Clan Novel Tzimisce: Book 2 of The Clan Novel Saga

by Eric Griffin

  But the wave had not yet spent its force. It turned in on itself and, around Benison’s inert form, formed a raging whirlpool. Trees, grass, boulders, sky—all hurtled past Julius’s eyes, and in the center of it all Prince Benison. The whirlpool wound more and more tightly, its fury compressed into an area constantly growing smaller.

  Finally, its vector shifted and it bore straight down—down with the roar of a train passing, into the depths of the earth, and it was gone. Only a dark hole remained. The mountainside, the clearing, the soldiers, Benison—all gone.

  Julius stood in shock at what he’d seen. The prince’s derangement had forced itself upon the world, had claimed the Sabbat ghouls…but in the end it had claimed Benison as well.

  Some while passed with Julius staring down into that dark hole. Only slowly did he come to recognize it for what it was—a gaping elevator shaft, and he stood at the very edge.

  He turned slowly, still stunned and astounded by the rapid shifts in perspective, by what he could only perceive as the outpouring of Malkavian madness. Again, Julius was slow to recognize the reality that he faced—the eight-foot-tall juggernaut, holding in his guts, stuffed back inside him, with one hand, a look of definite consternation on his wide face. The hand not covering the gaping wound in his belly was curled into a large, meaty fist, which promptly smashed into Julius’s face.

  The blow shattered his jaw and lifted him off his feet, propelling him over the edge and into the elevator shaft. The fall was maybe thirty or forty feet. Julius had fallen farther before without ill effect, but he landed hard by the open hatch of the old elevator itself. The shoulder that took the brunt of the fall splintered. Shards of bone sliced through muscle and skin.

  Julius had very little time to worry about that, however. The faint light that did penetrate the shaft was suddenly blotted out. Julius suspected the Lasombra shadow at first, but then the behemoth landed on him with full force, snapping the archon’s spine, and all was darkness.

  Tuesday, 22 June 1999, 1:51 AM

  Fourth floor, the High Museum of Art

  Atlanta, Georgia

  The fire-retardant foam was breaking down, gathering into foul-smelling puddles with swirls of blood, like oil and water. Bolon stood amidst the carnage in the gallery, relatively unscathed himself. That was more than he could say for his battle ghouls—of the fifty he’d sent in, none remained.

  Not a damn one! he thought, increasingly incredulous the more he thought about it.

  Not that they couldn’t be replaced. Within a week or two, Vykos and the Tailor could produce twice that number, but never had Bolon expected to lose more than half of his battalion. He wasn’t even sure what exactly had happened to the last dozen. Vallejo and nine of his legionnaires had resumed physical form, but they weren’t in the best of shape. They were dizzy, and puking blood—whatever had happened had taken its toll on them, even in their shadow form, and they couldn’t seem to reconstruct how they’d lost three of their comrades.

  But even if the Prince of Atlanta had disappeared, Bolon, consoled himself, the Malkavian’s power was broken and the Brujah archon captured—that thanks to Marcus, the bulky fellow Tzimisce who’d shown up rather fortuitously in the gallery. He told a confused tale of trees in the building, and soldiers, and cyclones, but despite the vagaries of his addled mind, the idiot had defeated the Brujah archon—no small feat, that—and hauled the crushed body from an elevator shaft.

  “And where is the prince’s body?” Bolon asked for the fifth time.

  Marcus scratched his head. “Gone.”

  “Taken away by the cyclone,” Bolon repeated what he knew the other giant would tell him again.

  “Mm-hm,” Marcus nodded vigorously, glad to have someone else agree with his story. He pointed at the contorted body on the floor at his feet, the Brujah that had sliced him open. “He was the only one left.” Marcus’s stomach clearly pained him still, but the wound itself had healed enough that his insides were staying inside.

  “I see,” said Bolon. There was no point, he could tell, in questioning Marcus further. The brute had rendered a valuable service in smashing the archon; to expect more of him at this point would be to ignore his obvious limitations.

  “Marcus,” Bolon said, moving on to other things, “you know Commander Gregorio?”

