Dark Ages Clan Novel Gangrel: Book 10 of the Dark Ages Clan Novel Saga

by Tim Waggoner

  He turned his attention back to his mirror image. “You didn’t answer my other question. Who are you? And don’t tell me ‘I’m you.’ I can see for myself that you have assumed my guise, but that alone doesn’t make you Alexander of Paris.”

  “You say your name as if it means something. But it’s merely a collection of syllables, sound that is produced, then echoes for a instant or two before dying away. Hardly worth perceiving in the first place, let alone remembering.”

  Alexander refused to rise to his double’s bait. “You still haven’t answered my question. Or are you just another aspect of this dream, no more real than this sky, this sea and this boat?” Something kept him from including the gliding dim figures in his list, as if by mentioning them he risked making them more real than they already were.

  “If you truly believed I was illusory, you wouldn’t inquire so persistently about my identity. That should tell you that—on some level—you recognize I am real. At least, as your kind so imperfectly defines the term.”

  Alexander sensed the truth of the doppelganger’s words. While everything else here might be no more substantial than night fog, he—or it—was a separate entity. “Let us say for the moment that I acknowledge your reality. That still doesn’t tell me who you are and why I am here.”

  “If I had a name, I would tell it to you. I have been present in the land you call Livonia since before the sire of all your race slew his brother, and I shall be here long after the sun is nothing but a dead black cinder in the heavens. As for what you are doing here, you are here to receive a message.”

  “From you?” Alexander was a master at playing games of all sorts, but right now he was rapidly tiring of his double’s game of semantics.

  Once again the other gestured toward the surging waves. “From them.”

  One of the dark forms swimming near the boat lifted its head above the surface. It was human—a woman—with smooth grayish-blue skin and round black fish eyes. Still, Alexander recognized her despite these changes. It was the laundress he had fed upon—the one he had drained and discarded before speaking to the traitor Rikard. She was looking right at him, and he forced himself to meet her gaze, though he was unable to read any expression or even acknowledgment of his existence in her piscine eyes. She held his gaze a moment longer before slipping back beneath the waves and resuming her circuit around the boat.

  Other heads broke the surface now, all with the same slick gray skin and dead black eyes. Alexander recognized them all—Lorraine, Olivier, Margery, Lucien, Renaud… Then more of the dark figures stopped swimming, and dozens, hundreds, thousands upon thousands of heads rose out of the water—no, not water; he could see that now. It was an ocean of dark red blood… Some of the beings were Cainites, but most were mortal women that had once been in love. But no matter what they had been, they all now possessed the same fishy skin and lifeless eyes. All of them—those close up and those so far away that their heads were nothing more than tiny dots on the horizon—glared at him and opened their mouths to reveal row after row of serrated shark’s teeth.

  “Do you understand what you’re looking at?” the double asked.

  Alexander, as is the way of dreams, knew precisely what he was looking at, though how he had come by that knowledge, he couldn’t have said. “They are all my…” He couldn’t bring himself to say victims. The word was overly dramatic, and it didn’t come close to communicating the enormity of the sheer number of beings that surrounded him. Everyone he had ever killed to feed upon or slain in the thick of battle, for revenge, for amusement, or simply out of boredom, was here. Men, women (mostly women), children, Cainites, Lupines, demons—the intensity of their collective hatred pounded into him like a tidal wave of emotion. But mixed in with the hate were feelings of excitement and anticipation. He realized the blood-swimmers were waiting impatiently and with great eagerness for something to happen.

  “They’re waiting for you to join them,” the other said. “The first has been waiting for two thousand years, and the last only a handful of hours. But no matter how long they’ve been waiting, they all sense the same thing: The time is nigh.”

  Alexander turned to his double. “What are you saying?”

  The doppelganger frowned. “Don’t be dense. Must I explain it to you as if you were a child? The Final Death will soon be upon you, Alexander of Paris—and for all your years of existence purchased with the blood you stole from others, for all you experience and power, there is nothing you can do to stop it. Nothing at all.”

