by Tim Waggoner
As soon as the knight was gone, Alexander said, “The entire party slain… and by a woman, no less.” He shook his head in disgust.
“István survived,” Malachite pointed out—not that he thought it any great compensation—”and from his story, it appears that Sir Marques did as well.”
“It has been two full nights. If Sir Marques were able, he would’ve returned by now.”
“István just returned. Perhaps Marques will too.
Marques is skilled, resourceful and truly loyal to me—far more so than István. I fear there are only two possibilities: He is being held captive by the savage, or he is truly and finally dead.”
Malachite remained silent and waited to see what Alexander would say next. He was surprised when the Ventrue smiled.
“This is not the way I would have arranged events myself, but perhaps things shall work to our advantage in the end.”
“Milord?”
“I had intended to approach the Tartar when the time was right, but now—thanks to Marques, István and the others—Qarakh will undoubtedly come to us. After all, that’s what I would do if our positions were reversed.”
“And if you were in his place, would you come to talk or to fight?” Malachite asked.
Alexander’s smile became a outright grin. “All existence is a battle, my dear Malachite. The only difference is what weapons you choose to fight with: words or steel.”
Now it was Malachite’s turn to smile. “I believe you are actually looking forward to the Tartar’s arrival.”
“Oh, I am.” A faraway look came into Alexander’s eyes, and Malachite knew the prince was already busy plotting his strategy. “I am indeed.”
Chapter Eight
“Do you really think this is wise, my khan? I beg you to allow Arnulf, Wilhelmina, and myself to accompany you.”
“I ride alone as a sign of strength and confidence. Alexander will know that I—and by extension, my tribe—must be mighty indeed for me to face him on my own. As well, it shall be a clear signal that we do not intend to war with him. At least, not yet.”
“Then permit us to follow at a distance, so that we will be close by should the need arise.”
“Your desire to ride with me does you credit, Alessandro, but the Ventrue will undoubtedly have scouts that would know if you came too near his encampment, and he would take your presence as a sign of weakness on my part. I need you and the others to remain here, for I would not leave the tribe unprotected while I am away.”
“Then there is nothing I can say that will make you change your mind and take someone with you?”
“Nothing.”
“Lost in thought?”
Qarakh turned to Deverra. The priestess rode bareback upon a piebald mare, the reins held loosely in her hands. She didn’t truly need them to control the steed and held them only because she didn’t know what else to do.
“Merely riding,” Qarakh lied. “On the steppe, the wind is often so loud that speaking is difficult, even when side by side. Because of this, my people tend to travel in silence, communicating only when necessary.”
Deverra reached up with one hand, pulled back the hood of her robe and shook out her long red hair. “Is that a hint?”
Qarakh frowned as he tried to determine whether the Telyav was truly offended or merely toying with him—or perhaps a bit of both. “No, only an explanation.”
The priestess didn’t respond right away, and they continued westward across open grassland, the night sky above them clear and full of ice-bright stars. Qarakh rode the same dusky gray mare that had been so close to collapse only a night ago. Now, thanks to some rest and a few swallows of her master’s vitae, she was ready and eager to travel once more.
He would’ve made better time traveling alone in wolf form, but Deverra did not possess the ability to alter her shape as he did, so he was forced to go on horseback. In the end, it would probably prove the best choice, anyway. These Christian Cainites rode among mortal knights and thought of themselves as noble-blooded, supposedly above low and animalistic creatures like Qarakh. Arriving as a wolf would have only reinforced this attitude in Alexander, and perhaps lessened Qarakh in his eyes. The Mongol cared not at all what the former Prince of Paris thought of him, but he was too shrewd to allow the man’s prejudice to lessen his own bargaining power.
After a time, Deverra said, “I thought perhaps that your silence grew out of your displeasure.”
Qarakh groaned inwardly. He wished for once that the woman would say exactly what she meant. “Of what displeasure do you speak?”
“You were not happy that I insisted on accompanying you.”
