The Last Aerie

by Brian Lumley

  “She got him drunk!” Canker barked. “She exhausted him with her sex, bound him to a bed, and opened the curtains! She let the sun shine directly in upon him. She decked the walls with bronze shields burnished to mirror brightness, all concentrating the sunlight on Karl in his stupor, while she stood safe in the shadows. It didn’t take too long. Karl fried and his leech deserted him. But in the brilliant light it, too, was finished. And as Karl’s parasite blackened and smoked, so Wratha closed the curtains. The leech issued its egg—one last chance for continuity, a final throw at reproduction—and Wratha made it welcome! She had been a vampire thrall, Karl’s mistress, and now was Mistress of Cragspire, soon to be Wrathspire. So she ascended.”

  “A pattern, you said.” Nestor was thoughtful. “But if she planned any such fate for me, what would she gain from it? That time in Turgosheim it was her ascension. But here she is risen! Also, forewarned is forearmed. She’ll not get me drunk so very easily, believe it! And I’ll make sure to stay well away from any south-facing windows.”

  Canker was astonished. “Still you’ll go? Despite what I’ve told you?”

  Nestor looked at him, looked away, shrugged. And finally: “I’ve been Wamphyri for something less than two years now,” he said. “But before that I was Szgany, and of the Lidesci clan at that. They are a hot-blooded people, as you know, and my parasite has turned up the heat tenfold. Will I go, you ask … ? Now tell me, my friend, would you?”

  Nostrils gaping suspiciously, Canker sniffed the air. His great furry wolf’s ears, with their dangling lobes fretted into a sickle-moon sigil, twitched this way and that as if intent on distant sounds or thoughts. Finally he fell on all fours, threw back his head, and howled. And his ribbed throat throbbed as its eerie ululations echoed through all of Mangemanse. But as they died away:

  A trickle of saliva dribbled from the corner of the dog-Lord’s panting, soft leathery mouth. And looking up at Nestor, he whined and said, “Lord Lichloathe, my lad—but how could I possibly resist it?”

  6

  Nestor and Wratha: Their Joining

  When Nestor got back up into Suckscar, he found Zahar waiting for him with a surprise. Wratha had sent him down a present of three Szgany males from the night’s raid. They were a youth, a grown man, and a grey-pate. For all his pride, Nestor was hardly the one to refuse them; not now that the get out of Sunside had grown so small. He did note, however, that they were all males, which Wratha must surely prefer to keep. But on the other hand and in the current circumstances, he could see why she wouldn’t want to send him women fresh out of Sunside …

  As for sending him any token of her esteem at all—especially one of precious flesh and blood—that was completely unheard of, and Zahar was at a loss to understand it. “Is the Lady in your debt, Lord?” he finally found courage to inquire. And indeed, in respect of Wratha’s spying on Nestor—her interference with his dreams, and what all—perhaps she could be said to be in his debt at that. Whether or no, he looked Zahar square in the eye and answered:

  “She could be, eventually …” And on afterthought, “Let’s just say that she and I have business together.” But the truth of it was that he fancied he might end up in her debt—if he had gauged the situation aright. Canker had told him how much she could teach him; again Nestor must put his pride aside and allow himself to be taught; if he could match her even part of the way … there might yet be revelations on both sides. His vampire women in Suckscar had already shown him more than most men learn in a lifetime.

  But then of course there was the dog-Lord’s warning, too; if he was right this “gift” might well prove lethally dangerous, simply a clever garnish hiding the poison on the meat underneath. But being offered food and actually eating it are two different things entirely. Nestor must simply wait and see how hungry he would get.

  And meanwhile:

  Using his virulent bite, taking sustenance from his new thralls and at the same time imparting to them, Nestor indoctrinated both of the younger men into his household; they were his now. He sent the youngest to attend Grig; he was to care for the wounded lieutenant and, when he was fully recovered, become his apprentice. There would be plenty of work for the more mature man: tunnels to be dug, quarters enlarged, and pens cleaned; he would go onto Suckscar’s work roster.

