Shaitan’s miniature albino bats accompanied them, almost invisible against the snow- and ice-glare, forming an endless entourage whose members came and went, reporting all back to their immemorial master. In this way he was kept informed of the progress of the three and was pleased to note that they followed a most admirable route – one which would lead them directly into one of his many mantraps. An ambush, aye, except that this time there would be no killing.
No, for there were other, better things to do with men such as Fess Ferenc and Arkis Leperson than kill them. What? Good, strong Wamphyri flesh such as theirs. And they had their vampires in them, didn’t they? Just as Volse Pinescu had once had his in him . . .
Ah, but that had been a treat!
Volse had been monstrous on the outside, right enough, with all of his pimples, polyps and other excrescences; but just half an inch under his whelky skin there had been a mass of fatty tissues and good, strong, long-pig meat hanging on a frame of bones like any other man. Except, because he was Wamphyri, there was a lot more to him than there was to other men; for deep inside him there was also his vampire. So that after Shaitan’s ingurgitor had drained him of his blood and dragged the shattered shell of him before its master –
– What sheer delight: to tear open Volse’s pallid body and seek out his leech, the living vampire whose squirming had so cleverly avoided the ingurgitor’s siphon-like probe, but which could not avoid Shaitan. And finally to behead the thing and gorge on its nectar fluids, having first scooped up its skittering egg and stored it in a jar of Volse’s brains mushed to a paste, as a tidbit for later. Ah, yes – for to the Wamphyri, such is the essence of a gourmet feast!
Even then Shaitan had not been quite finished with his victim. For extracts of Volse’s flesh (which was infected with vampire metamorphism and so not entirely dead even now) would be useful to him in his experimentation, the creation of hybrid creatures such as the ingurgitor and other useful constructs, to which end the flayed, drained, gutted, decapitated, but none the less ‘living’ remains of Volse had been stored with Shaitan’s other materials for use later.
Aye, even as the giant Ferenc’s and the squat Arkis Leperson’s remains would be stored, if all went according to plan. But as for Shaithis . . . well, there are plans and there are plans.
Shaithis was of the blood – of Shaitan’s blood – and of all the Wamphyri who had been, he was also beautiful. Not by human standards, no, but certainly by Shaitan’s. Beautiful, strong, vibrant with life. Ah, but then, the blood is the life! And when Shaitan dwelled on matters such as these, then he, no less than his wily descendant, kept his thoughts well hidden.
Meanwhile, his small albinos continued to apprise him of the trio’s progress; in a little while he saw that they’d strayed from the path somewhat, so that he must needs redirect them. But in order to do that he must first contact Shaithis, who at that very moment toiled halfway up the fused volcanic slag cliffs toward the western face of the cone. The other two were within hailing distance, but their minds were concentrated on the task in hand.
Shaitan aimed a narrow, powerful beam of thoughts directly into Shaithis’s mind, with which he was now a little better acquainted: Son of my sons, he said, you go somewhat astray. Your route requires some small adjustment.
Shaithis was momentarily startled but quickly controlled the agitated flutter of his thoughts. Not before Fess Ferenc had sensed something, however.
‘What?’ Fess called out across the precipitous, naked rock face. ‘Did something alarm you just then, Shaithis?’
‘My foot slipped on a patch of ice,’ Shaithis lied. ‘It’s a long way down. If I had fallen … I was gearing myself for metamorphosis.’
The Ferenc nodded across the gulf. ‘Aye, we grow weak. Upon a time I’d revel in forming an air-shape and flying from these heights. Now it would deplete me considerably. We must watch how we go.’