The Rift Walker (29 page)

The vampires who were battling the first wave of soldiers realized they had been abandoned by their fellows, so they too fled the field. The Katangans rallied at the sight of the
ndoki's
backs, and gave pursuit. The pounding rain kept the vampires afoot. Several even stopped to feed desperately from fallen soldiers in an attempt to heal their vicious wounds. Their reward was a bayonet or sword either plunging into their rib cage or shattering their skull.

General Ngongo gave another strange call, and it too was carried down the line. Fire ceased along the ridgeline. The troopers in the glade began to pull back, grabbing their combat-inflamed comrades to keep them from racing headlong in pursuit, then being trapped far from support. As gunfire in the glade dwindled into silence, the soldiers broke into teams, some attending their own wounded while others executed injured vampires.

“Well done, General,” Colonel Anhalt said.

“Thank you.” Ngongo gave Princess Adele a helping hand off the wet ground. “These
ndoki
haven't seen such weapons in concentration. We gave them quite a start. I doubt they'll stop running till they reach old Jaga's boma.”

Adele said, “They turned awfully quickly.”

“Quite. There's no real fight in these things. Shall we inspect their camp, Your Highness?”

Adele made her way down the long, slippery path with the general, the colonel, and a bodyguard of Mountaineers and White Guard. She still felt uneasy about the fight. The Katangan firepower was undeniable, but vampires typically fought until they were in pieces. Perhaps Adele gave the
ndoki
too much credit and they simply weren't the fearsome killing machines humans had nightmares about in the north.

Once in the glade, she studied the cadavers of the
ndoki
, which were much scrawnier than vampires she saw in Europe. She stopped to offer words of thanks and encouragement to the Mountaineers. After she had spoken with every wounded man, she started toward the cave.

Anhalt appeared from the dark and held up a warning hand. “Your Highness, it's not for your eyes.”

“My eyes have seen much, Colonel.” She wondered if he would always be so protective of her. She hoped so.

Adele proceeded into the cave, where the stench was atrocious. Ngongo, along with several of his men and a few White Guard, stood looking at a group of twenty or so emaciated humans streaked with dried blood from festering wounds on their throats. There were some men, but mainly old women and several wide-eyed, stunted children. In the rear of the cave was a pile of bones and a few decaying corpses.

General Ngongo was tight-lipped and ashen. The soldiers all looked shaken by the scene of death and cruelty. Clearly most of them had never seen a vampire camp such as this. The general walked to the mound of bones and pronounced, “Remember this scene, gentlemen. This is our enemy. This is what we must wipe from the earth. This is why we will pay whatever price we must. Nothing we can do is too much to destroy this evil.”

Adele stared into the vacant eyes of an emaciated little girl in the herd. In the girl's face there was no life and no future. Adele would speak to Msiri about arranging some help for her and the others regardless.

“Colonel Anhalt, if you will.” Ngongo walked briskly from the cave, eager to be back to straightforward military work and away from the nastiness of clean-up. “We will send word to King Msiri. We have engaged the enemy and secured the pass. The way to the Grand Boma is clear and the army may advance.”

J
AGA AND HIS
skinny son perched on a ledge along with Gareth, studying the Katangan army far below, still days away.

“Have you been treated well?” the chief asked his guest.

Gareth nodded slowly.

“Good. Everyone is well fed. We will remember these days. We will never be hungry again.” Jaga began to pace, nearly giddy with anticipation.

The long, meandering line of Katangan soldiers looked like a faltering stream flowing in and out of channels, breaking into pools and eddies, losing momentum, gathering itself and again surging forward. The vampire chief pointed down at the humans, instructing his son in their mysterious ways and giving the boy a sense of how terrain would be the enemy's undoing. The marshy valley, the sheer rock cliffs, and the obscuring mists would contribute to their downfall. All was as Jaga predicted. Victory and future security would soon follow.

Gareth watched the pair. He admired the solicitous nature of Jaga and his delight at his son's questions, which revealed a growing understanding of the hunt and the kill. King Dmitri had been much like that when Gareth was a boy and Dmitri was tall and broad, a powerful figure of wisdom and decision instead of the dribbling simpleton he had become. In his prime, Dmitri had been everything: ruler, hunter, and father. Gareth could recall the feeling of his father's rough hands on his shoulders, pointing at prey, explaining their actions, describing the dangers. They were watching a woman carrying wood not far from Inverness in Scotland. Gareth had expected Dmitri to strike the woman and then allow Gareth to feed, as usual.

