Kingmakers, The (Vampire Empire Book 3) (39 page)

“My lords,” Gareth said, “it has been centuries since our clan was called for this purpose. Would that this day had been more years in coming, but death finds us all. The time has come, and you have a duty to perform. Our clan needs a king, and our tradition holds that you noble lords are the voice of the clan. You will go into isolation, and you will not emerge until you have decided. Recall, there are no candidates. Any member of the clan may be king. There are no packs about, so it is wisdom alone that influences you.”

Cesare raised a hand to silence Gareth. “In addition to you lords of our clan, since we are all one people around the world, it is permissible for rulers of other clans to join this coven. Their voices hold no more weight than yours, but they are welcome.” He signaled his chamberlain, Stryon, to open the door at the rear of the room.

Several males and females entered, boldly attired to give silent notice of their elevated positions.

“Noble lords,” Cesare announced, “welcome among you Ashkenazy of Budapest, Draken of Munich, Natalia of St. Petersburg, and Leopold of Brussels.”

Gareth was relieved that Lothaire was not among the dignitaries. He had warned his friend to stay well away from the coven, but stand ready to move to Gareth's support when needed.

There was some grumbling among the British lords when the foreign rulers entered, but tradition, even recent tradition, was powerful. And these rulers were all Cesare's allies, so there were no wildcards. The coven would end as expected, they believed.

Cesare regarded Gareth, likely mistaking his strained expression for a sudden realization that his days were truly numbered. “Gareth, if you will.”

The elder brother cleared his throat. “Yes. Now that we are all here, it is my duty to send you into isolation. You are required to spend at least three nights in contemplation and discussion, more if needed, but no fewer. Go now, with the chamberlain, and do not emerge again…until you have chosen the new king.”

The lords turned and moved out through the open doors. Soon the room was empty but for the two brothers with their father's throne between them.

Cesare said, “That went well. Don't you think, Greyfriar?”

“Yes,” Gareth muttered. Then Cesare's words struck him like a polearm. He slowly turned to look at his brother and saw a mask of hate and triumph.

“Don't pretend, please,” Cesare hissed. “Even you are past that. I didn't believe it at first, and I hate you more than anyone. Yet once I considered it, I realized it was true. It made sense given your insanity. I'm only glad our father didn't live to see this.”

“How long have you known?” Gareth asked, trying to sound casual, moving a bit closer to his brother.

“Very recently.”

Gareth heard a shuffling at the door, and he saw Flay and a mob of her beloved Pale. Her face was like steel and her glare impaled him. She had turned on him. He didn't know why, and it didn't matter. Not now.

Cesare asked, “Are you prepared to surrender?”

“Not likely.”

“I suspected as much.”

Along one wall of the throne room, high windows shattered; glass sprayed ahead of vampires who swarmed in. Flay raced for the throne dais with a red-coated stream of soldiers at her heels. Gareth leapt into the air, spinning over several figures that grasped for him. Claws ripped his long frock coat. He stepped on shoulders like stones in a stream, feeling the fresh wind on his face. A quick glance showed every window filled with Pale blocking escape routes.

He raced across the chamber, slamming into vampires, pushing off cracked chandeliers. The mob around him tried to respond, tried to correct for his speed, but they collided with one another. He caught a quick glimpse of a furious Flay as her own stumbling men blocked her.

The empty hallway loomed beyond the open door.

A wave of heat smashed Gareth. In a second, he wondered if Adele was there, but the scent was wrong. A figure appeared blocking the doorway. He was a human with white hair and a long beard. In his hands, he held large crystals clasped together. A silvery fire wafted from the stones and caused Gareth to falter with a cry of pain.

Then he was falling back. He saw the rotting ceiling and Flay's impassive face. Gareth tried to twist, raising one arm to cover his throat. His legs were clamped together, and he felt his wrists seized. Faces and arms and torsos crowded around him, grabbing him, locking him into position.

“Hold him!” came the shouts. “Careful! He's dangerous!”

Gareth struck out with his teeth, ripping the muscles from someone's arm. New arms replaced it. He was borne to the ground, barraged with fists and knees.

He saw the human kneeling over him. The man looped an object around Gareth's neck, and Gareth screamed as if a hole was burning through his chest. Faces blurred in the agony as the vampires holding him yelled in pain and drew away. Cesare smiled and gave orders. Flay sneered down at her former conspirator, but her bravado faded and she shook her head sadly, looking lost.

