The Last Aerie

by Brian Lumley

  “From now on I shall value your warnings,” Nestor told him. “But right now I may require your help! Here they come.”

  Wran and Spiro had emerged from one of the tunnels into the great hall. Behind them, they dragged female thralls with their clothes mainly stripped from them and hanging in rags. The women were vociferous in their protests; here in Suckscar, they knew what was their lot … but in Madmanse?

  Hurrying towards Wran, Spiro, and their struggling prizes, Zahar and Grig went to intercept. Back from seeing to the former’s wounds, they seemed affronted by the twins’ rapaciousness. But these were the Killglance brothers, Lords of the Wamphyri; if things turned nasty, Nestor’s lieutenants wouldn’t stand a chance. Still, it said a lot for Zahar that even with a dangling arm and damaged hand he now knew where his loyalties lay. For the moment, at least.

  Laughing, the Lords faced down the would-be defenders of Suckscar; but Spiro grew calm in a moment, his grin becoming a scowl as Zahar and Grig drew closer. Until at last he queried, “Oh? And is there a problem?” Giving his captive a backhander in the face, he sent her skittering among a crowd of cowering thralls where they’d emerged from their various places. So far, Suckscar’s “people” had kept well out of it; they had guessed that the Lord Vasagi was no more, but had not known the nature of their new master. Curiosity is a powerful force, however, especially among vampires. A good many of them were here now, anxious to discover what was their lot.

  “Make or break!” Canker coughed in Nestor’s ear, where they too closed on the frozen tableau. “It’s come sooner than I thought. Gore Sucksthrall was the best of Vasagi’s men, and he’s dead. These others are useless to you, and the Killglance brothers are fiends in a fight. I … I like your cut, Nestor, but this is not my problem. It’s up to you now: a ‘diplomatic solution’—cowardice, if you like—or a beating, and possibly death.”

  “Or something else,” Nestor answered, in a voice empty of emotion, cold as the winds off the Icelands. “Watch your back.”

  “Eh?” Canker glanced to the rear, and saw Nestor’s furry familiars flowing across the hall’s flags behind them.

  “Even without you,” Nestor told him in that same emotionless voice, “I am not alone. And I’m not about to be beaten.”

  Canker paused a moment, then threw back his head to howl like a mad thing and shake from head to toe. Catching up with Nestor, he said, “Why, now I like your cut even more, my crafty Lord Nestor—not to mention the odds! Very well, we stand together.”

  “Well?” Spiro took a threatening pace towards Grig, who had now come to a halt.

  And Wran—still smiling, for the moment—totd Zahar, “Man, if you persist in blocking my way, there’s a very strong chance I’ll eat your heart right here and now, off this immaculately clean floor.”

  “Gentlemen,” Nestor growled, coming upon them. “I see you found my women, and picked out two of the comeliest to show me what is my get. That was thoughtful of you. But now, alas, matters are come to a head and I must show you off my property. As you see, two of my creatures are here to make sure you have not forgotten the way out.” And in his mind: Rear up! Menace them! Issue your smoking juices!

  He stepped aside, Canker likewise—and the guardians of the staircase at once flowed forward, reared upright, presented their muscular underbellies and dripped acid! Wran released his captive; both he and his brother crouched down, looked this way and that; their crimson eyes now blazed with fires so hot they almost smoked. Then:

  “Do … you … threaten?” No longer a “gentleman,” Wran looked about to explode, indeed to rage.

  “Threaten?” Nestor put on a surprised expression. “In what way? I merely provide you with an escort from my place. For as I have said, matters are coming to a head.”

  “What matters?” Spiro snarled, clasping his brother’s arm as if to hold him in place.

  “Why, only that the sun is up,” Nestor answered. “You’ve a little time to spare, of course, but if you would collect your flyers from Wratha’s landing bay, and return to Madmanse without—inconvenience?—then it’s time you were on your way.”

  Wran’s captive had wriggled away from him; she hid behind Nestor, clutching his jacket. The brothers fumed; they glared at each other, at Canker, and at Nestor with his knife in his belt, but mainly at his familiars. Wran and Spiro were not equipped for war, and even Nestor’s common thralls had now taken heart, hissing and creeping closer.

