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

by Tim Waggoner

  He couldn’t escape the feeling that he was losing control somehow. Not just of the current situation, but of his own existence. He thought once more of facing his grinning doppelganger upon undulating waves of blood, and he couldn’t keep from shuddering. He reached out to the empty space beside him, hoping to somehow summon up those who had abandoned him despite all his love. Lorraine. Saviarre. Rosamund. All gone.

  He would send the ghoul and mortal knights to make a daytime raid on the pagan camp, he decided. They would view such an attack as unchivalrous, of course, so he would need a plausible rationale for why they ought to do such a dishonorable thing. No, he decided. Mortal wills were fragile things and he would simply bend them. If some broke in the process, such was the cost of war.

  Without warning, the shadows in one corner of this tent thickened and a black-robed form stepped out of the darkness.

  Malachite.

  Alexander surprised himself by not immediately attacking the traitorous wretch. “Good evening, Malachite. Should I welcome you as a returning prodigal?”

  The Nosferatu glanced at the body of the dead girl lying on Alexander’s bed, and a look of sorrow briefly passed over his leprous features. Alexander smirked. Malachite always had been too soft-hearted. It was a fatal flaw in a Cainite, one that Alexander was grateful that he did not possess.

  “I have come to bring you a message,” Malachite said.

  Alexander sneered. “From your new master?”

  “From Qarakh.”

  “How much did you tell him?”

  “About your army? All that I knew.”

  Cold rage filled Alexander, and he had to fight to keep from springing to his feet and launching himself at Malachite. “From one deceiver to another. I’m impressed. I knew you accompanied me to Livonia for your own reasons, but I did not expect you to switch allegiances so quickly, or so thoroughly.”

  “Qarakh has dealt with me fairly. But even beyond that, having seen your rule in Paris and your actions here, I can say without hesitation that Qarakh is the better prince.”

  “But they are pagans, or do you forget? I admit that means little to me, but I should think that you would desire their destruction even more than I.”

  Malachite smiled sadly. “You understand no motivations beyond the satisfaction of your own desires. Despite your great age, Alexander, in the end you are nothing more than a spoiled child that never had the chance to grow up.”

  Fury so overwhelmed Alexander that he could barely see. He forced words out between gritted teeth. “You have a message to deliver. Deliver it.”

  “Qarakh wishes to meet you once more in battle at midnight. He is already in the process of assembling his army near the field where you clashed before.”

  Alexander frowned. “What trick is this?”

  “No trick at all. Qarakh has grown weary of deception and subterfuge, and he wishes to fight directly and openly—army against army, strength against strength—to determine once and for all who shall be victorious.”

  Alexander was intrigued despite himself. “I assume you gave the Tartar an opinion of what my reaction would be?”

  “Of course. I told him you would be skeptical at first, believing the offer to be a deception because that’s what you would do in his place. But ultimately your curiosity and your pride would lead you to accept.”

  Alexander’s fury had dissipated for the most part, to be replaced now by irritation. “I should decline the challenge just to spite you both.”

  “Perhaps. But you will not because you cannot.”

  Alexander hated to admit it, but Malachite was right. He was tired of thinking, planning, plotting and scheming. He wanted to act.

  “Very well. Midnight, at the same place we fought last night. Now go—I have an army to prepare.”

  Malachite inclined his head. “Yes, milord.” Then the Nosferatu hobbled out of the tent to go relay Alexander’s response to Qarakh.

  The prince knew there was no need to order his people to give Malachite safe passage out of the camp. The Nosferatu would be able to sneak out as easily as he had sneaked in.

  Alexander stood and walked over to the dead girl. He stroked her hair lovingly for a few moments, marveling anew at how much it felt like silk, then he bent down and kissed her forehead.

  “My thanks for your blood, sentimental one. I shall put it to good use this night.”

  Qarakh sat upon the gelding he’d taken from Aajav’s abductors. The horse had been fed on one of the slain knights’ blood, so it was stronger, swifter and hardier than a normal mount. But Qarakh had no special bond with it. This steed would not anticipate his commands and respond to his moods the way one of his mares would have. He would have to remember that during the battle to come.

