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  … But he was aware that the replenishment of fuel for the Lord’s fire-hole was an on-going task, so much so that a thrall was employed to that end only, carrying Szgany charcoal to Nestor’s bathroom. And he did know that Nestor drew off a deal of water from the catchment sluices, so as to leave siphoned water free for the use of the manse generally. It could only be that Nestor bathed himself frequently -very frequently! But to what end? A man can only be so clean, after all.

  Or perhaps he cleaned more than his body? Perhaps he would also cleanse his soul. But of what? Deeds performed which even a hardened lieutenant might find unwholesome? For Nestor was a necromancer. And Zahar had used to think: Surety the terrors and torments of life are sufficient, without that men shouJd be tortured in death, too? Which were of course thoughts that he kept to himself as best he might.

  Or was it that Nestor cleansed himself of innocent blood? If so, then he must be the first Lord of the Wamphyri to admit his guilt! Aye, for the others revelled in it! Ah, but there’s guilt and there’s guilt, and Zahar remembered the woman Glina and her bairn . .. Except that was another thought best kept to himself.

  Then there was the matter of Nestor’s needs. He had only ever stinted himself in respect of his women when he was

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  going to Wratha on a regular basis, for he would save his energy for her. Before their affaire, however, and in the period of gradually declining passion which had followed it, Nestor had not gone short. Despite that Vasagi had been no great beauty himself, he’d had an eye for good-looking girls and had taken his fair share out of Sunside. Along with the Suck’s leech, Nestor had inherited them and tried them all; indeed, he’d tried one of them - one of the first - too far, and depleted her even unto death, or undeath. Then, lest she rise up from her fatal sleep Wamphyri, an unwanted Lady, even a mistress in Nestor’s manse, Zahar had advised that she be carried into the barrier mountains, pegged out to await the sunrise, and so destroyed. And his master had agreed.

  So, no lack of women to warm Nestor’s bed, neither before nor after his grand romance with Wratha. Yet ever since returning from Sunside on foot following that hunting trip, he seemed to have lost all interest in Suckscar’s females; or if not all, then most.

  And his appetite …

  Nestor had never much cared for it red. When must needs, then he’d have it, but lightly-cooked meats generally sufficed. Except (and here a curious thing), when he did take it live, then he would ensure that the donor died immediately afterwards - not undeath but the true death -that the corpse was cleansed, flensed, and the flesh roasted before it went to the provisioning! And always, and only, for the consumption of warriors whose constitution was such that they could digest and dispose of almost anything.

  And yet … he lusted after blood like all of them. Zahar knew this quite definitely, for he’d raided with Nestor on Sunside and seen him kill with the best — and with a bloody zest — which is a sure gauge of Wamphyri vitality, for invariably the blood-lust of the kill runs commensurate with the scarlet thirst. So why not in Nestor? Whatever the answer, it probably explained his leaden pallor. Even for a Lord of the Wamphyri, Nestor Lichloathe was undeniably

  pale these days. The blood is the life, and Nestor was scarcely living it to the full.

  On the other hand, he’d been looking forward with some anticipation (or … foreboding? It was hard to tell) to this raid on the Lidescis. And Zahar recalled how, in the early dawn twilight some hundred or so hours ago, Nestor had called him to his south-facing room of repose. It was a rare thing, these days, to be offered audience with the necromancer in his rooms - but it was also worrying. One could never be sure what Nestor had on his mind. On this occasion, however, he’d merely craved company, the presence of someone other than himself. Also, he had desired to talk a little.

  A great window in Nestor’s room of repose looked out over the boulder plains to the barrier mountains, whose topmost peaks were edged with yellow now, as the sun rose far to the south. Many hours yet before that furnace orb would blaze between the peaks on Wrathstack itself, and even then only on the bleached or calcined south face of lofty Wrathspire. Long before that, Wratha’s black bat-fur curtains would have been drawn against even the smallest hurtful ray, and the Lady herself removed to some darker, safer place.

