‘How can he lose so much blood and still live?’ the younger guard asked.

‘Shut up! Someone hears you, that can be called treason,’ the other barked.

They marched on in silence. At the end of that hall, they handed Selden over to two servants in spotless white robes. They escorted him, just as urgently, through grandly carved doors into an antechamber where two servants garbed in pale green seized him without comment. Another set of impressive doors, and he entered the Duke’s lavish bedchamber.

A death chamber, he thought, for the smell of death permeated the room. The heavy drapes of the bed had been roped back and lamps burned everywhere. Incense burned as well, and Selden lowered his face, trying not to breathe the smoke that would choke him. The basket of bloody cloths by the grand bed smelled of rot, the red stains streaked with brown and black. The circle of healers around his bed looked terrified, as did the guards who stood watch behind them. At the end of the bed, his hands clasped behind him, stood Chancellor Ellik. He was elaborately and carefully attired, as if he had readied himself for a special occasion. Did he hope to proclaim the Duke’s death tonight?

The Duke himself sprawled on his back, his head thrown back, his mouth open wide. He pulled in breaths and pushed them out with a sound like a bellows. Selden thought him unconscious until the bony head on the ropy neck turned toward him. The man’s pale-blue eyes were framed in pools of red. ‘Laggards!’ he croaked. His withered lips trembled as if he wished to utter a thousand curses. Then they firmed and he said only, ‘The blood!’

They dragged Selden forward and one healer brought out a gleaming knife while others set a small table, a white cloth and a polished silver basin ready. He fell to his knees, but they paid no more attention to him than if he were a chicken being prepared for the pot. His left hand was seized and drawn forward, and when his wrist was over the basin, the healer cut him with a deft and practised flick of his knife. His blood, thin and bright red, ran freely. Selden watched dully as his life poured out of his body and into the bowl. It fell in spatters and then a tiny stream. The gathered healers watched it puddle and then pool in the basin.

‘Enough!’ one cried suddenly, and with an expert wrap and a tight twist, a white cloth bound Selden’s wrist. An assistant darted forward to seize his hand and hold it up over his head. Selden sagged helplessly in their grip. He longed to be taken away, to not witness any of this, but they held him there. Through stunned eyes he watched them pour his blood into a crystal goblet. No less than four healers assisted in the lifting of the Duke’s head, while two held the goblet to his lips. Another one bade him, ‘Sip slowly, my lord.’

Breathe it in and choke on it, Selden thought. But he did not. The Duke sipped his blood and then, gaining strength, lifted his own head and drank it. In horror, Selden watched colour come back into the man’s face. His tongue, greyish, lapped at the last scarlet drops in the glass. He drew in a deeper breath. Then he tried to sit up. He could not manage it but there was unmistakably new strength in his voice as he commanded, ‘Bring him here! Directly to me!’

They dragged Selden to the bedside on his knees. One of the attendants forcibly bent his head down before the Duke while another snatched the cloth from his wrist. His face was pressed hard against the bedding. Selden struggled to draw breath, but no one cared. Someone grasped his arm firmly and twisted his wrist toward the Duke.

He felt the cracked lips brush his wrist in an obscene caress. The Duke’s tongue was warm and wet as it probed for his wound, leaving chill slime as its track on his arm. Selden gave a low moan of disgust as the old man’s mouth latched onto his wrist and suckled at his blood.

After a short time, he felt the Duke’s claw-like hands fasten their own grip on his arm. The sucking grew stronger and an ache extended from his wrist to the inside of his elbow and then up his arm. When it reached his armpit he thought he would faint with the pain. The world was spinning and the distant cries of amazement and joy that reached his ears mocked his death.

Ellik watched in repugnance as the Duke suckled at the freak’s arm. Coward. What battle could not do, disease has done. It has made him a coward, and he will perform any act, no matter how demeaning, to hold death at bay. Long practice kept his thoughts hidden. To any onlooker, he watched with concerned eyes as his beloved duke tried once more to snatch life from the jaws of death.

The Duke breathed through his nose as he sucked the blood, a panting breath that took on the same rhythm as coitus. The Chancellor looked aside from the revolting display, expecting that at any moment the Duke would breathe his last. But as the slow moments dragged by and the breathing became stronger, he looked back at the man. Horror blossomed in him. Thin he still was, but there was a faint flush on his cheeks now. His eyes were half-opened as if in pleasure, and they were brighter than Ellik had seen them in months.