by Tim Waggoner
Qarakh had been reconsidering killing Sasha, but now he knew that he had no choice. If he failed to slay the ghoul, he would lose face in Arnulf’s eyes. As khan, it was vital that he maintain face at all times—especially when it came to a member of his tribe as powerful as the Goth. “Sasha has served me well. I would do him the honor of a swift death at the hands of his master alone.”
Arnulf shrugged. “I shall see what other prey might be abroad this night.” The Goth exchanged his human form for that of a wolf then melted into the darkness, off on the hunt once more.
Qarakh lingered a moment, looking at what was left of Marques and wondering how Alexander would react to the death of his vassal. Then he too became a wolf and loped off in the direction of the camp.
Sasha touched the flame to the pyre and stepped back. There had been little rain for the last few weeks, and the wood was dry and caught fire easily. He tossed the torch he’d used to set the pyre aflame at Pavla’s feet then said a silent prayer to commend her spirit to Telyavel. The growing light from the blaze cast flickering, distorted shadows throughout the clearing, as if the shades of those who had already passed over to the realm of the dead had come to welcome a new soul into their midst.
The smell of burning flesh and hair turned his stomach. He thought that he might vomit, but he swallowed several times and managed not to. He was sure Pavla would forgive him if he did, but he didn’t want to spoil her funeral rite, simple and inadequate though it might be.
The life of a mortal servant to the tribe wasn’t always an easy one, and on some level he was happy that Pavla had found release. He supposed he had loved her, though it was difficult to say. It was true that they had lain together and had both found pleasure in it, but the act was nothing compared to simply being in the presence of their master, let alone taking in his holy blood. So though he felt sadness at Pavla’s passing and anger at their master for taking her life, the emotions were muted and distant, almost as if they belonged to someone else who had only told Sasha about them. He wondered if he’d still feel them tomorrow night, or if he would remember feeling them at all.
Sasha was used to serving his lord at night, and though his senses were nowhere near as keen as those of the khan, he was suddenly aware of a presence in the clearing. At first he thought it might be the priestess Deverra, come to offer a benediction for Pavla. But when he turned, he saw that the newcomer was a male Cainite, one of the recent additions to the tribe.
He smiled at Sasha, though he eyed the burning pyre nervously and kept his distance from it. “It appears that your master has decided that one ghoul is sufficient for his needs.”
Sasha didn’t respond. Though he was subordinate to any Cainite tribesman, his master was the khan, and that gave him a certain amount of status. He didn’t feel bound to answer.
The Cainite’s smile turned sly and his eyes narrowed dangerously. “Shall we see if he can make do without any at all?”
Before Sasha could react, the Cainite was upon him.
Qarakh stood before the smoldering remains of a crude funeral pyre upon which rested two burnt and blackened bodies. After leaving Arnulf, he had returned to the camp where he had picked up Sasha’s scent and followed it here. True to his word, the ghoul had taken care of disposing Pavla’s body, but it seemed he had also decided to dispose of his own in the bargain. Qarakh should have been pleased. If nothing else, Sasha had done his work for him, as a faithful servant should, but he felt ambivalent. These two had been his only human ghouls, and he had no childer. The bonds of such relationships were difficult for one with a nomad’s heart, and they always seemed like cheap imitations of the true love-bond he had with Aajav, one that had started in life as blood brothers and carried over through the half life of drinking Aajav’s blood and then into his Embrace. He should have been relieved to be free of such ties, but for some reason he wasn’t. Could Sasha have truly cared for Pavla so much that he refused to live without her? Could those servants have shared something as strong as his bond with Aajav?
It was all too confusing. He needed to clear his mind and regain his focus before setting out to parley with Alexander, and there was only one person who could help him do that.
He took wolf form and bounded away, leaving the clearing and the earthly remains of two mortals who had meant more to him than they should have.
As soon as Qarakh was gone, Rikard stepped out from behind the tree where he had been hiding. He had been afraid the Mongol would smell him, but it seemed the stink of burnt flesh had concealed his scent.