  As for the other manses: despite that the sun never shone on them, generally their vampire masters took to their beds at sunup, and slept their fill in the wake of the long night. But Nestor was and always had been different. He feared the deadly power of the sun, aye, but it fascinated him nonetheless. And he would often sit in his room of repose to watch that poisonous golden stain creeping on the distant crags, and stay there till the last possible, unbearable moment, when he would seem to hear a far faint seething, as of acid eating stone.

  And that was where Zahar had found his master when Nestor called for him, seated at the great open window, with the baffles thrown wide, gazing into the south-west at the gold-rimmed barrier mountains.

  In a little while Nestor had said to him, ‘You know that

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  I’ve told Wratha the location of a Lidesci stronghold, called Sanctuary Rock . ..’ It had not been a question but a statement of fact.

  The stack has lesser channels of communication, as well you know, Lord,’ Zahar had answered, carefully. Thralls mend the water and gas pipes between the manses, and carry out work on the high faces replenishing water-catchment skins, sigils, pennants. Sometimes they strike up conversation. The word is that we attack tonight!’

  ‘All of us, aye,’ Nestor’s nod. ‘You, me, Grig, Norbis, Lexis, Asabar, and the best of our aspirant thralls; the Lady Wratha and her lads; likewise, Lords Spiro Killglance and Wran the Rage, Gorvi the Guile and Canker Canison. Plus a force of warriors - indeed aJJ the warriors, barring only those fresh weaned! The very best blood of the stack, and only a handful of trustee thralls left behind, to see to our manses in our absence.’

  The Lidescis are doomed, Lord!’

  At which Nestor had gripped the arms of his chair, and turned his face sharply towards him. ‘Oh, really? Are they? You’re sure of that? But they’re a tenacious people, Zahar.’

  ‘So are lichens tenacious, Lord, yet you may scrape them from the rocks on the heel of your boot.’

  ‘Yet lichens don’t die in the sunlight! Look there, the barrier mountains: there are lichens in the peaks. They live where we may not.’

  ‘Likewise the Szgany, but -‘ (and here Zahar had frowned) - ‘but the sunlight is a natural thing, not a Szgany weapon.’

  ‘It was upon a time,’ Nestor brooded, turning his gaze on the barrier mountains as before. ‘I … I seem to remember a myth or legend - a story out of another time - when I was a small thing, or even before I was born. And the legend was this: that before Wratha and the rest of us, there were other vampires here. Quite obviously it was so; signs of their habitation are all around, and of their decline, their demise. This is but one aerie, the last aerie, but sprawling on the boulder plains for all to see lie the skeletons of others that

  died in a great and terrible war. And in their shattered stumps, evidence of smoke, terrific heat, explosions. For in that forgotten time, the sun also shone in Starside!’

  ‘I know this “myth”, Lord,’ Zahar had answered. ‘Except I am older than you, begging your pardon, and know it for a fact. I was a child in Sunside, eight or nine years old, and -‘

  ‘Wait!’ Nestor had looked at him again, a curious glance this time. ‘First tell me … do you miss it?’

  ‘Miss what, Lord?’ Zahar’s frown.

  ‘Your childhood. Your … humanhood? Do you miss Sun-side? You were stolen by Vasagi, and changed into … you. But all so recent - a little over three years? Surely you remember how it was. Now tell me, Zahar. Do you miss what you had and what you were?’

  Mystified, Zahar could only shrug. ‘I am a vampire, Lord. I have what I have, what Vasagi - and you,
Lord - have given me. If I am fortunate … if I am very fortunate, why, I might go on forever! Or, if not forever, for a very long time. But in all honesty I cannot say, I do not know, if I “miss” anything. There are things which I crave, certainly. But then … I am a vampire, Lord.’

  Then why do I miss it, eh?’ The timbre of Nestor’s voice was suddenly deeper, full of a strange melancholy. ‘Why is it that you remember, without caring, while I who have forgotten almost everything . .. care so much?’

  ‘You care about Sunside? About the Travellers?’ Zahar had offered a shrug. ‘Not hard to fathom. The Szgany are your livelihood, future, longevity. The blood -‘

  Without looking at the other, Nestor had held up a hand to still his tongue. And said wearily, ‘Do not tell me that it is the life, for I know it. But I ask you to consider this: could it also be the death?’

