The Last Aerie (14 page)

On another occasion Wratha might well have taken offence, and even now it was her instinct to say: “Oh, and what of your own and Spiro’s and Gorvi’s?” But for the moment her thoughts were elsewhere, so that she musingly answered, “Those stories you’ve heard are true, aye.” Except she wasn’t looking at Wran but at Nestor.

The newcomer was made of the right stuff. She could feel it in him. Why, given time, she might even feel him in her! And that was a pleasant thought (if one she kept guarded); for her male thralls, handsome creatures though some of them might be, were like mice in her bed, timid and creeping. When Nestor was fully ascendant, it was possible he’d make a worthy lover … not to mention an ally …

Wratha gave herself a mental shake, and turned her gaze to Wran. “I was Szgany, and ascended in Turgosheim by my wits alone. When others would destroy me,
I
destroyed my so-called ‘master’ and took his egg. All true … as is what I said but a moment ago: it’s the
getting
there that counts.”

“Well?” Wran cried. “And hasn’t Nestor got there?”

“No.” She shook her head. “Not yet a while. For being here and
surviving
here are different things. But … certainly he’s on his way.” Then, nodding her approval and looking at them all in turn, Spiro, Canker, Gorvi, Wran, and lastly Nestor, finally she said:

“My Lords, I give you Lord Nestor of the Wamphyri—perhaps. But what say you?”

Canker accepted him readily enough. “You must visit me in Mangemanse,” he barked. “By all means come and inspect my instrument of bones!”

Wran and Spiro were well satisfied but didn’t wish to display it, and so answered in unison, cautiously, “Let’s wait and see how all works out.”

Gorvi scowled, and said: “It seems I’m a minority of one. But … very well, Nestor is a Lord—with one proviso! We’ll give him five sunups and if he doesn’t fit, then he goes back to Sunside. And to certain death.”

Wratha looked at Nestor and said, “Well?”

He shrugged. “I’ve no complaints.”

“Good!” she said. And to the others, lifting her goblet, “A toast, then. To Lord Nestor of Suckscar: a successful ascension!”

“Success!” they chorused, lifting their jacks, Gorvi with some ill-grace. But before drinking, he couldn’t resist adding: “Success, aye. Or whatever …”

However alien in aspect Vasagi had been, Wratha the Risen had regarded him as something of an ally; hence his habitation of the levels closest to her own. Now, as Wran’s reception broke up, the Killglance brothers offered to accompany the newcomer down into Suckscar before returning to their flyers.

Canker, whose Mangemanse levels lay directly below Nestor’s, went with them. Coming up, he’d used exterior causeways, covered ledges, and dizzy bridges suspended from the underside of various flying buttresses. He could have flown, of course, but that would have meant saddling a flyer, a launching, landing, etcetera. And Canker, having only just remembered his appointment, had been late enough already. On the spur of the moment, out of grudging respect for the property of another—not to mention the very real threat of hostility from who or whatever the Suck had left in charge in his absence—Canker had chosen his vertiginous but otherwise unobtrusive route around Suckscar. Now that he knew Nestor, however, and with his permission on this occasion, a return descent through Suckscar seemed the easiest, most obvious route.

Oddly, as the four descended and Wran and Spiro led the way, proceeding a little ahead of Nestor, Canker stayed very much “to heel” behind him. Glancing back on occasion, Nestor would find the other padding along in his wake, tongue lolling, for all the world like some grotesque, upright dog. But in no way a “pet”. And yet in some ways that, too. For whenever Nestor paused, Canker would likewise come to a halt and cock his head on one side, as if he waited on some command or other! On the other hand, his half-human expression was difficult to gauge; Nestor had seen similar looks on the faces of wolves tracking their prey.

Through Wratha’s launching bays they went, down massive stairs chiselled from the bed of a sloping shaft, towards the uppermost of Suckscar’s levels. Here the brothers Killglance proceeded cautiously indeed, prompting Nestor to inquire: “A problem?”

Glancing back at him in the gloom of the unlit stairwell, Spiro scowled and impatiently replied, “What? And didn’t you see Wratha’s warriors? Do you think she’s the only one who keeps guardians like that? Well let me tell you we all have them, and so did Vasagi!”

Canker at once put a hand on Nestor’s shoulder, and thrusting his muzzle forwards snarled at Spiro, “Then you should let Nestor go first! He has Vasagi’s egg, after all. And just as I sniffed it out, so shall they. Why, anyone would suspect that Suckscar was yours now—yours and Wran’s together—and not Nestor’s at all!”