Gareth was chained in a dark cell under the palace. Perhaps the room was once used for storage or wine, but now it suited the great traitor. Rough stone walls with no windows and a heavy door defined his new world. Gareth heard or smelled little because of the searing pain lancing through his body from the crystal talisman hanging around his neck. The burning was too terrible for Gareth to appreciate the irony of his brother's choice of weapon to lash him.

A bolt shifted and the massive door swung in. The human geomancer peered in with intense curiosity before Flay shoved past him. The war chief stared at Gareth's writhing form chained by the wrists from heavy brackets in the ceiling. His wounds from the fight still ran red because he could not heal. Flay's expression was pure bitterness, more than rage.

“It hurts, doesn't it?” she said. “I hope you feel just a little of what I did when your human pet tried to kill me in Scotland.”

Gareth met her icy glare, trying to put the agony aside. His jaw opened and closed.

“Don't try to speak.” Flay sneered at him. “You won't be able to.”

The human geomancer said smugly, “As you can see, Gareth is in exquisite pain.”

“Don't speak his name!” the war chief roared, and backhanded the man into the wall.

“Flay,” Gareth whispered hoarsely.

Her flickering expression betrayed surprise at his stamina, and perhaps even concern at his condition.

“Please,” he gasped. “We can still succeed.”

“There is no we!” she shrieked. “There never was. I meant to betray you from the beginning.”

“No.” Gareth grimaced as he spoke. He panted with effort. “It isn't too late.”

Flay went wide-eyed with dismay. “Do you even know when you're lying?”

“You must free me.”

“Beg your princess to save you. Perhaps if you scream, she'll hear you in Edinburgh. I saw her there. Do you think I'm a fool? Do you think I'm an idiot? I should kill you here, you bastard. You deserve it.”

Gareth dropped his chin to his chest at Flay's scorn. It couldn't end from jealousy. Such a small emotion to tilt the world.

“Touching,” came another voice from the door. Cesare strolled in, grimacing uncomfortably at the aura wafting off the talisman. He glanced at the war chief. “Why are you here, Flay?”

She retracted her claws with obvious effort. “I wanted to see the Greyfriar alive one last time.”

Cesare looked at Goronwy, who studied Gareth as if he were inside a test tube. “So your trinket works, Witchfinder.”

“I told you they would, my lord. You are the master of humans and vampires now.”

“Yes. Just as it should be.” The young king-to-be laughed. He crossed his arms and regarded Gareth. “I admired you when I was young. You were going to be a great king; my only future was to be your councilor. Then the bottom dropped out of you. When Dmitri needed you after the Great Killing, you weren't there. But I was. And in an odd
way, I was angry with you. You were such a colossal disappointment to everyone. Even to me.” Cesare leaned against the wall, lost in his own memories. “I almost wish I didn't have to kill you, but I can't allow anyone to know that my brother was the Greyfriar. It reflects badly on the entire family, you know.” Cesare reached out and clamped his hand around the back of Flay's neck, half playfully, but with clear threat. “Your days are done, Gareth. There is no one here to help you.”

Flay said in a restrained voice, “What of his princess?”

“Ah yes.” Cesare raised a curious eyebrow. “The Death Bringer. Empress Adele.”

With sudden alarm, Gareth said through bloodstained teeth, “You don't think she's stupid enough to come here to save me, do you? She won't fall into your trap.”

“This isn't a trap,” Cesare replied cavalierly. “I don't want her in London. She's far too dangerous. I've brought my packs back into the city in case she was to wander in here. But I'm leaving for Edinburgh in a moment to kill her. And to kill everyone who lives there. Alone. Personally.”

Gareth laughed. “You don't stand a chance. She'll render you into a pile of ashes.”

“Normally, I might agree with you,” Cesare replied as he fumbled awkwardly in his coat pocket. He drew out a chain with an odd bluish crystal hanging from it. “But, you see, I am far more intelligent than you. I had the forethought to prepare a weapon against the empress.”

The human geomancer chuckled with self-satisfaction and nodded. “My lord, don't bring that talisman too close to this one or it may fracture the facets.”

Gareth had felt a slight weakening of the fire burning on his chest when Cesare revealed the blue stone. Cesare noticed the concern on his brother's face and clutched the cold talisman in triumph.

