CHAPTER 25
After a long day of joyous slaughter, Ahmu's many children rest under the evening sun. Old veterans and newly turned alike lie one on top of the other in a dozy pile, soaking in the last of the day's light. Sweet dreams of disfigured corpses and victims fleeing in fear dance about inside their heads.
The spiralling pyramid of fur stretches out for miles around. Nestled into the middle of the pile at the very apex of the heap is a single scorched vampire. Curled up in the fetal position, Torrig remains as still as he possibly can. If he remains motionless, it's less likely the mongrels will start using him as a chew toy again. They could do much worse than that, and have been doing so regularly since he was handed over to Ahmu as punishment for failing his former master. Hellish visions of recent experiences will haunt his broken psyche for years to come.
When he’s satisfied that all the mongrels around him are safely off in dreamland, an umpteenth attempt at escape is made. Soft, careful steps are taken towards precious freedom. He's certain that in a footrace, he can outrun the mongrels but a nice, big head start will help. Every second passes like an eternity as he draws closer and closer to the edge of the pile. What few fingers he has left are chewed down to the bone by the anxious vampire.
A single jackal's slumber is disturbed as Torrig passes by. It pounces onto his back, grinding and gyrating its pelvis. Being dry humped by one of the horde is just as repulsive to Torrig the hundredth time as it was the first. Between the mongrel's excited bouts of fevered grunting, he struggles to wrestle himself free. His objections do not rise above a whisper so as not to waken any others, “Get off me you fucking rat.” Reaching back with his one good arm the jackal is dislodged with an elbow to the snout. A swift flick of the wrist spins its head around backwards. Its corpse falls to the ground with an audible thud. There is stirring among the mongrels in the vicinity, but none rise to their feet.
Regaining his bearings, Torrig continues tip toeing along on his set course. Finally clear of the fuzzy cuddle puddle, he pauses to get the lay of the land. Sand dunes stretch out as far as the eye can see. It's definitely Africa, that much is certain, but where in Africa? Memory and concentration feel far out of reach. So much of recent events is a blur of agony and degradation, “How long have I been here? For fuck's sake! Where is here?” Without any particular destination in mind besides freedom, he sets off due north. Unfortunately for Torrig, escape is not in the cards. A combination of weeks spent out in the daylight and a steady diet of the horde's desiccated leftovers have rendered his body weak and useless. Barely two kilometres are covered before exhaustion overwhelms and the conscious world melts away. The voice that intrudes upon his rest is one that he'd hoped to never hear again.
“There you are. When daddy says stay, he means stay, little one.” Ahmu stares down at Torrig with disdain in his glowing green eyes. Tremors of fear rip through his body. The last time he attempted escape, Ahmu decided to invent a whole new type of 'game' to play. Torture and humiliation are much more fun to Torrig when they weren't happening to him. Begging for mercy might save him some suffering. Ahmu so enjoys a little begging.
“I was just...” A greasy paw is crammed into Torrig's open mouth. Claws dig into his palate and he is lifted into a standing position. Blood and spittle stick to the back of his throat.
“Daddy doesn't care to hear your excuses. Someone is here for you. Rise and shine little one.” Ahmu lobs the simpering slave over his shoulder with intense force. Torrig's body skips across the sand and skids to a stop at the feet of his visitor. The boots parallel to his eyes are familiar. In fact he's spent the better part of the last four hundred years licking them. His old master has come back to claim him after all.
“Kagan! Kagan! You came for me.” The old one looks down in disgust at his disgraced subordinate. It was Kagan's original intention to leave Torrig under the yoke of the horde for the rest of his life, but circumstance have changed things.
“In a way, Torrig. There's something I need from you.” The charred husk of a man is elated, anything to get away from Ahmu and his children. Twitching fingers wrap up Kagan's boots in a vice grip. Crispy flakes of burnt skin are rubbed off as Torrig nuzzles neck against shin.
“Yes? What can I do to for you, master?” Seeing a vampire behave like an animal fills the ancient with seething rage. A swift kick to his jaw sends the broken man flying backwards.
“Don't grovel, you halfwit. I'm not Ahmu. Don't touch me.” The jolt does much to remind Torrig of who he really is. Night kin do not grovel and beg. They were warriors. Conquerors. The master race. If he is going to get out of his current predicament and back to his rightful place, pride must be rediscovered. The first step was the proper pose of obedience to the forebear.
Assuming the kneeling bow that is Kagan's preference, he asks again, “Apologies master. What do you need of me?”
Kagan smiles and says quite flippantly, “I've got a lovely little suicide mission for you Torrig.” Dreams of returning to a glorious place of authority disintegrate. The far flung hopes of freedom and revenge float away like leaves in the wind. Disbelief makes it almost impossible to form a coherent response. The injustices never seem to end.
“I've paid my pain debt. I deserve to retake my place as the North American elder.” Protests are pointless. There is nothing Torrig can say to dissuade the forebear. Ra recently came to visit and the newest batch of bombs was finally ready. The first attack of the next wave is to be particularly theatrical, much to Kagan's delight. One more puzzle piece is needed-a sacrificial lamb to buy the bomber time to make his point as eloquently as possible.
“Oh, you are being given this duty explicitly because you are the North American elder. It's the only place the humans had the ability to fight back without support from an ancient tribe. That was your responsibility. Your failure.”
