rest of them
were smaller, but devastatingly fearsome creatures for all that. He also had six flyers in addition to his own; they carried three lieutenants and six senior thralls, the latter mounted two to a beast.
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Accompanied by a flyer and two thrall ‘minders’ or commanders, the giant warrior had proceeded to the base of the stack and was about to land in a vast landing-bay only a few hundred feet over the boulder plains. The remaining warriors and their commanders had taken up roughly equidistant hovering positions close to platforms, entranceways and landing-bays as suitable or available in the length of the stack. Laughing Zack himself attended his own warrior where it had landed in Wratha’s main bay and was using its chitin prow as a battering-ram to force massive inner doors. Hearing the doors groaning and straining under the brutal attack, Zack’s grin was broad as his lustful face .. . for a while …
… Until suddenly it became apparent to Lord Shornskull just how precipitant was his laughter. For from close at hand and without warning, Wratha’s mental command entered his skull with all the sharpness and force of a Szgany crossbow bolt. No timid, tremulous shuddering and cowering now, as that treacherous ‘voice’ of hers cried:
Strike them.’… strike them NOW!
Zack hadn’t quite landed; his flyer’s wings were hugely-arched air-traps, and its thruster-cum-landing tentacles were extended, reaching for the rim of the bay. But instinctively, even as Wratha’s voice and message registered, Zack backed his mount out over the gulf of air, away from the face of the stack — which probably served to extend his lifespan a little. Over the landing-bay, like lashes over an eye, heavy sections of harpoon-tipped, rusty iron grille were held aloft on ropes depending from various windows. The ropes were frayed from years of disuse, but many of the grille sections had been welded to the vertical face by the action of nitre -which did not include those directly above the central landing area.
