The Rift Walker

by Clay Griffith

  “Where will we go?”

  “The Temple of Hathor is just north of here.”

  “Will we give ourselves away by leaving him a message to follow?”

  “I'll use code. Anhalt will recognize it.”

  “Hieroglyphics?”

  Her lips quirked upward slightly. “I doubt he knows how to read those. But something pictorial will work. The colonel is rather clever.”

  Gareth nodded and departed northward with their possessions. He passed near Adele, but still left ample room between them. Adele wanted to reach out and touch him and tell him she was not afraid or repelled by him. The animal in him was gone like a sudden rage. He was Prince Gareth once again. Her shock had passed, but she still couldn't find the right words to assure him.

  She found a smooth surface on the temple entrance and attempted to draw a cow of some sort, a representation of the goddess Hathor. It wasn't the best-looking cow, but it would do. At least it was better than Simon's stick-figure bovines.

  Now she needed to let Anhalt know who had drawn it. The new symbol had to represent her in a way that was unmistakable, but without informing all others as well. It had to be something shared only between them. She and Anhalt shared a love of the desert, but she couldn't think of a way to draw it so it would be obvious to him. Anything to do with her royal station was out of the question.

  Then she had it.

  Pet!

  The thought elicited a laugh. Often Adele had caught the sturdy Gurkha playing with her small cat, amused by his playful antics. Few in the palace were enamored with the feline save Simon, Anhalt, and herself. Hopefully she could draw Pet's likeness well enough. She was not an artist by any measure. Still she tried.

  Sadly it came out very unlike her little companion. Frustrated, she started smudging.

  “What are you trying to do?” came a quiet voice behind her. Thankfully she didn't jump out of her skin.

  She wiped an itch at her nose and gestured with the stick. “I was trying to draw a cat.”

  “That looks like a cow.”

  “Not that. That.” She pointed at the smudgy catlike thing.

  Gareth's head tilted to the side. “Is he supposed to be sitting or standing?”

  “Ha, ha. Very funny.” A pause. “Sleeping,” she admitted in defeat. “It's supposed to be Pet.”

  “The cat I sent you? Well, his lines are all wrong and his eyes are too far apart.”

  Exasperated, Adele shoved the charcoal stick in his hands. “Here, you try it.”

  He stared at the implement in puzzlement. “I cannot draw.”

  “Oh please! You draw all the time. Those archaic letters you draw are art.”

  He quirked an eyebrow at her. “I believe you said that was copying, if I remember correctly.”

  “Yes, well, it still shows you have the skill. Much more so than I do.”

  “I don't have him here to look at.”

  “Close your eyes and picture him. Remember him with me playing by the fire in your castle. Then start drawing.”

  Gareth regarded her dubiously and closed his eyes. After a few moments he opened them and set the charcoal to the stone. Soon, a detailed sketch of Adele's cat began to emerge. Even though it was a rough charcoal, Adele could immediately see Pet come to life on the ancient stone.

  “That's amazing,” she said. “And very annoying.”

  Gareth looked at her only to see her smiling. “Ah, you are joking.” He relaxed, lifting the charcoal once more. “Perhaps I should make it look like you drew it. I can give it stubby legs and unidentifiable features. No one would be the wiser.”

  “Don't you dare.”

  It was past midday, and Gareth had retreated to the darkest recesses of Hathor's temple. Even with fresh blood coursing through his system, the temperature had an immediate impact on him. He had wordlessly taken the weak cooling blanket and departed for the darkest area.

  Adele kept vigil near the entry, out of sight, but with an open view of the sparkling river and clear sky. There was no way of knowing what means of transportation Colonel Anhalt would arrange. She hoped for an airship since it would be difficult to continue sailing up the Nile with the cataracts growing in frequency.

  Adele's stomach remained in knots as she waited with both anticipation and dread for any sign of Anhalt. She had no choice but to lie to her commander about Greyfriar and hope for the best. With any luck, no one would discover what he was. So it was little wonder that when the great shadow of an airship fell across the sands, Adele did not jump with joy, but instead walked toward the dark interior where Gareth hid and announced, “They're here. There's an airship.”

