Rift Walker, The (Vampire Empire, Book 2)

by Clay Griffith

  A heavy weight locked Gareth's upraised arm into place.

  Jaga's son clung to his forearm with needle-sharp claws. The boy had returned. With a snarl, he sank his teeth deep and tried to tear Gareth's arm loose from his father's throat. Gareth flung the boy down and instinctively drew back a clawed hand to finish him.

  But he froze.

  Jaga surged forward, snapping at Gareth's throat. The prince felt another thud on his shoulder and prepared to sling the boy away again. This time, he glimpsed the ferocious face of one of Jaga's warrior wives. She yanked Gareth around and smashed a blow into his nose. He grunted as a clawed hand raked his back. He tried to keep his hold on Jaga, but more hands clutched and tore at him. His vision blurred with a rain of blows, claws, and gnashing teeth. Red blood. Dark hands.

  Gareth fought back, driving a fist into an amazon's chest. He grabbed an arm and broke it, then gouged a face, barely missing a vicious claw to his own eyes. Gareth sought Jaga amid all the flashing bodies. The chief had to die. That would make Adele safe, and only then could Gareth worry about escape.

  He caught sight of the rangy Rwenzori king outside the ring of warrior women. Gareth flew for him, but an amazon appeared. He blocked her strike, dug his claws beneath her windpipe, and ripped. She gurgled, spinning to the ground, never to rise again, as blood sprayed.

  Gareth readied a leap for Jaga, but instead found himself toppling to the ground as if his legs had vanished. A quick glance back showed his right leg in shreds. He felt no pain, but he couldn't raise his leg up to take his weight. One of the wives had cut his tendon. He tried to rise on the other leg, but a heavy pressure dropped onto his back, and the two remaining females pushed him into the dirt.

  No, no, no! he thought in terror. He couldn't fail. Not now.

  “Hold him!” Jaga shouted.

  Strong hands slammed Gareth's face against the rocks and pressed him down flat. Then his head was yanked up by the hair so he could see Jaga kneel before him.

  “Why?” Jaga asked with genuine confusion. “Why did you do this?”

  Gareth futilely tested the strength of his captors rather than responding.

  One of the amazons said through clenched teeth while holding her captive steady, “Kill him. He is dangerous.”

  “No,” Jaga replied quietly. “He is an ally from the clan of Dmitri. I can't kill him. I must have allies. To kill him would make me look poor and weak on the eve of battle. I will hold him captive until after the battle. Perhaps the clan of Dmitri will pay for him.”

  The amazons growled between themselves and smashed Gareth's head against the ground again before lifting him up. Jaga touched the grievously wounded third wife, who was breathing her last. He shook his head in dismay as his son joined him and placed a tentative hand on his father's shoulder.

  “You ate my food!” Jaga glared at Gareth. “And you try to kill me in front of my son! What sort of monster are you?”

  Flay paced nervously, her boot heels cracking off the floor of Buckingham Palace. She was donned now in a European frock coat and riding pants. She had given her report on the attack in Alexandria to Stryon, who would repeat it verbatim to Prince Cesare. She now waited for the prince to arrive; his reaction would tell her everything about her future. She had rarely felt such uncertainty in her nearly four hundred years of life, because she had never been out of favor before.

  Flay hadn't given the truest account of events in Victoria Palace, and the mere fact that Senator Clark still lived was an indictment. The vile man had been in her reach, but she hadn't been able to end his life. She was content with the fact that she may have returned to London only to be killed. She could have fled to another clan and begged for service, but life as an exile wasn't honorable. Not for she who once had been the most powerful war chief in Europe.

  A massive door swung open, and she caught a glimpse of Stryon before Prince Cesare appeared with a smile. “Flay. Come. We have much to plan.”

  Without evident emotion, she began to fall into her familiar place beside the prince. As he turned, Flay saw with alarm that the ghostly Lady Hallow walked alongside Cesare. The pale creature gave a haughty smile and refused to give way, forcing Flay to follow a few steps behind.