Before slaying Qarakh’s ghoul, Rikard had persuaded the mortal to tell what he’d learned during the Mongol’s war council. Servants often overheard more than their masters thought, and the ghoul had been no exception. And thus Rikard had learned a most interesting tidbit of information: Alexander of Paris had come to Livonia.
When he had finished questioning the ghoul—who had little more to add—Rikard drained the mortal dry, then tossed him onto the pyre and remained to watch him burn (from a safe distance, of course). He had still been watching when Qarakh drew near wearing the body of a wolf. While Rikard possessed no such shape-shifting abilities himself, his Cainite hearing was more than sharp enough to detect Qarakh’s approach (when he paid attention, that is), and he’d manage to vacate the clearing and make it to the trees in time to hide himself before the khan’s arrival. He had watched Qarakh standing before the pyre, face impassive, expression unreadable as always, before the chieftain returned to his animal form and departed.
Rikard was disappointed, though he couldn’t say exactly why. He’d known better than to expect any great show of grief from Qarakh over the loss of his ghoul. Killing the kine had been a small act of petty revenge, and Rikard had known it. Still, now that he’d seen how little impact the mortal’s death had had on Qarakh, Rikard was filled with a desire to strike back against the Tartar in a way that would, if not destroy him, at least harm him significantly.
He touched his throat before following after Qarakh.
Chapter Six
Across fields of grass stirred by restless night winds, through stands of trees where shadows danced with darkness, Qarakh ran until he reached a small hill encircled by oak saplings. Deverra had planted the trees herself—as she and her fellow Telyavs had at many sites across Livonia—with the intention that they would one day become a holy grove. But that day was decades in the future, and Qarakh hadn’t come here with worship on his mind. He’d come to visit an old friend.
He slowed as he neared the hill and once again took human form. As he walked toward the ring of trees, two wolves that had been lying at the bottom of the hill rose to their feet and trotted to intercept him, warning growls rumbling in their throats. Qarakh was downwind of the wolves, and he knew they couldn’t smell him yet, so he spoke to let them know who he was. “It is good to see you again, my friends.”
The growls became joyful whines as the wolves bounded forward, eager to greet their master. Qarakh raised his right hand to his mouth and bit through the veins on the back, just below the knuckles. He lowered his hand, and the two ghouls who guarded the resting place of his blood brother lapped up as much vitae at they could before the wound healed.
When he had finished feeding the wolves, Qarakh scratched them behind the ears, first the male, then the female. From her scent, he knew that the female was gravid with pups. Once they were born he would have to destroy them; he couldn’t afford to have one of Aajav’s guardians become distracted by the needs of younglings.
“And how is Aajav tonight? Has my brother and sire been behaving himself?”
The wolves’ only response was to wag their tails, but then they would have done so no matter what Qarakh said. He continued toward the hill, the wolves padding alongside. When he reached the base of the hill, he ordered them to stay. The wolves whined in protest, but they did as their master commanded, circling three times before lying down, heads on paws, tails tucked beneath them.
Qarakh
climbed to the top of the hill, then sat cross-legged, hands on his knees, facing the south. As always when he came here, he was struck by how peaceful a location this was: trees all around, but none so close or so tall as to block the view of the night sky, and less than a quarter of a mile away was a small stream. Water was sacred to Mongols—streams, rivers, lakes and oceans were passageways for spirits traveling between the worlds. All together, it made for an appropriate place for his brother.
“I hope you are well, Aajav. It was been too long since we last spoke, and much has happened.” Precisely how long it had been, Qarakh wasn’t certain. The Mongolian people didn’t keep track of time the same way Europeans did, and the passage of the days, weeks, months and years had meant even less to him since his Embrace. “I have seen many things in my travels, and I am eager to tell you of them, but first I must speak of the tribe and of a prince named Alexander.”
He told Aajav of all that had happened since his return to the tribe—Deverra’s warning, Marques’s capture and execution, and his inner circle’s speculations on Alexander’s motives for coming to Livonia. He also spoke of Rikard’s negligence during sentry duty and the bloody lesson it had earned him.
