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

by Tim Waggoner

  “We have discussed many plans—both of attack and defense—over the last few nights,” Qarakh said, “and while all have had their merits, none has emerged as the best route to take against Alexander. I suggest that we do as Malachite says and turn the Ventrue’s pride against him.” He continued on before anyone—especially Sturla—could comment. “Alexander is a deposed prince seeking a return to power. If we refuse his offer of alliance, then he will surely attack us in order to gain a military victory that he might use in his quest to regain his throne. He is an ancient vampire of refined and high blood.” This brought mutters and snarls from the assembled Gangrel. “And thus he believes we are little more than animals, and he will expect us to fight as such, riding forth to engage his knights in full force. The one thing he will not expect from us is subterfuge, for he does not believe our kind is capable of it.”

  “You speak as if you have a plan in mind,” Karl the Blue said.

  “If he does, I wish he’d get around to it,” Borovich murmured.

  Qarakh’s sword hand itched to go for his saber, but he restrained himself. If they began quarreling among themselves, Alexander would have already won. “My plan is a simple one, yet I believe it will prove effective.” Just as it did for the Anda many years ago, he thought. He wondered if Aajav had stirred that memory not only to warn him against allying with Alexander, but also to give him the means of defeating the Ventrue. Even in torpor, Aajav still took care of his brother.

  “Here is what we will do.”

  But before Qarakh could go on, Deverra stiffened and her eyes grew wide. One by one, the other Telyavs reacted the same way.

  “Someone has activated a ward.” Deverra closed her eyes and cocked her head to the side, as if listening to a sound only she could hear. Seconds later, her eyes flew open, a look of alarm on her face.

  Qarakh knew what her words would be before she spoke them.

  “It has begun,” she said.

  Alexander was coming.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Those sitting jumped to their feet, and everyone drew their weapons. Qarakh left his saber in its scabbard, though, despite the urgings of his Beast. He turned to Deverra.

  “How far are these wards from the camp?”

  “A little less than four miles. We would’ve placed them farther out, but in order for the spells to be fully effective—”

  Qarakh held up a hand, cutting her off. This was no time for lengthy explanations. “If Alexander sensed the wards, he is aware that our tribe wields magic, though he cannot know to what extent. He will assume that the wards provided us with an early warning, and therefore he will not waste time sending an advance force, nor will he attack on multiple fronts. He will come as swiftly as he can, bringing the full power of his army to bear in the hope that such an overwhelming display of strength will either cow us or break our discipline. That way, instead of facing a united tribe, his knights will be fighting dozens of individual battles.”

  “What of it?” Eirik Longtooth said, stabbing his sword at the night sky. “However he comes, we shall crush him!”

  Qarakh scowled at Longtooth’s gesture—it was an insult to Father Tengri—but he said nothing.

  Many of the others shouted their agreement, and Qarakh knew he had only seconds before they broke away and raced off to the attack, all pretense of military order forgotten.

  “If we do not stand together as a tribe, Alexander and his knights will surely defeat us. Not all of us shall meet the Final Death, but the tribe will fall, and then Livonia will belong to Alexander and the Christians. Before long their numbers will increase, and mortals will follow. They will establish more villages that will in time become cities. They will cut down the trees and slay the wildlife for food. Alexander brings worse than the Final Death with him. He brings civilization.”

  Qarakh looked around at the faces of the assembled Cainites—a number of whom now looked more bestial than they had a few moments ago. In their eyes he could see the struggle taking place as cold intelligence warred with ravening Beast. But they remained standing where they were, and they still listened.

  “How can you be sure of these things?” Tengael demanded.

  Qarakh didn’t know how to respond to that, but Deverra answered for him.

  “Because he is Qarakh, and he is khan.”

  The struggle between thought and appetite continued a moment longer, and though the Beast didn’t recede completely (did it ever?), Qarakh could see in his allies’ gazes that intelligence had won—for now.

