by Brian Lumley
even his eyes were scarcely visible in all the wadding! Patently, his art had warped him irretrievably. This was Wratha’s conclusion, at least.
And despite that Wrathstack had drawn first blood in the war with Turgosheim - namely, the rout, rack and ruin of Lord Shornskull and his party - it was obvious to Wratha that this was a desultory, even dispirited gathering. Lacking Canker Canison’s outrageous antics especially, there was nothing to give it cohesion, not even mutual irritation.
With a cursory wave of a slim hand, she bade them welcome and be seated, and inquired of no one in particular: The dog-Lord?’
‘Flown out,’ said Nestor, low-voiced. ‘I saw them from a window in my room of repose - Canker and his moon mistress - heading south and a little west, perhaps for the great pass.’
Wratha nodded, and snapped: ‘Well, then, it seems we must pray that Canker’s lieutenants are free of their master’s burgeoning affliction! My Lords, in case it’s escaped your notice, we have an aerie to secure and defend against the hosts of Vormulac!’
‘No use to bare your fangs at us, Lady!’ Gorvi lashed out, noticeably less unctuous than usual. ‘For we are here. Canker’s the one who’s absent!’
All of them, with the exception of Nestor, glared at one another. But in that quiet way of his, the necromancer merely said, Time is wasting.’ And with a shrug: ‘If Canker returns, he returns, and if he doesn’t, he doesn’t. What difference does it make? His men are fierce fighters all.’
Again, Wratha’s nod, and her sigh as she let out something of her pent air. ‘Very well, then let’s to it. And as for Canker: I had nothing for him, anyway. Now you see why I allotted him Mangemanse in the first place: it’s the least important of all the manses, and central - it’s the easiest to defend!’
‘Good!’ Spiro slapped the table, his scowl like the blaze of hot coals. Then we can get on? What do you have for me and mine?’
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Wratha raised an eyebrow. ‘Eager, are you?’
‘I have achieved my father’s killing eye,’ Spiro answered, ‘and I can feel its power growing even now! Time it was tested to the full.’ He looked several inches taller and wore a dirty eye-patch over a bruised, purple-blotched right eye and cheek. Swollen and discoloured, his left eye was a red-veined blob of sulphurous hate.
Wratha stared at him a while and said, ‘Your father’s eye, Spiro? And so it would appear. Well, and now you must use it to best effect! Wherever your manse’s defences are weakest, there make yourself available. And in the event of an attack, unleash your scathing eye upon the raiders! Glare them from their saddles - burst their hearts and obliterate them with a glance - before they can so much as think of landing!’
‘Alas,’ Wran spoke up, smiling sarcastically and plucking at his wen. ‘I am gifted with no such skills, but merely rage a little. Will you also tell me my duties, Madame?’
She nodded curtly. ‘Your duty is the inspiration of your forces. Show them that your furious madness is not without purpose, but directed at enemies who may not stand before the rage of Wran!’
Her words prompted him to puff himself up a little. But in a moment he scowled and asked, ‘Is that all? Have you called us here to instruct us in the obvious, in what is second nature to us? If so, it seems a great waste of time to me!’
Wratha’s turn to scowl. ‘My, but you Lords are edgy! Now tell me, have I led you astray so far? Are your manses full of good Sunside stuff to withstand Vormulac’s siege, or what? And listen …’ She put up a slender hand to a conch-like ear. ‘Is that the wind or the ghost of Laughing Zack Shorn-skull I hear? Now whose great works were these, I wonder — yours or mine?’
Wran’s scowl became a snarl. ‘And do you also take credit for that fiasco at Sanctuary Rock? And I would remind you: Zack Shornskull was just one of Vormulac’s
generals .. . but what if he’d sent ten? Lady, I tell you we were lucky!’
Before Wratha could spit an answer, Nestor sighed through his wrappings and said, ‘My Lords, Lady … do we really have time for these word games, this carping?’
Wratha glared at him, then snapped at Wran: ‘Of course I have other work for you! But since your arrival here, pale and shivering, my first thought was to boost your flagging morale .. .’
Wran’s jaw dropped. He pushed back his chair and made as if to spring to his feet.