  Zahar had been baffled, but then he’d braved a smile. ‘We … are playing a word game! Am I correct, Lord?’

  At first Nestor had given his head a shake, but in another moment he’d nodded. ‘Of course.’

  And from Zahar, ruefully: ‘I’m not so good at them, Lord.

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  Even at the best of times Vasagi spoke infrequently — not to say curiously.’

  ‘Hmm!’ Nestor had mused. And then, returning to the previous theme: ‘No, I don’t “care” about the Szgany, and especially not the Szgany Lidesci. Not any longer.’

  ‘Despite that they were your people?’ But Zahar realized at once that that was a stupid thing to ask of one of the Wamphyri. And: ‘Of course not, Lord,’ he’d continued immediately. ‘You care only for yourself. And for your manse of course, and . .. for those in your care?’

  Again Nestor had looked at him. ‘Did I not care for Wratha the Risen.’

  Zahar’s smile had vanished. Convoluted thinking and argument aside, he must be careful how he answered that one. This is merely a game, Lord? I mean .. . am I to speak openly?’

  There had been no emotion of any sort in Nestor’s scarlet gaze when he’d answered, ‘Oh, yes. I demand it.’

  And Zahar had discovered his throat to have gone a little dry as he said, ‘Perhaps … perhaps it was not so much “care” as “lust”, Lord?’ Then, wincing inwardly, he had waited.

  But Nestor had not appeared to take offence, and without too much pause: ‘Is there no love in vampires, then?’

  ‘I have heard of it, but I never saw it.’ Glad to be on a different tack, Zahar had sighed his relief.

  But: ‘Do you love, Zahar?’

  There are women in your manse, Lord … other than your own, of course! I go to one of them, yes. But love her …?’

  ‘Women other than my own?’ (Still no emotion in Nestor’s voice or on his face.) ‘But al) of them are mine, surely?’

  ‘As are we all,’ Zahar had quickly agreed. ‘But you don’t call on all the manse’s women, for not all of them are worthy. And of course I know your preferences.’

  Nestor nodded. ‘I have my harem, yes.’

  ‘Indeed, Lord.’

  ‘But sometimes they go wanting.’

  ‘As you will it, naturally.’

  ‘Recently … I have denied them.’

  ‘And yourself, Lord.’

  Again Nestor’s swift glance. ‘Have they gone to others? To you? To other lieutenants? Other men? Common thralls?’

  Zahar had backed off a hasty step. ‘But … they would not dare! What, your women? Go to other men? And what man of yours would hope, or try, or have nerve … I mean -‘

  ‘I know what you mean: my reach is long, my hand is heavy and hard.’

  Again Zahar’s sigh. ‘Yes, Lord.’

  ‘Am I too hard?’

  (How to answer that? Say yes and be considered soft? Say no and have Nestor prove him wrong right there and then, perhaps by removing another of his fingers?) ‘You are precisely as hard as required, Lord. No more, no less.’

  At which Nestor had looked at him and grinned mirthlessly. ‘Clever! You are good at word games, Zahar - well, considering that Vasagi was so difficult to speak to, and the nuances of his speech so hard to grasp. But still you’ve not answered my question. You averred that “the blood is the life”. And in my turn, I asked: “Can it also be the death?” How do you answer?’

  Zahar was stalled. ‘I have no answer. Your riddle defeats me. How can blood be death? We drink to live, not to die.’

  ‘And if what we drink is tainted?’

  ‘Poisoned, Lord?’

  Nestor’s shrug. ‘Poisoned if you will, yes.’

  ‘With silver, or kneblasch?’

  Nestor’s look had been doleful, and Zahar suspected that he’d missed his master’s meaning. But after a moment, abruptly, ‘Put all that aside,’ the other said. ‘Except you must believe me when I tell you that there are worse poisons than silver and kneblasch .. .’

