From the shadows, Queen Fen smiled, quietly enjoying the entire show.
Gareth stared at the giant stone trunk and head of Ramses the Great looming above him in the British Museum. He was grateful to be indoors away from the death and decay outside. At least inside he could reminisce in solitude. In his mind, he could see Adele reading the hieroglyphics to him. She had been a prisoner in the hands of mortal enemies, yet she maintained her dignity and humanity.
Now the vast museum felt empty. The artifacts that had once crowded him seemed like flat background scenery. Without Adele to teach and tease, his home in London was dead. He drew no pleasure from it.
Gareth heard a pounding sound from the distance. As he wandered toward the reverberations they stopped, then resumed more forcefully. The prince reached the rotunda before he realized the sound came from the imposing front door. Gareth grasped a brass handle and pulled the door open.
There stood Queen Fen with cane raised to beat the door further. When she saw Gareth, her immediate reaction was sour displeasure.
“Prince Gareth,” she croaked, “if you're going to close your doors, can't you at least have a trained chamberlain standing by to open them to visitors?”
“My chamberlain is in Edinburgh, standing by my doors there,” he remarked dryly. “I'm surprised to see you here. I sent a request to meet with you, but I expected to attend you at your convenience.”
The queen huffed and started to enter, surprised that Gareth didn't instantly move back. With disdainful shock, she asked, “Well, may I enter?”
“Of course, Your Majesty.” Gareth stared out beyond her into the thin light of dawn to see who might have followed the queen, but there was no one. He noted how the crone leaned on her cane as she shuffled inside. A vampire using a cane, and not even realizing how odd it was, given that their species never used any sort of tool. In the old days, the feeble Fen would have been killed long ago, but in this era of gracious living, she thrived beyond her time. As did his own demented father, he thought sadly. Gareth shut the door after the queen's noisy gown. She stared at him with complete disinterest in the magnificent surroundings.
She attempted a smile, creating a fearful gash in her leathery face. “I felt it would be more useful to meet here, far from your brother's toadies. I wanted to say how impressed I was with you at the meeting. And in that beastly little village. It's easy now to see who got Dmitri's intelligence, and his backbone.”
“Thank you.”
“And his looks,” she added with a terrifying lilt in her voice.
“Oh?” The prince suddenly pretended to hear a noise in the distance—anything to avoid looking at the queen. Her intent was becoming obvious, much to Gareth's discomfort.
The rustling of her silks drew near. “You know, young Gareth, I knew your father quite well…in my youth.”
“Oh?” He felt a claw on his forearm.
“Yes. He was a magnificent specimen. As are you.” “Oh?”
“I do not waste time with words when I see what I want.”
“That's a pity.”
“I would like to feel Dmitri's touch again, but he is old and infirm and, I suspect, quite disgusting. You are not.”
Gareth forced himself to look down into the dewy eyes of the old queen, swallowing his anger. “I am a poor substitute for my great father, Your Majesty. Now Cesare—”
“Cesare!” she hacked. “Don't mention that little jackal! Pompous little upstart! He needs to be killed. Why don't you kill him?”
Gareth almost grinned, but kept a dutiful demeanor. “He is most able. Far more suited than I. He is a master of political intercourse.”
“No doubt.” The queen stroked Gareth's chest lightly with a palm like sandpaper. “He is pure politics and no conviction. He makes deals with humans. Shameful!”
“I agree.” Gareth tried to avoid her gaze. “Do you know what sort of deals he is making?”
Fen arched her caterpillarlike eyebrows playfully. “Perhaps we can discuss it…after.”
“Your Majesty, I need to know anything that could call Cesare's loyalty into question.” Gareth drew closer and narrowed his eyes at her dramatically as he slowly extended his claws from long fingers. “In case I have to kill him.”
The queen shuddered with dredged-up excitement. She breathed out through her nose with a long wheeze meant to be sensuous.
“It seems,” she began with a husky voice, “that your brother has witchfinders scouring the herds looking for those who know magic.”
“What good could that possibly be to him?”
