Nestor sat stiff as a ramrod and looked at Gore. The man was a vampire; he had put on flesh and bulked out until he was almost as massive as a Lord; clad in heavy leather, he made two of Nestor. On the other hand, he was unarmed; even more important, he had no egg. Perhaps Nestor could talk him down. For as well as tenacious, the vampire is devious.
When it seemed the tableau could hold no longer -that Gore must now get up, come round the table, dispose of Nestor and claim his rights - that was when Nestor spoke. But even now alien stuff was at work in him, and as well as being tenacious and full of guile, in circumstances like these the vampire is often abrupt and aggressive:
'It happened much as Wran told it,' he began, in a voice deep, dark and arresting, 'yet also as you have it, Gore Sucksthrall. I was coming to Starside, the last aerie, to be a Lord. Except I believed I already was Wamphyri - or had been - and I had forgotten or been robbed of my inheritance. Why, I still believe it, even now! It was as if I cried out to be Wamphyri! All of which I made known to Wran the Rage. And I'm in Wran's debt, it's true, for in his own sweet way he ... reminded me, of certain procedures. So that however you would have it, the fact remains that I am now Wamphyri! And I caution you, Gore: be my thrall and live, or -'
'Or?' Gore was on his feet. 'What? I should become your thrall ... or?' He was grey as lead, puffed up, bloated with rage and lust. Lust for Nestor's blood, egg, life, all three. He licked his lips greedily, knotted his fists into clubs at his sides, thrust his head forward menacingly. For a moment his eyes stood out like yellow plums in his face. Then ...
... He moved! But as for coming round the table, nothing so refined. Gore Sucksthrall took the shortest route and came over it!
Platters large and small went flying, jugs of wine were hurled aside, as the lieutenant swung up onto the table, took one pace forward, and crouched down to launch himself full in Nestor's face. Nestor came to his feet, knocking his chair on its side as he threw himself backwards. And in his few remaining seconds, he loaded his crossbow. Roaring with rage, Gore was already in mid-flight; too late he saw the weapon in Nestor's hand; Nestor didn't have time or need to aim but merely pointed ... and pulled the trigger!
The bolt took Gore dead centre between the eyes, caved in the bridge of his nose, smashed through his brain and only came to a halt when its head bit through the back of his skull in a splintering of bone and splash of blood. Dead in mid-air, or as dead as a vampire can be while still he has a head, his mouth chomped and drooled vacuously as he flew. But his eyes no longer saw, and his outstretched hands were limp as rags.
Nestor stepped lithely aside as Gore crashed down upon the polished stone floor and skidded to a crumpled halt. Possibly he could survive even now, as a crippled mute if nothing else. Certainly his metamorphic flesh and bones would heal, and part of the brain repair itself at least. But Nestor's vampire nature was stirring to life, and he wasn't about to allow that. These Lords and Lady harboured doubts about his fitness to be one of them. Well, he was Wamphyri, and now as good a time as any to show them!
There was one large knife on the table for carving. Nestor could take Gore's head if he wanted it. But he saw another, far easier way.
Astonishingly, the fallen lieutenant had pushed himself up onto all fours. He was kneeling there, head-down, slopping blood and brains, and shaking like a palsied dog. And a stream of slurred, stuttering, meaningless words or noises was issuing from his morbidly grimacing mouth. Nestor dropped his crossbow to the floor, went to him, grasped his topknot with both hands and dragged him to a window. On hands and knees, Gore skidded in blood, drool, and brain fluid forward onto a fretted cartilage balcony. Nestor got behind him, put a foot firmly on his backside, and shoved. Part of the balcony shattered, and Gore took the pieces with him into space.
Out there, close to three thousand feet of unresistingair, and at its bottom the scree jumbles, dirt and solid rock. When he hit, Gore Sucksthrall would shatter into so much mush and a fistful of jellied pieces. Gorvi the Guile's flightless guardian warriors would snarl and threaten over what few morsels they could salvage ...
Nestor turned from the window, and on his way back to the table picked up his crossbow. Gorvi, malicious as ever, was the first to find his voice. Pointing at Nestor's weapon, he said, That is forbidden! Not only in Wrath-spire, but even throughout the entire aerie.'
Canker slapped the table and barked, 'But we all knew he had it. He's Szgany, isn't he? This is how they arm themselves. Szgany, aye, and a mere youth. It's just that we knew - or we supposed - that he'd never have the guts to use it!'
Nestor stood by his toppled chair, lifted his crossbow by its tiller overhead and said, 'If this weapon offends you, then it likewise offends me. So be it.' And he brought it down shatteringly on the table's rim, so as to break it into pieces. 'In any case, I've no more use for it. Not now that I have Vasagi's gauntlet.' And turning to Canker Canison: 'You are wrong, Canker. Perhaps I was Szgany, but no more.'
All of these had been good moves; coming in quick succession, and startling, they had fixed the attention of the others about the table. Frowning, they stared at Nestor in silence for long seconds. Then Wran grinned, however lopsidedly, and looked along the table at Wratha. 'Lady,' he said, 'I recall you were saying something about your own ascension? If the stories I've heard are true, that, too, was a bloody affair.'