  Then for a while he had sat in silence, Zahar waiting on his word. Until: The word game is over. I won .. . but yet may lose. Now tell me about this Sunsider myth, when the sun shone on Starside.’

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  Zahar nodded, then shook his head. ‘It was not the sun, but a man with the power of the sun.’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘The sun shone out of him!’

  ‘Out of his eyes? His mouth? His arse? Make sense!’

  ‘I only know what I remember, Lord,’ Zahar had protested. ‘I was but a boy, and you were not yet born. Things get warped in the retelling.’

  ‘Perhaps I was born after all.’ Nestor had sat up again. ‘Do you mean the time when the clouds burned red over Starside, and a wind from hell blew through the great pass into Sunside, killing men and trogs alike? This man from the hell-lands had something to do with that?’

  ‘No, before that, four years at least. Alas, I don’t know the details, or who or what was involved.’

  Agitated or impatient, Nestor sat back again and fidgeted. ‘Tell it anyway.’

  ‘The man was a hell-lander, who came from beyond the Starside Gate. He joined his son who was here before him. That one was called The Dweller and the Wamphyri feared him greatly. He kept a garden in the western heights, between the mountains and the foothills. The Wamphyri banded together against him, raided on him in his garden. They were met with fierce opposition! The Dweller and his father used the power of the sun - do not ask me how, Lord, for I don’t know — to destroy the vampire army in the air. Defeated, broken, a handful of survivors flew home to their aeries on the boulder plains. Except the stacks were no more! All bar this one, the last aerie, in those days called Karenstack after the Lady who dwelled here, they lay broken on the plain. As to why this one was spared,’ (Zahar’s apologetic shrug) ‘alas, I don’t know …’

  ‘Ah!’ Nestor’s sigh. The fallen aeries!’

  ‘Indeed, Lord. For The Dweller and his father were here first. They were magicians with the power to move instantaneously from place to place, without consideration of distance. They destroyed the gas-beasts, poured naked sunlight

  into the methane chambers, reduced the stacks to rubble! When all was finished, the few Wamphyri survivors flew off and exiled themselves in the Icelands . ..’

  Again Nestor’s sigh, for it appeared he’d been holding his breath a while. And: The tumbled stacks!’ he’d whispered once again. The blackening. The great stone corpses crumpled to the plain .. .’ And looking at his lieutenant: ‘Zahar, in this regard your memory matches my thoughts precisely. For I too had heard this legend; except I had forgotten it, as I’ve forgotten most things.’ At last he had showed more than the usual animation, and Zahar had congratulated himself that he’d excited his master.

  ‘Is it important, Lord?’

  Nestor’s frown; his wrinkled forehead and pursed lips. ‘I don’t know. But one thing for sure: Wratha and the others have it wrong. For they believe it was a Szgany suicide squad, raiding through the pass at sunup, who exploded the aeries in their bases and blew them to hell
! Well, for the moment we’ll let them continue to believe it. But — did you never mention this “myth” to Vasagi?’

  Zahar’s shrug. ‘As we have agreed, Lord, the Suck was not talkative. And anyway, it is generally the case that Wamphyri Lords are not much given to conversation with mere lieutenants. Er .. . which is not to say that you lower yourself, Lord, but that -‘

  ‘Yes, I know,’ Nestor had cut him off. ‘But lower myself? Of course I don’t lower myself. What? It is that you are elevated! Consider yourself fortunate.’

  ‘I do, Lord.’

  Then also consider this, but consider it an order: never speak of these matters again, except to me if or when I desire it. What I know can’t hurt me, and what my “colleagues” do not know won’t concern them. Understood?’

  ‘Yes, Lord.’

  Following which, Nestor had mused darkly but out loud: ‘It seems there were Powers in those days, some of which might even have transferred to the present. It will bear looking into.’

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  ‘Is it your thought that there may be magicians among the Szgany Lidesci even now, Lord?’

  At which Nestor had given him the strangest look of all before answering, ‘I think there may well have been one, yes. At least until that night we went a-hunting together, you and I, on Sunside.’ And then he had very grimly repeated, ‘Aye, I think there just might have been one, at least…’