Kingmakers, The (Vampire Empire Book 3) (4 page)

She wore simple traveling clothes. A long corduroy skirt topped leather boots with a heavy Madras blouse, a thick fur-lined coat flying open over it all. She had her Fahrenheit khukri dagger, a gift from her late mother, shoved into her belt.

The lanky form of a hard-eyed army captain was close at the empress's elbow. Her White Guard in their khaki helmets, red woolen tunics, and blue trousers with white gaiters crowded behind her like a protective scarlet cloak. Anhalt had once commanded the esteemed White Guard. He knew these men well, particularly their new commander, Captain Shirazi. They were a select core of the regiment, the most loyal and toughest men who had accompanied him last summer deep into Africa with the exiled princess Adele. This group had bonded into a distinct unit, fanatically dedicated to the empress. They came to
refer to themselves as the Harmattan, the fearful red wind of the Sahara. Adele couldn't go far without her loyal Harmattan swirling about her.

The general's stern demeanor didn't alter as he backed up so the empress could descend the gangplank, though it didn't seem to faze her. Her stride continued steady and measured, her expression remained regal, her head held high. She was every inch an empress and no longer the exuberant young girl he remembered.

Troopers who were gathering around the ship in great numbers began to chant her name. Adele inclined her head to the ranks, but he knew she was listening for only one voice among the multitudes. Her eyes scanned the gathering crowd, holding a trace of disappointment. Anhalt regarded her, his mouth a hard line. His right arm snapped up into a salute that he didn't release until she nodded. Then he dropped to one knee before her, head bowed. The whole battlefield around them followed suit in a rattle of arms and mail.

Anhalt heard Adele's breath quicken at the magnitude of her people's loyalty. He was proud that there was no sign of a haughty demeanor in her, only genuine gratitude for the troops' respect and adoration.

“Rise, Sirdar,” Adele said, extending her arm.

General Anhalt took her hand, and immediately felt weakness in it. “Your Majesty. Are you well?”

“I am,” she replied warmly, noting his expression of concern. “It is so good to see you, my old friend.” She scanned the crowd again and her voice held a trace of anxiety, “Where is Greyfriar?”

“He could not attend you.” When her concerned eyes darted quickly to him, Anhalt shook his head. “He is well, Your Majesty, merely…indisposed.”

Adele breathed a sigh of relief.

“Your arrival is most unexpected.” He raised a chiding eyebrow at her, then at the captain of the Harmattan. “And most foolish.”

There was a collective gasp. The gathered soldiers' surprised looks darted between the general and the empress. Adele stared sternly at Anhalt, but then after a moment laughed loudly, throwing her head back in delight. “Only you would be cross at me for saving your life.”

“Perhaps next time you could just send the ship without escorting it yourself.”

“Now where's the fun in that?”

“The Empire cannot bear your loss, Your Majesty.”

“Of course not, Sirdar,” she conceded with a sobering nod, “but in this case,
my
presence was necessary. It was the only way to break through the enemy lines and reach you. And to bring you supplies.”

He bowed and smiled at her. “Then you are most welcome.”

Captain Hariri came down the gangplank with desert robes flying, and clasped Anhalt warmly. “Just like old times, eh? But colder.”

The general grunted. “You really should at least try to resist going along with the empress's schemes.”

“I only follow your voluminous previous examples, effendi.”

Anhalt regarded Adele with a scowl. “I should have never introduced the two of you.”

“Adele!”

The empress spun toward the familiar voice, her entire demeanor swiftly altering from a woman in charge to a woman in love.

The tall figure in grey strode to her, his long hair blowing wildly along with the ends of his head wrap. Adele ran to him but immediately halted as Greyfriar stiffened in his tracks, exhaling a sharp hiss of pain. He took a halting step back from her.

Adele's face showed her own anguish. The geomancy still echoed in her veins.

“My empress,” he said, bowing low to her, not out of duty to crown, but out of reverence for the woman herself.