  Alexander told himself that this was only a dream—well, a nightmare now—and that he shouldn’t take the other’s words seriously, but he couldn’t help it. He had been born as a mortal into a culture that believed in signs, omens and portents, and no matter how much he wished to, his couldn’t dismiss his double’s words. In fact, they shook him to the very core of his being.

  Still, he was Alexander of Paris, and he wouldn’t permit himself to show his fear, no matter what. “If I cannot change my fate, if—as you hint—I am to be defeated by the Mongol Qarakh, then why bother telling me? It will happen soon enough on its own.

  As I said before, I’m delivering a message for them.”

  Alexander heard a grinding, clacking sound over the waves and wind, and he realized the blood-swimmers were opening and closing their tooth-filled maws, as if in anticipation of a meal to come.

  “When you meet your Final Death, they will be waiting for you.” The other grinned, and now his mouth was also full of shark’s teeth. “As will I.”

  Alexander woke with a muffled cry. He threw off his silk sheets, jumped out of bed and assumed a defensive stance, ready to fight. But he was alone in his tent. He waited for a moment to see if any of the ghouls who guarded his quarters during the daylight hours would call out to see if he was all right. They wouldn’t open the tent flap and check; they knew better than to risk exposing their prince to sunlight. He chose his ghouls carefully for just the right combination of intelligence and tractability. And any ghoul idiotic enough to let a single ray of light into his master’s tent wouldn’t live very long afterward. But no one called out, so he must not have made too much noise upon awakening.

  The Cainites’ tents were made from black fabric so that even diffuse sunlight couldn’t penetrate the cloth, and though Alexander sensed there was yet an hour remaining until sunset, he was safe as long as he remained inside. Normally the leaden sluggishness that came over him during the daylight hours would have pulled him back into (hopefully dreamless) sleep, but just as a mortal awakening after an especially disturbing nightmare finds it difficult to return to sleep, so too did Alexander find himself wide awake.

  With nothing else to do, Alexander sat down at his desk and rolled out his favorite map of Europe. But this time when he looked at it, his gaze was drawn to the blue sections indicating bodies of water. He reached out to touch one—the channel between England and Normandy—but he hesitated and lowered his hand.

  In his mind he heard the shush-shush-shush of waves, the wail of sea winds and the clack-clack-clack of hungry teeth.

  Chapter Fifteen

  When Qarakh rose that evening, he fed from a short, stocky peasant woman who reminded him somewhat of a Mongol female. He then found Alessandro and told him to select two of the tribe’s best people—men who were not only skilled warriors, but stealthy, cunning and swift—and assign them to spy on Alexander’s camp.

  “Make sure to choose men who have demonstrated some measure of self-control,” Qarakh said. “This is a duty that calls for patience and restraint, not battle fever.” He thought of Arnulf and scowled. He wanted to ask Alessandro if the Goth had returned to the camp, but he didn’t wish to demonstrate such personal concern before a subordinate, even his second-in-command.

  “Right away, my khan.” The Iberian started off, but Qarakh stopped him with a gesture.

  “A moment more, Alessandro. Where are my other advisors?” What he really meant was Where is Deverra?
r />   “Wilhelmina is with Eirik Longtooth and Karl the Blue, listening to tales of their battles with the Teutonic Knights, as is Grandfather. Deverra…” He frowned. “I am not certain where she is. The last time I saw her, she was headed in the direction of the woods.” Alessandro didn’t have to say they were the same woods that Arnulf had gone into last night.

  “Go select your men.”

  Alessandro inclined his head and went off to do as his khan commanded.