“This little thing,” Cesare said, “will counteract Adele's abilities long enough for me to slaughter her. Correct, Witchfinder?”

“That is so,” Goronwy responded. “It is a triumph of research.”

Cesare grinned at Gareth and repeated, “Yes. A triumph of research. Your fearsome empress will be nothing more than a helpless girl.”

Gareth surged forward, straining against the chains, snarling. Cesare nodded to Goronwy, who pressed the talisman hard into Gareth's chest. The Scottish prince screamed as fire lanced his veins, and the world went black.

When Gareth's eyes opened again, he made out blurred images of Flay and the human witchfinder. He muttered, “Cesare.”

“Gone,” Flay announced. “An hour past. Bound for Edinburgh.”

Gareth tried to move, willed his weak limbs to fight his bonds. He couldn't hear the chains make the slightest jangling. Even so, he gasped for breath from the effort. He looked up. “Flay, I'll give you anything you want. I'll make you queen. I beg you. I have to stop him.”

The war chief glanced swiftly to Goronwy for an instant, as if there was the briefest chance of believing again. Gareth held his breath until her eyes dropped to the floor. Then she quickly turned away and walked out the door.

Gareth summoned up the last of his pitiful strength to scream, “Flay! Please!”

There was no reply.

u
SS
B
OLIVAR
SMELLED
horrible.

It had been a week of being trapped in close quarters, in narrow corridors, and tight cabins with a crew of two hundred, plus companies of marines. The airship never dropped into temperate atmosphere to air itself out. The aluminum-burst engines filled every crevice with a nauseating metallic tinge that infected every bite of food, every swallow of water, and every breath taken.

General Anhalt climbed the companionway ladder to the bridge. The metal vibrated under his hands and boots, as it always did. He longed for the open decks of sailing airships. He welcomed the freezing temperatures any day versus the damp heat of the steamnaught. He prayed Equatorian engineers paid more attention to ventilation as they built their own ironclads. With any luck, these giant air beasts would be proven inefficient and fall into the scrap heap of history.

Anhalt pulled himself through the open hatch onto the crowded command deck. The noise of the bridge was like a club to the brain. The riveted bulkheads were packed with hissing pressure gauges and rows of wheels and valves. The network of pneumo tubes clanked and whistled. Voices shouted from every corner to make themselves heard over the din of the vessel itself.

Framed in the glass of the vast sweep of bow windows, Senator Clark waved a hand at Anhalt from his place near the great wheel, and shouted something unintelligible. The sirdar had tired of making a sign of cupping his hand at his ear, so he trudged through the sweating crewmen to lean into the senator's bellow. The airship's captain, Sandino, stood next to the wheel with the young helmsman and gave Anhalt a polite nod.

Clark shouted, “We can't wait any longer. My weather boys say conditions are prime.”

Anhalt consulted his pocket watch and twisted several dials to read the brass wheels. Gareth should have come yesterday. The sirdar took a painful breath at the thought of his friend's possible fate. The empress had been so worried for Gareth to go alone to London. Perhaps she had been right to be concerned.

The American yelled again, “You said the coven started the day before yesterday. It will be over tomorrow and the clan chiefs might disperse. We have to go now.”

Anhalt snapped his watch shut. “Very well. I concur. Commence the operation.”

“Captain Sandino,” Clark roared, “take us up and make for London.”

“Aye, sir!”

After a few minutes of frantic activity with signals dispatched and received via pneumos,
Bolivar
rose through the grey mist. The windows spattered with rain. Then suddenly the bridge was flooded with sunlight as the airship breached the cloud layer and sat atop an endless sea of orange-and-white cotton. The ship plowed across the surface of the rippling clouds, driving north toward her target.

Senator Clark drew deep on a black Cuban cigar. “So, how do you like it, Sirdar?”

“Like what, Senator?”

“The feeling of saving the human race? We'll be legends when this is over. Of course, I'm already a legend, but you'll be joining me.” He laughed and blew smoke into the rancid air.

“I'm grateful you made room on the pantheon for me.” Anhalt offered a begrudging smile. “I just hope this works.”

“It'll work. Everything I do works. You should see the Atlantic coast of the old United States now. Not a vampire in sight.”

“Nor anyone else, I'd wager,” the general murmured bitterly and consulted his watch again. “So, London within the hour?”

“I'd say so.”

