by Tim Waggoner
“It’s a cold evening to be abroad, even for creatures such as we.” The man smiled, almost deliberately, revealing long sharp incisors, as if to confirm that he was indeed a Cainite. “But then you’re a stubborn one, Qarakh the Untamed, else you would not have returned after the warning I gave you the other night.”
Qarakh was surprised that the man knew his name, but he fought to keep his expression neutral. “Who are you and what is this place?”
The man cocked his head slightly and looked at Qarakh for a moment, as if he were not only seeing the Mongol’s physical aspect but looking beyond that, into whatever remained of his once mortal soul.
“This is a simple monastery, and I am naught but a humble brother.” The man’s tone contained the merest trace of amused mockery, as if he were an adult speaking to a naughty but precocious child.
Normally Qarakh would have responded to such treatment with rage, but the Beast inside him remained silent, almost as if it had retreated to a far corner of his mind and huddled there, shivering in fear. Qarakh realized that his Beast was hiding because it had for the first time encountered a predator far greater than itself.
Still, Qarakh was a warrior, and warriors did not run unless there was no other choice, and even then they only did so if it might lead to a later victory. Instead, he nodded, accepting the man’s nonanswers.
The stranger went on. “I know why you have come here, my son, and while I cannot offer you an alliance, I can assure you that neither I nor any of mine shall interfere with you and the tribe you will create. We are contemplatives and scholars. The Obertus order is not a threat to you.”
Qarakh knew better than to accept a stranger’s word without question, but in this case he had no doubt whatsoever that the man was speaking truth, though he didn’t know how he knew this. He just did.
“I have one other thing to tell you,” the man continued. “Should you wish to hear it.”
The stranger made this statement in an offhand manner, but there was something in his voice that told Qarakh he was being given a choice—one that would shape the course of his future for better or for worse. Qarakh had never backed away from a challenge and did not intend to start.
“I do.”
A faint hint of a smile—perhaps of approval, or amusement—moved across the man’s lips then was gone.
“Victory is in the blood, my son. Thus it has ever been, and thus shall it ever be.” The man then gave Qarakh a look that was a mixture of affection and sadness. “Now go.”
Sudden terror welled up inside Qarakh—unreasoning, overwhelming terror. His Beast sprang out of hiding and shrieked for Qarakh to flee, flee, flee! Without thinking, without even being truly aware of it, Qarakh turned, shed one form and donned another, and bounded away on padded paws. He ran with no other thought than to put as much distance as he could between himself and the dark-robed man whose eyes held the whole of the night sky. Qarakh was still running hours later, when the first rays of dawn came stabbing out of the east, and he dove into the sheltering embrace of the frozen winter earth only seconds before the sun would have taken him.
Nestled safe within earth and ice, he closed his eyes and prayed he would not be afflicted by dreams. This time, at least, his prayers were answered.
“I might know of a place for you to search,” Qarakh said to Malachite. “A monastery. And perhaps I shall tell you of it… in time.”
The Nosferatu opened his mouth as if he intended to protest, but then he closed it and merely nodded.
The three Cainites continued riding toward the camp in silence, each alone with his or her own dark thoughts.
“Your name is Rikard.”
Rikard wasn’t sure whether Alexander expected an answer or not, so he merely nodded. The Ventrue sat a table in his tent, a map spread out before him. He didn’t look up from it as he spoke. Rikard found this annoying, but he knew better than to say anything about it.
“And you have come here because you wish to betray your master.”
Rikard had no doubt that he should respond to this statement, but he also knew that he had to do so carefully. He sensed that Alexander, for all his seeming indifference, was listening quite closely.
“I have come to betray no one. I wish to enter into your service—if you will have me, that is.” Rikard congratulated himself; a little touch of humility never hurt.
Alexander continued examining the map, now tracing his fingers over blue lines indicating rivers. He still didn’t look at him, but Rikard could sense the prince’s increased interest.