“At first,” he admitted. “But I have thought over your reasons.” Deverra had argued that as the Telyavs’ high priestess, not only was it her duty to represent her clan when Qarakh parlayed with Alexander, but that her presence would be a symbol of the strong alliance between Qarakh’s tribe and the Telyavs.
Deverra smiled. “Are you saying I was right?”
A night breeze whispered through the grass around them. Maintaining a straight face, Qarakh said, “My apologies. I was unable to hear you because of the wind.”
Deverra’s laugh was loud, full of life and joy. The sound stirred echoes of feeling that Qarakh thought had died with him the night Aajav had visited his ger. Qarakh realized that the priestess’s laugh reminded him of what it had been like—no, what it had felt like—to be truly alive.
“You still call the Mongols your people,” Deverra said. “But you are far away from those lands. Are we not your people now?”
Qarakh said nothing.
Holding onto the bridle of Aajav’s horse, his blood brother slumped in the saddle beside him, an arrow in his neck and one between his shoulder blades, wounds swollen black with poison. Steppe ponies running hard, hooves striking the ground like rolling thunder, arrows whistling through the air around them, and riding in pursuit much closer than Qarakh would like, a half dozen Anda vampires, bows drawn, faces twisted into masks of hatred and death.
Qarakh scowled and forced the unbidden memory away. “Being a Mongol is more than riding on the steppe. It is… a way of thinking, of knowing one’s place in the world at all times. Of—”
“Living in yostoi,” Deverra finished.
Qarakh nodded. “Or at least attempting to do so. Yostoi is even more important for our kind. The Beast that dwells within us all can never completely be caged or controlled, but it can be kept in its place, if one knows how to give it what it needs instead of what it wants. By remaining true to the Mongol way, I find the clarity of mind and strength of spirit to live with my Beast instead of despite it.”
“I see why Grandfather respects you so, Qarakh. There are many Cainites far older than you who do not know their Beasts half so well.” Deverra smiled. “If you were a mortal youth, I might be tempted to say you were precocious.”
“I am merely Mongolian. There is nothing special about me.”
Deverra looked at him with a penetrating gaze that Qarakh couldn’t quite read. “Oh, I think there is, Qarakh the Untamed, though you aren’t aware of it. I believe that if the need for battle arises, you will not only be able to stand against Alexander, but also defeat him.”
Qarakh chuckled. “I appreciate your confidence in me, priestess, but while I fear no man alive or undead, I would just as soon avoid having to fight a two-thousand-year-old warrior.”
“Do you think—” Deverra broke off before she could finish her question. Her head whipped to the right and then she leaped from her horse. Lifting the hem of her robe so she might run more easily, she dashed off into the darkness.
Startled by her actions, Qarakh leaned over, grabbed the reins of her horse and brought both mounts to a halt. He quickly tied the piebald’s reins to those of his gray, for though both horses were ghouls, he knew for certain that his horse would not budge from this spot unless he commanded it. He then dismounted, drew his saber and ran off after Deverra. He heard the sounds
of a struggle followed by a high-pitched animal cry of pain, and then all was silent.
When he caught up to Deverra, he found the priestess crouched over the body of a stag, her face buried in the ragged wet ruin of its neck. Realizing what had occurred and that there was no danger, he sheathed his sword and watched her feed. He knew that he should turn and walk away so that Deverra could have privacy, but he was too fascinated. She gnawed the deer’s flesh as she drank, shaking her head back and forth in the manner of a wolf. It was so unlike the priestess’s usual calm and serene manner that he knew he was seeing her Beast at work.
After a time she looked up, saw him and frowned, as if she didn’t quite recall who he was. Then recognition filled her gaze, and she lowered her eyes in shame.
“I wish you hadn’t seen me like this.” She drew the back of her hand across her mouth to wipe away the stag’s blood, but there was so much that all she succeeded in doing was smearing it around. “I must use my own vitae in order to cast spells, and after working an enchantment to determine the location of Alexander’s camp…”
“You need to restore what you have lost,” Qarakh finished for her. “There is no shame in that.”