The Norseman looks up at his leader and tries to bargain. Certainly he can do something other than die to regain favour, “I can make up for all of it master.”
“Yes, you can. By dying in Seattle. Your end will be your final penance to me and your clan.”
The forebear's glib manner cuts like a knife. Jamming his crooked fingers into Kagan's chest, he says defiantly, “After all I have done for you; I couldn't possibly be so expendable.” Kagan reciprocates by pushing his index and middle fingers straight through the burnt man's solar plexus. The crispy husk shudders in pain and crumbles to the ground.
“You are exactly that expendable. Why else would I be here?” Righteous fury fills Torrig's heart. He snarls and throws a handful of sand at Kagan.
“I won't die for the ambitions of one who considers me worthless.” Kagan did not expect such resistance. After so many weeks serving Ahmu, Torrig's will should have been completely broken. No man could possibly maintain a strong identity serving the mongrel father. Thinking on this gives Kagan an excellent idea.
“Suit yourself. Ahmu, you can keep him.” Glowing green globes light up. The great jackal was so concerned his favourite toy boy would be leaving him. Clapping his hands, Ahmu lets out an elated howl.
“Wonderful news! My birthday came early this year. I feel like celebrating.” Tongue wagging fervently, he points a hooked finger at the re-gifted slave, “Daddy wants to play some games! Assume the position bitch!” In a single moment, Torrig relives all of the various games Ahmu likes to play inside his head. Death suddenly seems like a welcome reprieve from a long life as entertainment for the horde. The decision becomes quite clear.
“I'll do it.” Kagan walks away and motions for him to follow.
“That's what I thought. Get your shit together Torrig, we're leaving immediately.” Ahmu waves frantically at the departing vampires.
“Daddy will miss you, little one. Come back and visit anytime, I'll even set a ball gag aside for you.” Torrig quickens his pace. No feet on Earth could carry him away from the horde fast enough. The ordeal is over and he will never look back as long as he lives, even if that life only lasts a couple of days.
After the night kin fade from view, a single mongrel slinks up and says, “Daddy, other visitor is here for you.” Standing next to it is a noticeably flustered Sanjit Gautama. Stress and sleep deprivation are written all over his face. Sanjit has spent the entire night periodically slapping away jackal muzzles to discourage their harassing barrage of far too friendly sniffs. It is enough to drive the ambitious prince to distraction. He keeps telling himself that superior men always suffered to achieve greatness.
The presence of any mongrels disgusted the young tiger but it had to be done. To depose the empress, colluding with the inferior breed was a necessity. Ahmu is the only one his mother fears, the only one who can most certainly kill her. His first personal meeting with the mongrel father is stressful enough without worrying about a swarm of horny bottom feeders poking their noses into his private parts. Ahmu cranes his neck and bares his teeth at the youngling, “Surprising you would show up here after how you have repeatedly failed me boy.”
The prince retorts resentfully, “Have I not given you everything you need to get the upper hand in nearly every skirmish since the beginning of the war?” There is truth to the statement. Sanjit has done an admirable job scuttling his mother's war efforts. Sabotaged equipment and phony intelligence have worked wonders. In short order, Ahmu's horde has moved to all corners of Africa. Soon enough, the last push for Egypt will begin, but Ahmu was focused on other concerns.
“I still do not have possession of my precious prodigal son and Kagan does not have his little strategist.” Jean. It always comes back to Jean. Whether sitting in Bashina's court or dealing with her enemies, all anyone wants to talk about is the wolf and it makes Sanjit crazy. It feels like there’s nothing he can do to step out of the lupine's ever growing shadow. The throne is his birthright and he'll be damned if a canine is going to steal that away.
“I practically handed Jean to you in Nairobi. I could not have foreseen the lengths the empress would go to rescue him from you.”
The reek of pure jealousy hits Ahmu's nostrils. Snickering at the entitled brat, he proceeds to twist the knife, “Yes. It would appear that few things in this world are more dear to the empress than the wolf. That is why I must take him away from her again.”
The boy turns up his nose at the jibe and continues his report, “As for Mitsuru Masamura, they hid her after Kagan's failed raid in Japan. I have just learned her location.” Ahmu rubs his hands together happily. It's exactly the development he's been waiting for. Kagan has been whining incessantly about missing his opportunity to torture information out of the woman. This news should serve to shut the vampire up.
“Excellent. Perhaps I won't kill you then. What rock is the lazy eyed bitch hiding under?” Sanjit is impetuous but not foolish. Revealing information that valuable off hand will almost certainly result in summary execution. Besides, there’s already a plan set in motion to capture the strategist.
“I will retrieve the vampire and bring her to you personally.”
Ahmu shrugs and answers unenthusiastically, “Fine, do that then. Whatever. Daddy is bored. You can fuck off now, tigger.” He points at his nearby servant, “You there! Bring me my toy boy.”
The jackal looks back at Ahmu with a fear stricken countenance. Ears fold down and eyes seek an escape route as it whispers a reply, “You just gave your toy boy back to Kagan, daddy.” Ahmu spends a moment in quiet contemplation. Shall he run down Torrig for one last ride? Should he use Sanjit instead? After carefully weighing his options, he settles on the path of least resistance. He grabs a hold of his subordinate’s neck.
“Oh, well. No worries little one. You can be daddy's new toy boy!”