Bloodwars

by Brian Lumley

  Like all megalomaniacs, they only perceived the corruption, the evil, the perversions of others; or, should an individual glimpse an aberration in himself, his preference would be to blame it upon, or assign it to, his leech, depending on the circumstances. Thus, while acknowledging the dubious benefits of their parasites, still they decried their insatiable appetites or ‘vices’. Contrarily, and while a victorious Lord would revel in ‘his’ triumph, in the event of defeat he would just as readily heap curses upon his ‘thin-blooded’ vampire.

  Devetaki Skullguise, the virgin grandam of Masquemanse, was no different. In Turgosheim it had made sense to live an ordered life: to ‘exist’ as governed by the tithe system. By no means an austere existence, it had scarcely been an opulent one. Nevertheless, Zolteism had suited Devetaki: the creed made clear how each should live commensurate with his or her needs. Thus the requirements of her house, the

  ‘provisioning’ of Masquemanse, had been guaranteed. The Lady’s gauntly jutting promontory of an aerie was by no means a hovel; her ‘fair share’ of the Sunside tithe had been considerable; while very occasionally her men and creatures might find it necessary to scratch and scrape, their mistress had never gone without. On the other hand, the lesser knolls and crevices of recently ascended vampires and the middling manses of young up-and-coming Wamphyri Lords and Ladies commanded a much reduced get out of Sunside, and frequently were shabby, even impoverished.

  Thus (and especially with Vormulac in the role of tithes-master), Turgosheim’s secret triumvirate had established and kept a rein on the gorge and its inhabitants - and upon themselves! When one has only sufficient for himself and his immediate household, all instinctive or leech-inspired notions of feuding, territorial expansion and empire-building become academic; finally, they assume the status of fantasies. Plots are still plotted, but they are rarely acted out.

  Of course, in a society whose continuity is based on principles of conservation, the rules must be seen to be obeyed by everyone. Lord Vormulac, and Maglore the Mage, too, were known to be fairly strict adherents to Zolteism: ‘ascetics’. So Devetaki and everyone else had believed, even as her partners in the triumvirate had believed it of each other - and of Devetaki herself . ..

  Turgosheim was yesterday, however, and this was here and now. And this . .. was freedom! Or it could be, if she and her leech played it right. What Devetaki had disclosed to Vormulac was true: she envied Wratha and her renegades what they’d had here, and what they could have had eventually, without Turgosheim’s intervention. But what she had necessarily failed to disclose was far more to the point: that if she herself could have it -for herself - then she wouldn’t for a moment hesitate. Even now, the thought made her shudder deliciously: to be Empress of these vast and sprawling territories and all that went with them … and perhaps other places much further afield.

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  Moreover, it wasn’t impossible that she’d come across the key to unlock just such airy ambitions, in the shape of Turkur Tzonov. Precisely how she would turn that key - in what ingenious lock - was hard to say just yet, but it was in her hand, be sure. And Vormulac Taintspore himself approved of it there.

  Vormulac: currently, and however unknowingly, he was Devetaki’s tool; but a heavy one and unwieldy. If she should slip and miss her stroke, he’d prove a sharp one, too! Despite that he had gone along with her so far, still she must be wary. Her time would come when she’d used him to whittle the others down, removing all who might possibly have her measure. Laughing Zack Shornskull might have been one such, but circumstances had seen to him without her help. With any luck, Wamus would be next; and as for Zindevar . .. she simply must go, and straight to hell if at all possible! After that:

  Any and all of the other Lords would consider themselves superior over a ‘mere’ woman (Devetaki wondered how Wratha had fared, and felt a certain kinship); but by then, hopefully the bloodwar would have worn their forces down a little. The aspirations of Black Boris went little further than a harem of trog mistresses, and Grigor the Lech had similar weaknesses; Devetaki was sure that if she struck while they were whoring it up, she could take them out with a minimum of trouble.

