by Tim Waggoner
But Qarakh had made a serious mistake. His tribesmen weren’t Turks or Tartars who were born to the saddle and learned to ride before they could walk. And these weren’t the open plains of Anatolia or the far steppe. The pagans didn’t stand a chance of escaping.
The tribesmen angled toward the stand of woods, and at first Rudiger thought they were going to ride into it—which would have been an extremely stupid move, as the knights would have trapped them there. But the pagans continued riding past the trees, and Rudiger put their change in direction down to a frantic, undisciplined retreat and nothing more.
By now the others knights from the vanguard had caught up to him, and Rudiger rode at the head of a triangular formation of Christian warriors, all hungry to spill—and if possible, partake of—pagan blood.
A fierce bellow cut through the night air, sounding more animal than human.
Rudiger turned to look. At the edge of the woods, Qarakh himself rose out of the ground on the back of a gray horse, saber in hand, battle lust twisting his features into the face of a mad demon. And the Mongol wasn’t alone—all around him other Cainites emerged from the earth. Wild-haired, wild-eyed, some wielding swords, some axes, others armed with nothing more than dagger-sharp fangs and curved talons. Aside from Qarakh, none was on horseback, but it mattered little.
Rudiger swore. Damn those Gangrel tricks! Rudiger had heard that the animalistic Cainites often slept through the day within the earth, but it had never occurred to him that they might be able to use this ability for concealment.
Rudiger yanked on his mount’s reins, trying to stop the horse so that he could turn the dumb beast to meet this new attack, but the horse only spun around in a circle, chuffing air and raising and lowering its head. Some knights were trying to get their steeds to halt as well, while others—evidently unaware of the Gangrel’s deception—continued riding past.
Rudiger then saw something that made him doubt his senses: six brown-robed figures stepping out from six oak trees. He wasn’t certain, for his horse still refused to settle down, but it looked as if the newcomers’ hands were bleeding. As the Gangrel raced forward with Qarakh in the lead, the robed ones—could they be Telyavs?—knelt and pressed their bleeding palms to the grass. There was a rustling whispering sound, and the grass surrounding the knights began to sway back and forth as if stirred by a restless wind, though the air remained still. Then the blades stretched forth from the ground, growing longer and thicker as they came and—Rudiger was certain he must be hallucinating this—each blade of grass now possessed a small gaping mouth ringed by rows of hard toothlike thorns. The grass (or whatever it had become) struck serpent-swift, tiny mouths affixing to horses’ flanks, bellies, withers, barrels or necks—and they began to drink.
The horses shrieked in agony, bucking and jumping as they tried to tear free of the horrible mouths that had clamped onto their flesh and were now sucking their blood with loud moist sounds. But no matter how hard the equines fought, they couldn’t dislodge the parasites.
And then, just as swiftly as it had come upon them, the enchantment faded, and the mouths fell away from the horses, like leeches that had finally had their fill. Though the mounts bled from dozens of wounds apiece, none had been killed and no knight had been unseated. Had the spell somehow failed?
Rudiger looked up to see Qarakh bearing down upon him, the other Gangrel running alongside, some still in human form, some changed into bestial things that ran on two legs, and others that had forsaken all pretense of humanity and ran on all fours. Rudiger understood: The purpose of the grass creatures hadn’t been to slay the knights’ horses, but rather to hold them in place long enough for the Gangrel to attack in force.
Rudiger didn’t have any more time to think. Qarakh the Untamed was upon him.
Chapter Nineteen
Qarakh recognized the German knight from his visit to Alexander’s camp. He wasn’t certain what the man’s rank was, but it was clear he was leading the Christians’ charge, so Qarakh rode toward him. Around him ran his fellow Gangrel—Wilhelmina, Karl the Blue, Eirik Longtooth and all the rest.
All save Arnulf, his Beast reminded him.
Many of the Gangrel were in the midst of transformation, either by choice or as a result of succumbing to frenzy. Wilhelmina concerned him the most. Given her deep hatred of Christians, she was especially vulnerable.