“Cesare believes he may be able to find some weakness in their magic.” She laughed. “Imagine that.”
“Does he have such knowledge? Is that how he plans to strike at Equatoria?”
Queen Fen cleared her throat. “But come, my prince, all this talk of human slaves is becoming tiresome. Won't you offer me something? Where's that boy you took from that little eel of a king?”
“He's gone.” Gareth left it at that. She could well think he had killed the child when, in fact, the child was on his way to Edinburgh. Gareth still had enough power to have a single human taken safely to Edinburgh by couriers. They knew their lives would be over should any harm come to the boy.
“Oh. Well, we can eat afterward.” She twirled her fingers in her brittle hair, causing clumps to pull out of her scalp. She giggled playfully as she tossed the locks at him.
Gareth caught the hair instinctively and tried not to look horrified at the wads of wirelike locks in his palm. The queen gazed expectantly at him, so he pushed the hair into his pocket.
“Thank you,” he said. “I'll certainly treasure it. Now, I wonder if you might tell me something of Cesare's plans in Equatoria?”
“I'd rather tell you of my plans for the next several hours.”
“Um. Yes, I'm eager to hear them, Your Majesty. Please, business before pleasure. I must know what Cesare is planning. Only then can I concentrate on…other things.”
“If we must.” Queen Fen smiled like a long-dead coquette. “Your brother seems sadly fixated on that little girl from Equatoria and her murderous mate.”
“Adele?” Gareth blurted quickly. “Princess Adele?”
“Who can remember the little creature's name. She's the one whose union with the American war chief will signal the beginning of the war from the south.”
“What are Cesare's intentions toward her?”
“What do you think? He's going to kill her.”
“When?” Gareth began to squeeze the queen's arms in brutal concentration, much to her misguided excitement.
“Prince Gareth,” Queen Fen purred and pretended to struggle. “You are hurting me.”
“I said when?” he shouted.
The old female now looked askance at him. “Don't take that tone with me, young prince.”
“When does Cesare intend to strike? Tell me!”
Queen Fen's slight blush paled to her normal cold marble. Her eyes sank with disappointment at the crumbling façade of a man before her, typical of all males in her eyes. “Apparently the humans perform some ceremony before they mate. It will take place in only a few days. Cesare has forces in place to kill both the girl and the butcher Clark during that ceremony. Your brother has extensive contacts among the humans of the south. It seems that humans will betray their own kind for mere objects.”
Gareth froze in horrified contemplation.
Fen stared at him in curiosity. “What is the girl to you? Are you and Cesare both hypnotized by her?”
He was so lost in thought, he no longer heard her.
“Hmph.” Fen rolled her eyes and dropped her gnarled fingers from Gareth's shoulders. She brushed her skirt and recovered her cold distance. “I see now you are nothing like Dmitri. It's no wonder you don't have any women or children. Who would put up with you?”
Gareth said with a distant voice, “I'm sorry, Your Majesty. Perhaps another time.”
Queen Fen whirled to go. �
��Pfft. I leave for New York tomorrow. Where men won't waste my rare passion with chitchat. I should've expected as much from a man who opens his own doors.”
“I'll give my father your best.” Gareth shut the door behind her, then ran to prepare his departure from London.
“IT'S SO BEAUTIFUL,” Major Stoddard repeated for the tenth time.
Colonel Anhalt smiled. It was gratifying to see the Sahara's impact on the American. The desert's power was at its most exquisite at night, with its unseen horizon and an endless dome of brilliant stars overhead. Even the meandering caravan, several miles of men and camels and horses ferrying great slabs of salt southward, was dwarfed by the surroundings. The sounds of talking and laughing and braying were swallowed up by the unbounded winds.
There were few places where Anhalt felt happier. The desert made men feel small because all they had to keep them upright was their inner nature. Men of no character feared the desert, but in reality what they feared was the emptiness the desert brought to them. A man could survive a mistake in life—Anhalt was proof of that—but the desert, like the world at large, did not forgive failures of character. Anhalt knew that the day he was afraid of the desert was the day he had betrayed himself. And he would—and deserved to—die.