  Qarakh wanted to go in search of Deverra then, but as khan he had other duties. He needed to acknowledge those who had returned in their tribe’s time of need, as well as greet those allies who had likewise answered the call. He spent the next several hours walking through the camp, speaking with both tribesmen and allies—even the ghouls and mortals. Some were old friends, but most were little more than strangers. Still, he made sure to spend a little time with each and make them feel welcome and appreciated. It was an important task, for he might soon be asking these people—Cainites, ghouls and mortals alike—to follow him into battle, and he needed to strengthen, renew or create bonds with each one of them. Just as a tribe was only as strong as its khan, an army was only as strong as its general.

  Midnight came and went without Qarakh seeing or hearing anything of Deverra. Ordinarily, he might have thought nothing of her absence; he would have assumed she was off conducting one Telyavic rite or another. But these were hardly ordinary times. If Alexander’s offer of an alliance was only a ruse—or if the Ventrue had simply changed his mind—he might even now be preparing an attack against the tribe, might have dispatched his own spies or assassins. Deverra was a strong woman in more ways than one, and he had no doubt she could handle herself in any situation. But even so…

  With a muttered apology, he broke off his conversation with a Saxon Gangrel chieftain and started walking in the direction of the woods.

  “Milord! A word, if you please!”

  Qarakh almost didn’t stop—almost, in fact, drew his saber and lopped off the fool’s chattering head—but then he recognized the voice as belonging to Malachite. He was tempted to keep on going, but he stopped and allowed the Nosferatu to catch up to him.

  “My apologies if I am detaining you from an important errand,” Malachite said.

  Qarakh tried not to let his impatience show. “What do you want?”

  “To ask if you have come to a decision whether to reveal the details of this monastery.”

  Despite his growing concern over Deverra, Qarakh couldn’t help smiling. “You are a most determined man, Malachite.”

  The Nosferatu’s answering smile was a sad one. “So it has been said.”

  Qarakh was reluctant to tell Malachite of his experience with the mysterious Cainite in the north. It was all he had to barter with when it came to dealing with the scholar, and he didn’t want to sell the information too cheaply.

  “I believe I saw you speaking with Alessandro earlier,” Qarakh said.

  “Yes. He was asking me questions about Alexander and the army he commands.”

  “And did you answer his questions?”

  “I did. And before you ask, I did so truthfully.”

  “I find it difficult to understand why you would provide such vital information so readily.”

  Malachite’s smile was broader this time. “You mean, why would I betray the man I accompanied to Livonia?”

  “You must admit it is a pertinent question.”

  “Especially from one who wishes to determine whether or not I—and in turn, the information I have given your second-in-command—can be trusted.” Malachite considered the issue for a moment before continuing. “I suppose that ultimately there is no way I can fully convince you of my sincerity—not by words, at any rate. Oh, I could tell you that I hold no love for Alexander, and that I despise the way he poses as a Christian merely to further his own ends. I could also tell you that I believe the world will be a better place when he goes at last to his final reward. But these are precisely the words you would expect to hear from me if I were trying to deceive you. I could ask you to judge me by my bearing and the tone of voice as I spoke, but these can be controlled easily enough—especially after several centuries of experience.

  “Therefore, if words will not serve, perhaps actions shall.” Malachite paused, as if wrestling with a difficult decision. “To prove my sincerity to you, Qarakh of Mongolia, Khan of the Livonian tribe, I shall swear a blood oath to you—if you will accept it from me.”

  Qarakh was stunned by the Nosferatu’s offer. Oaths of blood were no light matter among the undead, for they involved literally drinking the blood of the lord sworn to, and Cainite blood could bend the will. Three drinks was said to create an almost permanent bond, but even a single sip was critical. There was nothing else Malachite could have said or done to convince Qarakh so quickly and completely of how serious he truly was about finding the Dracon.

  “Why would you do such a thing?” Qarakh asked.

  “For you. For myself. For all Cainites.” A pause. “But most of all, for the Dream.”

  Qarakh nodded. “Very well. I shall consider your offer. If I accept it, I will tell you all I know about these Obertus monks.”