  “Hah!” Spiro snarled. “Not a threat?”

  “In no way,” Nestor answered. “I invited you in here, and you entered of your own free will. What sort of hospitality, to threaten you now? Also, Wran is responsible for my being here. I would be in his debt—except, of course, I saved his life on Sunside, and so we’re even. And while we talk the sun is risen, soon to burn on Wrathspire. I was thinking of your safety, and only that.”

  Wran took a deep breath, held it a moment, then slapped his thigh and burst out laughing, however harshly. “A prodigy!” he cried, through gritted teeth. “A babe out of Sunside, grown to a man in a single morning, and master now of an aerie manse! Well, and didn’t I say you’d do well in Suckscar?”

  “Indeed you did.” Nestor gestured to indicate the way out, and in so doing cleared a path for them across the floor of the great hall, towards the tunnel stairs to Wratha’s landing bays. “And so I shall. But each of us in his own place, and yours is in Madmanse.”

  The brothers left; they took their time walking across the floor, but they left. Behind them, Nestor’s staircase guardians flowed across the flags, leaving a whiff of acid stench in the air. And ahead of them:

  Nestor sent a thought to the dark-furred bat-thing in its archway niche. The men who approach: let them pass, then spit at them, hiss, and shepherd them up and out of Suckscar! From this time forward, they shall not pass again.

  Nestor’s male and female thralls, his lieutenants, most of his people—and all of them vampires—were gathered to him now. Knowing that things were afoot, they’d converged on the great hall from their various workplaces. He stepped up onto a table and turned in a circle, letting all of them see him clearly. Their babble ceased in a moment.

  “Look well,” he told them, “and remember: I am the Lord Nestor, Master of Suckscar. You are my people. Should there be those among you who do not wish to be mine, who may not desire my food, protection, or the comforts of my house, then by all means choose a window and make your exit. For in future, that is how I shall punish any rebellious creature of mine: a long last screaming flight, and a few stains on the scoriac scree. So much for mere dissension … but as for treachery or insurgence—” He let his gaze wander, to settle on his carpet creatures where they flowed with scarcely a ripple up the stairs to their accustomed places. “The guardians of my staircase have their needs …

  “And so I make it simple: my word is law. One law for all, and whosoever breaks it gets broken in his turn. So be it.”

  Nestor looked down on the faces closest to the table, and said, “Canker, Zahar, Grig.” He held out his arms to help them up. And of Canker: “This one, Canker Canison, master of Mangemanse, is my friend.” He held up his hand. “Ah, no, it bestows no privileges upon him but merely grants that Canker is not my enemy! You will respect him but not obey him.” Canker shrugged, grinned, and nodded appreciatively.

  “As for these two”—Nestor glanced at Zahar and Grig each in turn—“they are my lieutenants, whose word next to mine is law. Zahar is the senior and my right-hand man; his arm shall grow stronger, and his hand yet more heavy.”

  Nestor considered what he had said and nodded. He was satisfied. But one final command, and a warning, seemed in order. “I shall see you about, and you shall see me … but when you least expect it. And now it seems your various works go wanting, while you stand idle and gawping. Let him who has no work learn how to fly, and quickly!”

  The crowd dispersed, hastened by Zahar and Grig, who got down among them from the table. Only the two mistr
eated vampire women held back, examining their bruises and glancing sideways at Nestor. He saw that they were young and very beautiful, and said to them, “Vasagi’s rooms were cold, but mine will be warm. His hearth has no fire, and his bed is hard. These things are mine now. Put them in order, and wait for me …”

  A moment later, when they were alone, Canker danced like a dog on its hind legs and chortled, “Excellent, all excellent! And I no longer fear for you. The surly Suck’s no more, and my new neighbour is much to my liking. Why, I can see us now: scampering like pups on Sunside, chasing the chickens to and fro!” He became serious, and whined pleadingly, “But now let me beg you, come down with me into Mangemanse and see my great work: that instrument fashioned of bones, with which I’ll lure my silver mistress down from the moon.”