“She'll stop long enough to adjust her bundle,” his father had said. “Take her when she does.”

Gareth had been a thin, gangly thing in rags. He had looked at his father. “Me?”

“You will no longer feed if you don't hunt.” The powerful vampire had slid lower into the brush alongside the path. He'd lain a silencing hand on a wriggling young Cesare, who was bored and distracted by discomfort, but knew better than to disobey his father. Dmitri was scarred and leathery from hundreds of years of struggle, but his blue eyes had been quiet and expectant. His gaze had had a hopeful gleam that gave Gareth spirit.

He had studied the approaching woman with new eyes, the eyes of a hungry predator. He had watched Dmitri attack humans countless times. For all his bulk, his father was an elegant hunter, sly and economical in his motions. Many vampires preferred to slaughter their victims and then drink the cooling blood from the dead. Dmitri was not that type. He overwhelmed his targets with surprise and strength, terrifying them into shock. Often humans simply went limp when seized and bitten.

The young woman, a girl really, strolled the forest path. Her long skirt was wet along the hem from the dripping heather. The sun was nearly gone, yet she didn't hurry; there was no hint of fear in her. She hummed to herself as she swayed down the trail. The sweet smell of the day surrounded her.

Gareth sprang out suddenly and loped for her. The girl saw him; she didn't scream, although she did jump with surprise and drop her bundle of sticks. Gareth opened his mouth wide and protruded his claws as he made a long leap for his victim, far too long, as it turned out, because he landed short at her feet. He felt a solid thump against his head. He got up on his hands and knees as the girl raised a heavy stick over her head and brought it down with both hands onto Gareth's back, who splayed flat on the ground. She grunted with curses and unintelligible words as she clouted him again and again.

Gareth wasn't hurt; he was confused. She should have cowered before his terrifying visage. He scrambled back, hissing. Another blow cracked him across the face. He wanted to yell for her to stop, but his father was watching, unless he had already slipped away in shame. No, Dmitri was still nearby, because Gareth could hear him laughing.

Gareth managed to rise to his feet while easily blocking the girl's angry blows. He watched her in fascination now. She was fighting back. He could kill her easily, but she didn't give up.

Suddenly a dark shape appeared behind the girl. Her eyes grew wide, then blank. Gareth heard her last breath as her heart fluttered to a stop and she slumped to the wet ground. His eyes rose from the perpetually startled face of the dead girl to the derisive snarl of his brother, Cesare.

“Why did you kill her?” Gareth snapped.

“Because you couldn't.” Cesare knelt and tore her throat with his teeth. He began to suck blood from the gaping wound.

Gareth charged and bowled his smaller brother into the mud. Shouting, he raked his claws deep across Cesare's face, trying to gouge that smug smile from his skull. Gareth fought with a fury that shame gave him, and with rage at his brother for making him look ineffectual in front of their father. Cesare was far smaller, and he cried and thrashed, trying to escape. Gareth felt a vise seize his neck, and Cesare's snarling form dropped away from him. He realized he was suspended in the air with feet dangling.

“Gareth!” Dmitri shook his son.

“She was mine!” Gareth shouted. “She wasn't hurting me. I could've taken her! He killed her!”

Cesare yelled, “You failed, Gareth! I saved you from her!”

“Quiet!” Dmitri slammed a foot against Cesare's chest and pressed him back into the dirt. “I told you to kill only if necessary.”

“It was necessary,” Cesare argued angrily. “Gareth was being beaten.”

“I'll kill you!” Gareth tried to pull free from his father's grasp.

Dmitri tossed Gareth aside, who tumbled, then came to his feet. The king pointed at the boy. “You did fail.”

Shocked, Gareth stood with open mouth. “But…I didn't want to kill her. Like you said.”

“She saw you coming. Clumsy and pathetic.”

Cesare started to speak again, but Dmitri squashed the air from him with his boot. Then the king glanced at the dead girl and back at Gareth. “Feed. Before it's wasted.”