  Malachite stiffened suddenly, but didn’t say anything. He then bowed from the waist. “I thank you, great khan.” The Nosferatu straightened, turned and silently moved off, his robed body seeming to blend into the night itself. Qarakh had a difficult time keeping his eyes focused on the scholar’s retreating form. If Malachite was this difficult to track when he was merely walking, how much harder would it be if he were trying to move without being seen or heard? With the blood gifts of his clan, Malachite might have easily chosen to slip away from Alexander’s camp and follow Qarakh and Deverra back to their tribe without being detected. Once there, he could have spied on anyone, gathering intelligence for Alexander or simply picking up hints to the location of this Archbishop Nikita.

  But he hadn’t. He had openly asked to accompany Deverra and him, and he had made his request for information clearly and directly, and he had now offered to swear a binding oath. It was possible of course that all of this was part of some greater deception, but Qarakh’s instincts told him that the Nosferatu was a man of honor and could be trusted. Qarakh would have to think hard upon Malachite’s offer, but right now he wanted—no, needed—to find Deverra.

  He continued walking away from the camp and within moments had reached the edge of the woods. He paused and sniffed the air. Once more he caught the scent of rain coming: a lot of it, within the next few days, perhaps sooner. But beneath that smell he picked up Deverra’s scent and—much fainter—Arnulf ‘s. Deverra had come this way, probably to engage in one of her clan’s rituals, just as he had guessed. Ultimately, he found her in one of the groves she tended. She was easy to trace by the intoxicating scent of her blood, which she was spilling on the soil.

  “Why do you weaken yourself?” he asked in way of greeting.

  She looked up, unsurprised. “Because I am still your shaman, and more. If the alliance with Alexander doesn’t come to pass, we will need all the help we can get to defeat him. This rite and others will help, but my hope is that he is sincere in his intention to ally with us.”

  “So you trust the Ventrue, then?”

  “No, but I do believe that he may well be my people’s best chance for long-term survival—if he what he told us is true.”

  “If. You are willing to risk much on such a small word.”

  “The Telyavs are my people. They either followed me here or have accepted my blood in their veins. I am their leader, and I would risk anything for them.”

  “You are also a member of the tribe, and my shaman. Would you risk the tribe’s existence in order to ensure your clan’s?”

  If she were upset by the implied accusation in his question, she gave no sign. “Of course not, but when you have two strong and equal loyalties, yostoi isn’t always easy to achieve.”

  Qarakh smiled grimly. �
��No matter the circumstances, balance is never easy to achieve. That is what makes it worth fighting so hard for.”

  Deverra took a step closer to him, and Qarakh had to resist the urge to pull away. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to be physically close to her but that Deverra wanted it so much. They were Cainites, what mortals called vampires. Undead creatures that could not love in the ways of human men and women, no matter how much they might wish to. Still, he didn’t step back.

  “Have you made a decision yet? About an alliance with Alexander?”

  Qarakh had not, but he wondered what she would do if he decided against it. Would she, as a member of the tribe, accept the ruling of her khan, or would she, as high priestess of the Telyavs, decide to oppose him for the good of her faith? It was a question he did not want to ask because he did not want an answer.

  “I am still considering the matter,” he said. “I shall decide by the next sunset.”

  “Then I shall wait as patiently as I can.”

  Sensing the issue was settled for now, Qarakh knelt and wiped his saber on the grass before standing and sheathing it. “I should return to the camp.”

  Deverra grinned. “Afraid people will notice we’re both missing and start to gossip?”

  Qarakh frowned in mock irritation. “No, but given the current uncertainty, it would be better if neither of us were gone too long. If nothing else, Alessandro would begin to get nervous.”

  She laughed. “He would at that! But you go on ahead. I must finish this rite and then I will be back. It’s a simple ritual that should take less than an hour.”

  “Very well. But stay alert. There’s no telling who or what else might be roaming the woods this night.”

  “Surely nothing as dangerous as you or I,” she replied, a twinkle in her eye.