Anhalt observed the doomed pair. It had been months since they had last seen each other, and now they were held apart by the very power that had saved their lives. She could easily hurt Greyfriar, even kill him as she had the vampires swarming around her ship. Every time she practiced geomancy, she put him in danger. With time, so long as she didn't use her geomancy, she would revert back to normal. Until then, they could only stare at each other across a distance of a few feet.

“I'm so glad to see you,” Adele said. “How are you?”

“I am quite well. And you are very lucky.”

“Really, I won't be scolded by both of you. This was the only way. Admiral Moffet has been trying for three weeks to break through the Gap with little result other than mounting casualties and three lost frigates. We feared for you.”

Anhalt waved them to follow him out of the icy wind and away from the ears of the men. “Your Majesty, shall we step out of the bitter cold into the merely frigid?”

Instructing Hariri to begin unloading
Edinburgh
, Adele accompanied Anhalt and the trailing Greyfriar into the tunnels. The Harmattan fell into step around them. They made for the deepest section, heavily fortified for the command staff. Once inside the rude dirt-walled situation room, with Shirazi and the Harmattan guarding the closed doors, their council resumed.

“What of Rotherford at St. Etienne?” Anhalt asked.

Adele responded, “He succeeded in taking the town, but since then he has been hard-pressed by sizable packs. Communication is sparse. Little word comes or goes from his command now.”

Greyfriar asked from the farthest corner of the room, “What packs are attacking him? St. Etienne was a small clan. They shouldn't be able to match a force the size of Rotherford's.”

“We don't know,” the empress said, rubbing her gloved hands together to fight the chill.

“I don't understand,” the swordsman muttered. “Something is wrong. Something is happening I don't know about.”

General Anhalt furiously stoked a coal stove into a faint orange warmth. “Nevertheless. We will withdraw from Grenoble to reinforce St. Etienne. Now that the way south is clear.” He offered a nod of gratitude to Adele.

She hesitated a moment and then smiled. “I have a better option.”

Anhalt's lips pursed, knowing that he wasn't going to like this alternative. Neither would Greyfriar, judging by the way he crossed his arms, and by his next response.

“No,” he said.

Adele threw up her hands. “You haven't even heard my plan.”

“I know it involves you doing something dangerous, otherwise you
would not be here. I cannot believe that your government allowed you to come on this errand.”

“Well, Commons was told I was going to Damascus to tour a factory. What they don't know won't hurt them.”

Anhalt asked, “You are planning something dangerous, aren't you?”

“No, of course not. But I was thinking I would enter Grenoble and destroy the clan there.”

Anhalt and Greyfriar both exploded.

“Absolutely not!” the latter shouted.

“You are no longer a defiant princess!” Anhalt roared. “You are the empress! The sovereign of Equatoria. You cannot be seriously considering—”

“I am deadly serious.” Adele's brown eyes darkened like a desert storm. “My foolishness with Senator Clark delayed us for so long. Our army is bogged down because of me! I will do everything that is within my power to lead a victorious campaign without the further waste of lives!”

Greyfriar stepped forward and grabbed her arm. Smoke rose from his gloved hand, but he did not relinquish his grip even when Adele attempted to pull away. “This was not your fault! Winter was always going to be a factor.”

She retorted, “We had a better chance taking this city in the heat of the summer! Do you deny that?”

“No, but even so, no monarch fights on the front lines.”

“My father did!” Adele pulled her arm from Greyfriar's smoldering hand. Her expression softened at the pain she caused.

“See reason, Your Majesty,” Anhalt interjected. “There is no rationale for placing yourself at risk.”

“There is every rationale,” Adele said. “I'm here and we must take Grenoble. It has the greatest clan in southern France, save Lyon. We dare not bypass it.”

Anhalt saw so much of the late emperor Constantine in Adele, in her words and her stance. She was as bold and uncompromising as he on matters close to her heart. If Adele thought she could prevent more bloodshed, she would not hesitate to sacrifice herself.

“How do you propose to take the city?” Greyfriar asked.

Anhalt turned on him. “No! Do not even ask! This matter is closed.”

