by Tim Waggoner
“Perhaps,” Grandfather acknowledged. “Then again, perhaps he wishes more.”
Qarakh scowled at the lore-keeper. “Such as?”
Grandfather’s only reply was a shrug. Qarakh hated it when the old one did that.
“I shall keep close watch on him,” Alessandro promised.
“See that you do,” Qarakh said. “Now, to the matter at hand: Deverra has had a vision.”
“Not a vision, precisely,” the priestess said. “More like a warning from the land itself. A new enemy is coming, a prince with the face of a boy.”
Qarakh caught a slight start in Grandfather, but it was Arnulf who spoke first.
“Let the whelp come,” Arnulf said. “This tribe needs a good battle.”
“Perhaps,” Qarakh said, but turned to the lore-keeper. “You have something to add, Grandfather?”
The old Gangrel let almost a minute go by before speaking. “When I roamed the woods west of the Alps, I heard word of such a prince with the face of a boy. His name was Alexander and he was terrible indeed. But he was said to lair in Paris and never to venture from his city. We are far from Paris indeed.”
Qarakh did not know of this Paris, but if he himself could have come from far-off Mongolia he doubted very much this Alexander couldn’t make the trip here if he wished. But why would he wish it? The city-bred vampires were sedentary, lairing behind their walls and feeding off the fat merchants and harlots.
“Alexander no longer rules Paris,” Deverra said, in a tone like a death knell. “He was exiled some years ago and sent east.”
“Toward us,” Alessandro said.
“It would seem,” she said.
Grandfather frowned. “If so, this is distressing indeed. The Alexander I knew of was a powerful ancient, Embraced in Athens seven centuries before the birth of the Christian god. If he has been driven from Paris, he will seek dominion over others. It is in his blood.”
“Could he be allied with the knights we faced last year?” Alessandro asked. “They were Germans, I thought, but still…”
Arnulf snorted. “I’ve heard stories of French and German high-bloods fighting together in the Carpathian wars. Still, they were driven out then and they will be driven out now.”
“Not easily, if he is nearly two millennia old,” Qarakh said. “And even if this Alexander’s reputation is exaggerated, he will not come alone. He will bring a fighting force with him. Perhaps large, perhaps small, but they will be deadly to a man.”
“How do you know this?” Arnulf challenged.
“Because we defeated the smaller force last year.” Qarakh smiled, displaying his fangs. “And because that is what I would do.”
Alessandro looked thoughtful. “This would explain the reports of trespassers that we have received of late. Perhaps they are Alexander’s scouts.”
“Spies, you mean,” Arnulf growled.
“Whichever the case, we shall know more of that upon Wilhelmina’s return,” Qarakh said. If she returns, whispered his Beast.
“The question is why Alexander is marching on Livonia,” Grandfather said.
“He no longer rules in Paris, and wishes to establish his own empire here,” Deverra said.
Qarakh shook his head. “He is used to ruling a city. I doubt he’s developed a sudden fondness for the wild. More likely he is planning some manner of campaign to help repair his damaged reputation.”
Arnulf nodded. “So he might increase his military strength and ultimately return to Paris and take revenge upon his usurpers.”
Qarakh grinned in agreement. “Again, that is what I would do.”
“But we are still targets, whether or not he wants our lands,” Deverra said. “If he has made common cause with the Germans, then he will support their crusade. They seek to bring the Cross to Livonia. We are pagan heathens to them.”
“You sound like Wilhelmina,” Alessandro said.
“The Christians rooted out her gods and they would so the same to ours,” the priestess said.
“Your gods,” Arnulf said. “Not mine.”
The priestess looked at him for a moment before closing her mouth and averting her gaze.
“Enough,” Qarakh said. “There is only one way to know Alexander’s intent for certain. I must parley with the former Prince of Paris.”
“My khan,” Alessandro said, “let me go in your place. I am expendable. You are not.”