  Flay glared at Lady Hallow's well-shaped back. That spot beside Cesare was Flay's by right. This highborn female had hovered around the clan royal family for centuries and had been discussed as a likely candidate for queen. Everyone knew Prince Gareth had fancied her once. They had appeared to be the future of the clan, the great king and his brilliant queen. But it ended for reasons no one in the clan seemed to know. Flay had always wondered what Gareth could see in this willowy thing. Hallow's smug reserve infuriated her. This creature showed no emotion or desire, yet had men fawning over her. Flay still felt the humiliation of throwing herself at Gareth several months ago, offering to give him Cesare's head on a tray, before being rebuffed. No doubt, however, if Gareth knew Hallow had returned to London, he would rush here to see her.

  Cesare spoke as if his former war chief had never been sent away in shame. “There's a great deal to tell you, Flay, but the most important is that the Undead are battle ready. It's fortuitous you've returned, because I want you to go immediately to oversee their attack.”

  “Of course, my lord.”

  “I'm assured we have a squadron of flyable airships, somewhere near fifty. You will have half of them for this mission. There are a few in Portsmouth, and more on the French coast. I have moved Undead in preparation for your return. You will coordinate with General Montrose.”

  Flay tried not to sneer.

  Cesare continued smoothly, “You have no qualms working with these humans, do you?”

  “No, my lord.”

  “Excellent. I would prefer General Montrose survive the attack—he has been useful—but if it doesn't work out, I can find another like him.”

  “As you will, my lord.”

  Cesare paused before an open balcony, taking in the smells of London, letting the cool night breeze ruffle his clothes, as Lady Hallow waited patiently like a favorite pup. Flay studied Cesare for signs of anger due to her lack of total success in Alexandria; the young prince was a creature of vengeance, but he seemed completely satisfied. He would certainly never praise her—that wasn't his way—but there was no recrimination in his tone. She didn't sense he was waiting to attack her. Flay began to shed her nervousness and felt like the clan war chief again.

  “About Senator Clark,” Cesare said quietly, and Flay's heart sank. He didn't face her, preferring to stare over the dark cityscape. “Your inability to kill him is troubling; however, as it turns out, it is now a boon for me. With Princess Adele run off with Greyfriar”—Cesare laughed at the thought—”and Emperor Constantine dead, Clark is a nonentity in Equatoria. It's better that the vicious brute is alive to poison the relationship between Equatoria and America rather than dying a martyr. So events couldn't be better.”

  Flay stayed silent.

  Cesare turned his sharp eyes on her. “And it also turns out very fortunate you never managed to kill Greyfriar. Because if he were dead, who would have carried the princess into oblivion then? It's gratifying when humans do my work for me. Tell me, what did you think of Lord Kelvin?”

  “Not much,” Flay replied. “Kelvin stinks of weakness.”

  “Hm. He is a valuable source of information to me. And as one of the great men of Equatoria, he can guide the actions of that government however I see fit.”

  “Why does he serve you? He seems to have all the power he could desire in his homeland.”

  “Funny story.” Cesare smiled at Hallow. “He fears the ruin of Equatoria. He believes a war with the clans will break his empire once and for all and end his own grasp on power. And he thinks he can use me. But once I've used him to break the human states into pieces, I'll kill him.”

  Flay said, “I would be happy to do that. I despise traitors.”

  “Yes?” Cesare raised a curious eyebrow. “Noted. H
owever, for the moment let's discuss the coming attack. Success will go well with you, Flay. I'm inclined to appoint you war chief again, but I want to see you use my Undead as a weapon.”

  “It shall be done, my lord.” Flay bowed and flicked her gaze at Lady Hallow, wondering with suppressed rage if this was just the next in a long list of miracles she would have to accomplish before she was accepted once more.

  Days later, Flay stood at the rail of the creaking airship. The sails over her head were poorly unfurled and flapped themselves ragged in the thunderous wind. Other ships in the sky around her were in a similar slovenly condition, although they were visible in the dark only by a few faint lights that blinked like eyes as the fleet wallowed through dense piles of clouds. Flay would be lucky if these dismal airmen didn't slam the ships together and plunge the splintered fleet into the ocean below, sending all these ridiculous Undead to watery graves.

  General Montrose stood with his human officers on the quarterdeck, listening to a report from one of his men. The general gave a perfunctory salute and moved toward Flay. As he crossed the deck, he actually put his foot through a rotten plank and fell in up to the knee. He pulled his leg free and brushed off the dust. Flay shook her head.