Greyfriar's cold, mirrored glasses regarded him. “We can no more control her now than we could before she was empress. She will do as she pleases the moment we turn away. It's better to be at her side protecting her.”

Anhalt's fists trembled at his side. “I beg of you, Your Majesty, don't be so foolish.”

Adele stepped up to her former protector, her voice softening. “My dear colonel,” his old rank an endearment rather than a criticism, “I am no longer a silly girl playing at games. I have the ability to break this stalemate and I intend to use it. I can save lives here and now.”

There was a knock on the door and Adele gave permission to enter, eager for an interruption. Captain Hariri swept into the small room, his face beaming. Clearly, he was happy to be back in the thick of action.

“The supplies have been unloaded and secured,” he said with a bow. “Your special diversion is being readied, my lady.”

“Excellent.” Adele turned back to Greyfriar and Anhalt, her eyes sparking with mischief. “Gentlemen, I didn't come alone.”

“E
ACH OF YOU
must kill ten of them.”

Flay's order spread through the gathered vampire packs in a hissing whisper that, if the humans at St. Etienne could hear, sounded like wind in the desiccated night-shrouded trees. There was much excited chatter and cackling as the horde shifted restlessly waiting for the command to attack.

Flay was tall and pale with long black hair braided straight down her back. She exuded strength, with a fury that seemed barely contained by her long scarlet frock coat and buff knee breeches. As was typical, she was bare breasted under the unbuttoned woolen coat. She pointed a long finger at her counterpart, the war chief from Lyon, Murrd. “Take four of your packs and come at the enemy from the south. I will storm their north with the main force.”

Murrd nodded, his bald head shining in the night.

“Primary targets in this attack are the beasts. Horses. Oxen. Kill them and the humans are hamstrung. They have some mechanical wagons, but not enough to carry all their large guns and their food. Airships should be damaged on the way out only. Do not be distracted by them. We will destroy them in time.”

“Yes,” said Chambrai, the Lyonnaise sub–war chief, with a hint of mockery. “Flay will use her human troops to fight their airships.”

Flay moved swiftly and caught Chambrai by the throat. In a spray of blood, the young Lyonnaise dropped dead. The packs froze in surprise. The Lyon vampires stood gaping at the body of their colleague, and then turned to Murrd for reaction. Flay went back slowly without apparent concern, content with her response to an underling's slur. She had no intention of letting some little cur from Lyon make snide comments about her because she had once been commanded, against her will, to lead the fanatical human Undead.

Murrd looked at his deceased lieutenant and nodded to Flay. “We're ready, War Chief.”

“Excellent,” said Flay. “You are also tasked with striking the center of the city. If you can locate the human war chiefs, kill them. Take out all the large guns you can. We will spread across the front and kill. Now, go.”

Several Lyonnaise packs lifted into the night air with their chief.

Flay waited for them to vanish into the starry sky. It was a cold and breezy night. She could hear rustling and voices from the Equatorian camp beyond a low rise.

Flay had known the humans' war strategy from the beginning thanks to Cesare's spy in Alexandria, and she had authored the counter-tactics. First, the vampires had sent the Undead to damage the port facilities at Marseilles to limit the number of troops and weapons that the humans could pour into the battlefield in the opening months of the offensive. Flay did not harry the humans' landing, knowing the Equatorians would be eager to gain ground before winter set in. She lulled them into a sense of ease with every uncontested mile they marched, and even allowed them to take St. Etienne with token resistance.

Now, Flay had surrounded the sadly unprepared Equatorians with the full force of the Lyonnaise packs, along with St. Etienne reserves and a British spearhead. As soon as she had obliterated the army at St. Etienne, she would crush the Equatorians faltering at Grenoble. Flay would suffocate the grand Equatorian invasion in the mouth of the Rhone Valley, and Cesare would voice his praise.

Blood would spill.

Flay screeched and rose. The packs followed, filling the sky with thousands. She loved the sound of the wind fluttering the clothes of vampires around her. She hadn't led an army so large since the Great Killing. Since the slaughter of Ireland. Since the battles beside Prince Gareth.