  Nestor considered it for a moment, then shook his head. “Later, perhaps—if you’ll show me the way down and promise to speak on my behalf to whatever guards the way! But first I must explore all of Suckscar. For after all, this is just one level. I’ve now seen the east wing of just one level, and the north, south, and west wings still unseen! And four more levels to go!” It was hard to keep the elation out of his voice. The vampire is territorial; Nestor’s territories, along with his expectations, were expanding fast.

  Canker was downcast. “Ah! Of course. But already it seems you’ve been here forever, and I feel that I have known you that long at least. Also, it’s my instinct that you’ll be fascinated by that which these so-called colleagues of ours despise. And it will be splendid to have a visitor in Mangemanse who I can trust.”

  “As soon as I’ve at least stuck my head in each corridor, room, hall, and workshop, then I shall visit you,” Nestor promised. “No matter the hour.”

  “Excellent!” Canker was delighted. “I shall expect you before nightfall.”

  “And should I enter of my own free will?” Nestor’s voice was cold, his expression blank.

  Canker looked at him, stared into his eyes. Perhaps there was a hint of red in them even now, as early as this. “Tut-tut! We are friends!”

  “As Wran was my friend?”

  “No, as I am your friend!”

  “So be it,” said Nestor.

  “Very well,” Canker answered. “Now we proceed directly to your nethermost level, where I shall show you the stairwell and pass down into Mangemanse. And on the way down, I’ll advise my creatures as you suggest.”

  Nestor looked all about the great hall. A few thralls were busy in a kitchen to one side; a female swept the floor; industrious sounds echoed from various side tunnels and passageways. The Lord Nestor had issued a warning against sloth, and it was obvious that his people had taken it seriously.

  “Zahar!” he called out, as Canker led the way towards a stone-hewn stairwell. “Attend me.” And to Canker: “I need him. When you have gone, he shall accompany me on my tour of Suckscar.”

  “Good!” said the other. “That way, you will seem to have purpose and not be seen wandering aimlessly.”

  “I do have purpose!” Nestor retorted. “I shall be seen to be interested in everything, and where things don’t work, they shall be put to rights. Even if they do work, but I don’t like the way they work, I shall change them.”

  “A new broom sweeps clean,” said Canker. “And a new Lord of the Wamphyri commands respect.” He shook his head and frowned, and great shaggy red eyebrows met over the bridge of his nose. “But still I can’t get over how quickly you’re settling in. Maybe there’s more to that story of yours than meets the eye: about your having been Wamphyri before, and forgotten it. Could it be you’re someone’s bloodson, I wonder? Is it possible that somewhere in your ancestry some Lord took a Sunside girl, and the issue had nothing of the vampire in him except the desire to be Wamphyri?”

  Nestor nodded, shook his head, shrugged. “I don’t know.”You could be right. But I do know this: if I haven’t always been Wamphyri, certainly I have always wanted to be.”

  Then Zahar joined them and they proceeded down into the lower levels.

  After Canker had gone, Zahar took Nestor on his tour.

  “How many rooms do I have?” Nestor inquired.

  “You have stables, storerooms and a granary, a slaughterhouse and cold store,” Zahar answered. “You have kitchens and rooms for dining, quarters for your thralls, workshops and a laundry, and launching bays. You have a hall of metamorphosis, with great vats hollowed in the floor and cages in the walls for your warriors. And of course you have your own rooms over the great hall. But how many? I doubt if anyone ever counted them, Lord!”

  “Oh? Then have it done,” Nestor answered at once. “I want them counted, listed, and mapped.”

  “Mapped?”

  “Aye, on skins. Five skins in frames, one to each level, all accurately marked with the location of every room, chamber, hall, whatever. With arrows showing north, south, et cetera, and all landmark curiosities clearly displayed. For it strikes me a man could get lost in Suckscar, which would never do. But with a map, I may check my route before I go abroad from my rooms. Is all understood?”

  “Yes, Lord,” Zahar answered. “I know a man, a thrall. On Sunside he drew maps of the Traveller trails. Likewise here in Suckscar, except he drew them for Vasagi. When the Suck raided, he knew where he was going.”

  “Good!” said Nestor. “A useful man, that. Later, you must send him to me.” And after a moment: “Now tell me, Zahar, where should I look first?” He sounded tired now, and Zahar noted the fact … also that they were quite alone in Suckscar’s nether levels.