  As for the grey-pate: Nestor didn’t even give him a second thought. He was for Suckscar’s provisioning. Meat for the communal dining tables of the common thralls, and crushed bone for flyer and warrior meal, were hard to come by and getting harder. Sooner or later there must be a reckoning, a reassessment. There had to be easier ways to collect the fruits of Sunside than by raiding; perhaps he would speak to Wratha about it … later. For if she could afford to send him thralls out of her own get, it must be that she was doing better than him. So it was possible he’d have “business” with her after all …

  The administration of Suckscar claimed Nestor’s attention well into Starside’s long night. Before he knew it there were only a few hours left to sunup. Instructing Zahar to wake him when the peaks of the barrier mountains turned from ash-grey to a leaden glimmer, he went to his bed. But three hours before the dawn, when Zahar was still about his duties, he came awake of his own accord.

  For once he had not dreamed, but he had tossed and turned and sweated a cold, vampire sweat. It was his leech; his parasite knew his emotions and sensed the danger in them; it caused him to see all sorts of perils in the course he’d set for himself. But as the time drew closer Nestor saw only one thing, and he drove all niggling doubts from his mind. For what he had said to Canker was undeniably true: Wratha was risen; she occupied the grandest manse in the entire stack; she had little or nothing to gain from seducing him only to murder him. Wherefore it must be that she fancied him. As simple as that. And for his own part, Nestor could scarcely imagine anything more delicious than to go with her to her bed. Whether or not the excitement would last remained to be seen, but as in each and every “love” affair, the excitement itself was enough for now.

  Rising up, he bathed thoroughly and breakfasted. It was hardly the hour for it, but he felt he should fuel himself on a little something, at least. Sunside honey, coarse bread, fresh milk from his udderlings (some of which were once women, others which were still shads, but all of them grown huge through various metamorphic processes), and just a morsel of meat, sweet rabbit from Suckscar’s farm. He still had no real appreciation of manflesh, except in the liquid which is the life: blood.

  Then he threw off his robe and got dressed in his finest, softest leathers, following which there was little more than an hour left to wait. Prowling his rooms to and fro, he knew what an ardent young lover he must seem to anyone who saw him like this. But no one did see him, except—

  —Glina!

  She had come up through her spiral staircase and stood in a curtained archway watching him. And Nestor had been so lost in his own thoughts that he had not noticed her. But now:

  “Yes, what is it?” And he was surprised to recognize an edge in his voice, as if he were hiding something—as if he, Lord Nestor Lichloathe, should require to hide anything from a common vampire thrall such as Glina!

  “I … I thought I heard you call me,” she answered. And he knew it was a lie.

  “You came to spy on me.” His voice was quiet, which signaled danger.

  “On you, Nestor?” She’d been familiar with him right from the start; when they were together in his bed, he even demanded it. “Why would I spy? All there is to know about you, I already know. Except why you went to your bed so early, and why you’re up already and dressed. Perhaps you have an appointment?”

  “Do you question me?” He frowned. “Do you dare?” His voice was still low, but harsher now. “Who have you been speaking to, Zahar?”

  “I have not seen Zahar for a day and a half. Is something wrong?” Her voice was full of a genuine concern.

  Nestor’s frown lifted, but slowly. Finally he sighed and shook his head. “Nothing is w
rong. Go now.”

  “You do not … want me?”

  “Not now.” (And probably not ever again; for already she palled, and he hadn’t even been to Wratha as yet.) “Later, possibly.” (But only possibly.)

  She looked a little sad, hung her head, and nodded. “So be it.” And drawing the curtains behind her, she descended her spiral stairwell. But strangely, Nestor felt a lump enter his throat, causing him to call out, “How fares the little one?”

  The footsteps paused and her answer came back: “He is as well as can be. Would you see him? Should I bring him to you?”

  “Not now,” he said again. “Perhaps later …” But in truth he had no interest in the child and occasionally wondered, What is this human baby doing in Suckscar, anyway? It were better if he’d taken Canker Canison’s advice that time, killed her out of hand and let the dog-Lord breakfast on the infant. Except Glina had had her uses then. And perhaps she would again. She was as good and better in his bed than any of the others, anyway …

  By the time he had thought these thoughts, she was gone.