Below was the northern edge of the ragged Equatorian camp. The hard winter earth was scarred by a network of trenches and earthen bastions. In the distance were the yellow lights of St. Etienne itself, and several airships hovered in the sky over the town, lashed to buildings. In the darkness, soldiers huddled around small fires, shivering in their too-thin coats. The flames would impair the humans' night vision, which was poor in any case.

Gunfire came from the south as Murrd's forces struck. Sleepy disturbed voices rose from the trenches below. Flay whistled commands that sent the vampires plummeting on the unprepared men, and confused murmurs turned to screams.

Flay's vision went red. Bodies wrapped in overcoats stirred. Rifles swung clumsily. Soldiers scrambled for long-handled pikes, ducking and plunging the blades toward the sky. Flay struck, and cloth tore and blood flowed. Stunned eyes stared out from under khaki helmets.
Vampires
, someone screamed and then died. Questions were shouted. Pistols rose. Swords flashed wildly.

Lithe figures leapt along the edges of the trenches, dropping to strike, then springing up into the air, dodging blades, and falling on others farther down the line. Soldiers flailed around in the dirty pits, firing in all directions, and swinging pointless steel at vague shapes.

Flay slashed at a man and hit something hard. She saw a glimpse of chain mail on the man's chest. The man's head had no armor, however, so he was soon dead. A bullet entered her shoulder without great effect. She spun and smashed another soldier to the frozen ground before bounding high into the air to scout the situation again.

Thudding blasts filled the air, and shards of metal whizzed past Flay. She saw the flaming of the humans' heavy guns. A vampire to her right disintegrated into bits in midair. Flay followed the flashes back to the ground and dove like a stone, slamming into the three men operating a cannon. They shouted and reached for weapons. A short sword slashed
at her. She struck once, twice, three times. All the men fell to the frozen mud.

Flay turned to see a young man, a boy really, staring at her from under a comically outsized helmet and coat that draped over him. His unsteady rifle pointed at her. He fired one shell after another and disappeared behind a curtain of white smoke until the trigger clicked empty. Flay stepped toward him.

The boy dropped the rifle and raised his hands. “Don't. Please. I surrender.”

She laughed. Her first swipe nearly took the flesh from his face. He tried to ward her off, and called for his mother. Then he was dead. Flay drank briefly from him, and found the lingering terror delicious. All around her, vampires huddled over bodies. She kicked several and urged them back into the fight.

A bright light caused Flay to flinch. A flare, and then another. The humans were finally sending their star shells overhead to illuminate the battlefield. Gunfire sounded regularly now, as well as the brutal staccato of machine guns and the repetitive boom of small cannons. A few vampires dropped from the sky, hit by the barrage. Others crouched low against the ground and scuttled like bugs.

Flay vaulted from trench to trench, killing with each hand. Then she felt a sharp edge push into her brain. She grabbed her head, but there was no wound. It was a sound that assaulted her.
Shriekers
. She had first experienced it when an American ship attacked the Tower of London. The sound was coming from a nearby airship where crewmen turned the crank on a machine that spit out a horrendous high-pitched wail. She wasn't damaged, but was disoriented. Vampires staggered, and one fell victim to a soldier's pike. Several more shriekers started up from other airships or ground stations around the camp.

Flay screamed commands that were only partially heard over the mechanical din. She fell back, and her packs started to draw away with her. They had done enough damage for now. Humans were easily surprised, but after the initial wave of shock and terror, they were quick to their guns and knives. Sustaining the attack now was unnecessary, and would expose the packs to concentrated fire. Vampires had the advantage of speed and mobility and surprise, as well as the ability to attack at night. Flay's tactic was to hit the humans, kill as many as possible in a short time, then withdraw to come again when she felt it was useful.

Her mission was to destroy this army by holding them in place and winnowing them away. If they attempted to come out of their defenses and move in force, either toward Lyon or to the relief of forces at Grenoble, Flay would cut them to pieces. Human armies could do two things relatively well—move or fight. They found it difficult to do both at the same time. They had too many things to carry.