“But to drink the blood of an animal…”
“The steppe is sparsely populated. A Cainite can go for days, sometimes weeks without seeing a single mortal. All of our kind who live there—including myself—have drunk from the veins of animals.” He hesitated for a moment and then stepped forward and knelt on the other side of the stag, facing Deverra. They looked at each other for a time without speaking, and then as if reaching an unspoken agreement, they lowered their mouths to the deer’s carcass and fed.
Qarakh wished that he could stop and lash Aajav more securely to his saddle, for with each strike of his pony’s hoof, he was in danger of falling off his mount. Should that occur, the Anda would be upon them in moments, and Final Death would follow soon after.
He had no idea what manner of poison the Anda used to coat the tips of their arrows—demon blood, perhaps?—but whatever it was, it was potent. One strike had been enough to make Aajav lightheaded, and the second had rendered him nearly unconscious. Qarakh feared his blood brother would not survive a third strike.
Coward! Stand and fight!
Qarakh did his best to ignore the voice of his Beast, but it wasn’t easy. It galled him to flee, but he didn’t know what else he could do. If he hadn’t needed to keep hold of the bridle of Aajav’s horse, he could turn around and loose his own arrows at their pursuers, not that the shafts would do much good since the tips weren’t smeared with poison. But at least he would be fighting instead of running.
There was little to mark the Anda horsemen as different from any other Mongols. Indeed, in mortal life each had belonged to one of the nomad tribes that wandered the plains. They carried sabers and bows, wore leather helmets and leather coats, and rode hardy steppe ponies. The only indication that they weren’t human was the color of their skin: instead of a healthy dark brown, it was pale and washed-out. The color of death.
The Anda ruled the night world of the steppe, and they strictly regulated who could be Embraced and who could not. Aajav was not Anda, but they had accepted him after a fashion. As he had lived as a Mongol, he had been allowed to survive and hunt among them, but never as an equal. Again and again, he had had to surrender territory and feeding rights to his supposed betters. The Anda permitted him to sit in on their councils, but he was not allowed to speak. Most of all, Aajav was not permitted to create any childer.
But Aajav had, and while he’d been able to keep Qarakh’s transformation into one of the undead a secret for close to two years, the Anda had finally gotten wind of it and set a trap for them—a trap Aajav and Qarakh had fallen into far too easily. Now they were fleeing for their unlives.
They rode southward, and Qarakh glanced to his left, toward the east. The sky was a lighter shade of blue near the horizon, indicating that dawn wasn’t far off. Should the sun begin to rise before the Anda had caught up to them, they would all seek shelter from its searing rays by interring themselves as well as their horses in the ground. They would slumber in the embrace of the earth until sunset when they would rise to resume the hunt once more. And if the Anda should rise before Qarakh and Aajav—or if Qarakh was unable to help his blood brother wake—the Anda would have them.
Qarakh knew he had to do something, and swiftly, but what?
They approached a small depression in the steppe, and Qarakh knew that they would be hidden from the Anda’s view for a few precious seconds as Aajav and he rode down into it. The question was how to make those seconds count. And then it came to him. He would use the Anda’s own trick against them. He had no idea if it would work, but he could see no other choice if his blood brother and he were to live to see another nightfall.
As they came to the top of the rise, Qarakh released his hold of the piebald’s bridle and shouted, “Tchoo! Tchoo!” In response to the command, both ponies increased their speed, and Qarakh grabbed hold of Aajav’s left arm and launched himself from the saddle, pulling his blood brother with him. As they fell backward, Qarakh—still holding tight to Aajav’s arm—concentrated on becoming one with the earth. Instead of striking the ground, they slipped beneath it as easily and gently as if it were water. When they were successfully interred, Qarakh released his grip on his blood brother’s arm and listened for the Anda’s approach. There were six of them, and he could feel the vibrations from their horses’ hoofs judder through the soil as well as the substance of his interred body. The vibrations increased in intensity as the hunting party drew near, and when Qarakh judged they were close enough, he envisioned himself rising from the earth and drawing his saber.