Qarakh risked a quick glance at her. The Viking maid’s eyes were wild and bulging. Her tongue had become long and gray, and it lolled against her cheek. Her skin was covered with patches of amber fur, and her nose and mouth protruded from her face—almost but not quite merged into a snout. Her mouth was filled with wolf’s teeth, and white froth flecked her lips.
Forget her and concentrate on the German—unless you intend to become a martyr for your tribe this day.
Qarakh didn’t know if the voice was his or the Beast’s, and he supposed right now it didn’t matter. He gave forth a war cry that was more monster than Mongol. With subtle changes in the pressure of his legs against the mare’s sides, he directed her toward the German.
The knight was having trouble controlling his own horse. Frightened and weakened by the Telyavs’ spell, the animal struggled against its rider’s commands and was attempting to flee the battlefield. And regardless of how he worked the reins or how much he swore at the animal in German, the knight couldn’t make his mount obey.
Qarakh grinned, revealing teeth that didn’t look much different than Wilhelmina’s. Qarakh galloped toward the German, and the Mongol warrior raised his saber, preparing to slash at the Cainite’s neck as he rode past. He hoped to lay open the knight’s throat, perhaps even decapitate him. But given the erratic movements of the man’s horse, Qarakh would have to time his strike just—
A wordless, soundless cry echoed through Qarakh’s mind. A cry of anger, of fear, of helplessness…
He knew at once that the cry came from Aajav.
Qarakh forgot all about the German knight and the army of Christian warriors. He forgot about the Gangrel loping alongside him, and about the Telyavs back in the woods, resting after the exertion of casing their spell. He even forgot about Deverra. Only one thing existed for him now: his brother.
He yanked his steed’s reins hard to the right, shouted, “Tchoo! Tchoo!” and urged the mare away from the battlefield at the fastest pace the horse could manage.
Rudiger watched in stunned surprise as the Mongol broke off his attack and rode away at a full gallop. At first he thought that it must be another trick of some kind, for he could not imagine Qarakh purposely refusing to fight, but then he realized what had happened. Somehow the Mongol had sensed what István and his men were up to, and he was riding to his blood brother’s aid. The tactic hadn’t quite worked the way Alexander had hoped, but it had at least removed Qarakh from the fight—though Rudiger didn’t envy István when the Gangrel chieftain caught up with him.
Rudiger stopped thinking then as a bestial female Cainite with amber-hued fur ran toward him and leaped into the air. He tried to bring his sword around in time to meet her attack, but the she-wolf was too swift and slammed into him before he could defend himself. The two Cainites tumbled toward the ground, and Rudiger’s mount—free of its rider at last—took off at a feeble trot.
The savage bitch tried to sink her fangs into his throat, and he brought up his forearm just in time to protect himself. The she-wolf bit into his arm instead, and vitae gushed forth, hot and red. Then Rudiger’s own Beast rose to the fore, and he began to fight for his unlife.
The air was filled with screams and growls as Cainites, ghouls and mortals fought, rending each other’s flesh with swords, daggers, claws and teeth.
Deverra knelt on the ground beside the other Telyavs. The enchantment they had just worked had never been tried in this way before. It had been designed only to spur crops to lush growth, but it had succeeded. The horse blood drained by the surrogate tendrils (which in her mind Deverra referred to as snakes in the grass) had n
eeded to go somewhere, though, and that somewhere was into the bodies of the Telyavs themselves. They were now suffused with blood, swollen and bloated with it, their purplish skin stretched tight and shiny. Deverra could feel equine blood pooled at the back of her throat, as if she was a well nearly full to overflowing after a long, hard rain. The sensations were strange—a warm, pleasant drowsiness combined with an uncomfortable feeling of pressure and a slight tinge of nausea from ingesting so much animal blood. It would take some time for the Telyavs’ bodies to completely absorb what they had taken in, hours for certain, perhaps even a night or two, but in the end—
“Hurts… so much…”
The voice was distorted, wet and gurgling, but Deverra could tell it belonged to Sturla. Weak as she was, the high priestess crawled on fleshy knees and sausage-thick fingers toward the acolyte. He lay on his back, staring up at the dark sky. Clouds now hid the stars, and Deverra knew it would soon rain again. The fabric of Sturla’s robe was stretched tight across a body swollen to grotesque proportions—easily twice that of the other Telyavs, Deverra’s included. Blood trickled from both nostrils, bubbled over his lips, dripped from his ears and ran from the corners of his eyes like viscous red tears. Worse, tiny beads of crimson welled up from the pores in his skin, as if his body was unable to retain the vast amount of blood he’d absorbed.