Flay knew she would have to destroy the shriekers. Plus, the machine guns and shrapnel cannons were dangerous. Over the last 150 years, the humans had improved their claws. They could kill better now, but they still died easily.

She landed beyond a low hillock, out of sight and beyond the range of human weapons that continued to chatter, wasting ammunition since most of the vampires had withdrawn. That made Flay smile. The whine of shriekers was a dull hum now. The packs surrounded her; male and female celebrated their slaughter with bloody mouths while sharing stories of their kills. Flay allowed it; she would count her losses later, but she doubted it would be a high number. The wounded would still be dragging themselves back from St. Etienne for hours to come, unless they were unlucky enough to be caught by human soldiers hunting for them.

“War chief!” Murrd shouted as he settled beside her. “A success!”

“You killed their commander?”

“Their cowardly war chief must have hidden deep inside, but I struck several of their officers. Still, we killed thousands of their men, and left thousands more crippled. And I killed hundreds of horses myself.”

Flay rolled her eyes at his inflated figures. “Hardly the stuff of epics.”

Murrd laughed. “The humans will surely retreat. The Equatorians are nothing to us now.”

“Idiot.” The British war chief lifted off into the clean cold air as the Lyonnaise stared after her with shock and insult. She growled to herself as she watched the celebrations of the vampires. They didn't understand. She knew how to win this war if only they would listen to her. But she wasn't sure whether her words held the same authority with Prince Cesare in London as they once did. The prince was a politician, not a warrior.

If only Prince Gareth ruled London.

Flay thought of Gareth and clenched her fists without thinking.

Gareth the traitor.

She still could barely believe that moment in the crypt below Alexandria when she discovered that her most hated enemy—the Greyfriar—was actually Prince Gareth. It wasn't just implausible; it was impossible. A vampire using weapons, wielding swords and pistols. A vampire helping humans.

Flay had returned to Britain after that event, unsure of her path. She had told Gareth that she had some sort of cunning scheme, but that was just to freeze him so she could escape. She had no idea what to do with the incredible information. It had to have some value, some use.

Flay had once tried to cajole Gareth into striking down his brother, Cesare, and taking his rightful place at the head of the clan. He had rejected her, which clearly had to do with his twisted obsession with humans and particularly with the wretched princess, Adele. Flay couldn't pretend to understand it.

Somehow, Flay would find a way to save Gareth from whatever madness had gripped him after the Great Killing and drawn him into isolation from his people, leading to his lunatic life behind the mask of the Greyfriar. Flay smiled at the thought of his gratitude once he shook his head clear of the spell Princess Adele had placed on him.

The Great Killing had, in many ways, been a disaster for vampires. They had grown soft and lazy like humans. And some, like Gareth, had gone insane.

This war would save them all.

Prince Cesare sat in a spotless wooden chair in the corner of a dark chamber beneath Buckingham Palace. He was well dressed in an impeccable grey suit and shined black shoes. He was short and lithe, with close-cropped hair and a sharp face. His blue eyes stared hard with no movement. Cesare was a thinking creature, and liked any who might observe him to know he was always in thought.

The only potential observer whose opinion mattered at the moment was mute. Across the room lay the body of Cesare's father, King Dmitri, dead for more than six months now. The king was thin and desiccated, having rotted away what soft fatty tissue he had possessed when he died. Now he was a leathery thing, empty eye sockets open and strained mouth agape as if struggling for one last breath. Cesare watched the human bloodmen slaves straightening the king's bedclothes. A dead human lay on the stones, his blood having been drained into a grate in the floor. An unfortunate victim was brought in every few days to be killed and drained, and then carted out by the bloodmen. It was an amusing fiction that Cesare maintained to imply that the king was still feeding. No one yet knew Dmitri was dead. With the exception of a few human slaves, only Cesare attended him, it was assumed out of extreme loyalty. The king's condition was to be hidden until it suited Cesare to announce his death.