He rose up beneath a sweat-slick horse belly, and before he was halfway out of the ground, he swung his saber in a sweeping arc. The blade sliced into the belly of one steed, then two, then three before the swing was completed. Flesh and muscle parted. Blood and loops of animal intestine spilled upon the steppe. The wounded ponies shrieked in agony. Their front legs buckled, and they stumbled forward.
Their riders fought to maintain control, but it was impossible. The three Anda went down with their mounts. The remaining riders continued on, not yet aware their companions had fallen.
Nostrils flaring at the scent of equine blood, Qarakh rose the rest of the way out of the earth and stepped forward. As the Anda struggled to get to their feet—two were pinned by their ponies and one was simply stunned—Qarakh swung his gore-slick saber three times, and three Anda heads rolled upon the ground. Vitae gushed from their neck stumps, and Qarakh’s Beast screamed for him to drink before the sweet blood was wasted on the hard rocky soil of the steppe. But Qarakh resisted. There were still three more Anda to deal with.
As the surviving hunters turned their mounts around and headed back to attack their ambusher, Qarakh sheathed his sword and bent to pick up one of the decapitated Anda’s bows. As was the Mongolian custom, the riders approached side by side, for only a defeated party rode in single file, and Qarakh had an excellent shot at each. He drew a poisoned arrow from a quiver, nocked it, took aim and let the shaft fly. The hunter on the right stiffened as a poisoned arrow pierced his eye and buried itself in his brain. Before the wounded hunter could fall out of his saddle, Qarakh had nocked another arrow and fired. One more arrow, one more twang of a bowstring, and all three riders were down.
Frightened, the hunters’ ponies ran off. Qarakh dropped the bow and started forward, intending to draw his saber and lop off the remaining Anda’s heads to ensure that they were truly dead, but then he felt a tingling sensation on the back of his neck and a cold fluttering in the pit of his belly. He looked to the east and saw a splash of faint rose pink on the horizon, and he didn’t hesitate. He sank into the ground where he stood, and moments later he heard screams as the first rays of dawn kissed the flesh of the three Anda he had brought down.
Satisfied that Aajav and he were safe for the time being, he fell
into the darkness of day-sleep.
Roots curling toward him, tendrils pushing through soil like thick wooden worms. Tips touching his face, caressing it, before undulating toward his temples and gently piercing the skin.
Another’s presence in his mind, but not the Beast, not this time.
This presence he welcomed.
“We shall rest here, and when dawn draws nigh, I shall inter us in the soil, and we will sleep.” He didn’t expect a response. It had been weeks since Aajav had so much as twitched an eyelid, let alone spoke.
Aajav lay on his back, eyes closed, face pointed toward Tengri, arms and hands at his sides—just as Qarakh had arranged him. They were in a clearing, surrounded by pine and oak trees, the sky above them clear and filled with stars. A nearly full moon glowed greenish white. Their mounts were untethered and grazed contentedly on the grass the clearing had to offer. Qarakh sat cross-legged next to his blood brother and sire, and tried to think of what to do next.
This new land was very different from the steppe; there was so much life here. Though it was night, birds still sang and flew from tree to tree. Small animals scurried along branches and rustled through leaves. Larger animals—rabbits, foxes, deer and wolves—moved through the forest as they hunted or avoided being hunted. Even the ground was teeming with life: Insects crawled in the grass, and earthworms burrowed through the soil. The steppe had these things too, but there everything was spread out across miles upon miles of barren plain. Here, it was too much, too close….
He heard a word then, spoken by a feminine voice in a language he didn’t understand. Before whoever it was could speak again, Qarakh stood, drew his saber and turned to confront her.
A brown-robed figure emerged from the shadows between two trees and began walking toward Qarakh and Aajav. He sniffed, trying to catch her scent, but the air was a confusion of unknown smells, and he couldn’t tell which—if any—belonged to her.