“In many ways, it is Rikard who concerns me most. Not merely him, but what his level of preparedness and dedication tells me about the readiness of the tribe to engage in battle. Alessandro, Arnulf and Wilhelmina are all skilled warriors, and though Deverra is a shaman, her mystic powers would be an asset in a fight. Grandfather likes to present the appearance of an aged elder, but that is only a mask: His experience and cunning make him a most deadly opponent. But the majority of the tribe is made up of ghouls and thralls, and the other night-walkers are mostly untested—and many of them are wanderers who aren’t currently in range of the camp. None were trained warriors before joining the tribe, and while Alessandro has done well teaching them, they still have much to learn. Should Alexander attack the campsite, I fear that we will be unable to defend ourselves against him.”
He paused, as if giving Aajav an opportunity to answer, though he knew his brother-cum-sire could not. Aajav lay interred in the hill’s soil, swaddled in darkness, deep in the torpid slumber caused by terrible wounds. He’d slumbered for years now, and according to Deverra, he might well remain in that deathlike state for decades longer—or more. Many times had the shaman attempted to use her magic to revive Aajav, but so far with little success. Still, her spells had managed to accomplish one thing….
Qarakh put his fingers into his mouth and bit down to the bone. He then pushed his fingers into the ground directly above where Aajav lay and allowed his blood to soak into earth that had been infused with Telyavic enchantments. He closed his eyes and concentrated, as Deverra had taught him, and reached out with his mind.
Aajav?
At first he felt nothing, and he began to fear that Deverra’s spell had finally run its course, but then the first tentative tendrils of thought extended toward him, and he knew that the priestess’s magic remained as potent as ever.
Though he didn’t need to breathe, he nevertheless let out a sigh of relief and waited for whatever message Aajav might have for him.
The night presented a dizzying array of sights, sounds and scents more intoxicating than qumis could ever be. Qarakh—newly Embraced—thought he could spend eternity exploring this new world and never grow tired of it—especially if he could continue to explore it with his brother.
“What is wrong with you, Qarakh? You run as gracefully as a mare about to give birth!” Aajav laughed as he put on a burst of speed and flew across the plain, his feet barely touching the ground.
Qarakh tried to concentrate on moving like Aajav, but his legs felt heavy and clumsy, not much different than they had when he was mortal. Aajav had told him numerous times that he was yet an infant to this new life in darkness and should be patient while he adjusted. But even after the strange apprenticeship of having been Aajav’s ghoul, this new state—being a true night-walker—was like being a baby again: learning how to eat, how to sleep, how to use his newfound abilities. For a warrior such as Qarakh, who was used to being master of both his body and his environment, the frustration was at times almost intolerable.
But this realm of darkness he now inhabited had its compensations. His senses had sharpened to an unimaginable degree—sounds now had texture and taste. Smells had color and mass. The wind whispered secrets from the dawn of time, and the soil beneath his feet spoke of eternities yet to come.
And then, of course, there was the glory of the hunt, the ecstasy of the kill, and the joy and wonder of blood. Ahead of him by many yards, Aajav suddenly stopped. One instant he was a blur of motion, the next he stood still as a rock. Qarakh caught up with him a moment later, marveling at how he felt no aftereffects of exertion: no panting breaths, no pounding pulse, only a light sheen of blood-sweat on his forehead.
“What is wrong?” he asked his sire. “Do you grow tired of playing chase?”
In reply, Aajav merely pointed, a grim expression on his face. They stood at the edge of a depression in the plain not quite large enough to be called a valley. At the bottom lay the mutilated bodies of a half dozen horses, saddled for riding in the Mongolian fashion. The stink of animal blood lay heavy in the air, along with something richer that made Qarakh’s mouth water.
“Anda,” Aajav said.
Qarakh saw them then, several desiccated bodies strewn among the horseflesh. They looked like corpses left out in the harsh steppe winter, even though it was well into spring. Dried and blackened, their skin stretched taut across bones with little hint of flesh beneath it. They were freshly slain night-walkers, their bodies withering away to dust but not yet eroded.