Not for the first time, Qarakh thought the Brujah a good man, and he was glad to have him as his second-in-command. “Your bravery does you credit, Alessandro, but were I to send anyone in my stead, this prince would be sure to take that as a sign of weakness. Besides, I would see this Alexander for myself, the better to gauge his strengths and weaknesses.”
“If he has any,” Deverra added.
“All men—breathing or not—have at least one weakness,” Grandfather said. “The trick is to learn what it is and discover a way to exploit it.”
Arnulf stood and in a single fluid motion drew his ax from the stump in which he’d planted it. “Everything falls before a keen-edged blade and a strong arm! That is all we need!”
“Hush now,” Deverra said. “You’re scaring the mortals.”
True enough, a number of villagers were looking in their direction with expressions of alarm. Standing and swinging his ax, hair wild, razorlike teeth bared, Arnulf looked like a demon from the deepest pits of hell.
The Goth warrior laughed. “What do I care for mortals? Let them be afraid!”
“If you scare them, they will leave,” Alessandro said. “And they will take their blood with them.”
Arnulf considered this for a moment before lowering his ax and once again taking his seat. He looked down at the broken shards of his mug lying in the grass, then lifted his head and cupped his hands to his mouth. “More!” he bellowed, and a half-dozen ghouls snapped to attention and scurried to fill mugs from open veins.
Qarakh smiled. In many ways, Arnulf was the Beast made solid: He lived solely to hunt, kill, feed and sleep. Qarakh envied the Goth’s simplicity and wished that his own existence could be so uncomplicated. But he was khan, and he couldn’t afford to live like an animal, much as he might want to. Not if his tribe was to thrive and prosper.
They waited until the ghouls had served them once more before resuming their council.
Qarakh turned to Alessandro. “I will leave tomorrow night in search of Alexander and his men. Most likely they will approach from the southwest, so that is where I shall look first. In the meantime, send out our swiftest runners to spread the word: I want all of our wanderers to return to the camp lands as fast as they can. And I want all Cainites in the tribe—including the four of you—to send forth appeals to whatever childer they might have. Though they are not members of our tribe, ask if they will stand and fight with their sires should Alexander and his forces attack. More, tell them to bring whatever ghouls and thralls they possess. If we are Alexander’s true target, we will need all the people we can get as quickly as we can get them.”
“Yes, my khan,” Alessandro said.
Qarakh nodded, then turned to Deverra. “Send word to your coven and fellow priests. We will need them as well.”
Deverra merely nodded, saying nothing.
“And do you have a task for me, great khan?” Grandfather asked, without the slightest hint of mockery in his voice, though he was older than Qarakh by hundreds, perhaps even thousands, of years.
“Search your memory for all that you know of Alexander, and find out more any way that you can. If I am to fight this boy-faced monster, I need to know him as well as I know myself. Better, even.”
Grandfather nodded. “As you will.”
“As for myself, I shall—”
“Master?”
Qarakh whirled, a snarl on his lips. It was Sasha.
The ghoul held up his hands in a placating gesture and took a step back. “I—I hate to interrupt, but there is among the villagers a man and woman who were recently m
arried and are now expecting their first child. They seek your blessing, yours and Mistress Deverra’s.”
Qarakh was beginning to wish he’d killed Sasha instead of Pavla last night.
Deverra stood and held out her hand to the Mongol. “Come, my consort. We have a holy duty to perform.” She grinned.
The blessing consisted of Qarakh and Deverra drinking from the bride at the same time—one on either side of the woman’s neck. Not only did Qarakh dislike drinking from the neck as a rule, the intimacy of performing the ritual with the Telyav was… disquieting.
He took her hand—only because he knew the villagers would expect it—and stood. “You are enjoying this entirely too much.”
She grinned even wider. “Come, let us—”
Before she could finish, one of the lower-ranking Cainites standing watch at the edge of the camp shouted, “A rider approaches from the west!”
Qarakh swore. If the thrice-damned mortals hadn’t been making so much noise, he would have heard the rider himself long before now. He turned to the Goth. “Arnulf?”
The warrior stood and inhaled deeply through his nostrils, eyes closed that he might better concentrate. When he exhaled, he opened his eyes and said, “Wilhelmina.”