  Marcus’s brow furrowed, but after a moment he nodded that he did. “The real white guy?”

  “The real white guy, yes.” Bolon didn’t think he’d heard an albino described in that exact manner before, but Marcus’s meaning was clear enough. “Go find him. Tell him that I sent you to join his force. I’m sure he’ll find many uses for your particular skills.” Marcus turned away, mostly recognizing the compliment paid him. “I’ll take Delona too,” he said as he trudged across the gallery.

  Two more matters required Bolon’s immediate attention.

  “Commander Vallejo.”

  The weary Spaniard rose to his feet from his perch on one of the larger statue fragments where he rested with his surviving legionnaires.

  “Can your men see to the fire that needs to happen here?” Bolon asked. He was not surprised by Vallejo’s affirmative response. For a Lasombra, the young commander struck Bolon as fairly competent.

  Finally, Bolon knelt by the crumpled body that Marcus had dutifully left behind. “Well, Brujah Archon Julius, that just leaves you.”

  Vykos had known this particular Camarilla dignitary—if a Brujah could be referred to as such—would be present, and Bolon had been hoping for just this sort of meeting.

  The archon’s body was thoroughly broken—flattened in some places, bent at impossible angles elsewhere. Bolon could easily count four kinks in Julius’s spine after only a cursory examination. The Brujah’s mouth hung open, as much as it could with his jaw, swollen and misshapen, wrenched around to the side. His eyes were closed. Perhaps unconsciousness had claimed him—lucky bastard—but as yet Final Death had not. For as severe as the damage was, these were injuries that blood could heal. How much blood, Bolon could only imagine. And without massive surgery to align properly the broken and mangled bones, the healing would cause nearly as many problems as it solved. Bones would mend, but they would knit together at peculiar angles. Julius would heal; his body might be whole, but it would be far from functional. The mighty warrior, his exploits legendary for centuries, would survive as an infirm, twisted cripple throughout eternity.

  That thought carried a powerful appeal for Bolon. How satisfying it would be to see the once-deadly archon beg assistance merely to stand or sit or tie his shoe. Or Bolon could ship the Brujah to Monçada or, more usefully, to a Tzimisce benefactor who might relish the chance to perform experiments on one of Julius’s stature—or former stature.

  There was, however, a consideration more overwhelming than even those rewarding alternatives. Vitae. It was not often that an opportunity arose to possess the blood of an elder, a vampire far older than Bolon himself. With age came potency, and with potency, power. And infamy. News of such diablerie, the draining of a prominent Camarilla archon, inevitably spread like wildfire. Bolon would be known from that night forward, to friend and foe alike, as the destroyer of Julius, archon of Clan Brujah.

  That made the decision easy, in the end.

  Bolon lifted the limp body off the floor. “I only wish you were awake,” he said to Julius, then sank his fangs into cold flesh and drank deeply till every ounce of life-sustaining vitae was his.

  Tuesday, 22 June 1999, 2:03 AM

  Fourth floor, the High Museum of Art

  Atlanta, Georgia

  Vykos stood alone at the very center of the carnage that had been the interior of the High Museum. All around her stretched a wasteland of smashed statuary, broken glass, puddles of mingled gore and ichor and fire-retardant chemicals.

  She felt very much at home here.

  Sighing contentedly, she surveyed the full scope of the devastation. Impressive. The entire fourth floor had been gutted. The elaborate labyrinth of
glass partitions had been systematically shattered. Interior walls had been violently reduced to rubble. The vast entryway portals were toppled and trampled and badly scored by Greek fire.

  Her gaze traveled uninterrupted around the vast empty chamber. Nothing above knee-height remained standing, save two forlorn statues, and Vykos herself. To the casual observer, she too might have seemed only an overlooked piece of sculpture that had, against all odds, managed to escape the fate of its fellows.

  This night, Vykos did bear more than a passing resemblance to an objet d’art. Her bearing was statuesque; her visage, cool as marble, sculpted without pity or remorse. Smiling at this thought, Vykos heightened the impression. Her facial structure seemed to shift disturbingly with a sound like that of ice cracking. She regarded her handiwork in a shard of mirrored glass at her feet. Excellent. Crushing the mirror underfoot as if grinding out a cigarette, she strode off purposefully toward the elevator.