  Eventually, of course, even Vormulac would see the lie of the land: how the virgin grandam gathered survivors of defunct contingents to her own, to reinforce it, and how she had begun to draw apart from him. This would probably split the army out of Turgosheim into two uneasy camps, both of them obliged (for the time being) to remain united and concentrate their efforts against Wratha, their main priority; at least until Wrathstack had fallen. By which time the warrior-Lord would have decided how best to deal with Devetaki, and she would know how best to use the bonus talents of Turkur Tzonov.

  These were some of the Lady’s thoughts (kept hidden from the warrior-Lord, of course), as the pair approached the camp of Wamus behind a time-tattered curtain of white volcanic pumice, the fragile spume of the lava river’s ancient falls. And just as Devetaki became aware that she’d been lost in thought for too long:

  ‘You are quiet, Lady,’ rumbled Vormulac, as if reading her mind - which mercifully he wasn’t. ‘Quiet and thoughtful. I’ve seldom found it easy to fathom you. So tell me: what is it that you’re pondering?’

  ‘I was thinking,’ she answered at once, ‘how best .. . how best to advise you in respect of Wratha’s containment.’

  ‘Is she contained?’

  ‘Not yet, and that’s the problem.’

  Then have you thought it out?’

  ‘Possibly .. .’ (And now Devetaki must really think on it, and quickly indeed.) But in a moment: ‘If Wamus should survive the coming battle at the keep in the pass, then we’ll let him hold it. For remember: as things stand now Wratha may yet venture out unseen from Wrathstack in its lower levels, below our horizon and, keeping her head low, speed for the pass. With Wamus or his survivors in the keep, we’ll be able to deny her passage into Sunside via that route at least. That will leave only eastern and western routes open - which we’ll also block, naturally. Even now we stand in the way of her easterly excursions; obviously, she frequently heads in this direction to collect the tithe from her supplicants across the mountains. So if we station a sufficiency of men and warriors here, this will be the second supply route we’ve obstructed; and possibly Wratha’s main route, at that. As for the as yet unseen, unknown regions in the west, beyond the great pass, and the strange cold glaring light of that… that what? A fallen star?’

  ‘Is that what it is, do you think?’

  She shook her head, sending her red hair flying, and, lying, said, ‘I don’t know what it is. But as for the west -‘

  ‘- That is for you and I to explore!’ Vormulac exclaimed

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  with some animation. ‘Together, I think.’

  Devetaki shrugged. ‘Why not? After all, we are the best of companions! And when we’ve taken the high ground - namely, these barrier mountains, from east to west - and if we locate observer units out on the plain of boulders, consisting of our fleetest flyers and lieutenants in tune with their Lords’ receptive minds. .. why, Wratha’s every twitch will be relayed to us! Thus we’ll have her covered from all points.’

  ‘Only two things she can do after that.’ Vormulac nodded. ‘Or possibly three, if we include a slow and highly improbable suicide by starvation. She’ll attempt to break the siege, fly into Sunside and glut her starveling lads in some lush land of plenty; or … she’ll consume Wrathstack’s provisions in one last massive fuelling, and hurl herself into battle!’

  The latter, if I know Wratha.’ Devetaki nodded. That’s precisely what I meant when I guessed we wouldn’t have long to wait before this war got well and truly underway. She’s Wratha the Risen, remember? And she’s wrathful as ever, be sure! She won’t lie low for long. But if I may ignore your creeping starvation solution - which I’m sure she would not contemplate - there is a third possibility, and real, however improbable.’

  �
��Oh?’

  That she’ll sit tight in the stack till the last minute, then gut the rest of them to fuel her own, and finally make a break for it!’

  ‘She’ll run for it? But where?’

  Again Devetaki’s shrug. Turgosheim?’

  ‘What, back across the Great Red Waste? With my army hot on her heels? And the Seer-Lord Maglore waiting for her in the gorge, with all the good stuff we left behind to bring to bear against her?’ Vormulac couldn’t see it.

  ‘Maglore is an old fraud!’ Devetaki snorted. ‘She’d crush him in a trice - or convert him to her cause! Nor would we be “hot on her trail”, not immediately. Eventually, perhaps.’

  ‘Explain!’