“I'll observe the operation from the bomb deck, if that's acceptable with you.” Anhalt saluted and climbed down from the bridge. He couldn't bear the senator's crowing company for long, despite the fact that the man's confidence and enthusiasm were terribly contagious.

He worked his way down ladders and catwalks until the roar of the aluminum bursts were overhead. He entered the bomb deck in the belly of the airship. The bombardier chief consulted with his crew, all in heavy leather jackets with fur trim. They waited by a row of pneumo-tube out-spouts studying charts of London tacked to the bulkhead with magnets. A small company of bluejacket marines stood nearby.

Anhalt paused. “Chief, do you mind if I watch the operation from here?”

The sturdy American betrayed brief annoyance. “That'd be fine, General. I'll tell you, though, it gets pretty noisy and pretty cold down here. These bomb bays kick up an awful draft.”

“I'll trouble you for a coat, then.”

A thick leather flight jacket was produced for Anhalt, and he was immediately sweltering in it. He and the chief went to the rail that surrounded a vast open rectangle in the center of the bomb deck where the steel flooring stopped. Down in the open pit was the concave outer surface of the airship. A red light blinked over the pneumos, and a crewman pulled out a green tube. He immediately smashed his fist against a metal pad on the bulkhead. A klaxon started screaming. Men began moving into position, fastening their coats, and tugging on heavy caps. A whine filled the air, and sunlight shot in from underneath as the four bomb bay hatches slowly opened. The deck became a hurricane.

The bombardier chief grasped the rail. “I'd hold on as long as you're standing here. We've had boys sucked out before. Also watch your step; it gets wet.” Water quickly condensed and dripped from every surface.

Through the gaping rectangles in the belly of the airship, white
clouds began to part and slivers of green and brown became rolling forests and broken edges of a city. Anhalt judged they were one thousand feet up and still dropping. He searched the clearing landscape and saw a curving river that looked like the Thames near Limehouse. Anhalt watched the decrepit metropolis pass below him as slowing
Bolivar
tracked west until Buckingham Palace was visible. Sure enough, there were large swathes of green, the old parks, surrounding much of the palace. Very few figures were visible through the trees. The ship descended to a mere seven hundred feet and steadied herself with maneuvering motors and held steady over the palace.

The chief glanced at the pneumo clerk, who read a new message and gave a thumbs-up. The chief shouted to Anhalt, “Spotters confirm we're on target. The senator said that you are the superior officer on board, so it's your honor, sir. The bridge is waiting for you to give the signal to burn it down.”

Anhalt wondered again what had happened to Gareth. Perhaps he wasn't even in London. There was no way of knowing. He prayed Adele would forgive him if he was wrong, but they couldn't delay any longer. “Proceed, Chief.”

The bombardier grinned and pumped an upraised fist to his crew. “Bombs away!”

Crewmen wrestled to turn large wheels on the bulkhead. Overhead, the four assembly-line chains started clanking. Hooks on the chains snagged bombs from their storage racks and carried them toward the open bays and dropped them into the sky like pendulous ripe fruit.

Turning to watch the bombs falling, Anhalt spied movement far below among the freshly green trees and crumbling buildings. Black shapes seemed to appear and cover the ground. Anhalt grabbed his trusty spyglass and peered down.

Vampires. Hundreds of them.

“Chief!” he shouted. “Signal the bridge we are under attack.”

The American looked confused until he too glanced over the rail and swore. He ran to the pneumo tubes, scribbled a note, and sent it flying. In moments, red lights began flashing and an earsplitting horn sounded.

Nearly buried beneath the warning klaxon came the rhythmic
thumping of the ship's belly turrets opening up. Explosive shells flowered amidst the thickening flock of rising creatures. It seemed that many of the approaching vampires were buffeted aside by the blasts, but few were stopped from coming.

A marine sergeant appeared at Anhalt's shoulder. Short and broad-chested, he leaned on the rail and studied the darkening sky below the ship with calmly raised eyebrows. He scrubbed casually at his tight red beard. “Senator's compliments, sir, but I am requested to escort you back to the bridge.”

“Thank you, Sergeant.” The sirdar pulled his pistol and drew his glowing Fahrenheit saber. “I believe I will stay with these men.”

The sergeant said, “It's likely to get a tad bloody.”

“I've seen
a tad bloody
before.”

“So I hear, sir.” His sharp salute revealed his admiration.

