“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.
The Khanum clapped in rhythm with the music, and the otrokars followed her lead. The swordsman in the center spun in place, warming up. We were about to be treated to show and tell.
A smaller otrokar brought a basket filled with small green apple-like fruit to the Khanum. She picked one and hurled it at the swordsman. He moved at the last second, catching the fruit on the flat of his left blade, tossed it to his right then back again with superhuman dexterity. The otrokars kept clapping. The swordsman tossed the fruit up. His sword flashed and the fruit fell to the floor, cut in a half.
“Nothing we can’t handle,” Jack said quietly.
The Khanum took a handful of fruit and passed the basket to her left. Dagorkun grabbed several and handed the basket to the next person. The Khanum gave a short whistle and the otrokars pelted the swordsman with apples. He spun like a dervish, dancing across the floor and slicing. The apples dropped to the ground, cut. Not a single fruit hit him.
“He might be a challenge,” George said. His lips barely moved. If I wasn’t standing next to him, I wouldn’t know he had spoken. “One on one, I can take care of it.”
The swordsman spun, faster and faster, lithe, flexible, strong. A faint orange luminescence coated his blades. They begun to glow.
George’s eyes narrowed.
The swordsman stopped, swords raised at his sides like wings of a bird about to take flight.
The otrokars parted, revealing a female otrokar holding what looked like a machine gun. Oh no you don’t.
She put the gun to her shoulder and fired.
I jerked my magic. Transparent walls shot out of the floor, shielding the vampires and us.
The stream of bullets hit the swordsman. He swung his blades, too fast to see, so fast they turned into arches of orange light. Breath caught in my throat.
The gun clicked empty. A staccato of light knocks echoed through the grand ballroom – the last of the bullets clattering to the floor. The swordsman stopped moving. Sweat sheathed his torso. No wounds marked his body. The bullets, each sliced in half, lay in a horseshoe around him.
The otrokars bellowed in approval. The Khanum smiled broadly, winked at the vampires, and led her people to the right side of the grand ballroom, forming an identical line.
I exhaled and let the floor swallow the bullets and the mutilated fruit.
“We’re going to need help,” Jack said, his face grim.
George didn’t answer. “The merchants, please.”