“Couldn’t stop… knew… I should, but… couldn’t.” Sturla coughed, and a gout of brackish blood poured out of his mouth.
Deverra understood what had happened. It was precisely what she had feared might occur. Sturla hadn’t been able to maintain control over his Beast while linked to the surrogate tendrils, and he had drained far more equine blood than he should have. His body was struggling to absorb it all, or failing that, to expel it, but it appeared Sturla wasn’t succeeding in doing either.
A fissure opened on his right cheek, and a stream of blood spewed forth. A second fissure opened on his forehead, then another just beneath his chin.
“Sorry.” His mouth and throat were so clogged with blood that the word was barely understandable. “I’m so…”
Deverra knew there was nothing she could do for the man. She took hold of the edges of Sturla’s hood and brought them together, obscuring his face. The man’s bloated arms and leg wobbled, as if he were trying to get up, and then there was a loud ripping sound, and torrents of blood ran from his sleeves and from under his robe, splashing over Deverra’s sandaled feet and soaking into the earth.
An offering for you, Telyavel, she thought. Perhaps not one freely given, but hopefully one freely taken.
Sturla’s robe began to collapse as his body released what it had stolen, until the fabric—soaked in equine blood—lay in a crumpled wet heap. Nothing remained of Sturla, not even dust.
Deverra let go of the hood, whispered a quick prayer in Livonian, and then hastened to check on the other Telyavs. Though all were barely conscious—thankfully, they hadn’t witnessed Sturla’s death—none were in danger of going the way of their companion, and for that she was both relieved and grateful.
A form emerged from the murk of a nearby shadow. Deverra was startled at first, until she realized it was Malachite. The Nosferatu came silently toward her, moving with a liquid grace that seemed unlikely for one as misshapen as he. Then she remembered what she now looked like; she was hardly one to judge another’s appearance at the moment.
“I am truly sorry for your loss,” he said.
She acknowledged his words with a nod. “It is war,” she said, as if that explained everything. “How goes the battle?”
“Your deception worked well. The vanguard was taken completely by surprise, and the Gangrel are fighting the knights even as we speak. Once the vanguard was engaged, Alessandro brought his cavalry around and returned to harry the remainder of Alexander’s army with flights of arrows. While the battle and rearguard formations appear to be holding, the right and left wings are in disarray, all pretense of military discipline forgotten.”
Deverra smiled in grim satisfaction. The tribe was a long way from winning this war, but it had accomplished an effective first strike.
The other Telyavs were sitting up now, fully conscious but still very weak. She felt a drop of rain strike the back of her swollen left hand—the slight impact surprisingly painful upon her tight skin—and she knew the rain had returned. All to the better, for rain would not hamper the Gangrel’s efforts, nor would it affect Alessandro’s archers unless it came with strong winds. But the change in weather might well prove an impediment for a mounted force as large as Alexander’s. If Qarakh was here, she knew he would thank Father Tengri for his gift.
“And what of Qarakh?” she asked Malachite.
“Your khan led the charge against the vanguard as planned, but for some reason he broke off at the last moment and rode northwest. I assume there was some purpose underlying his actions, yet I confess to being unable to determine it.”
Deverra frowned. It was inconceivable that Qarakh would abandon his people in the midst of a battle, yet she could think of no reason why he would… and then something Malachite had said finally sank in. Northwest. That was where Aajav’s mound lay.