“Meaning?” Wran turned swiftly in the cramped confines of the sloping tunnel. His eyes had narrowed to slits of scarlet light.

But Nestor intervened, squeezing forwards and replying on Canker’s behalf, “Meaning simply that as Suckscar’s new master, I
should
go first. Canker is right.”

“Indeed I am,” Canker growled, following close behind. And now the brothers brought up the rear.

Nestor went a little faster; he was eager to discover the extent of Vasagi’s holdings, and just exactly what his inheritance would be. And as he went he noticed that even in the dim light of the tunnel, while he was fully aware of the darkness, still he could see almost as well as in broad daylight. Which could only be further evidence of his vampire change.

Eventually, reaching a landing and turning through thirty degrees—as light showed at the bottom of the shaft, where the echoes of their footsteps had preceded them—so other sounds came back. But these were the echoes of furtive movement. And now it was Nestor’s turn to pause.

“No,” Canker growled in his ear. “Go on. They will recognize you. Take my word for it. You
are
Wamphyri!”

On Sunside, Nestor had always had a way with dogs; he and his forgotten brother alike. As children, wild dogs had come to them out of the forest, not to harm them but to play; domesticated wolves, “guard dogs”, had permitted the very roughest of rough-and-tumbling without turning on them; wild wolves in the hills had sat still at their approach, and not slunk but moved cautiously, almost reluctantly out of their path. Nestor had never made anything of it; it was simply that canine creatures trusted him, and he in turn trusted them and was unafraid. And it was the same now with Canker Canison. Nestor believed what Canker said. And he understood why this—what, this monster?—stuck so close to him. Out of nothing, a relationship had been formed. Nestor wasn’t sure if he appreciated it or not, but he trusted it, certainly.

He went unafraid down the stairwell to the bottom, only pausing when something stirred and flowed forward in a narrow archway at the very foot of the stairs. And “something” was as good a way as any of describing it! It was different again from one of Wratha’s personal guardians: black as night, shaped like a bat hanging from a ceiling, but upright, with its head at the top; wider than a man, and a good deal taller; eyes which were crimson wedges in a furred, elongated head. A bat, probably—or what was once a bat—yet manlike, too. A composite creature, bred of Vasagi’s vats, retaining sufficient intelligence to obey his commands. Or one command, at least. To guard this stairwell.

The thing was hard to discern; it seemed wrapped in darkness, shrouded in gloom, cloaked in its own smoky fur. But when it thrust its half-rodent, half-human face forward to hiss and spit saliva, its purpose and determination were obvious. And if Nestor and the others would go forward, the only way was past this guardian.

“Huh!”
Canker coughed in Nestor’s ear, gripped his shoulder. “Not so grotesque. All of Vasagi’s creatures are different … he was always experimenting! I’ve not seen this one before. But go forward, present yourself.”

The monster was three paces away, still mainly hidden in its own gloom and that of the archway. Nestor took one tentative step along the now horizontal corridor—and the guardian flowed out of its niche, blocking the way! Also, it became more nearly visible. It was cloaked in darkness: in black, leathery membranous wings which folded across its body, overlapping. But where the folds hugged closest to flesh, there the darkness was alive with pink, wriggling worms!

Now the creature’s jaws cracked open and yawned wide, and its teeth were visible like row upon row of long white needles, receding into its scarlet throat. Teeth like that could strip a man’s flesh to the bone, leaving his face or limbs flensed in a moment. But even now the thing was not as awesome as Wratha’s guardian beasts.

You are mine!
Nestor told it.
I have Vasagi’s egg. Stand aside, for I would pass. Likewise these men with me, who are my friends … for now at least.
He took another breathless pace forwards—

—And the creature flowed to meet him!

Its wings opened, but they were not wings. From its forearms and underarms, down the sides of its body to its knees or where knees would be in a man, a thick webbing of flesh formed furry blankets which were like wings on both sides of the creature’s body.
Superficially
, they were wings. But in reality, they were traps!

On Sunside there were flowers which functioned similarly; they had spined, fleshy petals that closed on insect victims to devour them. But this thing wasn’t designed to devour insects—and the Sunside flowers weren’t intelligent and mobile!