“One day,” Stoddard said, struggling to settle on the rocking camel as his hand sought the small of his aching back, “I'll show you the Grand Canyon in the old Arizona Territory. I flew over it once. You've never seen the like.”
“I'd enjoy that.” Anhalt swayed easily with the camel's gait. He had ridden these beasts so many times he found the odd pounding steps relaxing. “I thought you would appreciate a few days away from Alexandria, traveling with a caravan, before the wedding.”
“Thank you. After the wedding, we'll all be busy, I suspect. I doubt the senator will give me much leave time.” Stoddard noticed Colonel Anhalt give a short, cynical huff. Senator Clark was certainly not the colonel's favorite person, since the embarrassing public shaming Anhalt had received in Marseilles. To Anhalt's credit, he never tried to make excuses; he understood his fault in the debacle that led to Princess Adele's capture by vampires. Stoddard had spent enough time around Anhalt in the last few months since returning from Edinburgh to cultivate a great respect for him. Anhalt was a consummate soldier with steely loyalty for his charge, Princess Adele. Even in the face of Clark's emasculating rant, Anhalt had borne up like a man of character, acted with respect toward a superior officer and the intended husband of his princess. However, there was something tragic in Anhalt, as if his life was merely a series of events leading to some great sacrifice. He was a purpose, not a man.
Stoddard said, “Colonel, if I may, I'd like to tell you how much respect I have for you, sir. All of the American Rangers feel the same.”
Anhalt's head turned slowly, and his hands flexed with confusion. “Thank you, Major.”
“And I'd like to tell you about Senator Clark,” the American pressed on. “Certainly, he can be brusque and difficult. But there is another side to Senator Clark that few see. His men would follow him anywhere. Myself included.”
“Clearly. Your raid on Edinburgh is already legendary. As well it should be.”
“It all comes from his willpower. I've never known a man as brave as he, sometimes to the point of foolhardiness. But he's not a normal man. He sports an aura of invincibility. He is so sure of his victory that we all believe it.”
“I assumed as much. He is a…forceful personality.”
“I will tell you the truth, sir, and this is something I believe as surely as I believe the sun will rise tomorrow. If there is one man who can defeat the vampires, it's Senator Clark. He will make it happen. In our lifetime, we will be in Washington and New York, and you will be in Paris and London. But not without him. This war will fail without Senator Clark.”
Anhalt considered his companion's words. He knew Stoddard well enough to know this wasn't the meanderings of an acolyte. The major truly believed that the senator had some special place in the world. Anhalt could understand it, but found it difficult to credit.
Before he could formulate a reply, up the plodding caravan, no more than twenty lengths ahead, a dark shape rushed at a Tuareg walking beside a laden camel. A terrified scream erupted, and a wash of dark matter flew from the man. The long corridor of panicked camels plunged and veered while the Tuareg struggled to hold them. They shouted in their Arabic-Hausa pidgin and pulled guns and swords.
“Ambush!” shouted Anhalt, yanking his Fahrenheit blade from the scabbard as he slapped the hindquarters of his beast, startling the camel into a lope. He clicked the shroud gas filter onto his goggles, and the camels and men appeared as red shapes. Sure enough though, Anhalt saw the dim blue form of a vampire. The shout of the doomed caravaner seemed to hang in the desert air for long seconds as the crouching thing dragged his victim into the darkness of the desert.
Anhalt charged at the retreating blue shape, saber held high, the weapon casting a green hue in the colorless pitch. The creature dropped the lifeless Tuareg and, in a blur, rushed under the belly of Anhalt's camel just as the blade swept down. The animal grunted and plunged to its knees, Anhalt leaping before it crashed into the sand. His saber spun in a wide arc as he jumped, catching the vampire as it flew toward him. Holding its chest, the thing staggered and then scrambled toward a hole in the sandy ground.
A rifle cracked and the vampire stumbled to the dirt. The weapon fired twice more, each bullet finding its target before the vampire slid away into the dark pit in the earth.