  “That's good. The air is cooler aloft.” Gareth nodded, his eyes already covered with the dark glasses. “You are sure it's them?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Isn't it possible that we have been discovered? Perhaps it's Senator Clark with an armed escort to bring you back.” He picked up the head wrap and began to cover his face, becoming the Greyfriar once more.

  Adele's lips pursed, not wanting to think that this trek could have been for nothing. She strode back to the temple entrance and went out into the blistering glare. She made her way to a rocky overlook where she could watch the four colossi of Ramses at Abu Simbel without being observed. She knew that whoever had just flown in would go to the major temple first. As she hugged the ground, her breath creaked out dry, blowing little clouds of dust.

  After a few moments, Adele heard the sound of approaching soldiers—boots, jangling metal, voices. They certainly weren't being stealthy, or perhaps she had simply grown used to Gareth's shadowy style and all humans sounded like tramping cattle to her now. Ten figures emerged from around the base of the temple façade, trudging with difficulty through the loose sand. They were not her White Guard. There were no red tunics and black trousers. On the other hand, they weren't dressed like Senator Clark's American Rangers either. The uniforms were unknown to her, and she knew every unit of the imperial armed forces. These men wore nondescript uniforms of plain khaki tunics and trousers, gaiters, and desert boots, with cloth-covered peaked pith helmets and simple leather belts and ammo sashes. They carried bolt-action rifles that appeared to be standard-issue Mausers. Adele stared hard through the glare, wishing for a spyglass.

  The soldiers paused outside the temple. A few gazed up at the magnificent monument, but most swigged from canteens. Two turned toward Adele's cliff. She dropped her face to the dirt and lay still. She waited for the shout of discovery, but it didn't come. Slowly, she rose and looked down at the men again. One soldier spotted the anchored dahabiya. He shouted, and several of his comrades jogged forward.

  The princess cursed. Without that boat, there was no way out except on foot, and Gareth certainly could not get far. She could surrender herself to prevent the soldiers discovering Gareth, but that would solve nothing long-term. She conjured the image of poor Gareth lying comatose and panting in the temple, slowly starving to death like an abandoned dog.

  The soldiers all responded to a sound and turned toward from where they'd come. They all stood or straightened, lifting their rifles smartly. A group of three men appeared around the foot of Ramses.

  Colonel Anhalt was in the lead.

  LORD KELVIN HAD an unaccustomed look of real emotion on his hatchet face. He didn't want to speak, but he was compelled by duty. For moral support, he ran his fingers over the minutes of the Home Affairs Committee he had just chaired in the House of Commons in central Alexandria.

  Emperor Constantine stared at him with the same directionless anger and dismay he'd shown since the wedding disaster the week before. The emperor lived every minute now unsure whether he was furious or broken-hearted.

  Kelvin said, “Your Majesty, the overwhelming sense in Commons is that Princess Adele should be removed from the line of succession.”

  The emperor began to shake his head slowly.

  The prime minister continued, “The negative reaction to her beh
avior is palpable. Commons is quite distraught. No confidence remains in her. I'm sorry to tell you this, Your Majesty, but our way seems clear. His Imperial Highness, Prince Simon, should be made emperor presumptive.”

  “What do I care what Commons thinks?”

  Kelvin hid the alarm he felt. “We must, Majesty. The Empire is in crisis. The heir has fled with a common masked rogue, and her where-abouts are unknown. Her disposition is obviously called into question. It pains me to say it, but she is unfit to rule by any definition. Strong action is required to restore public confidence in the crown.”

  “What of Senator Clark?”

  Kelvin raised his eyebrows in slight confusion. “What of him?”

  “He intends to search for Adele and bring her back. He's done it before. Commons would surely accept Adele with the senator at her side.”

  “Despite the senator's unquestioned experience in bringing the princess back to Alexandria, Senator Clark is not Equatorian. Majesty, the people demand Prince Simon. Princess Adele is no longer feasible.”

  “No. That's impossible. We have a treaty with America.”