  For all practical purposes, the fighting was over. There were still a few scattered knots of resistance in the city that were being untangled even now. Already the select group of warriors that she had singled out as having distinguished themselves in this night’s fighting had begun the laborious task of rounding up the surviving captives and dragging them back here for her inspection.

  My carrion crows, she thought. Yes, things were shaping up nicely.

  Through the high, broken windows, Vykos could see the flickering light from the dozens of fires that had been kindled in the pierced metal oilcans ringing the building. The whoops of the Firedancers, their crows of challenge, their cries of triumph, were welcome to her ears. The unmistakable signs that control of Atlanta had passed into the loving hands of the Sabbat.

  Vykos, however, could not long dwell upon this night’s victory. There was still far too much at stake. She collared a passing legionnaire.

  “Get me Vallejo, Bolon and Caldwell, immediately.”

  The soldier saluted sharply and hastily turned to obey her orders.

  “Soldier,” she interrupted him. “Forget about Caldwell. Get me that weaselly lackey of his, you know the one. And be quick about it. We don’t have the leisure to stand here all night discussing the matter. Move out.” She turned away without waiting for his second salute.

  “This place is far too quiet,” she mused aloud.

  “Where are my war ghouls? There must be something left to smash around here.”

  Vykos was distracted by the soft but unmistakable sound of stifled sobbing. She instinctively moved toward the noise, not entirely motivated by sympathy.

  “Light!” she called as she picked her way forward through the debris. Her night vision was understandably keen, but her eyes were dazzled by the afterimages of great suffering that hung in the air like phantoms. In places, the lingering halos of pain were clustered so tightly together that she could not clearly make out her own footing for the glare.

  Someone nearby obediently struck up a makeshift torch. Actually, it looked like more of a candelabrum. A separate flame burned atop each of the dismembered hand’s four remaining fingers, giving off an oily black and unpleasant-smelling smoke.

  The bold young lieutenant held his light before him. “May I escort you, my lady?”

  “Not if you’re planning on toting that thing around, soldier. I suspect the fire-prevention system will unleash its full fury upon you in a moment. In the meantime, find me a flashlight. Dismissed.”

  As the soldier hastily extinguished the flames, Vykos moved on. Picking her way over the fallen entryway doors, she discovered the source of the sobbing in the foyer.

  The Little Tailor of Prague knelt amidst a heap of torn and crumpled bodies. He held one of his pitiful creations, a monstrous aberration easily three times his own size, in his arms. His eyes clamped tightly shut, the Little Tailor rocked back and forth slowly, sobbing under his breath.

  “Never find all the pieces…never find all the pieces…never find…”

  Vykos drew back before she was noticed. She had no desire to intrude upon the old one in his grief. She quietly retraced her steps to the gallery.

  Damn it, there were altogether too many casualties here. And far too many of her forces that she could not yet account for. Where were the rest of those war ghouls?

  “Bolon!” Her bellow echoed back and forth through the gutted upper story of the museum.

  It was Vallejo, however, who appeared before her. He rose up suddenly from her own shadow. Vykos took a quick defensive step backward but, of course, the materializing form moved with her. It was an unsettling sensation.

  To cover her unease, she barked, “Report! What the hell’s going on here, Commander? I want Bolon here now, or I want his head on a pike. I want to know where the hell all my war ghouls have gotten to. I want the Malkavian Prince and the Brujah Archon here either in pieces or in chains. And I don’t care to be kept waiting any longer. Understood?” Vallejo weathered this storm patiently. His face was scored with fatigue and his entire form seemed to waver as if a strong wind might well tear him to tatters. Vykos was not certain what was keeping him on his feet.

  He seemed to have some aversion or reluctance to meeting her gaze. “My lady,” Vallejo acknowledged her orders. “I believe Commander Bolon is…coordinating activities. Near the service elevator. If you will follow me.”

