The Last Aerie by Brian Lumley Page A

which periodically displayed Wratha’s sigil: a kneeling man in silhouette, with slumped shoulders and bowed head …
    Each window was fitted with black bat-fur drapes which presently stood open, giving access to the pale dawn light. Many hours still to go before the sun shone on Wrathspire, by which time the curtains would be drawn. But from where Nestor sat, if he turned his head a little, he could see the morning mists of Sunside gathering in the gaunt grey peaks and passes, forming clouds and drifting free. The sight was nothing new to him, except … in previous times, he’d seen it from the other side. Perhaps at that—at these distant echoes and thoughts out of the past, of Sunside and what he had been there—Nestor felt something of poignancy for a life gone and forgotten forever, but all such emotions were rapidly fading now.
    In two of the “corners” of the mainly irregular hall, curtained areas hid Wratha’s smaller, personal warriors from view. But in a third she had deliberately left the drapes open. At the sight of the creature shackled there, her guests were reminded yet again of Wratha’s sovereignty in these dizzy aerial levels. Twice the size of a man and nine times heavier, with overlapping, inch-thick scales of blue-grey, chitin armour, the creature was mainly claws, jaws, and teeth. Going on all fours like a bear (despite that it once was a man, or men ), it would occasionally rear upright, grunt and mutter questioningly, and shake its chains curiously—but purely out of habit.
    During the daylight hours proper, when the sun was high and Wratha had taken to her bed, two of these beasts would be stationed in the stairwells near the launching bays, while the third would roam through Wrathspire top to bottom, guarding mainly against aerial incursions, but also patrolling Wratha’s chambers. The Lady’s lieutenants and thralls, some of whom had duties in these unsociable hours, had her scent upon them, of course, and so were safe. But as for any stranger …
    Nestor’s gaze was attracted to the dome of the ceiling, where on several occasions he’d sensed some strange, furtive activity. Now he saw what it was: a colony of giant Desmodus bats! For in the darkest corners and the gloom of deep ledges (from which locations their spillage could neither intrude nor disgust), Wrathspire’s lesser habitants clung like dense black cobwebs or fragments of a shroud to walls and ceiling, causing the darkness to crawl there. Even as Nestor watched, a party of latecomers entered through a window, chittering shrilly as they dispersed to various parts of the living blanket. Vampires all, though not of the human strain, these were Wratha’s familiars. And Nestor wondered—but in no way morbidly—if he would be heir to just such a colony, five levels down in Suckscar.
    While making these observations, Nestor had continued to eat, until now he was replete. Sighing, he stripped a last morsel of tender flesh from the thigh bone of a wolf-cub, glanced round the table … and paused in his chewing. Every eye seemed rapt upon him: the way he had disposed of his food. Finally he put down the gleaming bone, ran his fingers through his hair to clean them, and glanced at Wran questioningly. The Rage seemed to find something amusing; he stifled a laugh and merely grinned, and took another sip from his jack. But Wratha, no less fascinated than the others, raised an eyebrow and said:
    “Well, at least one of us has an appetite!” Which galvanized the rest of her guests to something of activity, at least. For now they, too, took up their skewers …
    In a little while, as all of them about the table joined Nestor in swilling wine and picking at various tidbits, Wratha stood up and rapped for attention. “My Lords,” she began, dryly, “we are gathered here to honour a special person upon a rare and special occasion. Namely: the reception of Wran Killglance on his return out of Sunside, where in the night he had business