  Montrose said, “Madam War Chief, I am ready to signal the fleet to attack. I believe the weather is favorable.”

  “Shut your mouth,” Flay said. “I'll tell you when the weather is favorable. Go back over there, and if you speak to me again unbidden, you will die.”

  The general looked as if he were contemplating a retort, which would have ended in his bloody slaughter at Flay's hand. Instead, he saluted and withdrew. The officer hardly seemed chagrined by the vampire's hatred. Instead he appeared excited and rejuvenated by her scorn, assuming he would soon be like her. The Undead all wore their feeding wounds like badges of honor.

  Airborne figures appeared in the clouds. Vampires circled the small airship and caught onto the rigging, scrambling down to Flay. She stared up expectantly at these members of her revived special command, the Pale, Cesare's private militia.

  “It's good,” one said. “The temperature is dropping. Winds are heavy inshore. No rain. There are no vessels aloft and their fleet is tethered.”

  Flay nodded and snapped her fingers in the direction of General Montrose. His head swiveled quickly as the war chief gave him an affirmative gesture. The general saluted her again and began to shout orders. In a moment, two guns fired and then two more. A nearby ship also fired four guns, and the signal was taken up and carried throughout the shadowy squadron. The wretched ships did their best to maneuver with ripped sails, rotten yards, and poorly trained crews. The vessels struggled in the wind as they vented gas to begin their descents. Montrose and his officers moved to the foredeck to watch the other ships drop lower. They all gave brisk salutes to their departing comrades in the surrounding vessels. Their ship dropped from the slate clouds to find itself barely a mile and a half above the choppy Atlantic. Far ahead, the fleet drove toward distant lights on a speck of land.

  Flay turned to watch. She could see the cliffs of Gibraltar in the distance and the glow of the imperial airbase crowded with ships. Mooring towers sprouted like a new forest from the rocky soil, with ships of all sizes tethered tight to them against the coming storm. Masts were shipped, and the vessels were packed dirigible to dirigible.

  Flay smiled. Just as in Alexandria, Equatorians simply couldn't conceive of the idea that they weren't safe inside their own territory. Here they were basking in the Mediterranean warmth of Gibraltar, preparing for war, content that the clans could never reach out to them this far south. She had to admit, Cesare was often brilliant. He had bungled Princess Adele's capture because he'd been more afraid of his brother, Gareth, than anything else. However, since that failure, he had set in motion the pieces to successfully outmaneuver Gareth, decapitate Equatoria, and spread terror in Alexandria. Now he was launching a completely unexpected blow against the enemy's greatest weapon—their magnificent air fleet.

  The Undead's decrepit airships foundered and listed, but continued gamely on. Inevitably, two ships flew too close to each other and masts shattered. Over the cracking of wooden yards, Flay's sensitive ears picked up a deep thumping sound, and flashes appeared on distant Gibraltar. The enemy had spotted the approaching fleet and opened fire with shore batteries. But it was too late.

  Flay said, “General, you may welcome the fleet as our brethren.” And she laughed.

  Montrose laughed too, mistaking her sentiment for sincerity. New signal guns boomed from Flay's airship. She arched her neck to watch her ships close in on the Equatorian base. Minutes dragged on, and she tightened her grip on a ratline with growing anger at the delay.

  Then the first Undead airship exploded in greenish flame. Flay exhaled in relief because she knew the blast was not the result of enemy cannon fire, but the crew's own hands. A second airship blossomed in a mushroom of fire, and then a third and fourth. One clan ship after another flamed bright green and red as the Undead set their ships' buoyancy gases alight. The Undead continued piloting the burning vessels to their targets even as they were consumed by fire. Soon, a swarm of twenty giant, blistering pyres descended on Gibraltar.

  The first fireship crashed against the trapped Equatorian fleet, throwing up a plume of roaring flame. The others followed, unleashing a fresh wave of explosions across the crowded airfield, tinting the dark sky red. Airships blew apart, spewing fountains of fire and flaming debris. Gibraltar was soon shrouded in flame and oily vapors.