Stoddard appeared with his rifle trained on the hole, while Anhalt ran to the blue-robed Tuareg lying nearby. But even in the desert night, it was not difficult to perceive the man was already dead. Anhalt hoisted the man over his shoulders and rose to his feet. He waited until Stoddard awkwardly brought his camel alongside.
“Are you all right?” the American asked.
“Yes. The same cannot be said for this man, however.” Anhalt jerked on the tasseled bridle of Stoddard's camel, forcing it down onto its knees. “Kush! Kush!” The agitated camel, its eyes wild, groaned and threatened to spit. Anhalt slapped its fatty mouth and turned away. He heaved the dead man over the saddle behind Stoddard. He refused to let vampire vermin feed on the poor soul despite his inability to save him. He stripped his saddle off his dead mount, then swung up behind Stoddard.
“Hut! Hut!” The camel lurched to its feet and, without coaxing, veered back toward the column. The caravan leaders stood, robes billowing in the wind, debating with the captain of the Dyula mercenary guards, many of whom wore quilted armor and sported rifles or massive swords and axes on their backs
As the soldiers rode up, two men gently retrieved the body of their fallen brother while Anhalt dismounted. Stoddard shifted in his saddle with a creak of leather and a tinkle of bells.
“A vampire,” Anhalt told the group.
“We call them djinns, Monsieur Colonel,” replied Askiya, the captain of the Dyula. “And where there is one, there will be others.”
Anhalt knew the creatures existed nearly everywhere, even here in the Sahara Desert, although their numbers were quite small. Unique terrains created unique vampire types. These desert vampires appeared only at night; the day was far too hot. They spent the sunny hours buried deep under the sand or nestled in underground pools and caves. They lived along caravan routes or near oases to be close to food. Typically vampires who eked out their meager lives in the tropics were frail, desperate things that hunted with caution. They were nothing like the bold, vicious northern vampires who had wrecked industrial civilization.
Anhalt scanned with his goggles, but saw no sign of their presence. “Askiya, I see no others. Are you sure?”
The Dyula commander touched his nose. He could smell them. He was sure.
Stoddard checked his pocket watch, whose face glowed from the drops of chemical in its frame. “We've got about five hours until sunrise. We could just wait until the heat of the day.”
“So what's your plan?” Anhalt inquired.
“We flush them out like rats. And we kill them.” The Dyula reached beneath his white robe to finger small fetishes attached to his quilted jerkin. “Do you pray, Equateur?”
“Not as a habit,” Anhalt replied.
“It helps against the djinns, as do our arrowheads made from the sacred stones.”
All the Dyulas began to chant in low murmurs as they deployed with practiced precision. Ten men unslung long-barreled breech-loading rifles and formed a skirmish line ahead of the camels. Another group began to string short bows and check quivers of feathered arrows. They took each arrow, murmured a prayer over it, and placed it in their quivers. Yet a third group pulled pistols and war axes, and prepared to assault the vampire warrens.
Anhalt asked, “Where would you like us, Askiya?”
“Hah!” The Dyula commander pointed back at the scores of camels that the Tuaregs were pulling down onto their stomachs to create a living fort in the lonely desert. “You and Merikani stay there. You are both guests of the caravaners. Plus, I don't want an Equatorian colonel's blood on my hands. I want to work this route again.”
“We've known each other for years,” the Gurkha replied stolidly. “I repeat, where do we go?”
Askiya grinned and swung his axe with a whisper of night air. He glanced at Stoddard. “You fight djinns, Merikani?”
“Many times.” Stoddard unslung his rifle and checked it.
Anhalt said, “He is the right hand of Merikani Clark.”
Several of the Dyula turned their heads to look intently at the American for the first time. There was some relieved laughter and friendly smiles, and their worry suddenly turned to confidence and expectation. Stoddard didn't speak, but he felt a sense of pride that his commander's name carried such weight, even out here. He hoped to live up to their expectations.
The Rift Walker Page 12