  “There is no princess. There can be no marriage. Therefore, the treaty is moot, through no fault of your own.”

  “What about the war?”

  Kelvin took a deep breath of apparent regret. “Commons is prepared to recommend we postpone any offensive in the north. We dare not put our armed forces in harm's way until we have set the Empire on a solid constitutional path. The very real potential for internal rupture must be faced, Your Majesty.”

  The emperor rose and paced before a vast sweep of windows. In his white uniform, he was a pale shadow against the colorful spray of flowering shrubs in the private gardens outside. A warm summer breeze swirled sweet scents through the Privy Council chamber now bathed in the red light of the sinking sun.

  “I could suspend Commons,” the emperor said.

  “Majesty.” The prime minister actually shivered and placed his hands flat on the table with an audible thump to steady himself. “That is a precedent you dare not set. I can't count the evils such action would create. Many of the provinces would resist.”

  Constantine looked out the window with his back to Lord Kelvin, and his silence disturbed the prime minister. The thought of the emperor declaring personal rule and disbanding Commons could mean the end of an empire that Kelvin had labored to build and preserve.

  The prime minister knew that Emperor Constantine had to forget Adele and turn to his son, Simon, who could be molded into an excellent ruler, given time. Constantine simply couldn't accept that he had lost his daughter, and that the Empire had already abandoned her. But Adele had always been an unrelieved irritation; she was unfocused and undisciplined, and exposed to ideals not in accordance with proper society, thanks in part to her mentor, Mamoru, whom Constantine refused to dismiss. Something to do with Adele's mother, the former empress, who had personally requested Mamoru come from the Japanese Empire in the East Indies to teach her daughter. Then the empress had extracted a promise from Constantine to retain the teacher no matter what. It wasn't enough that Mamoru was a religious fanatic and a dangerous subversive, he also had some personal intelligence network that the emperor refused to seize and control. At least with Adele gone there was no reason for Mamoru to continue skulking about Alexandria. However, that was a moot point if the emperor tried to force his misguided will on the government.

  Lord Kelvin cleared his throat and prepared to launch into a thoughtful, measured lecture on the delicate balance of crown and Commons, and of metropole and provinces in imperial politics when Constantine said, “Summon the General Staff. I want Army Chief of Staff Singhal, First Air Lord Kilwas, and Admiral of the Blue Petrov here this evening. And I want the Tewfiq Barracks on standby in case of action.”

  “If I may,” Kelvin began slowly with a quavering voice, “perhaps I should place a motion before Commons in general session to vote on the issue of Princess Adele's succession. A favorable vote or even a deadlock will allow you to—”

  “There will be no vote on my daughter, Mr. Prime Minister.” The emperor's face recalled the hard features of the man who had campaigned to break the Zulu Kingdom back when Kelvin was a young adjutant on Constantine's staff. “I won't stand for her to suffer the humiliation of a public rebuke. Call the General Staff. I want troops in place should I need to close parliament.”

  “Your Majesty, I implore you—”

  “Do as I say! Or step down!”

  The prime minister felt as close to tears as he had in his life. He stood up with visage unmoved and departed to make ready to destroy his government. All because of the regret of an old man and the lunacy of a young girl.

  Lord Kelvin couldn't suppress the apprehension he felt as he strode the halls of the palace. He had discussed many possible coming events with his friend, Lord Aden, and this was one that neither had believed likely but couldn't dismiss completely. If Constantine closed parliament and ruled by force, the role of the prime minister would diminish and likely the power of Senator Clark would elevate. However, if all units of the military didn't support the emperor's seizure of power, Equatoria would be thrown into chaos and perhaps internecine bloodshed. The Cape or Kashmir might declare independence, as they had threatened for years. The crazed Legionnaires in OutreMer would move to seize Saharan resources. He could foresee no positive outcome to Emperor Constantine's clumsy actions.

  This act was as potentially destructive as the northern war, perhaps even worse. Lord Kelvin had done his best to delay the campaign against the vampires. In his mind, the war could only result in a stalemate that would weaken the glorious Empire, as well as place an American, whom Kelvin couldn't control, close to the throne. He finally had given up and accepted that the wedding would occur, but he had taken solace that the emperor would continue to rule, hopefully for years, which would give Kelvin time to restructure his plans.