She realized then that the tribe wasn’t alone in knowing how to practice deception. Alexander did too, and he’d had century upon century to become a master of it. Was the entire attack by his army ultimately nothing more than a distraction so that the Ventrue prince could abduct—or perhaps slay—Aajav? To strike at Qarakh where he was most vulnerable? She wouldn’t put it past Alexander to use his knights as little more than sacrificial pieces in a deadly chess match.
She wished there was some way that she could go to Qarakh’s aid, but she had no horse, and even if she did, she was in no physical condition to ride. All she could do was see to the recovery of the surviving Telyavs and pray to their dark god to grant her khan strength and keep him safe.
She then tried to put all thoughts of Qarakh out of her mind as she knelt next to the Telyav closest to her and got to work.
By the time Qarakh reached Aajav’s mound, the rain had returned. It fell heavier now, and Qarakh was soaked to the skin. He barely noticed, let alone cared. Though she was a ghoul and stronger than a normal horse, his mare was breathing heavily, and heat radiated off her lather-coated body in waves.
Qarakh saw the wolves first—or rather, what was left of them. The raiders’ swords had done their work all too well. The mound itself also had been violated; soil lay scattered, cast aside as the raiders had dug. Qarakh sniffed the air. The only blood he smelled belonged to the wolves. The raiders hadn’t slain his brother. They had abducted him--for Alexander to use as a bargaining chip? Or perhaps merely to enrage Qarakh to such a degree that he was incapable of leading his tribe. Knowing Alexander, Qarakh bet on both possibilities.
He dismounted then, but he did not immediately rush up to the mound to confirm with his eyes what his nose had already told him. Doing so would be a waste of time, and he had already taken too long to get here as it was. The blood within him was burning with the exertions of interring himself and his steed in the woods and with the boiling need for battle. His muscles were swollen and straining and it had been all he could do to resist taking the wolf form on the way here. The extra speed might well have driven him into a feeding frenzy, and he still would not have arrived. Now he was here, and there was no longer any need to resist. But before he hunted, he needed to feed.
He stroked the mare’s muzzle. “I’ll take only what I need,” he promised. Then he bent his head to the horse’s neck, bit into her flesh, and began to drink.
Drain her dry! the Beast shouted. She’s your ghoul, and you’ve fed her much vitae. It’s time she gave it back!
Qarakh was still drinking when the mare collapsed to the ground. He didn’t waste time to check if she would survive; either she would or she wouldn’t. He turned away from the horse and ran toward the mound, exchanging his human shape for his wolfish one as he went. Once atop the excavated mo
und, he lowered his nose and inhaled, trying to pick up the raiders’ trail. The rain didn’t help, but it hadn’t washed away the scent completely. He found it with little trouble and leaped from the mound and bounded across the plain.
The hunt had begun.
István congratulated himself. The task had gone far more smoothly then he’d imagined. Only the two guards had been present—the Tartar’s ghouls, most likely—and while the wolves had fought ferociously enough, they were no match for three knights of the Black Cross. István didn’t count himself, as he’d not done any of the actual fighting, nor any of the subsequent digging. Rank had its privileges.
Now the four of them—five, he supposed, if one counted the insensate Gangrel—rode at a fast trot across the Livonian plain in the direction of their new campsite, István and the three knights on horses, the Gangrel lying across the back of a fifth mount, lashed to the saddle with strips of leather. A rope was tied to the horse’s bridle, the other end knotted around the pommel of István’s saddle. After all the trouble he’d gone through to get the Gangrel (well, that the knights had gone through) István wasn’t about to lose him.
A bolt of lightning lanced across the sky, followed a moment later by the rumble of thunder. István hoped the rest of the army had already conquered the pagans, even though that would render his mission irrelevant. If the storm grew much worse, the knights might well have to break off their attack and wait for better weather to resume the battle.
But that wasn’t his concern. Alexander had tasked him with a mission, and he’d carried it out. His role in this fight was done, at least for the time being. He considered ordering the knights to slow their horses to a walk—he wasn’t in any hurry to see Alexander again and perhaps be given another mission to carry out—but he doubted the knights would agree. They were too full of their idiotic chivalrous code to take advantage of an opportunity to seize a bit of rest while their fellow knights fought a war. Morons.