  ‘Her beasts would be well rested; they would make it

  back to Turgosheim. Ours would be exhausted from all the patrolling, watching, flying and possibly fighting. For remember, we don’t know what else we might yet come up against.’

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘Such as those men from - I mean of course those men in - the pass.’ (She had caught herself only just in time, before saying, ‘those men from another world’.) ‘So you see, before we could get after her, we would have to build ourselves up again. And meanwhile Wratha would be converting all of our good stuff in the gorge of Turgosheim.’

  Vormulac scratched his head and made an unhappy growling sound. ‘Huh! You make it all so complicated!’

  ‘War is complicated!’ Devetaki insisted. ‘But the answer is simple: we’ll send back a stiff complement of men and warriors to the eastern tip of the range. They can shelter during daylight in the same trog caverns where we rested up after our crossing. Hah! And we know who would find that to his liking: Black Boris is our man! Then, should Wratha attempt flight to the east, Boris and his contingent would intercept and bring her crashing down in the Great Red Waste.’

  Lord Unsleep, for all his habitual melancholy (not only a morbid but a self-generating condition, Devetaki felt sure), had been attentive to everything she said. ‘Good!’ he said. ‘And now can I take it our plan of containment is complete? Then I’ll reiterate: We’ll have watchers on the plain of boulders, keeping an eye on Wrathstack. We’ll put a party down into the pass, so preventing Wratha from sneaking into Sunside for provisions. We’ll leave a strong force of men and beasts here, to deny her access to her - or should I say, to our - supplicant tribes, and we’ll locate other siege components in the western heights. Finally, we’ll station Black Boris and his lot in the eastern trog caverns, so cutting Wratha off if she runs for home.’

  Even as he spoke the words, the warrior-Lord’s gloom had seemed to lift a very little; but as he finished, frowned,

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  and his face fell further yet, she saw that he was morose as ever. ‘What is it, my Lord?’

  ‘Where’s my army?’ he answered. ‘I lost some before we’d even left our homeland, others where we paused to refuel, and a good many more over the Great Red Waste. Laughing Zack is no more, and now I am contemplating sending Wamus to his doom, or at best into a terrific scrap where -if your report on these weird weapons is correct - he’s bound to suffer severe losses. Nor is that the end of it. You, my good Devetaki, seem intent upon the removal of the .. . unfortunate Lady Zindevar, and any and all others who deviate from your “norm”. Thus, even before the bloodwar begins in earnest, with the bulk of the fighting still to come, I see my army being whittled down left, right and centre.’

  Devetaki sighed - but understandingly, not impatiently. ‘I see now your concern for those in your command. Is that all it is?’ She sighed again. ‘For a moment I thought it was some insurmountable problem which I had not foreseen. But in any war men and beasts are bound to be lost, my Lord, while in this one … at least we can ensure that the brunt of the damage is suffered by those we can best afford to lose. Why not look at it this way: the weakest make the supreme sacrifice for the good of the strong - indeed, for the survival of the Wamphyri!’

  Vormulac narrowed his eyes. ‘I was talking mainly of the rapid dissolution, the dispersal, of my army: the fact that at this rate I’ll soon be left naked, with only my own and a handful of lesser contingents to hand! I was not complaining about the “sacrifices” of war! Why, if I didn’t know you better, Devetaki, I might think you were twisting my words.’

  ‘But I shall continue to twist them!’ she said. ‘Or, if not twist, I’ll supply the correct words. Dissolution? Dispersal? I think you mean “deployment”, my Lord. The tactical positioning of your forces to their best effect.’

  ‘Yes, you’re right -‘ (Vormulac was starting to feel irritated that she was ‘right’ so often) - ‘but when they’re apart from me, out of sight, I know I shall feel that I’m losing control.’

  ‘Not at all!’ She shook her head. ‘It’s why you have generals: because you can’t fight the entire war on your own.’ She touched his arm. ‘But here comes Wamus now. Shall you tell him, or shall I?’

  ‘I shall task him; you shall describe the task and define its difficulties. After all, you’ve been there and I haven’t.’

