by Tim Waggoner
Rikard heard the whisk-whisk of steel sliding against a sharpening stone.
“What does this sound make you think of?”
An image flashed through Rikard’s mind then: the sharp point of a dagger coming toward his eyes. He remembered struggling against the restraints (this was before God had removed them) as the blade introduced him to a night darker than any he’d ever known before.
“Now that you no longer have any eyes to get in the way, let us see just how far the dagger will penetrate, eh? I like to keep on going until the tip of the blade scrapes against the back of the skull. Try to hold still now. Without the restraints, there’s a good chance you’ll thrash around a bit.”
Anything for his God. Rikard tried to smile to show how willing he was, but the best he could manage was a lopsided grimace. The cold metal tip of the dagger touched the ragged-edged hollow ruin where his right eye had been.
“Looks like your eye has regrown a bit, but you don’t have much vitae left in your body to fuel any significant healing. That’s all right, a little push and a twist or two—there! All gone. Now let’s see how much of the dagger’s length you can take.”
Rikard felt the blade slide slowly into his eye socket and keep going. He tried to scream, but not only didn’t he have a tongue any longer, it appeared he had no vocal cords either. The dagger kept sliding in, deeper and deeper, until bright flashes of light exploded against the darkness in his mind. He knew the metal had somehow pierced the very core of him.
“Milord István!” Another voice, one Rikard did not recognize.
“What is it?” God snarled. “I told you never to interrupt me when I’m playing.”
“Begging your pardon, milord, but his highness wishes to see you.” The voice grew eager. “The rumor around camp is that we’re going to march against the Tartar’s tribe at last!”
This last sentence stirred some fragments of memory in Rikard but he was finding it so hard to think….
István (that must be God’s name, Rikard decided) sighed. “I suppose his highness wants to see me this very instant?”
The owner of the other voice sounded amused. “Naturally.”
“And just when it was getting good, too.” Once again the voice came from next to Rikard’s ear. “I’m afraid I’m going to have to leave you, my friend. I thoroughly enjoyed myself, and I will think back upon our hours together with much fondness in the centuries to come.”
The blade slid out of his socket then, and Rikard wasn’t sure what was going to happen next, but then he heard a soft movement of air, and he realized that God was bringing the dagger back down swift and hard—and then Rikard found himself falling, falling, falling toward an endless sea of blood.
Chapter Seventeen
Why do you come before me again?
“To speak for the Cainite called Qarakh.”
And why does he not speak for himself?
“He knows nothing of the Grove of Shadows. And even if he did, he would not come here on his own.”
He is too proud?
“He is a prideful man, yes, but he is also a sensible one. He will accept aid for the benefit of his tribe.”
Then tell me: Why do you speak in his place?
“While he would accept your help, he would not accept its price. As a priestess in your service, half of the debt would be mine. And that is why he would not accept it—if he knew.”
I understand. He will be angry with you for deceiving him.
“It doesn’t matter. Should the tribe be faced with war—”
The tribe will indeed go to war. I have foreseen it.
“Foreseen it? Or helped cause it?”
You forget your place, priestess.
“Forgive me. I spoke before I thought. War is inevitable then?”
Yes.
“How soon?”
Soon.
“Weeks? Days?”
What is the difference? Soon.
“What must I do?”
When the time is right, you must bring Qarakh to me. I shall aid him—if he ultimately accepts the cost of my help.
“Tell me—if we do this, will Qarakh prevail over his enemy?”
That all depends on which enemy you mean.
“While I am glad to hear that you have decided to abandon your plan to form an alliance with the pagans, I would be remiss in my duties if I failed to point out that this might not be the most advantageous time to attack the Mongol’s camp.”
Alexander was seated at his desk while Brother Rudiger stood at attention. Alexander looked at the knight as he contemplated the best way to slay him. Beheading would be swift and efficient, but given the man’s fear of fire—which was intense even for a Cainite—burning at the stake might be more appropriate… not to mention more amusing.