  Karl the Blue got down on one knee and bowed his head. One by one all the other Cainites—including the Telyavs—did likewise.

  “What are your orders, my khan?” Karl asked.

  Qarakh took no pleasure in the others’ submission. He was simply glad that they could now attend to the work that lay before them.

  “Rise and listen well, for we have little time to prepare.”

  Alexander rode next to Rudiger in the middle of the formation. In front of the central group (called the battle) rode the vanguard, to the right and left sides were the wings, and riding behind came the rearguard. The vast majority of the ranks was made up of mortals and ghouls, with the Cainites riding primarily in the battle, though a half-dozen rode in the other formations, commanding the ghouls and mortals. The Cainites rode ghoul horses—Alexander was particularly fond of the midnight black stallion that served as his steed—while the human ghouls and mortals sat astride ordinary mounts. Everyone was equipped with the same complement of arms and armor: lance, sword, helmet and mail hauberk. None had bows, however. The knightly classes emphasized personal combat, and thus disdained their use—an attitude Alexander found ridiculous but knew he couldn’t change. Four separate standards were emblazoned on flags carried by heralds that rode with each formation: those of Alexander, Jürgen, the Teutonic Knights and the Black Cross knights. Alexander would have preferred to ride beneath a single standard—his, of course—but sometimes one had to make sacrifices to keep one’s soldiers happy.

  All together, the army numbered thirty-one Cainites, fifty-four ghouls and thirty-nine mortals, making for a total fighting force of one hundred and twenty-four. The remainder of their people—the servants, blacksmiths, stable masters, cooks, laundresses and simple feeding stock—now camped two miles behind the army, well out of the range of battle, but close enough for the soldiers to return to them once the fighting was finished.

  The army rode across a grassy plain, a small thatch of forest off to the right. An empty thatch… at least, according to Rudiger’s scouts. The man might be an officious, humorless bore, but Alexander had to admit that he was an effective field commander.

  If all goes well, Alexander thought, feeling in a generous mood, perhaps I won’t kill him after all.

  “It’s a lovely night for conquest, is it not, Commander?” It had started to rain a short while ago, and Alexander had feared that Rudiger would insist on calling off the attack, for muddy ground and armored knights on horseback were not an effective combination. Though Alexander would have insisted they continue on, regardless of the weather, he doubted he could have convinced Rudiger to order the knights to do so, save by backing his request with the crushing force of his will. Rudiger was not some weak-minded simpleton that could be easily swayed by another’s will, but he would bow to Alexander of Paris—eventually.

  But the rain had dissipated without becoming a major storm, and the ground, while damp, had not turned to muddy soup. The sky was clearing and patches of stars were visible, along with occasional glimpses of a nearly full moon.

  “It’s the sort of night that inspires bards to song, eh, Rudiger?”

  “There’ll be time enough to contemplate such things after the fight is won.”

  “I value a man who believes in keeping his mind on his work, but when you’re as old as I am—assuming that you’re fortunate enough to survive that long—you’ll understand that taking the time to appreciate the small details is often
what keeps you focused.”

  Alexander found himself wishing that István was here. He’d have no more understanding of Alexander’s insights than Rudiger, but at least he would pretend to. But István, along with several handpicked men, was off on a separate mission, one just as vital—if not more so—than that of the army as a whole.

  “I am thinking of the small details. For example, the Mongol sent spies to watch over our camp—all of whom we found and killed. Yet our scouts have discovered no sign of any sentries here, so close to his own camp. Why?”

  Alexander wondered if he should tell the knight that the army had ridden across a subtle line of sorcerously charged pebbles a half mile back. While Alexander hadn’t been able to determine the exact nature of the enchantment, he was certain that it meant Qarakh knew they were coming. He had considered keeping this knowledge from Rudiger, knowing that it would make little difference in their strategy at this point. Besides, he wanted to see the look on Rudiger’s face when he realized the pagans had somehow known about their attack ahead of time.