Qarakh started to relax, but then Grandfather said, “And she’s brought us a present.”
Chapter Four
Wilhelmina rode into camp on the back of an ebon gelding, a chestnut mare trotting alongside. The Norsewoman held the reins of the second horse, and sitting in the saddle, hands bound by strips of leather and tied to the pommel, was a male Cainite.
She brought the horses to a halt and dismounted with a graceful leap from the saddle, her feet making no sound as they touched the ground. She was taller than most men and thin as a willow twig, but her slim form belied her true strength—a perception she had used to her advantage many times in battle. She wore an iron helmet of Viking design, with a mask to protect her eyes and nose, and metal flaps to shield her neck. The only armor she wore was a padded leather jerkin, and she carried a sword belted around her waist. Though she was a woman, she wore trousers and boots like a man. To Cainites, the distinction between the sexes wasn’t always as clear-cut as it was for mortals, and it meant little to Qarakh. He didn’t care what warriors had between their legs; all that concerned him was whether they could fight. And Wilhelmina was savage as a Mongolian tiger in battle.
She removed her helmet and tucked it under her arm. “My khan, I bring you a gift.” Her voice was devoid of emotion and cold as a blast of northern wind. Her blonde hair fell to her shoulders, and the lines of her narrow face were sharp as a knife blade. Her blue eyes were so bright they seemed to glow with frozen flame.
Qarakh walked over to Wilhelmina and her captive. Deverra, Alessandro, Grandfather and Arnulf followed behind. That the prisoner was a Cainite was obvious to any of the Damned who had eyes to see and a nose to smell. He was a handsome youth likely Embraced in his mid-twenties, with light brown hair and a neatly trimmed beard. He wore a mail vest beneath a tabard with a coat of arms emblazoned on it—a red shield with a white section at the top, on which two black ravens sat with folded wings. Qarakh didn’t know what the arms stood for, and he didn’t care; European heraldry meant nothing to him. The man was a knight of some sort, though probably not a Sword-Brother like those they’d fought last year.
“You do your tribe credit, Wilhelmina,” Qarakh said, “and you honor me with your gift. What is his crime?” The Mongol knew that the man had done something serious for Wilhelmina to capture him alive. The Viking maid usually didn’t take prisoners—especially knights. Christian raiders had some years ago murdered the other members of Wilhelmina’s war band by burning down their house. Upon learning of her band’s destruction, she’d vowed to hunt down those responsible and slay them all—which she did, mortal and Cainite alike.
But she didn’t stop there. She continued killing Christian knights and clergy, blaming their church for her people’s deaths. She’d come to pagan Livonia and joined Qarakh’s tribe because she believed they would stand against the Christian scourge, perhaps even grow to wipe it from the face of the earth. Qarakh wasn’t certain how realistic a goal that was but had no intention of disabusing her of the notion. Even a Cainite needed her dreams, dark as they might be.
Wilhelmina looked at her captive as if he were a particularly loathsome species of worm. “Poaching, my khan.”
Hackles rose and patches of fur sprung up on the backs of the Mongol’s hands.
Slay him! shrieked the Beast. Tear his throat out!
Qarakh felt the change coming over him, and he fought to resist it. Soon, he promised the Beast. For an instant, he thought he would fail to hold back the transformation, but then the fur subsided into the flesh of his hands, and he had control once again—for the moment.
“What is your name?” he asked the prisoner.
The man affected a haughty air and answered in a language Qarakh did not understand.
“He speaks French,” Grandfather said in the Livonian the tribe had adopted. “He is Sir Marques de Saignon, vassal of Alexander of Paris. He demands you release him at once.” The lore-keeper did not stifle his mocking tone.
Qarakh smiled just slightly and turned to Wilhelmina.
“Two nights past, I encountered this one, two other Cainites and six ghouls near the western village of Burian,” she said. “All were on horseback, and all wore mail and carried swords.”
Qarakh looked at the Viking’s horse and saw that the prisoner’s weapon was lashed to her saddle. He returned his gaze to Wilhelmina as she continued.