“Your highness?”
Alexander sighed. “And what, Rudiger, makes you say this?” He hadn’t had a headache in two thousand years, but he felt as if he were going to get one now.
“Qarakh and the pagan priestess have both seen our camp. And you can be assured the Mongol kept his eyes and ears open the entire time he was here. Worse yet, Malachite left with them when they departed. Go d only knows how much more the Nosferatu has told them about our military strength.”
Alexander felt like shouting. There is no God—there is only us, you simpleminded idiot! “Go on.”
“We have lost the element of surprise. The pagans now expect us to attack.”
“Qarakh and his people are likely still debating the merits of entering into an alliance with us.” With me, he meant.
“Perhaps,” Rudiger allowed. “But even if they are, they would be complete fools not to consider the possibility of our attacking. They may be beasts, but they still possess animalistic cunning.”
“What are you telling me? That we should not attack the Mongol’s tribe?”
“I am saying that we should wait for a more propitious moment. If the Mongol does choose to accept your offer of alliance—not realizing that it’s been rescinded—you can allow him to believe that you will indeed join forces with him, and then, when his guard is down, we shall seize the opportunity to attack.”
Alexander felt something very nearly like admiration for the knight. “Why Rudiger! I didn’t know you had such a streak of deviousness in you!”
The Black Cross commander’s mouth twitched, and Alexander knew he was fighting to keep from grimacing in disdain.
“It is merely a matter of practicality,” he said stiffly. “Recent events”—he didn’t say your decisions, highness, though Alexander was certain he thought it—”leave us with few remaining options.”
“Practicality, eh? I suppose next you’ll tell me that God helps those who help themselves. Never mind, don’t answer. Though I understand your concerns, I do not share them. I have reached the conclusion that Qarakh’s tribe and the Telyavs are not suitable allies.” Meaning they were of no use to him. “Thus, as pagans, they must be destroyed for the greater glory of God, and the sooner, the better. The people of the land have worshipped false gods long enough.” He paused. “Unless you think God is in no particular hurry to see the people of Livonia brought into his fold….”
Rudiger replied through clenched teeth. “Of course not, your highness.”
“Then go inform your knights that we shall begin our march on Qarakh’s campsite come the next sunset and begin making preparations.”
Rudiger inclined his head. “As you will.”
Which is precisely what you should have said in the first place. “You may take your leave of me.”
A small puff of breath passed through Rudiger’s lips. Even with his sensitive Cainite hearing, Alexander couldn’t make it out, but it sounded as if the commander had whispered, “With pleasure.”
Before Alexander could demand Rudiger repeat himself more loudly, the knight turned and departed the tent.
The audacity of the man! Not only did he question his orders—albeit in a less than direct manner�
��but he had the gall to whisper a comment like that before scampering off. He was a child who had worked up the courage to say a naughty word in front of his father, said it, then fled, his meager supply of bravery spent. Many men—Cainite, ghoul and mortal—had died for delivering lesser insults to Alexander of Paris.
The prince nearly stood and followed after the knight, intending to tear off the German bastard’s head with his bare hands and drink deep from the fountain of vitae that gushed forth from the ragged stump. But he remained seated.
Like it or not (and he most definitely did not), Alexander had need of Brother Rudiger. The other knights would turn on him en masse if he slew their commander. Alexander was almost unimaginably strong for a Cainite, but even he didn’t relish the though of facing dozens of enraged and self-righteous Teutonic Knights all at once. Their wills would break, of course, but then he would be left with doe-eyed automatons with which to wage his wars.
So let Rudiger have his trifling moment of rebellion. Alexander would do the same with him as he did with everyone else. He would continue to use the knight for as long as necessary, and then when he was no longer needed, Alexander would dispose of him. All he had to do was, as Rudiger had phrased it, wait for a more propitious moment.