‘Oh, not just you!’ Wratha threw her arms wide. ‘But all of you! Utterly out of sorts, worn down in spirit, when by all rights you should be geared for war. Gorvi the so-called Guile in a cold sweat, his former cunning noticeable by its absence, displaced by panic. Spiro Killglance almost too eager for war, which makes him irresponsible and easy prey to possibly fatal errors. And Nestor Lichloathe as cold and quiet as one of his beloved corpses! What a sorry bunch! But you three …’ (Wran, Spiro, Gorvi). ‘Is this that same band of renegades I led out of Turgosheim that time? Oh, it is, be sure - but grown fat and idle. What’s needed is more of the spirit you showed then. What? For then Vormulac had every advantage, where now he has only the weight of numbers. We are the ones sitting pretty in a fortress impregnable! So wake up! Rise up from this morbid mood in which you wallow!’
‘So, then!’ Wran huffed and puffed. ‘Now everything comes clear! We are to blame for this fix we’re in! We are the ones at fault, us Lords! Fat, idling cowards, the lot of us! Dull, dispirited dimwits! And Wratha the Risen the only one capable of reasoned thought. Are these the insults we must suffer? Is that what you’re saying, Lady?’
She looked at him and lifted a knowing eyebrow, and her look said it all: Ah! But just listen to you raving. As if it serves some purpose. And in a while, out loud and yet quietly, ‘Remember, those are your words, Wran Killglance,
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not mine …’ And a little louder: ‘Well then, what’s it to be? Do you hear me out - or don’t you?’
Wran glared at her for long, silent moments, but finally lowered his voice to growl, ‘Go on, then! We’re listening . ..’
Wratha got up abruptly from her bone-throne, strode to a window and beckoned the Lords to follow. And when they had joined her, she pointed out and down at the starlit piles of the tumbled stacks of the Old Wamphyri, strewn over the Starside plain in all directions. Then:
‘Aye,’ she said, turning her gaze on Wran. ‘And indeed I do have work for you - all to be attended to be/ore this war continues! Else it could be too late …’
‘Eh?’ He frowned.
Those fallen aeries all have one thing in common,’ she went on, ‘one weakness which brought them down.’
‘Oh?’
‘Don’t you see it?’
That they are fallen, certainly!’
She shook her head. That they were caused to fall! I’ve known it since the day we arrived here, and I should certainly think that you would know it too: you and Spiro of all people, since you’re living on hell’s very doorstep! Also, I know that this stack is no different; it has the same fault; it too can be toppled, brought down onto the boulder plains.’
Nestor stood apart from the others, at another window. But his strange, quiet voice was magnetic and claimed their attention as he said, ‘Wratha is right. I’ve spoken to the liches of men who told me how it was that time. But … let her finish, and then I’ll have my say.’
The gas-beast pens,’ said Wratha, which was explanation in itself. But without waiting for comment, she pressed on: ‘All of the pens on one level, side by side with the methane storage chambers; pens and chambers alike huddled together, like chicks in a nest - in one nest, Madmanse! And in this instance, well-named at that! For upon a time, these other gutted aeries of the Old Wamphyri were of a similar
flawed design. Ah, but only look at them now! Huh! It scarcely takes a genius to fathom how they were brought down .. .’
All the heat had passed out of Wran in a moment. Looking to Wratha for advice, he said, ‘But what would you have me do? We need the methane for th
e kitchens, heating, lighting.’
She nodded. ‘By all means, let’s use this fire to warm our hands - but I for one refuse to sit on it a moment longer! Not when it threatens to burn my tail! Two beasts in three must go, leaving plenty of well-aired space between the remaining pens! Now tell me, do I have it right? Are the chambers and pens all on the perimeter?’
‘Aye.’ Wran nodded worriedly. ‘Of course: to simplify the venting of excess gas.’
Then “simply” vent it!’ she told him. ‘As much as may be spared! And keeping only a handful of pens occupied, drain the rest of the chambers and stave them in, so that gas can’t accidentally gather there. Finally, until this war is over, keep only sufficient beasts for minimal lighting, heating, cooking. We see well enough and there are other ways to keep warm, and burning meat for greedy thralls was always a luxury at best.’