The Ventrue was nothing like he had expected. He looked to have been Embraced while barely out of boyhood. He was slight of build, his features delicate, almost feminine. Instead of wearing the mail armor and tabard of the military orders, he was dressed in a purple robe a bit too large for his body. Rikard thought it made Alexander look ridiculous, like a child playing dress-up in his father’s clothes.
The prince’s brow wrinkled in contemplation, and for an instant Rikard feared Alexander had read his thoughts. But then the Ventrue’s brow smoothed. Rikard tried to relax, but not fully. Doing so in the presence of a Cainite of such age and power as Alexander of Paris would be tantamount to committing suicide.
“Why would you wish to do such a thing?” Alexander asked. He now ran his fingertips over the letters of place names on the map. Rikard noted that he avoided touching Paris. “If serving Qarakh was not to your liking, what makes you think you shall be any more satisfied in my service?”
Rikard had anticipated this question and had a ready answer. “Qarakh is a cunning warrior, I’ll give him that, but he’s not much of a leader. Besides, his whole notion of creating a tribe comprised entirely of feral pagans is ludicrous.”
“Indeed?” Alexander looked up from his beloved map at last and fixed his penetrating gaze upon Rikard. “What makes you say that?”
The intensity of the prince’s gaze was such that Rikard felt an urge to take a step backward, but the power of those eyes kept his feet fastened firmly where they were. “Most of the tribe are wanderers who come and go as they please. Livonia is a place they visit upon occasion rather than their home.”
“Really.” There was something in Alexander’s tone that urged Rikard to continue, so he did.
“Yes, and the new members that Qarakh manages to recruit”—Rikard had to resist the urge to add like me—”are mostly outcasts and troublemakers. And even after all the training they’ve been given, they still barely know which end of a sword goes in their hand and which goes in their opponent.” Rikard knew he was exaggerating, but he wanted to make certain that Alexander believed that his sole motivation for coming here was to join his forces instead of using the Ventrue to take revenge upon Qarakh. He doubted Alexander would take kindly to being used.
“Go on.” Alexander’s tone had hardened, and Rikard began to worry that he had said something to make the prince angry. Nevertheless, he did as Alexander commanded. On a subconscious level, he knew he didn’t have any choice.
“I suppose it’s not all Qarakh’s fault. The witch Deverra has him under some kind of spell, and it’s muddled his thinking. Whenever the Tartar is in Livonia, she’s never far from his side, and he listens to her as if she were his equal. It must be sorcery—why else would he trust the counsel of a Tremere usurper?”
“What did you say?”
Rikard blinked. One instant Alexander had been sitting at his desk, and the next he was standing toe to toe with Rikard, looking up at him with eyes full of death. Rikard turned pale—even for a Cainite—and he desperately wished he could flee the tent, the camp, the whole damn country, but he remained standing where he was, unable to so much as lift a foot, let alone turn and run.
In his terror, Rikard couldn’t recall what he had said to so upset Alexander. “I… I don’t…”
“Are you telling me that the priestess that counsels Qarakh is a member of Clan Tremere?”
“That was one of the rumors around camp. No
t only Deverra, but all the Telyavic priests. Supposedly they broke off from the Tremere some time ago and came to Livonia. Why, I don’t know.”
“And do these Telyavs still possess the mystical knowledge and abilities of their former patrons?”
“I’m not sure. I don’t know a great deal about the Tremere, but Deverra definitely wields magic, and I believe the other Telyavs do as well, to greater or lesser degrees.”
Alexander swore in a language Rikard didn’t recognize, and then his serpentine gaze bore into the traitor’s eyes, and Rikard had the feeling that the prince was digging into his mind, sifting through his memories with unimaginable speed to determine whether or not he was telling the truth. Rikard felt pressure building within his head, growing more intense and painful with each passing second, until it felt as if his Final Death were at hand.
But then, just when Rikard thought he could take no more, the pressure let up.