  But as pleasurable as that would be, Alexander decided it would be a petty indulgence, and while he was not above petty indulgences in the least—in fact, they were one of the main things that kept him going after two millennia of unlife—he’d rather see this campaign completed swiftly and successfully. And despite Qarakh’s relative youth, Alexander sensed that he was not a man to be taken lightly. So he told Rudiger, and when he was finished, the knight cursed.

  “Scheisse! No wonder there are no sentries—the Mongol doesn’t need them!”

  “He doesn’t need them here, but he does need them elsewhere, or he would have allowed some to remain in order not to arouse our suspicions. This tells us that he does not have the number of warriors to match our own.”

  Rudiger looked at Alexander. “I’m impressed, your highness.”

  Alexander did not fail to note that the knight had added an honorific this time. “I’ve fought in and survived so many battles, both large and small, over the centuries that I quite literally cannot remember them all.”

  A shout came from someone riding in the vanguard, interrupting Alexander. He turned his attention forward, but because the land was flat here—and because even seated upon a stallion he still was shorter than the average knight who rode before him—he couldn’t see what was happening. But he could well guess: The Mongol was making his move.

  Alexander smiled. So the alliance dies without ever being truly born.

  “Stay here!” Rudiger said, and before Alexander could tell him that he didn’t take kindly to being ordered by one who was supposed to be serving him, the knight snapped his horse’s reins, kicked his heels into the animal’s side, and the mount surged forward. Rudiger guided his steed through the ranks with an ease born of long practice.

  Alexander understood why Rudiger had “requested” he remain in the battle formation. Here, he was surrounded by the highest-ranking and most skilled Black Cross knights—Cainites all. Alexander would be protected here, as much as any soldier could be when the enemy had been engaged. He was a prince, a Methuselah and supreme commander of this force. As such, he could hardly ride into combat like a common frontline soldier, as much as he might have preferred to. So he remained where he was, in the exact center of his army, surrounded by one hundred and twenty-three warriors. He told himself that he tolerated staying here because it was the most logical course of action (or inaction), at least for the moment. His acceptance of Rudiger’s advice had nothing to do with a dream of floating upon a crimson sea as a mirror image of himself spoke prophecies of doom.

  Nothing at all.

  Alessandro rode at the forefront of the tribe’s assault force, which was comprised of four arbans, or squadrons of ten, making for forty riders altogether. The warriors rode side by side in the Mongol fashion. They would be able to fire arrows more easily and—if the need arose—turn and retreat. The tactical withdrawal, shunned as it was by Europeans, was considered an honorable and useful maneuver by Mongols. Alessandro rode standing in the stirrups, as Mongolian horsemen did, another technique that permitted a mounted warrior to fire arrows more efficiently. Only a third of the assault force’s riders employed this technique, though. Some were too new to the tribe to have mastered it, while some had never been able to do it, no matter how much training they had received.

  Hooves pounded across the plain like rolling thunder as the four arbans rode toward Alexander’s army, but the warriors themselves remained silent. It was not the Mongol way to shout battle cries in an attempt to bolster one’s courage or rattle one’s foe. The Mongol warrior preferred to let his strength and skill do the talking for him.

  The Iberian judged the distance to the vanguard of Alexander’s army to be approximately two thousand yards. Cainites were able to draw bows and loose arrows with greater speed, distance and accuracy than either ghouls or mortals. But three-quarters of this attack force—by design—was made up of ghouls, so Alessandro knew they would have to get closer before firing.

  Closer…

  “Nock arrows!” he ordered.

  Closer…

  “Get ready!”

  The tribesmen pointed their bows skyward.

  Closer… “First volley, fire!”

  Bowstrings twanged in almost perfect unison. Arrows shot into the air, howling as they arced into the night sky.

  The knight on Rudiger’s left said, “What is that sound?’ And then, with a howling like a thousand ravening demons, a rain of arrows fell upon the vanguard.