Anhalt watched the sky below
Bolivar
turn black with vampires. It was hard to make out individuals in the writhing morass of limbs and pale faces. Then the ship filled with creatures exploding up through the bomb bay hatches like starlings erupting from a smokestack. The marines opened fire into the storm squall of bodies. Figures twisted and spun, slashing with claws, falling on marines and airmen with teeth bared. Vampires scuttled everywhere, clutching onto crossbeams and dangling bombs.

Anhalt and the marine sergeant fell back to the pneumo bank with the chief bombardier and his men. The Equatorian fired his revolver and slashed at dark figures that feinted in and flitted back. Marines fought bravely, but men were swarmed under vicious mobs.

The sergeant yelled, “Sirdar, you need to withdraw, sir. The bridge is the safest place on the ship. My boys have got this well in hand.” A vampire swooped past him and clawed him to the ground. Anhalt stabbed the vampire through. The sergeant shook his bleeding head and pulled himself to his feet. “See? I'm fine. We'd prefer you not die down here. Your people need you.”

Anhalt felt like a coward, but he nodded consent. One man more would not make the difference here. The sergeant grabbed two privates. “Make a lane for General Anhalt to the hatch. We're taking him to the bridge.”

The Equatorian shouted, “Good luck to you!” to all he was leaving behind.

The chief bombardier waved cheerfully, ducking the scrabbling claws overhead. “Be careful on those ladders.”

Anhalt and the three marines scurried to the door, crouching low with men stabbing up with bayonets. The sergeant pulled open the hatchway and stepped out to cover, waving the others through quickly, and slammed the hatch closed again.

They muscled their way through the crowds of men in the corridors. Screams rang in the distance. Many of the gun decks were overrun or deep in blood. The vampires were working their way in from the hull. The engine room was lost, one man shouted. The engine room was the only safe place, another screamed.

They reached the airship's core where the great multichambered dirigible loomed in front them. They mounted a ladder that stretched up to the catwalk webs around the gas works. The general stopped and pointed out three motionless vampires clutching the sloped side of the dirigible. The creatures seemed overwhelmed by the noise and smell. One marine raised his rifle.

“No!” Anhalt hissed. “They haven't noticed us. Climb.”

The men climbed with their rifles hanging off their arms by the straps, watching the vampires and waiting for the telltale twitch when the things would streak to the attack. They had reached the halfway point of the long ascent when a squad of airmen came out onto the catwalk some fifty yards below. Tools hanging from their belts clanged against the iron railing. The vampires dropped from their perch, swooping toward the airmen.

“Take them!” Anhalt shouted.

The marines awkwardly brought their rifles to bear, with elbows locked around the ladder rungs, and shots cracked. Aim was near impossible. Several of the creatures were hit and tumbled in the air. They righted themselves and focused on the marines above them as the airmen ran for safety. One vampire rose through the air, while the other two scrambled up the ladder toward the soldiers.

One of the spidery things below leapt, taking shots into his chest. He
slammed against the bottom marine, ripping him off the ladder and leaving him to scream as he fell. The vampire surged forward, clutching the next marine and catching a bayonet in the face. The creature hissed and grasped the rifle barrel. The marine pulled the trigger with the muzzle nearly buried in the thing's cheek, and the vampire's head exploded.

Anhalt saw a vampire facing him twenty yards above, but on the opposite side of the ladder. The private below yelled, “Behind us!” A quick glance back showed the third creature scrambling up toward the group.

The marine private pulled a long dagger from his belt. “Go! Get the sirdar away!” Without hesitation, he slid down the ladder into outstretched claws. The vampire wrapped him up, and the marine shouted as he jammed the dagger into the thing's back, then pushed off into the air, wrenching the vampire from the ladder. Both figures plunged to the bottom.

The final vampire slithered down. The sergeant moved to the reverse side of the ladder, fumbling a long jagged knife from a belt sheath, almost losing his footing. The creature surged at him and seized the soldier by the head.

Anhalt drew back and shoved his Fahrenheit saber between the rungs into the vampire's midsection. He twisted the blade and the thing screamed. The sergeant slipped his dagger across the vampire's throat and grunted with effort as he dug the knife deep. Blood poured from the gash, mixing with the soldier's own. He gritted his teeth for one final push, and the thing's head lolled loosely to the side. The creature released its hold on the ladder and Anhalt kicked it. It fluttered away like a macabre old balloon.