Alexander stepped back and Rikard saw that he was smiling. “You’ve been an immense help to me, Rikard, and I especially appreciate the tidbit of information that you were holding in reserve. You tried so hard to keep it from me, but I’m afraid your mind proved too weak. One of the weakest I’ve encountered in two thousand years, actually. Do you have anything else to offer me before I dismiss you?”
Rikard did not. He felt like a hollow vessel that had been well and truly emptied. With some effort, he managed to shake his head.
“I thought not. Very well, then. Despite the fact that I personally appreciate and am grateful for your treacherous nature, long and too often bitter experience has taught me that men like you are best disposed of once you’ve fulfilled your purpose.”
Rikard’s thoughts were sluggish, fragmented and confused, as if Alexander’s less than gentle probing had damaged his mind. He wasn’t sure if he fully understood what the prince had said, but he decided to smile anyway.
“In a moment, I want you to leave my tent and seek out the Cainite who brought you here. His name is Lord István. I want you to give him a message. Are you listening carefully?”
Rikard nodded, eager to please his new master.
“Tell him that you are his to do with as he pleases. Cainite pain will surely taste even sweeter to him than the mortal suffering he must subside on. Repeat the message, please.”
Rikard did so, and he must have gotten the words right because Alexander said, “Very good, now do as I told you.”
Rikard was saddened at the thought of leaving his beloved master, but he wouldn’t be a very good servant if he disobeyed, so he turned, grinning like an idiot, and left in search of István, repeating Alexander’s message to himself in a whisper over and over and over and over and…
Damn them all to hell! How could he have been foolish enough to believe rabble such as Qarakh and his tribe would make suitable allies? They were animals and nothing more—chaotic, savage and equally likely to turn on him or desert him. Qarakh might fancy himself a man of honor, but in the end he was just another beast in Cainite’s clothing.
But Alexander was far more disturbed by the discovery that the Telyavs were an offshoot of the damnable Tremere. He had known about the Tartar’s tribe—after all, that was the reason he had marched on Livonia in the first place—and while there had been some rumors swirling around Jürgen’s court that the pagans possessed a certain degree of mystic powers, Alexander had dismissed them as inconsequential. After all, every Cainite had blood gifts of one sort of another. But the Tremere were power-hungry sorcerers of the worst type, diablerists and schemers who routinely violated the traditions of high blood. Sorcerers were interested in one thing only: increasing their own power. It was a motivation that Alexander well understood, and he might have been tempted to explore the possibility of an alliance with the Telyavs anyway… if they hadn’t been members of the thrice-damned Tremere. Goratrix and his clan had supported Geoffrey in his theft of the Parisian throne, and it was quite possible that these “Telyavs” were in Livonia for the sole purpose of drawing him here and luring him into a trap. Such scheming would be just like his traitorous childe.
And like Rosamund?
Two thoughts followed this one: simultaneous, intertwined.
Rosamund wouldn’t do this. Rosamund would do this to me.
Without being aware of it, Alexander bared his teeth, looking as much like an animal as any Gangrel. Plots within plots, wheels within wheels, motives within motives… Two thousand years of unlife, and what did he have to show for it? His entire existence was one mirror facing another reflecting a reflection reflecting a reflection reflecting a reflection, on and on forever, until it was impossible to determine what the real image, what the truth, really was.
In that situation, there was only one way to determine what was real and what wasn’t: smash the mirrors to pieces.
There was no point in waiting for Qarakh to make a decision about an alliance—either he was a willing partner in the Telyavs’ trap or merely their pawn. Either way, Alexander had no intention of allying with the Gangrel now. The fallen prince… no, the once and future prince… would instead attack swiftly in order to catch his enemies off guard. He would crush them and use the victory to build his political capital in the Cainite community and, perhaps most importantly, send a clear message to Geoffrey—and Rosamund. He would not be stopped.
He walked out of his tent and almost called out for István, but then he remembered. István was likely busy right now with his new playmate. He waved over one of the ghouls who served him as attendants and ordered him to inform Rudiger that his prince was ready to speak with him.
There were plans to make.