“I was patrolling the western marches of our territory, investigating reports of trespassers in the area. As I rode past a small farmhouse, I saw a number of horses outside, several untethered. I knew then that they were ghouls ordered by their masters to remain put until they returned. I dismounted, drew my sword and stepped inside. There I saw the knights gorging themselves on mortal blood while the human ghouls stood to the side, looking on with hungry eyes. The farmer, his wife and their five children were all dead, their corpses dry and brittle as old wood.”
Qarakh looked to the prisoner. Marques appeared suddenly pale, even for a Cainite. Ruby beads of blood-sweat had broken out on his forehead.
Wilhelmina went on. “I immediately attacked, and since I had the advantage of surprise, I was able to slay one of the Cainites and all of the ghouls without difficulty. This one”—she nodded at her captive—”I was only able to wound before the remaining knight, who was much more experienced and skilled than his companions, drew his weapon and engaged me in battle. I fought my best, but I am shamed to admit that he escaped me and fled on his steed. I debated whether to give chase, but in the end I decided to take the wounded Cainite prisoner and bring him here so that we might question him.”
“There is no need for shame,” Qarakh said. “Nine against one is poor odds; you acquitted yourself well.”
“Three against one,” Wilhelmina corrected. “The ghouls hardly count.”
This time Qarakh did smile. “Nevertheless, I am pleased.”
“After I disarmed and bound this one, I set the farmhouse aflame, both to release the family’s souls to whatever afterlife awaited them and to conceal how they had truly met their fate. I did not wish the villagers in Burian to think we had begun to kill mortals for sport.”
Qarakh nodded. “Another wise move.” He gestured toward the bound knight. “Did he say anything of note on the way back to camp?”
“He prattled on in his bastard tongue,” she said. “At one point he tried to offer me his purse, I think.”
Qarakh burst out laughing, as did Arnulf and Grandfather. Marques looked like a little boy who didn’t understand why the adults found him so amusing.
“Translate my words, lore-keeper.” The khan turned once more to the captive knight. “You are a fool, Christian, damned by your own hungers. We do not care if a Cainite who travels through our lands feeds
while here, but it is forbidden for anyone not of our tribe to kill a mortal.”
He turned his back and waited until Grandfather had finished translating. He then raised his voice so that all in the camp—Cainite, ghoul, thrall and villager alike—could hear him. “This man is guilty of participating in the slaughter of an entire family in the west! What should be done with him?”
The villagers looked at each other, uncertain how or even if they should respond. The ghouls and thralls were likewise unsure, but one of the lower-ranking Cainites—Rikard, in fact—shouted, “He must be punished!” His voice was hoarse, but his words were clear enough.
Other Cainites took up the refrain then, chanting, “Punish him, punish him, punish him!”
Deverra leaned close and whispered in his ear. “What are you doing? We need to question him and find out why Alexander has come to Livonia!”
“Don’t worry, priestess. I will learn the answers we seek, but the mortals need to see us take a firm hand in this matter. The herd must know that the shepherd protects them.” And that was true enough, but there was another, deeper reason for what Qarakh intended to do, even if he couldn’t fully admit it to himself: His Beast had been put off long enough.
He turned to Wilhelmina. “Free his hands.”
The warrior-maid hesitated for a second, as if she might question her khan’s command, but then she drew a dagger from her belt, stepped closer to the mare and began sawing at the leather binding Marques’s hands. Within moments, he was rubbing his wrists and looking at Qarakh quizzically, as if he didn’t quite know if this turn of events was to his benefit.
The Mongol once more spoke to the knight. “Start riding.”
Grandfather translated and when the knight stammered out an answer, spoke to Qarakh. “He says he doesn’t understand. Perhaps my French is not up to his standards.”
It was Alessandro’s turn to speak up. “My khan, I do not know what you have planned, but I beg you to reconsider. If there is even the slightest chance that he might escape—”
“There isn’t,” Qarakh said gruffly, his voice thickening, growing bestial.