  And then the wedding hadn't happened. The lunatic princess disappeared into the night with a masked vigilante. How fortunate. Kelvin had seen events shift his way and he had foolishly relaxed, knowing he had only Constantine to manage for the present, and a future to look forward to with the pliable Simon as the ruler. However, Kelvin had underestimated Constantine's emotional distress. Was the entire imperial family deranged? Now Kelvin had to save the Empire from the emperor.

  There was nothing Lord Kelvin would not do to protect Equatoria.

  The prime minister reached the front portico of the palace and asked the footman to summon his personal carriage. He then instructed the driver to take him to an address that was barely half a mile away. After the very short trip, he signaled the carriage to a halt.

  “Shall I wait, sir?”

  “No. I'll find another way home, thank you.”

  The carriage rumbled off, leaving Lord Kelvin standing in the street, draped in the long shadows of evening. He slipped into the darkness between buildings. Searing light from the Pharos One air tower swept over his head every minute as he made his way through untended gardens in the empty spaces between old structures that had yet to be reclaimed or demolished. He swatted wild shrubbery aside and cursed at thorns that clutched his pant legs. His polished shoes caked with soil as he trekked farther from the pavement. Between the gnarled trunks of scrub brush he found his objective—a hidden doorway that appeared to untrained eyes as nothing more than tumbled stones.

  Lord Kelvin ducked low and heard his coat rip as he squeezed into the cleft between rocks. With effort, he pushed through, and while his eyes fought the darkness, he tapped his toe and found the edge of a step. Carefully carved limestone stairs took him down into blackness. At the bottom, he entered a vaulted area and coughed from a stench that filled the air. Covering his mouth with a silk monogrammed handkerchief, he inched forward, but he tripped over a large sack and fell onto the stone floor. He cursed and kicked at the bundle, dislodging arms and legs from the mass.

  Human bodies. Several of them.

/>   Kelvin cried out and scrambled away from the cadavers. He bumped into another object and turned to see luminous eyes staring down at him. Sharp fingers touched his shoulder.

  “No! No!” Kelvin screamed and scrambled to his feet as more shapes shuffled around him. “I have business here!”

  Kelvin backed against a flaking wall and screamed out, “Flay! I'm here to see Flay! Where is she?”

  A tall figure appeared across the chamber, growled, and sent all the shadowy things sinking closer to the floor. The newcomer, visible in the fresh moonlight drifting down from cracks above, was a female wearing the white robes of a Bedouin that barely concealed her naked form beneath.

  “Kelvin,” the female snarled in English. “Why are you here? What if you were followed?”

  “I wasn't followed, Flay.” The prime minister adopted an authoritative voice, which he didn't feel. He found himself staring at the vampire despite her terrible nature. She was physically striking, long-limbed and powerful, with smooth, pale skin and oil-black hair draping her shoulders. Her cruel face, only partially visible in the shadows, was almost beautiful. His gaze fell on her hips and thighs, and he looked hurriedly away, shocked and embarrassed by her nearly naked state.

  She sneered at his prudish demeanor. “What do you want?”

  “I've come to unleash you.”

  The time had come for Flay to return to life.

  She had existed for the past months—it might have well been years—in a fetid necropolis beneath Alexandria. The city was pockmarked with undiscovered subterranean catacombs, and now they were full to bursting with vampires. The heat was crushing, and Flay's packs were even more fractious because they were drawn from allied clans from Britain, Hungary, and Bavaria. They were close to starvation, eating only the few rationed humans they could steal without notice. Now, they undulated with nervous energy, sensing that full-fledged feedings were upon them.

  Flay knew this mission for what it was—her last chance, a forlorn hope. Cesare had blamed her for the loss of Princess Adele in Scotland. The war chief of the greatest clan was manhandled by a human girl and then thrown to her death from an airship. The shame still stung even though Flay knew there was something enormously peculiar about Adele; the girl wielded power in a way that hadn't been seen in centuries.