  Seeing the warrior-Lord and Devetaki through the fretted curtain of pumice that provided a screening facade to his lava cavern camp, Lord Wamus headed in their direction with his lieutenant ‘bloodsons in tow. Though well-acquainted with Vormulac and his self-appointed aide, still Wamus screened them in advance; the pair felt a high-pitched whistle - a bat-like trill or chittering — striking them at all points and bouncing off, carrying the details of their identities infallibly back to the weird being that was Wamus. A moment later and the singular examination stopped; Wamus stepped closer, acknowledged Devetaki with a nod of his head, and performed a stiff, formal bow in deference to Vormulac. And: ‘Lord Unsleep?’ he inquired.

  ‘Wamus.’ The other nodded a gloomy greeting. ‘I see you are settling in. But not too well, I hope, not just yet! Now tell me, have you provisioned your men, flyers and warriors? Are they well-fed, up to strength - fighting fit?’

  ‘All is in order, thank you, and … I see you have work for me and mine?’

  It was less than telepathy or prognostication; more properly, a bat-skill: the anticipation of certain requirements in the moment before they become physically apparent. As the bat is equipped to calculate an arrow’s flight-path, thus avoiding a collision, Wamus was aware that this was something more than a friendly visit. He had known it from the moment he glimpsed the warrior-Lord and the Lady Devetaki through gaps in the pumice curtain, and Vormulac’s mode of greeting had confirmed it. Fortunately, however, Wamus was not in the habit of avoidance; he would not shirk his duties. Therefore, and without waiting for his leader’s affirmation:

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  ‘Good,’ he said, giving a curt nod, ‘for I deplore inactivity. What is required of me?’

  While Vormulac told him, Devetaki took the opportunity to scrutinize Wamus and his sons through half-shuttered eyes.

  Despite that Wamscarp was one of Turgosheim’s major manses - an echoing cathedral of a place in a stalagmitic cavern system located high in the wall of the gorge - still its master was something of an unknown quantity; of a solitary nature, he was rarely seen in public. Now, as she looked him over, however covertly, Devetaki found herself much in accord with his self-imposed insularity.

  That Wamus was of human origin was obvious; his anthropomorphism was plain to see, despite that his meta-morphism tried hard to obscure the fact. In this respect, Wamus and Vasagi the Suck had been two of a kind: they had both practised their metamorphic skills to such an extent that flux was effortless and instantaneous. Vasagi, when the acromegalic extension of certain of his facial bones became grotesque, had extruded them in deference to his own freakish design. Wamus, long enamoured of the unerring aerial instinct of bats and determined to achieve similar skills, had guided his metamorphism in that direction.

  Almost all of the Wamphyri could fly; though a few, like Lorn Halfstruck, were earthbound of their own choice.
Some flew with great skill, others less dexterously; a handful performed clumsily, and only when there was no other option, when flight was an absolute necessity. Metamorphic flux allowed transformation of shape; various designs, aerofoils and leaf-shapes, had proved successful. Should a flyer be crippled during an aerial collision (or, in the light of prevailing hostilities, during an attack by warriors), then, depending on the altitude, a vampire Lord or Lady rider might reasonably expect to launch from the injured beast and make a safe descent. Conversely, lieutenants and common thralls would certainly crash to their deaths. For

  while they had partial metamorphism, only the Wamphyri had truly mastered it.

  As for Wamus’s mastery: he was, to all intents and purposes, a bat. Some six feet tall, sleekly furred, sharp-headed and with pointed ears curving inwards to the skull; thin as a rake, but flexible as a whip and light as a feather to boot; with ‘hands’ that reached to his knees, and arms webbed to his body with folding, furred, membranous pinions, so that, opening them, the webbing formed air-trap wings; with a quivering, convoluted snout, taloned extremities and crimson pinprick eyes . .. Wamus was a bat!

  But where the creature itself is as one with nature and therefore acceptable, Lord Wamus’s imitation made him hideous even in the eyes of his contemporaries. He was a man, but he was also a great bat no less than Desmodus; and, being Wamphyri, he was a great deal more than both. As for his bloodsons, there was nothing to choose between them and their father; if anything, their faces and forms were even less acceptable.