‘I should simply release my beasts and let them drift out on the air?’
Their function is to manufacture gas,’ Wratha answered. That’s all they do, and when they stop they die. You have no choice but to release them … or would you rather have Vormulac send in a suicide squad to fire them in their pens? I can see it now: each beast setting the next ablaze -and the methane chambers popping one by one - till all goes up in a titan blast! And finally, this last great aerie of the Wamphyri left teetering on a central stem, or slumping to a stump like these other toppled ruins!’
And now Nestor’s voice, gloomy and quiet as ever: ‘Your picture isn’t a pretty one, Lady, but it is accurate beyond a doubt. Moreover, Lord Unsleep isn’t the only one we need to worry about. No, for I know how it was that time, and that
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even now events are swinging full circle. History repeats …’
‘Explain,’ she said sharply.
He went back to the table and sat down (wearily, Wratha thought). She and the others followed him, waiting for him to continue. And eventually: ‘I talk to liches, as you know,’ he said. ‘And from them and other sources I’ve learned something of the recent history of this place. A thousand and more sunups ago there was a war .. . but not between the Old Wamphyri. No, because for once they were united against a common enemy. A very terrible enemy, aye: a Sunside wizard! And it was him who toppled the aeries one by one, and laid them low on the boulder plains.’
‘What?’ Gorvi’s eyes had narrowed to slits. ‘D’you mean a common man, a Sunsider, Szgany? A man did all that? How?’
‘A man, or men, aye.’ Nestor nodded. ‘But common, never! Haven’t I said they were wizards? As to how they did it: they caused the sun to shine on Starside, and guided its rays into the great stacks, to the methane chambers and gas-beast pens.’ Then, seeing Wratha’s puzzlement, he paused.
‘A thousand sunups gone?’ she queried him. ‘But … what has that to do with here and now? And what do you mean: events are swinging full circle?’
That wizard had sons,’ said Nestor, ‘one of whom inherited his powers, much as Spiro got his father’s killing eye.’
‘And?’ Wratha prompted him.
The wizard’s son still lives!’ Nestor turned his head abruptly, and stared at Wratha through the slits in his wrappings. ‘You even saw him, Lady, atop Sanctuary Rock! Why, you knocked him from the rim, which should have put an end to him! But no, he lives there still, on Sunside. For a while he was . .. elsewhere - wherever wizards go, don’t ask me - but now he’s back, and dangerous!’
For long moments she gaped at him, then slowly shook her head. ‘It seems to me your liches have lied, or told you
myths and legends. Men can’t control the sun, Nestor. That there’s a spark of truth in it … who knows? Maybe they massed an army in the mountains - men with mirrors, or weapons such as those the Lidescis use - and blasted the stacks with reflected sunlight. But even then, it seems farfetched to me.’
Nestor shrugged. ‘Well, I’ve warned you. And I have something else, for Wran. In their war against this Sunside wizard that time, the Old Wamphyri used gas-beasts as weapons, exploding them in the faces of their enemies. Since Vormulac Unsleep has set up watchers on the plain, and Wran has beasts to lose, I thought it was worth mentioning.’
Wran grinned, and for once nodded appreciatively.
‘And one last thing,’ said Nestor, but very quietly now.
‘Oh?’ Wratha waited.
This wizard’s son … he comes and goes!’ Nestor groaned, flapping his bandaged hands uselessly.
‘He does what?’ (This from Spiro.)
‘He … he moves!’ Nestor cried. ‘He moves instantly, from place to place. Even miles - a great many miles - in as little time as it takes to tell! He flits like a thought - but in body as well as mind …’
And in a little while: ‘Ah!’ said Gorvi, breaking the sudden silence with his sigh. And drily: ‘Well, there you have it. Didn’t I always say that Canker’s condition was contagious?’
Nestor took no offence apparently. He stood up, staggered, headed for the exit. He would descend along a well-known route into Suckscar. But at the archway exit, as if remembering his manners, he turned and looked back. ‘I take it you have nothing for me, Madame?’ His voice was hoarse, pained.