Somewhat cheered by that thought, Alexander looked down at the map on his desk. He turned his attention to its eastern section, to the lands beyond Christendom. All maps were nothing but rough approximations of actual lands, of course, but this section was extremely speculative, drawn from secondhand stories from Saracens, Persians and Slavs. Still, at the edge was a marked Land of the Tartars. Tartarus itself, perhaps. Whatever the nature of this semi-mythical land, it had produced a Gangrel named Qarakh.
Alexander was mildly surprised to realize he was looking forward to testing his strength, his cunning and his two millennia of experience against Qarakh.
He opened his mouth and put his thumb against his right incisor and pushed. The sharp tooth pierced the finger’s flesh and blood welled forth. Alexander pressed his bleeding thumb onto the edge of the vellum map, right on the word Tartars, and began rubbing it around in slow, ever-widening circles. He did not stop until the word was entirely covered in wet crimson.
One night passed…
Two…
And the sun set for a third time.
“Tonight we shall dispatch a messenger to inform Alexander that there will be no alliance.”
Qarakh paused to gauge the reactions of those attending this kuriltai. The tribe’s inner circle stood—Deverra, Alessandro, Wilhelmina and Grandfather—leaving the logs for their guests as was only proper hospitality. As khan, Qarakh was seated, but sitting alongside and opposite him were those allied leaders he had invited to the kuriltai: Eirik Longtooth, Karl the Blue, Borovich the Grim, Tengael, Werter, and Lacplesis the Beastslayer. On the other side of Deverra stood a half-dozen Telyavs—two male, four female—all wearing the simple brown robes favored by their coven. So far, they were the only ones that had answered their high priestess’s call for aid.
Malachite was present as well, standing off to the side and ignoring the glances of mistrust the others gave him from time to time. Qarakh, however, had come to trust the Nosferatu enough to permit him to attend tonight’s council, though not yet enough to let him out of sight for very long.
There were no objections to his pronouncement, at least none that were spoken. Qarakh was gratified, if somewhat surprised. He had expected some of his allies to object to sending a messenger and instead demand that they mount an all-out attack on Alexander at once. But after two nights of discussion and debate, even Wilhelmina must have finally realized that when their tribe went to war with the Ventrue’s army, they weren’t going to win by sheer strength or martial skill. Many of the allies had fought their own battles with knights and had learned the hard way that stealth and deception were among the greatest weapons they possessed.
“Has there been any word from your spies?” Eirik asked. Like most of the Cainites from the north—Finland, Sweden, Norway and Denmark—he wore his blonde hair and beard long and wild, and was garbed in a tunic stitched together from animal fur.
“Not yet,” Qarakh said, “but it is almost two night’s ride to Alexander’s campsite. Perhaps just under a full night for one who can travel in animal form. Two nights past, we dispatched three spies. Even the swiftest has not yet had enough time to reach the camp, survey it and return.”
“Have there been any signs that the Ventrue has sent spies of his own?” Werter asked. The Gangrel leader of Uppsala looked much the same as Eirik, though he was somewhat shorter and his eyes were more bestial.
Many of the allies, as well as Deverra’s fellow Telyavs and Wilhelmina, turned to look at Malachite. To his credit, the Nosferatu displayed no reaction to their stares.
“We have had warriors patrolling the camp’s boundaries since Deverra and I first returned from our parley with Alexander. No spies have been sighted.”
“That doesn’t mean that there are not any. Merely that they have not been seen,” Borovich the Grim said. The Prussian Gangrel’s childe Tengael nodded agreement with his sire.
Deverra addressed this concern. “My people have employed their magic to set up wards around the campsite. We shall know if anyone, friend or foe, approaches.”
“Sorcery!” Borovich spat a gob of crimson-tinged saliva into the grass, but said no more.
Qarakh felt a drop of rain strike the back of his hand, and he knew the storm that he’d been smelling for the last several nights was nearly upon them.
Grandfather looked up at the sky. Dark clouds covered the stars and hid the moon.
“A bad omen,” the elder said, and a number of the allies nodded their agreement.