  Flay scanned the burning disaster zone from the deck of her ship. She saw very few Equatorian ships that had escaped damage; most were burning or blasted to pieces. Bodies littered the ground in a hellish scene of flame and wreckage. People ran to escape or to help.

  “Kill anyone you see!” she screeched to her Pale, who clung in the rigging like crows. “Do not destroy their telegraph lines. We want news of this to spread quickly.” Then she said to General Montrose, “We will kill the survivors on the ground. Make your way back to England, if you are able.”

  Montrose looked crestfallen. “Yes, Madam War Chief. Soon our brave men will rise to be with you. I only wish I had been among them.”

  “I wish you had too, General.” Flay lifted into the wind and followed her pack for what promised to be a delicious slaughter. She'd like to see the precious Lady Hallow perform this duty for Cesare. There was a war coming and the prince needed warriors. He would soon realize that demure porcelain keepsake could never serve him as Flay could. It would be like the old days again.

  “The Western Squadron is gone.” The newly promoted Colonel Eskandari's face was pale and drawn.

  “Define gone” Lord Kelvin said, setting down his teacup.

  “Our base on Gibraltar has been attacked and the air fleet destroyed, or virtually so. Ten ships of the line were based there. Twenty-five destroyers. Nearly fifty frigates and sloops of war. Most are destroyed utterly. Fewer than ten ships are fit to sail. The squadron is left with only HMS Damascus as a main battleship. Over half the garrison was killed.”

  Lord Aden sat forward with a stunned look. “But…how is that possible?”

  “Fireships, my lord. A group of derelict airships were flown to Gibraltar, set alight, and driven into the fleet, which had been locked down for expected hard weather.”

  “Fireships? Is this the sixteenth century? Was it the Legionnaires?”

  “No, sir. Vampires. A pack struck the base during rescue and relief operations. It was a massacre.”

  Aden turned to Kelvin with mouth agape. “But…vampires don't fly airships.”

  “Bloodmen,” Eskandari replied bitterly. “The fireships had human crews. Apparently, they set their own vessels on fire and flew them until they were consumed alive by flame. None survived to question.”

  “How extraordinary,” Lord Kelvin said with an impressed purse of his lips. His bland tone belied his true shock at the import of the event. He'd had no hint from hi
s northern associates that such an attack was planned, nor had they sought his approval for such an action. That was completely unacceptable.

  The colonel shook his head. “We've never seen bloodmen perform such complex or devoted duties in service to their masters. The base was taken completely by surprise.”

  Kelvin paused to consider. “I should think the base commander, General Von Holst, is in line for a severe reprimand.”

  “General Von Holst is dead, my lord,” Eskandari said.

  “Is he? In that case, I shall submit the paperwork for him to receive the Equatorian Cross and the Order of Imperial Honor, posthumously.”

  “My companies built most of those ships,” Lord Aden said, drumming his fingers on the mahogany chair arm while crossing and uncrossing his long legs. “I don't mind telling you, I'm in shock. Our Western Squadron shattered. And here we are just recovering from a murderous assault by vampires in the streets of Alexandria, and the assassination of Emperor Constantine by their hand. Had anyone any idea that the clans were capable of mounting such attacks?”

  “We were sadly complacent, I fear,” Kelvin said.

  Aden said anxiously, “The War Committee in Commons should meet and hear a full report. All these new wrinkles in clan tactics are terrifying. And our factories must go on a war footing to replace what was lost, Mr. Prime Minister.”

  Kelvin stiffened slightly and cleared his throat. “I have revived the old title of khedive, Lord Aden. I am properly addressed as such, or Kelvin Pasha.”

  “My apologies.” Aden rolled his eyes with an exasperated sigh.

  “No matter. I agree with you that we must address these new developments. I feel certain the War Committee will recommend that we shelve any plans for a northern offensive this year. I believe the new General Staff will concur, once I appoint them.” Kelvin took a thoughtful pause, then said, “War is inadvisable at this time. The Empire is conflicted at present and the people are agitated. Our alliance with the Americans is in some question. I warned the emperor last year that war in the north was not in the best interest of Equatoria. I believe we would be better served to attend to our own affairs and leave the vampires to their frozen kingdom and their mindless herds of once-men.”