  Vykos began to retort that she knew damned well where the service elevator was, but she checked herself. Vallejo was near the end of his strength, that much was apparent. And she would have much need of him still this evening.

  Bolon was exultant as he swaggered proudly and purposefully toward them. The mangled form of the Brujah Archon dangled from one fist, its shattered legs dragging along the ground. This awkward burden did not even seem to slow the pace of the towering Tzimisce commander.

  “Lady Vykos.” Bolon dropped to one knee, depositing his macabre trophy before her.

  “Where is Benison, Commander? And where are your troops?”

  Bolon shifted uncomfortably and did not look up. He was painfully aware that the vulnerable nape of his neck remained exposed above the interlocking bone plates of his exoskeletal armor.

  “My lady, it is my unpleasant duty to inform you that the remainder of the battalion was lost in destroying the Malkavian.”

  “The entire battalion? Lost? Damn it, commander, I need those troops!”

  Bolon tensed for the coup de grâce, but it did not fall. Slowly he raised his head and met Vykos’s eyes. He forced himself to suppress his initial reaction to her fearsome visage.

  “We will rebuild the company, my lady. I will see to it personally. We will be in full fighting trim within the month.”

  “You don’t have a month,” Vykos replied coolly.

  “But the city is ours, my lady. Certainly, there will still be some Anarchs to hunt down or convert. And there are, no doubt, a few fugitive warlocks that managed to escape the conflagration at the Chantry. But that work is best left to the resourcefulness of full-blooded Cainites.”

  Vallejo cut in quickly in defense of his counterpart. “Yes, it is as the commander says. The war ghouls will be required for the defense of the city, but surely there can be no reason to fear counterattack so soon, Councilor Vykos. The Camarilla was caught utterly by surprise. It will take time for them to organize their resistance. And even then…”

  “Even then,” Bolon picked up the dangling thread of conversation, “they have no suitable staging point to gather their strength for the counteroffensive. Charleston? Greenville, perhaps? Memphis?”

  “Savannah!” Vallejo smacked a fist into his palm. He turned hurriedly to Vykos. “My lady, they will come through…”

  “Already taken care of, commander. I received confirmation just a short while ago that our forces seized control of the port earlier this evening. Exactly on schedule,” she added pointedly.

  Her announcement had both of her commanders clearly at a loss.

  “Come, gentlemen, I have told you that this enga
gement was to be no simple Blood Siege—nor some mere single night’s assault. This is war, gentlemen. Welcome to the Firedance.”

  Vykos left them there in stunned silence. After three quick paces, however, she turned back. “Commander Bolon, you have one week to reconstruct your company. You understand? One week. You have a pressing engagement that I would not care for you to miss. Do not disappoint me.

  “Commander Vallejo, you are with me.”

  “Yes, my lady.” Vallejo turned sharply on his heel and fell into step, as unshakable as her shadow.

  Tuesday, 22 June 1999, 3:15 AM

  Parking garage, the High Museum of Art

  Atlanta, Georgia

  Vykos drew up short in her inspection of the prisoners, clasping a hand to her mouth in delight.

  The fallen had been arranged in neatly ordered rows, following the first organizational scheme that had suggested itself—the network of painted white lines that delineated the parking spaces. Most of the Cainites gathered here would not again stir from this final resting-place.

  “Oh, will you look at this?” Vykos cooed. “Isn’t she absolutely precious?”

  She stooped to brush a strand of hair away from Victoria Ash’s smudged face, revealing a patina of dried blood and caked ashes.

  Victoria’s long eyelashes fluttered open at the touch. She was faced with an apparition conjured straight from the realm of nightmare.

  The face that bent over her was folded in upon itself sharply, at right angles. One eye was easily three times as large as the other and placed high on the brow. The other was small and sunken, riding low on the jaw. The nose, too, had an unsettling geometric bend to it.

  The most disturbing thing about that face, however, was that it was absolutely and breathtakingly beautiful. Victoria’s artistic eye, fine-tuned through intimate acquaintance with so many of the great works and artists of the past two centuries, could not be mistaken on this point. The face before her was undeniably a Picasso.