  Hugging his wounded arm and hand, finally Zahar answered, “Vasagi’s vats … may be of interest. Creatures of his—or yours, Lord—are waxing even now.” He looked at his arm and hand. And so did Nestor. The bleeding had stopped; Zahar’s metamorphic vampire flesh was healing him; he would soon be good as new.

  “To the vats, then,” said Nestor. Before retiring, he would see what Vasagi the Suck had fashioned. But the idea of bed was appealing now, and the long Starside “day” still lay ahead. For some time to come Nestor would continue to sleep like a Traveller, until his change was complete. But after that the sun (its presence in the sky over Sunside) would act on him like a poisonous drug, compelling him to sleep in his dark, shadowy room, with the curtains drawn against the light.

  They climbed up to the center level, then made their way northwest through a maze of passageways and halls to a place where the rock was of a volcanic origin. The ancient lava was pitted like the alveolate bones of birds; and in a vast, low-ceilinged hall, long-escaped gasses had left cavernous pits in the grained, fibrous floor. Except for these sunken “vats” the floor had been leveled; the vats had been lined with clay and sealed with tar from Sunside’s tar pits. This was where Vasagi and doubtless many another Lord of the Old Wamphyri before him had bred their warriors and familiars. And as Zahar had said, some of the Suck’s constructs were waxing even now.

  From a swirl of gluey fluids, a great colourless eye gazed vacuously up at Nestor where he stood at the rim of a vat. The metamorphic liquid in the vat was almost opaque; the creature it covered was little more than a vague outline, like a series of submerged rocks covered with spines; only the quivering of the grey-green surface told of life. And the mindless gazing and swiveling of the eye, of course.

  “A warrior,” Zahar informed quietly, tonelessly, almost as if he feared to breathe, where he stood directly behind Nestor at the vat’s rim. “A replacement. Vasagi lost several in Traveller traps on Sunside. Some of the tribes are very well organized under brave leaders. The Szgany Lidesci are clever indeed, and will pay heavily for their cleverness—eventually.”

  Nestor’s vampire was alert, alive, wriggling frantically in his body and mind. It sharpened his previously dull and damaged wits, expanded his five mundane senses and awareness to their present limits, issued warnings he couldn’t ignore. He did not need to glance over his shoulder to know that Zahar was only an inch away, and that his good arm and hand h
ung down on a parallel with Nestor’s spine. He could almost feel the pent pressure in that hand and arm, and certainly he could “hear” the deadly design of Zahar’s mind. A lunge forward, a shove, was all that was needed.

  Nestor stepped aside, and his motion was so swift that it left Zahar stumbling a little. And merely glancing at him, Nestor said, “What is this liquid?”

  At the end of the vat was a ramp sloping down and disappearing into the murk and slop. It was flanked by narrow stone steps. Nestor moved towards that end, and behind him he heard Zahar take a deep breath. But inside Nestor, his vampire was still at work, and what was instinct to it became instinct to him. So that even before Zahar spoke, he knew what the fluids were: the metamorphic juices of life! This vat was a cold womb for the foetal fashionings of a vampire thing. And Vasagi the Suck had been both father and mother to the contents. The liquids were the white of the egg which sustains the yellow chick, a plasma soup of lymph and protoplasm, derived mainly from innocent blood but contaminated or “fertilized” with Vasagi’s own urine, blood, spittle, and sperm.

  “It is the sweet juice of forty Travellers, all squeezed by Vasagi!” said Zahar, his throat clogged with weird emotion, perhaps pleasurable anticipation? “It feeds his creature, oils its joints, and defines its very allegiance. Emerging from its vat, it would know him at once. In another sunup and sundown, it will emerge …” He let his voice trail off.

  And Nestor looked at him. “But the question is, will it know me?”

  Zahar shrugged, and struggled with himself not to smile. His thoughts were sinister and Nestor knew it. He also knew a little about Nature: the way the Travellers imprint wolves by midwifing the bitches and supplanting the dog fathers, so that the whelp grows up as guardian to child and man. It was one of those memories which occasionally sprang to mind, unbidden out of a mainly forgotten past.