The smell is their blood, said a voice deep in Qarakh’s unbeating heart. It should be ours.
Qarakh couldn’t imagine who—or what—could have done such a thing to a party of Anda. They were also beings of darkness and lived in secret among the Mongolian tribes. While he was still new to the shadowy existence of night-walkers, Qarakh understood that even though he and Aajav were Mongolian, they were of a different clan from the Anda, a clan called Gangrel. He also knew that while the Anda tolerated Aajav—for he had been Embraced by a wandering Gangrel who had been impressed with his battle skill and the Anda did not blame him for it—they did not fully accept him either. As far as they were concerned, he was not Anda and never would be. The Anda maintained strict control over who was Embraced on the steppe, and when Aajav sought permission to make Qarakh his childe, the Anda had denied him. So Aajav, being Aajav, had done it anyway. The Anda were unaware of Qarakh’s existence, and if they learned of it, they would most likely condemn them both to the Final Death.
“We should go, and quickly,” Aajav said. Qarakh was surprised to detect a note of fear in his sire’s voice. He had known Aajav since they were children, and he had never seen his blood brother display fear toward any man or beast before.
“What is wrong?”
Aajav replied in a hushed tone. “They have been slain by one of the Ten Thousand Demons.” He sniffed. “And not that long ago. We must flee before—”
The air next to Aajav rippled like water, and where there had been nothing a moment before, now stood a horse and rider. The rider’s features were those of a man from the other side of the Great Wall, nothing demonic about him at all, save that his ears tapered to slight points, and the hairs of his neatly trimmed beard writhed slowly as if they were tiny black serpents. He wore the armor of an eastern warrior, comprised of many interlocking scales that hung down to his knees like a woman’s skirt. A horse’s mane adorned his helmet, and his armor blazed with reds, oranges and yellows. The warrior’s horse was black, but not, Qarakh realized, because the animal had an ebon coat; the creature seemed to be formed from living shadow.
The demon made no move to attack. Indeed, he didn’t appear to possess any weapons: no sword, no dagger. He merely sat astride his strange mount—no reins and no saddle either, Qarakh n
oted—and regarded them impassively.
Aajav interposed himself between the demon and Qarakh. “Back away slowly, my brother. You are still too young in darkness to stand against such a being.”
Part of Qarakh was grateful for Aajav’s protection, but another part was furious. Not only was Qarakh a warrior born and bred, he was also a dark and terrible master of the night. What had he to fear from a supposed demon that didn’t even carry a sword?
This demon slew an entire party of Anda, he reminded himself.
But then the voice inside him spoke again, this time tinged with fury. This, Qarakh realized, was the Beast in his heart. The Anda were weak; you are strong. Attack and kill!
Qarakh tensed his muscles and bared his teeth, prepared to spring at this so-called demon, but before he could make a move, the eastern warrior raised his hands and grinned, displaying his own set of fangs. Talons of white bone pierced the flesh of the demon’s fingers, lengthening and growing sharper until each was as long as a short sword. Qarakh suddenly understood why the demon (and he now had no trouble at all believing this creature was indeed one) didn’t carry weapons of steel. He didn’t need them.
The demon sprang from the shadow mount’s back and landed on the ground without making a sound. He turned toward the horse, opened his mouth, and took in a deep breath. The ebon substance of the steed broke apart like black fog, and the demon drew the dark wisps into his lungs. Within seconds, the horse was gone, completely assimilated by its master. The demon was larger now, nearly half again the size he had been, as if he had added his mount’s strength and mass to his own. His armor had stretched somewhat to accommodate his new form, though it was still constricting.
The demon turned back to face them and then, faster than even Qarakh’s undead eyes could follow, plunged the bone claws of his right hand into Aajav’s belly. Aajav cried out in pain as the demon, grinning the entire time, lifted him into the air. Black blood gushed from Aajav’s belly, but it didn’t splash onto the ground. Instead the blood was absorbed directly into the demon’s skin, the pores on his hand opening like tiny mouths and drinking greedily. Whatever else this demon was, Qarakh knew that it subsisted on the life fluid of others, just as they did.