Under the “wings” before they closed on Nestor, he saw that the pink worms were merely the tips of a nest of lashing tentacles based around the dark orifice of a grinding, suctorial mouth. The thing had two mouths, only one of which was in its face. Then the tentacles locked him in, trapping his arms and crushing him to that more immediate mouth where its huge, quivering lips
tasted
him!

For a moment—a single moment—Nestor was deaf, dumb, and blind. He was nauseated by the smell of rotting meat, the stench of an open stomach, the slick feel on his skin of some bio-acidic solution. A single moment … before the guardian released him, folded its flaps and flowed back from him in a confused fashion, blinked furnace eyes hesitantly, then shuffled backwards into its niche and cowered down.

Nestor might have staggered a little, but Canker had come forward and was holding his elbow. “Excellent!” the dog-thing growled. “Vasagi’s beast acknowledges its new master.”

Nestor’s skin was crawling from head to toe, but he and Canker went on. And behind them, the thing in the dark archway opened its flaps again, lashed its tentacles and hissed menacingly as Wran and Spiro followed —until Nestor turned and cautioned it:
Be quiet! Did I not say that these men were with me?

And as the thing fell silent and shrank back, so the four proceeded down into Suckscar …

At the end of the short corridor, two more of Vasagi’s creatures were tethered in niches set back a little from the main passage. They were not too unlike Wratha’s personal guardians: brutal, ferocious things that howled and gibbered, tearing at their chains as Nestor and the others came into view. Their new master spoke to them at once, saying:

“I am the Lord Nestor of the Wamphyri. Vasagi’s egg—and
all
of Vasagi’s things—are mine. Now what is this commotion? Desist … or suffer!” It was enough; the warriors sniffed him out and at once fell silent, shuffling uncomfortably in their places.

Wran and Spiro were frankly astonished. Being Wamphyri, of course they too could have calmed the beasts … given sufficient time to threaten, cajole, and work on them. But Nestor had no experience of such things; even with Vasagi’s egg, still he was a newcomer here; and yet he instinctively, almost automatically fitted into place. “Yes,” Wran told him, “I think you’ll do very well indeed, in Suckscar.” But his scarlet eyes were shrouded. For it seemed to Wran that perhaps Nestor would do just a little too well here …

Thralls and lieutenants alike had heard the rowing warriors. Two of the latter came at the run just as Nestor and the others entered Suckscar’s main hall. They were massive men, as are all the chosen lieutenants of the Wamphyri, so that Nestor felt dwarfed between his three companions and these newcomers. But the lieutenants, seeing Canker, Wran and Spiro, skidded to a halt, looked at each other, and approached more cautiously.

While they were still out of earshot, Canker whined, “Now comes the real test. For these are not dumb beasts but men, and they have brains that think. Better let me handle it, for now at least.”

“Who goes there?” said one, the biggest of the two. “You Lords are trespassers! Unless Gore Sucksthrall accompanies you—and possibly even then—you have no business here. Vasagi would never have deigned to invite you.” He pointed at Nestor and scowled. “And what, pray, is that?”

Despite Canker’s warning, Nestor narrowed his eyes and made to step forward; but the dog-thing got in his way. “You lads had better listen,” he coughed. “The Suck’s no more, for Wran the Rage killed him. Which I don’t need to tell you, for I’m sure someone at least must have been at a window, waiting for Vasagi to return out of Sunside. Ah, but while the Suck is gone, his egg goes on, for it fled into Nestor here—or the
Lord
Nestor, to you.”

Their mouths fell open. But after a moment the bigger one spoke up again. “Oh, really? And this one’s come to claim Suckscar, right? Well, Lords Canker, Wran, Spiro, no disrespect to you, but I am Zahar, Third-in-Command in Suckscar after Gore. And I say to you that I
myself
could eat this one!” He prodded Nestor in the chest with a hard finger. “And as for when Gore Sucksthrall sees him …”

He threw back his head and laughed, and went to prod Nestor again. But Nestor was lightning fast; he caught the offending finger in a clenched fist and bent it back all in one movement, so that it broke with a loud crack! Then, as Zahar howled and fell to his knees, Nestor kicked him as hard as he could in the throat, which served to silence him and send him sprawling. In another moment, Nestor was down beside him on one knee, pinning his topknot to the stone floor; and in the next the sharp point of Nestor’s six-inch knife was pricking the bulge of the lieutenant’s throbbing Adam’s apple.