“It is only a bit of rain,” one of the male Telyavs said. His name was Sturla, and he was a tall, thin humorless man with a shaven head and a thatch of black beard. “The mortals will be grateful; their crops can certainly use it.”
Deverra gave the man a stern look, and he fell silent, though he didn’t look too happy at having been quieted.
He most likely resents having to humor a pack of superstitious strangers, Qarakh thought. If their situation hadn’t been so serious, he might’ve found this amusing—a sorcerer unable to accept the mystical beliefs of others.
The rain began to pick up then, but it was still hardly more than a light patter. Besides, they were all of the Damned—what was a little rain to them?
It was Malachite’s turn to ask a question. “Have you decided who will carry your message to Alexander? If you send a Cainite of low station—or worse yet, a ghoul—the prince will be most insulted.”
“Let him be!” Wilhelmina said, setting several of the allies as well as a few Telyavs to laughing.
Malachite, however, did not seem bothered by the others’ laughter. “You must understand: Alexander values matters of personal pride above all else. For all his calculating and scheming, in the end he bases every decision on it. It is the one true weakness that he possesses.”
“Then we must find a way to exploit it,” Alessandro said.
“Easier said than done,” Sturla said.
Qarakh frowned. It was one thing to think such thoughts, but it was another to speak them aloud—especially at a kuriltai at which one was a guest. He might have rebuked the Telyav for wasting the others’ time with his irrelevant comments, but since Sturla was one of Deverra’s clan, he chose to keep silent rather than embarrass her. He looked at the priestess and saw she was scowling at Sturla. Qarakh almost wished the Telyav hadn’t responded to his high priestess’s summons, but as khan, he knew the tribe needed all the allies it could get right now.
Deverra herself had been something of a puzzle to Qarakh for the last few nights, though he supposed that should’ve come as no great surprise to him since he’d never understood her completely. She had said no more about hoping an alliance with Alexander would come to fruition. In fact, she’d begun to act as if she believed w
ar was inevitable, helping him and the other warriors plan strategy and directing the other Telyavs in the creation of wards. He had attempted to speak to her once or twice about this seeming change of attitude, but she had merely evaded the subject. She seemed grimmer for some reason, her usual spark of humor gone. Perhaps she was simply responding to the overall mood of the tribe as it prepared for the battle to come. But he couldn’t help feeling there was more to it than that.
“So how do we fight this Ventrue?’ Lacplesis asked. The Beastslayer wore a hooded black cloak that concealed his features, but his hands sported patches of thick fur, and his ebon nails were long and sharp.
Grandfather spoke. “There is an old saying: ‘Cut off the head and the body will die.’ If we can find a way to destroy Alexander, his army will be as good as defeated.”
Now it was Qarakh who felt like saying, Easier said than done. But he held his tongue; he would never speak disrespectfully to his tribe’s lore-keeper—especially not in front of guests. “Alexander is what the westerners call a Methuselah. He is too powerful to be fought directly. He must be tricked.”
“What of the Telyavs’ magic?” Karl the Blue asked. “Perhaps it would prove a potent weapon against the Ventrue.”
All eyes turned toward Deverra.
“As Qarakh said, Alexander is extremely old and strong. When I was in his presence, I could feel his power. I believe he would detect any enchantment directed at him in time to evade it, if not nullify it altogether.”
Malachite spoke. “As you might well imagine, Alexander never said anything to me about his knowledge—of lack thereof—of sorcery. But I have heard rumors over the years, and I have seen some of the books and scrolls he carries with him. My impression is that while he is no sorcerer himself, he possesses enough knowledge of the mystic arts to make using magic against him a risky proposition.”
“After two thousand years, he likely possesses knowledge of just about everything,” Alessandro said. There was some mumbling and downcast looks, and while the statement Alessandro had made was no doubt true enough, Qarakh wished the Iberian hadn’t spoken it. An army that allowed itself to become demoralized was an army that was already beaten before ever setting foot upon the field of battle.