  Helmets and hauberks protected most of the knights, but many of those who were foolish enough to look skyward, curious to see what was making such an eerie noise, received arrow wounds to their faces and necks. If they were particularly unlucky, a wooden shaft now protruded from the socket where one of their eyes had been. The knight riding next to Rudiger was one of the unlucky ones. The idiot looked up, lost his right eye to a falling arrow, and shrieked in pain as he slipped off his mount and fell to the ground. Throughout the vanguard knights were crying out in agony or terror, the wounded often falling out of their saddles and the fearful pulling back on their reins, cursing horses that were too frightened or in too much pain from their own arrow wounds to obey.

  It was a cowardly attack, but Rudiger had to admit it was damned effective. One volley of arrows, and already the army was on the verge of breaking ranks. The wounds the men had suffered weren’t all that serious, at least not for the Cainites, but the fear and confusion brought on by the swift and unexpected attack were far worse. Rudiger knew from experience that once an army’s discipline was broken on the battlefield, it was nearly impossible to rally the soldiers back to the fight. He had to act fast or this war would be over before it had begun.

  “Ignore the howling!” he bellowed. “It is merely a pagan trick!”

  He heard someone say, “Sorcery!” and he knew he was losing them. The sound the arrows made as they’d flown had nothing to do with sorcery and everything to do with how they had been carved, but there was no time to explain this, not that the knight would believe him even if there were. There was only one thing to do when a soldier’s mind and heart had been captured by the enemy: use the body.

  Rudiger drew his sword and raised it high over his head, even as a second volley of arrows howled down from the sky. One struck his wrist and lodged there, but he ignored the pain and held his sword steady.

  “For the glory of Christ and for our Lord Jürgen—Charge!”

  He slammed his heels into his mount and the horse leaped forward, trampling a fallen knight as it galloped. Rudiger recognized the man and knew him to be a Cainite. Whatever injuries he had sustained were temporary, but even if the knight had been a ghoul or a mortal, Rudiger wouldn’t have spared the time to ride around him. After all, this was war.

  He broke free of the vanguard and rode toward the pagans. He didn’t look back to see if anyone was following his lead. Either they were or they weren’t, and Rudiger, command
er of the Black Cross knights, gave the matter no further thought as he rode forth to meet his enemy.

  The tribal warriors had nocked a third volley of arrows, but Alessandro raised a hand and shouted, “Hold!”

  The first two volleys had done their work well, wounding a number of knights and mounts in the Christian vanguard and creating chaos in the ranks. But now a lone rider came charging across the field, sword held high. A few knights followed after him, but that was all.

  Alessandro smiled. Perfect.

  “Retreat!”

  As one, the line of riders turned their mounts around, shouted “Tchoo! Tchoo!” and rode off at a furious gallop. The course of their retreat was set to take them past the small wood which, Alessandro was certain, the Christian knights had searched and determined to be empty.

  He grinned. They should have searched with greater diligence.

  He cracked his reins. “Tchoo! Tchoo!”

  Rudiger heard a chorus of shouts erupt behind him, and he allowed himself a quick smile. It sounded as if he had managed to seize the reins of the army after all.

  Before coming to Livonia, Rudiger had studied every account he could find about Tartar battle tactics. They were very few. The Tartars had apparently been harassing the easternmost cities in Rus and other Slavic lands, but very little detail was contained in any letter Rudiger had been able to get ahold of. Still, these pagans seemed to be a more savage version of the Turkish horsemen who had done such damage to crusaders in the holy land.

  It seemed that Qarakh favored a strategy of attack and withdraw. It was a tactic that had served the Turks well throughout the centuries, for the larger, less agile horses of Europeans couldn’t match the swiftness of their smaller steeds, and thus a pursuing army could never hope to catch its foe. But the heathens could stop, turn, loose another flight of arrows and ride off again, always remaining maddeningly just out of touch as they whittled down their enemy bit by bit.