  His force was arranged in a single line—mounted warriors in the middle, flanked on either side by those who by choice or necessity planned to fight afoot. There were no divisions, no commanders save Qarakh, and no elaborate battle plan. When the Christian force arrived, as Qarakh was certain it would, he would give the signal and the battle would begin, and the fighting would continue until one side or the other emerged victorious.

  What if the other side wins? his Beast asked. What if all that is achieved here this night is mutual destruction?

  “Then so be it,” Qarakh mouthed silently. His Beast practically purred at the response.

  Alessandro was to Qarakh’s right. The Iberian sat upon his brown mare with an ease that the Mongol knew he didn’t feel. To his left was Karl the Blue. He kept his gaze fixed on the horizon, watching for sign of the enemy’s approach. He growled softly, perhaps without even being aware of doing so.

  It felt strange to be here without the rest of his inner circle: Arnulf, Wilhelmina, Grandfather and especially Deverra. He had not seen her since the conversation in his tent. The other Telyavs were missing, too. Qarakh feared that Deverra, disapproving of the way he intended to conduct this battle, had left and taken her sorcerers with her. If so, so be it. The tribe would win this battle without the aid of witchcraft.

  Still, without her here, it felt as if a part of himself was missing. The better part.

  Forget her and concentrate on the fight to come, his Beast urged. Qarakh was determined to do as it said, but it wouldn’t be easy.

  There was no hint of rain tonight. The sky was clear of clouds, allowing the full moon to paint the battlefield in a soft blue-white glow. For Qarakh and the other Cainites, it would be like fighting in broad daylight. Qarakh took this as a sign that Father Tengri approved of his battle plan for this night. A good omen, indeed.

  “My khan, are you certain he will come?” Alessandro spoke in a whisper so as not to be overhead by the others.

  Qarakh replied in a whisper as well. “He will be unable to resist.”

  “I fear we are not taking the wisest course by engaging the Christian knights in a direct confrontation.”

  Qarakh nearly laughed. “You might have brought this up before our army left the camp.”

  “I confess that at the time I believed that there was more to your plan which you had chosen to keep hidden for your own reasons.”

  “And now?”

  “Now I do not. I cannot see how we can hope to defeat Alexander and his knights in head-to-head combat.”

  “After last night, our numbers are more evenly matched,” Qarakh said. “We may well outnumber them now.”

  “If he doesn’t bring reinforcements.”

  “If Alexander could have fielded more soldiers last night, he would have. Restraint is not one of his strongest virtues.”

  “It used to be one of yours,” the Iberian said, so softly that Qarakh could barely hear him above the sound of the night breeze wafting across the field.

  Qarakh chose to let the comment pass without remark.

  From nearby came the plaintive howl of a wolf. Karl the Blue smiled.

  “The Christians draw near.” The Finnish warrior had commanded one of his men to take wolf form
and act as sentry. Even now the Gangrel was no doubt speeding back on his four strong legs to rejoin Qarakh’s army.

  Up and down the line, warriors made ready, drawing swords, nocking arrows or entering into the first stages of transformation to animal shape. They knew the enemy would be upon them soon. Even now Qarakh could hear the faint sounds of hundreds of horse hooves pressing down on grass, like the whisper of an incoming tide.

  But when the first figures came onto the battlefield, there were only two of them, and they came from the north, and not the west as Alexander’s army would. At first, Qarakh allowed himself to hope that Deverra had changed her mind and returned. But one of the figures was too large to be her, and the other walked hunched over, occasionally dropping to all fours. It wasn’t long before the two were close enough for Qarakh to recognize—especially in this moonlight. But even if it hadn’t been so bright out, Qarakh would have been able to identify them by their scents: Arnulf and Wilhelmina.