“No.” Gareth surprised himself. He took an involuntary step back, expecting his father to lash out at him. “I won't. Let Cesare feed. It's his kill.”

The king hesitated, then with his eyes still locked on Gareth, lifted his foot off Cesare. The younger prince laughed and scuttled for the body. The blood was now pooling, and he began to lap at it.

“Waste.” Dmitri turned his back and walked away. “That is what will destroy us all.”

Gareth had refused to look at his brother when he fell into step behind the mountainous Dmitri. He never wanted to disappoint his father again. Now another gangly son stared at his father with the same rapturous attention as Jaga talked about the wind, the scents, the reactions of humans. Jaga fixed his claws and demonstrated a killing strike. His son replicated it. Gareth knew how the boy felt. His father knew everything. The boy would never feel so secure in his world as he did at this moment.

Jaga patted the boy on the shoulder and sent him back toward the boma. The child scampered lightly over the rocks and disappeared. Now Gareth and Jaga were alone. Save for the moaning wind, the cliff was empty. It was time.

Gareth straightened and moved soundlessly across the barren rocks toward Jaga. The chief of the Rwenzori turned and beamed at him. He seized Jaga by the throat. The chief looked surprised, as if this were some peculiar greeting of the British clan he wasn't familiar with. He started to speak, but Gareth pushed his claws into Jaga's neck and cut off his air. Jaga struck out desperately, raking him across the chest, but not deep enough. Gareth twisted the chief's head and reached up to strike.

A heavy weight locked Gareth's upraised arm into place.

Jaga's son clung to his forearm with needle-sharp claws. The boy had returned. With a snarl, he sank his teeth deep and tried to tear Gareth's arm loose from his father's throat. Gareth flung the boy down and instinctively drew back a clawed hand to finish him.

But he froze.

Jaga surged forward, snapping at Gareth's throat. The prince felt another thud on his shoulder and prepared to sling the boy away again. This time, he glimpsed the ferocious face of one of Jaga's warrior wives. She yanked Gareth around and smashed a blow into his nose. He grunted as a clawed hand raked his back. He tried to keep his hold on Jaga, but more hands clutched and tore at him. His vision blurred with a rain of blows, claws, and gnashing teeth. Red blood. Dark hands.

Gareth fought back, driving a fist into an amazon's chest. He grabbed an arm and broke it, then gouged a face, barely missing a vicious claw to his own eyes. Gareth sought Jaga amid all the flashing bodies. The chief had to die. That would make Adele safe, and only then could Gareth worry about escape.

He caught sight of the rangy Rwenzori king outside the ring of warrior women. Gareth flew for him, but an amazon appeared. He blocked her strike, dug his claws beneath her windpipe, and ripped. She gurgled, spinning to the ground, never to rise again, as blood sprayed.

Gareth readied a leap for Jaga, but instead found himself toppling to the ground as if his legs had vanished. A quick glance back showed his right leg in shreds. He felt no pain, but he couldn't raise his leg up to take his weight. One of the wives had cut his tendon. He tried to rise on the other leg, but a heavy pressure dropped onto his back, and the two remaining females pushed him into the dirt.

No, no, no
! he thought in terror. He couldn't fail. Not now.

“Hold him!” Jaga shouted.

Strong hands slammed Gareth's face against the rocks and pressed him down flat. Then his head was yanked up by the hair so he could see Jaga kneel before him.

“Why?” Jaga asked with genuine confusion. “Why did you do this?”

Gareth futilely tested the strength of his captors rather than responding.

One of the amazons said through clenched teeth while holding her captive steady, “Kill him. He is dangerous.”

“No,” Jaga replied quietly. “He is an ally from the clan of Dmitri. I can't kill him. I must have allies. To kill him would make me look poor and weak on the eve of battle. I will hold him captive until after the battle. Perhaps the clan of Dmitri will pay for him.”

The amazons growled between themselves and smashed Gareth's head against the ground again before lifting him up. Jaga touched the grievously wounded third wife, who was breathing her last. He shook his head in dismay as his son joined him and placed a tentative hand on his father's shoulder.

“You ate my food!” Jaga glared at Gareth. “And you try to kill me in front of my son! What sort of monster are you?”