  But when he went up by a narrow, cobwebbed, disused route into Wrathspire, she was watching him from a shadowy niche. And she knew there was only one place he could be going.

  And so Glina continued to know all there was to know about Nestor Lichloathe …

  Wratha had promised the way would be easy, but Nestor couldn’t believe how easy. Neither common thrall, lieutenant, nor warrior guarded the route from Suckscar to Wrathspire. From the pens in the rear of Wratha’s landing bays, he heard the subdued mewling of flyers; in the level above he was aware of a distant clamour and the frantic clanking of chains, as if some creature knew of an intruder and hurled itself about in a pointless frenzy; in the next level a shadow was glimpsed just the once, which silently, discreetly retreated and vanished.

  It was that easy.

  True, Nestor had kept well away from the main passageways and staircases, so that his route had been circuitous; also a fact that as dawn approached, Wrathspire’s vampire inhabitants would be taking to their beds, all except for a skeleton staff and watch. But apart from the aforementioned and entirely acceptable exceptions—the mewling flyers, the distant protests of some fearsome guardian, and the fleeting presence of a very discreet shadow—he’d neither seen nor heard anything to inspire fear or flight.

  Then, as he approached the penultimate level, he was met by a beautiful vampire girl who bowed and told him she was Wratha’s handmaiden, here to escort him to her mistress. Her dress was thin and deep-cut between her pointed breasts, which showed in all their ripeness when she bowed. She was very shapely, as comely and desirable—perhaps even more desirable—as any of his own women, Nestor thought. And as he followed her, she glanced back at him coyly and said:

  “My Lady trusts you met with no obstacle on your way up?”

  “None,” he answered. “I came by an indirect route. I am discreet.”

  “I know my Lady would appreciate that,” she answered. “But had you chosen even the most direct route, it would make little or no difference. Wratha makes you welcome here. As for discretion, my Lady gives orders which are obeyed. When she instructs her thralls, ‘in this or that hour you will all be in your beds … nothing will stir … I am not to be disturbed,’ then the only indiscretion would be to disobey her.”

  “I see,” Nestor answered.

  He followed her up a narrow staircase, a steeply rising tunnel hewn through solid rock. The light was dim but it made no difference; their vampire eyes saw clear as day. And since she led the way and her dress was short, he saw her nakedness beneath. At the top of the stairs was a landing and a niche, where chains hung empty from the rear wall. Normally a guardian warrior would be stationed here.

  They entered a narrow tunnel, and where the way was narrowest she flattened herself to the wall. “You may pass,” she told him, smiling in her eerie fashion. “At the end of the passage you’ll enter a junction with several tunnels leading off, one of which is marked with my Lady’s sigil.”

  He made to pass her front to front, and her hand at once fell to his member to stroke and clutch it. Fixed there, astonished, he watched as she used her free hand to part her dress so that her breasts lolled free. Then:

  “What? And is this your idea of discretion?” he husked, brushing by her at last. “What would your mistress say to this, I wonder?” But for all that his words were a threat, still he was tempted. His blood was up and his member jumped and jerked in her hand even through his leathers. His eyes were drawn to her breasts, too, which looked delicious, so that it was hard not to reach for them.

  But before he could move to do so, the girl released him, laughed, and repeated: “My only indiscretion would have been to disobey her! For if you had come to her with anything less than passion, it would not be enough. Many men would be unmanned by the prospect of entering another’s manse, unarmed and entirely vulnerable. After all, the way is dark and dire, and you could have met with monsters! Your … ardour might have suffered as a result. In which case I would ask you to turn back here and now, go away and wait for a better time. Ah, but it is obvious that the Lord Nestor is no such faintheart! Indeed you are … what, ready? And so is my Lady Wratha.”

  Following which she put her breasts away, turned her back on him, and ran back the way they’d come, leaving Nestor to wonder, What was all of that about? More garnish for the poisoned meat?