Chapter Fourteen
The first thing Qarakh did upon returning to the campsite was call a council, a kuriltai. Alessandro, Wilhelmina, Arnulf and Grandfather joined Deverra and their khan at the usual meeting place away from the tents. Malachite had looked disappointed when it became clear that he was not going to be invited to sit in on the council, but he contented himself with talking to one of the Cainites who had returned to the tribal lands since Qarakh and Deverra had departed for Alexander’s campsite. Qarakh was pleased to note how many had returned, and how many of the tribe’s allies had come as well. Eirik Longtooth of Finland was here, as was Karl the Blue. From Prussia, where they led the Gangrel resistance to the Teutonic Knights, came Borovich the Grim and Tengael. From Lativa, Lacplesis the Beastslayer and the Tzimisce Vala, and from Uppsala, the Gangrel leader Werter. Some had brought Cainite and ghoul warriors with them, while others had come alone. Qarakh didn’t care; he was glad to see them all. If things did not go well with Alexander, every one of them would be needed.
As soon as they sat down on the fallen logs, Qarakh related the details of his parley with Alexander. When he was finished, he asked, “How strong are we now?”
Alessandro answered. “At last count, forty-seven Cainites—including us—and thirty-two ghouls.”
“Did you count the Nosferatu?” Arnulf growled.
Alessandro looked at the Goth warrior and frowned in puzzlement. “I assumed he was merely a visitor, but if you think I should—”
Qarakh held up a hand to silence his second-in-command. “There is no need. Your assumption was correct.” He looked at Arnulf. The Goth held his ax in one hand and slowly ran the thumb of his free hand along its razor-sharp edge, slicing the finger to the bone. He then paused for the wound to heal before doing it again. He was obviously unhappy, and Qarakh didn’t have to ask why. It was because he had brought Malachite—a stranger and perhaps a spy for Alexander—into their camp. The question wasn’t whether or not Arnulf was going to make an issue out of it, but how much of an issue, and how soon.
“How many warriors does Alexander have?” Wilhelmina asked. The eagerness in her voice indicated that she hoped there were quite a few and that they were all Christian.
“We did not see the entire camp,” Qarakh said, “but from what we observed, I would guess that he commands thirty Cainites, and
twice that many ghoul and mortal knights. Perhaps more.”
“Ninety versus seventy-nine,” Grandfather said. “And Alexander’s warriors will be highly trained to a man, while many of ours have yet to see their first battle.”
“More warriors reach our camp with each passing night,” Alessandro pointed out. “Our strength will continue to increase, while Alexander’s will not.”
“Perhaps none of this will ultimately matter,” Deverra said. “Not if Alexander is serious about seeking an alliance with us.”
Arnulf snorted, but said nothing.
Sooner, Qarakh thought. Definitely sooner. “How much feeding stock do we have in camp?”
“Not counting the ghouls?” Alessandro asked.
Ghouls could be fed off of when necessary, but their primary function was as servants. “Trained to fight or not, the ghouls will be needed if battle comes.”
“In that case, we have… fifty-six.”
“Fifty-five,” Grandfather corrected. “One of our tribesmen seemingly ran all the way from Scotland in wolf form, and was so in need of nourishment that he immediately drained one of the mortals to death upon arriving.”
Qarakh didn’t bother asking the name of the Cainite who had killed the mortal. Ordinarily, slaying one of the herd while feeding—whether purposefully or not—was punishable by a year’s exile from Livonia or becoming blood-bonded to the khan, whichever the guilty party chose. But this was hardly the time to be concerned with enforcing tribal law, not with the possibility of war looming on the horizon.
Fifty-six mortals could support thirteen or so Cainites, perhaps a few more if the humans were rationed. But for a force of Cainites as large as theirs had become, they would need five times as many. Even at that number there would be no pretense of remaining hidden, and many mortals would grow weak and ill from recurrent draining.
“When we finish the kuriltai, we shall take down our gers and move our camp to within a quarter mile of the mortals’ village so that we might feed more easily.”
