Mannfred paused, considering. It was a pleasant thought. But that was for the future. He shook his head. ‘No. As amusing as that thought is, the Queen of Mysteries is too dangerous an opponent to antagonise needlessly.’
‘Besides which, for every one of her creatures you see, there are at least two you don’t,’ Erikan said. He sat in the tree, whittling on a length of femur with a knife. Mannfred glanced up at him.
‘You are correct,’ Mannfred said. ‘And they’re not the only maggots hidden in the meat.’ He looked at Nyktolos. ‘What of Gashnag’s representatives? Will the Black Prince of Morgheim throw in with us, or will I be forced to bring him to heel like the brute he truly is? And can we trust those creatures of his, who currently enjoy my hospitality?’
‘Those who hold true to the banners of mouldy Strigos are, for the moment, with us.’ Nyktolos hesitated, and then amended, ‘That is to say, with you, Lord Mannfred.’ Nyktolos took off his monocle and rubbed it on his sleeve. ‘And the beasts you brought from Mousillon are as content as such creatures can be. Nonetheless, it is my informed opinion that we cannot trust them, being as they are snake-brained, weasel-spined, marrow-lickers, fit only to be staked out for the sun.’
‘Well said,’ Alberacht grunted from where he perched on the high wall, wings drooping over the stones like two leathery curtains. His lamp-like eyes sought out Mannfred. ‘We cannot trust the spawn of Ushoran, Count von Carstein. They are animals, and unpredictable ones at that,’ he growled, with no hint of irony.
Markos nearly choked on a swallow of blood. Mannfred glanced at his cousin disapprovingly. While mockery was a game he enjoyed, Nictus was deserving of more respect. He was a monster, and addle-brained, but loyal. And, in his own way, the Reaper of Drakenhof was as much a power in Sylvania as any von Carstein. Nictus had been of the old order, a cousin to Isabella and a nephew of Otto von Drak. Von Drak had ordered Nictus chained in an oubliette for some unspecified transgression, and only Isabella’s pleas had moved Vlad to bother digging him out. Nictus had served Vlad faithfully in life and then in undeath, with a dogged, unswerving loyalty that Mannfred had, at the time, found amusing. Now, centuries after his own betrayal of Vlad, he found Nictus’s continued, unquestioning, loyalty almost comforting.
He heard a sibilant chuckle inside his head and felt a flash of anger. He pressed his fingers to his head and waited for it to pass. Pushing his thoughts of Vlad and loyalty aside, he asked, ‘What of the others? The so-called Shadowlord of Marienburg? Cicatrix of Wolf Crag? Have they sent representatives or missives?’
‘No, my lord. Then, Mundvard was never one to be accused of knowing his place. When Vlad died, he went his own way, as so many of us did,’ Alberacht said. He shook his head. ‘Marienburg is his place now, and he’ll not leave it or invite us in, if he can help it.’
‘And Wolf Crag, even ensconced as it is within our borders, has not responded. If Cicatrix still lives, she may well have decided to throw in her lot with von Dohl, given their past history. She was ever fond of that perfumed lout,’ Anark said.
Mannfred sighed. Not all vampires in the world congregated in Sylvania, but Mannfred saw no reason that they shouldn’t be made aware of what he had wrought. And if they chose to come and venerate him as the natural lord of their kind for it, why, who was he to turn them away? Granted, he tempered such musings with a certain cynicism. He had travelled among his farther flung kin, journeying through the stinking jungles of the Southlands and the high hills of Cathay, and knew that, whatever their land of origin, vampires were all the same. Uniformly deceitful, treacherous and arrogant.
They could be allies – but subordinates? He smiled to himself at the thought. There was little humour in the expression. Soon, however, he thought, they would have no choice. He felt the weight of destiny on his shoulders such as he never had before, even during those heady months when he had first taken control of Sylvania. The time was fast coming when all of the descendants of the bloody courtiers of long-vanished Lahmia, whether they lurked in jade temples, insect-filled jungles or mouldering manses, would have to bend knee to the new master of death.
And are you so sure that master is you, my boy? Vlad’s voice murmured. Mannfred closed his eyes, banishing the voice. For all of the old ghost’s attempts to undermine his surety, Mannfred felt all the more certain of his path. The world would be broken to the designs laid out by the Corpse Geometries, and made a thing of unflinching, unfailing order, ruled over by one will – his.
‘Did you hear me, my lord?’ Anark asked, startling him. The big vampire had grown into his role as the Grand Master of the Drakenhof Order, bullying and, in one case, beheading, any who might challenge him. In the weeks since Tomas’s charred head had been relegated to a stake on the battlement for the amusement of the crows, Anark had weeded out the favour-curriers and courtiers, leaving only a hardened cadre of blood knights equal to any produced by the drill field of Blood Keep. Mannfred looked forward to employing them on the battlefield.
‘What?’ Mannfred blinked. He shuddered slightly. He felt as if he’d been lost in a dream, and was slightly ill from the sweetness of it. He felt the eyes of the inner circle on him, and he cursed himself for showing even the briefest of weaknesses. It wouldn’t take much to incite a cur like Markos, or even lovely Elize, to start sharpening their fangs, and he could ill afford to have them start scheming against him now.
‘I said that we have reports that the Crimson Lord has returned to Sylvania, and is claiming dominion over the citadel of Waldenhof,’ Anark said.
Mannfred waved a hand. ‘And so? What is that to me? Let that dolt von Dohl pontificate and prance about in that draughty pile if he wishes. He knows better than to challenge me openly, and if he chooses to do so… Well, we could use a bit of fun, no?’ He clapped his hands together. ‘See to our strategies for the coming year. Everything must go perfectly, or our fragile weave is undone. I must speak with our guest.’
He left them there in the garden, staring after him, and was gone out the door before they could so much as protest. He knew what they would say, even if they hadn’t been saying it every day for weeks. The incessant scheming, strategising and drilling was wearing on them, even Anark, who lived for the tourney field. Vampires were not, by nature, creatures of hard graft. They were predators, and each had a predator’s laziness. They exerted themselves only when the goal was in reach, and had not the foresight to see why that path led only to a hawthorn stake or a slow expiration under the sun’s merciless gaze.
All save me and thee and one or two others, eh, boy? Vlad murmured encouragingly. I taught you to see the edges of the canvas, where one portrait ends and another begins, didn’t I?
‘You taught me nothing save how to die,’ Mannfred hissed. He quickly looked around, but only the dead were within earshot. The truly dead these, rather than the thirsty dead, wrenched from silent tombs and set to guarding the corridors of his castle. He paused for a moment, eyes closed, ignoring the shadows that closed in on him. It was no use; he could feel them, winnowing into his thoughts, clouding his perceptions.
Vlad had indeed taught him much, his words aside. The creature who had given him his name had been as good a teacher as any Mannfred had had up until that point in his sorry life. He had learned from Vlad that the only true path was the one you forged for yourself.