  In any case, too late now but to carry on and taste it …

  As Nestor entered Wratha’s private chambers, it was at once apparent that these were a Lady’s quarters. He knew they were, of course, but even if he’d been ignorant of that fact …

  There were mirrors here, for a start: plates of gold hammered flat and polished to a high sheen, which gave warmth and life to his reflected features even though they were cold and lacked the spark that sets common humanity apart. He would have known from the mirrors alone that this was a Lady’s manse, for only an extremely vain Lord would adorn his walls with such as these; and even then, given the greatest possible vanity, it could never compensate for the awareness of lack of soul which was the true message that Wratha’s mirrors imparted. No, mirrors were an abomination, which, since time immemorial, had been used by the Szgany of Sunside to reflect lethal sunlight into the faces of their Starside enemies. But apparently Wratha had risen above such things; she was pleased to see herself as she really was … however she was.

  Well, and now Nestor, too, could look upon his own face again, examining it in full for the first time since leaving … since he became Wamphyri. And what he saw was a tall and handsome Lord, albeit a Lord who wondered at his own temerity, that he’d come here of his own free will where wiser men than he might fear to tread.

  But as he looked at himself, it seemed he saw something else. And for all that he knew he was host to a vampire leech, still he did not like the corrugations which made his skin reptilian, and the cobra’s hood which suddenly shielded his brow and eyes. These things were illusion, he knew, and engendered of his own mind; but still he preferred the looks of the man to that of the thing which governed him.

  Turning abruptly from the mirror, he took in at a glance this anteroom which he’d entered through a narrow archway hung with bat-fur drapes. It would appear to be Wratha’s dressing room, where she tended her looks in private. There was a stone washbasin, carved ironwood shelves for powders, perfumes, and oils, and several niches cut back into the walls where various garments were kept on bone hangers. The Lady Wratha did not go wanting for clothes.

  Her undergarments were of best-quality Szgany lace; outer clothing was generally of soft leathers and skins; dresses were bat fur, or the soft white hide of young albino bears. Wratha’s boots were of good shad leather hand-tooled by Szgany craftsmen; the soles of her slippers were of flexible white cartilage fitted with leather thongs; a number of curved, intricately carved scarps of bone (the shields she wore upon her brow to disguise the rare but disturbing disorder of
the eyes which transformed her whenever she gave sway to ungovernable rages or furious emotions) had been fashioned to be ornamental rather than functional. There were earrings, bangles and anklets, pendants and brooches, mostly in common gold.

  Nestor saw all of these things and the thought occurred: But with so many items here, what can she be wearing now?

  Nothing! came back the answer, and her low, unmistakable laughter tinkling in his mind. Why don’t you come through? Do you find my clothes so fascinating, then? If so, then what of my nakedness?

  Apart from the tunnel or passageway by which he’d entered, there was only one exit. And holding his breath (though why, he could never have said, for nothing in the world could make him back off now), Nestor passed through more ropes of bat fur into Wratha’s bedchamber. And there he found her, clad as foretold in nothing—but foam and water!

  She was in her bath!

  “But as you see, there’s plenty of room for two.” Wratha smiled, and Nestor had never seen anything more seductive.

  His fate was now entirely in her hands. Right now, without delay, she could call her lieutenants or guardian warriors, and that would be the end of the necromancer Lord Nestor Lichloathe of the Wamphyri. He knew it and she knew it. But they both knew that this was not her purpose and could never be so long as the One Big Question remained unanswered. For there was something else they must know, which knowledge would be carnal: the culmination of that consuming attraction which had been growing between them since the morning Wran the Rage gave Nestor Vasagi’s egg and brought him out of Sunside.

  He took a pace towards her huge bath—at least six and a half feet square where it had been cut into the floor, and finished at the rim with glazed Szgany tites—and behind him, as he paused, his leather jacket fell to the coarse-woven carpet. Wratha was a mass of milky bubbles; opaque, they hid her loveliness from view. Another pace, and his shirt was left behind. She lifted up her milk-white arms to him, and Nestor’s breathing went hoarse and ragged as the upper halves of her breasts bobbed on the water and dripped foam.