For a moment her heart went out to him … handsome young Lord Nestor, as had been! She wondered what ailed him, then put it aside at once. Whatever, it was none of her concern; she had problems of her own; they all did. ‘Nothing,’
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she said. ‘Except you make your best preparations for war.’
‘I am prepared,’ he answered, and left.
‘Which leaves me,’ said Gorvi.
Wratha got her thoughts together, turned her gaze on the Guile, and in a moment said, ‘Just you, Gorvi, aye. Well, you must guard your wells, and ensure that the water is plentiful. For there’s nothing quite like boiling water for poaching the flesh from a would-be invader’s bones! We must all be thankful my siphoneers are in fine fettle. And of course you must secure the bottoms; only let a man of Vormulac’s in down there - we’d have kneblasch in the water for sure! Also, I foresee a veritable rain of bodies into your territory, men and beasts alike! Make sure your earthbound warriors know the difference between friend and foe. Should fighting men or creatures of Wrathstack fall, give them succour if you can and return them to the battle with all speed. And our enemies . .. but I need not tell you how to use them.’
She looked from face to face. ‘As for myself: my roof is well-guarded, with warriors, pitfalls, traps. My landing-bays are gantlets for any brave fool who would try them. My lieutenants and thralls will not fail me but fight to the death - for should they fail to fight, they’ll die more terribly yet! There. Now we must wait a while, and see what’s what.’
With which the war council was over - but the wars were only just beginning .. .
In the keep in the great pass, Bruno Krasin’s night-guard had settled into their duties and were watchful. Trained soldiers, they watched the ground for men and scanned the air for flying beasts. But the keep was literally a fortress, and in a world as primitive as this the weapons of Earth were devastating; so that despite the loss of Tzonov and Yefros, of whom the common soldiers had known very little and understood even less, Krasin’s men felt strong, capable and sure of themselves.
Krasin himself felt sure of them. Indeed, it said a lot for his faith in them that, having witnessed the Lady Devetaki
Skullguise’s abduction of his leader, still he could sleep in this place! But Krasin was as hard as they come; he knew that his staying awake could not help matters; far better to be up at the crack of dawn, full of energy and clear-headed from a good night’s sleep.
So he slept in the glow of a hearth fire, and trusted the watchful men he’d left awake. If this were Russia, Krasin knew he would feel secure in the knowledge that nothing could slip by them.
But this was not Russia …
A corporal and a private soldier kept watch from their vantage point on the jutting b
alcony of a slate-roofed turret halfway up the face of the keep. Located centrally between the yawning cavern entrance and the topmost watchtower, the turret projected from the riddled face of the gorge like the beak of a bird of prey. Beneath the sloping slate canopy of the roof, the men were the bird’s eyes. Their own eyes gleamed blue in starlight, flowing down to them from the winding ribbon of glittering ice-chip stars overhead. The men had been there for five hours now and were tired; one more hour to go before hand-over of duties, when they could go to their beds and sleep.
One hundred and fifty feet below, the courtyard sprawled, blue-tinged and black-shadowed under its massive walls; a cigarette’s telltale glow lit the darkness where shadows gathered; faint footsteps and a hoarse-whispered challenge echoed up from a prowler-guard making his rounds. And a moment later a second glow-worm cigarette joined the first, the two seeming to flirt where the shadows pooled close to the keep gates.
The night was quiet. From far away, the occasional hoot of an owl; now and then a red-eyed moth half as big as a man’s hand, whirring in the darkness and staying close to the canyon wall to avoid the attention of bats; a sentient-seeming ground mist floating over the bed of the pass, its hesitant tendrils writhing, evaporating, apparently repulsed
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by the gates of the keep. Then the owl falling silent; the last moth whirring away in a fan of powdered wings; the silence closing in more yet…
To break it, the corporal in the turret shuffled and commented, ‘Private Bykov appears to be late with his signal.’ He leaned out across the balcony, craning his neck to stare up at the topmost tower, aimed his torch at it and pressed its stud. The beam reached out, picked out a gaunt stone facade and ink-blot windows. But although the corporal waited, there was no answering flash.
