Sweep in Peace

Behind us a long table waited, ready for the heads of the delegations to discuss the possibility of peace. Right now the prospect seemed rather remote, but the peace talks themselves weren’t my problem. Keeping the peace was.

I glanced up. At the opposite wall Caldenia sat in a royal box, about thirty feet up. Her Grace wore a copper-colored gown with an elaborate lace pattern and sipped wine from a glass. Beast sat next to her. Until I had a better idea of the participants in the summit, I wanted Caldenia off the main floor. Her Grace could take care of herself, but I told Beast to stay with her as an extra precaution.

George glanced at the electronic clock in the wall above the door. “We may begin.”

I nodded and murmured. “Lights.”

Bright light bathed the ballroom floor.

“Release the Holy Anocracy.”

The doors on the left side of the grand ballroom swung open. A huge vampire stepped out, dressed in blood armor. Enormous even by vampire standards, he carried the standard of the Holy Anocracy, black fangs on red banner. He faced us and planted the banner into the floor, holding it with his left hand. Music blasted from the hidden speakers, an epic march, relentless, unhurried, and unstoppable. Images slid along the walls of the ballroom: an armored vampire tearing into a centipede-like creature five times her size; two vampires locked in mortal combat, fangs bared; a vampire with a House standard atop a mountain of corpses bellowing in rage. This was the Holy Anocracy’s “We Are Scary Badasses” reel. The same images were now being streamed to the otrokar and merchant quarters.

The terrifying footage kept coming. A citadel of the Crimson Cathedral, unbelievable in its size; endless rows of vampires poised before boarding a space craft; a vampire woman in the robes of a hierophant dashing up the spine of an enormous creature, leaping straight up and slicing into its neck. An image of a small group of vampires in blood-stained armor appeared on the wall, calmly, methodically cutting their way through ranks of the maddened otrokars. The Horde crashed against them again and again like an enraged sea against rocks, and fell back, bloodied and helpless. The message couldn’t be clearer. The otrokar were wild undisciplined savages and hundreds of them were no match for the six vampires.

Nice. How to ruin the peace talks in two minutes or less. That had to be some sort of record.

George sighed quietly.

The images stopped and blossomed into one enormous picture that took up all three walls: the seven planets of the Holy Anocracy. As the image came into focus, the rest of the vampire knights marched out in three distinct groups, one for each house. They reached the standard bearer and froze.

Three faces appeared against the starry expanse of space, one per each wall: the severe face of the Warlord, a middle aged vampire with jet black hair on the right, the serene face of the female Hierophant on the left, and an old vampire in the middle. His hair was pure white, his skin wrinkled, and his eyes probing. He looked ancient like the space behind him. It had to be Justice, the chief judge of the Holy Anocracy’s highest court.

The vampires roared in unison. The tiny hairs on the back of my neck stood on end.

The vampire delegation turned as one and formed a line on the left side of the grand ballroom, the three marshals and the standard bearer closest to us.

“We’re ready for the otrokars,” George murmured to me.

“Release the Horde,” I whispered.

The heavy door clung open on the right and the otrokars emerged, with the Khanum in the lead and her son close behind. Three giant otrokars followed, each bigger than anything vampires could throw at them, with the rest of the delegation at their heels. They didn’t move, they stalked like the great predatory cats, emerald, sapphire, and ruby highlights playing on their chitin armor, their ceremonial kilts falling in long plaits on one side. An ear-piercing whistle rang through the grand ballroom and broke into a wild melody, full of pipes and quick drumbeat. The walls ignited again, now bright with the endless plains of the Otroka, the Horde’s home planet. A group of otrokars rode through yellow grass on odd mounts with reddish fur, hoofed feet, and canid heads. The image fractured and exploded into a mountain landscape filled with crags and fissures. The hard ground bristled with metal spikes, each supporting a severed vampire head.

The faces of the knights to my left were completely blank.

The puddles of vampire blood at the bases of the metal spikes trembled. The ground shuddered. A dull roar, like the sound of a distant waterfall, filled the air. The camera panned upward, showing the glimpse of a valley beyond the heads. An ocean of otrokars filled it, too many to count, a horde running at full speed, howling like wolves, the impact of their steps shaking the ground. They swept past the camera, bodies flashing by it. A muscular otrokar appeared on the screen, his face savage with fury. He swung a long sword, the muscles on his forearm flexing as he slashed, and the image turned black.

Okay. They weren’t called the Hope-crushing Horde for nothing.

The music kept going. The image on the wall transformed into the shield of the Horde backlit by flames. The Khanum stepped aside, the otrokars parted, and one of them stepped forward. He was of average height and slight build, small enough to pass for a human. His black hair was cut short. The otrokar shrugged off his armor, letting it fall to the floor. Every muscle on his torso stood out. He wasn’t beefy like a bodybuilder, but he was cut with superhuman precision. His stomach looked hard enough to shatter a staff if someone hit him with one. The otrokar pulled two long dark blades from the sheaths on his hips.