  The Goth warrior walked up to Qarakh, the Viking maid keeping up with him as best she could. Arnulf looked precisely the same as he had when he’d left the camp, but Wilhelmina bore the unmistakable signs of terrible frenzy. One of her ears was human, while the other was that of a wolf. Both eyes shone yellow with bestial cunning, but with little indication of intelligence. Her teeth were all sharp, though of varying lengths, and some had grown crookedly, jammed together or jutting out from her mouth at odd angles. Her fingers and toes ended in curved dagger-length talons so long that she had trouble walking upright. Somewhere along the way she had divested herself of armor and clothing, and she stood before her khan naked, her body half covered with patches of amber fur. Her breasts were smaller than they had been, the nipples erect in the cool night air, and she had six now instead of two, just as a she-wolf would.

  “I found her like this in the forest,” Arnulf said, his voice thick with pity. “Or perhaps she found me, I don’t know. She can still talk after a fashion, and she told me of last night’s battle. She urged me to return to the tribe and fight the Christian army, and… well, here I am. I swore an oath to you, Tartar, and I will live up to it one last time.”

  Qarakh knew the Goth warrior would never apologize for leaving. It wouldn’t even occur to him to do so. Still, he had returned, which could not have been an easy thing for a creature of his pride.

  Qarakh was still considering how to respond when Wilhelmina opened her mouth, and with an animal’s tongue and throat said, “‘eeeeeaaaaase?”

  She was almost impossible to understand, but Qarakh nevertheless knew what she’d meant: please.

  She’s an abomination. Put her down and be done with it!

  Qarakh ignored his Beast. He remembered something he had told Rikard:

  Like any good father, I would miss my children, should they stray from the camp. Miss them so much, in fact, that I would hunt them across all the lands of the earth until I had found them again. And do you know what I would do once we were reunited? I would clasp them in my arms and say, “The tribe misses you… I miss you. Come home.”

  “It is good to see you both,” Qarakh said. “Take your places alongside Alessandro.”

  “And my oath?”

  “When this battle is over, you are released, free once more to run alone.”

  Arnulf nodded and Wilhelmina’s mouth twisted in what Qarakh assumed was intended to be a smile. The two then walked to the other side of Alessandro, and the line of tribesmen adjusted to make room for them.

  It was then that Qarakh caught sight of Alexander’s army.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  The Christian knights rode in a single line, one next to the other, standards flying. All were on horseback, and Alexander rode upon a large black stallion in the exact middle of the line.

  Many of the tribesmen and women growled at the sight—Wilhelmina one of the loudest—but Alessandro said, “Steady now,” and they held their places.

  Alexander led his knights to within fifty feet of Qarakh’s force, then softly commanded them to halt. The knights brought their mounts to an immediate stop, and Qarakh knew the knights were tightly under the prince’s thrall. So much the better; the expenditure of power would leave him all the weaker.

  “Good evening, Qarakh. It’s a splendid night for crushing one’s enemy, is it not?”

  “Yes.” Qarakh noted that the German knight did not ride next to Alexander as expected. Had the Cainite been slain in last night’s battle, or was he elsewhere, perhaps leading a separate group of knights intent on executing a surprise attack, despite the Ventrue’s agreement to fight a straightforward battle?

  What if Alexander is planning to break his word? Would that truly be a surprise?

  “No,” Qarakh answered his Beast in a whisper.

  “Not to insult your honor,” Alexander said, “but I find it difficult to believe that you intend to forgo the aid of your sorcerous allies. If I possessed such an advantage, I would not willingly give it up.”

  “That is because you are not one of us.”

  The tribe cheered, snarled and howled in approval of its khan’s reply.

  Alexander smiled. “And praise be to Enoch’s first childe for that. But enough of this banter. We have all come here to fight, not talk. Shall we begin?”

  Qarakh nodded. “When you are ready.”

  Alexander cracked his reins, and his ebon stallion leaped forward. The knights let forth a battle cry, drew their swords and urged their mounts to follow their leader.

  “Archers, fire!” Alessandro ordered, and a hail of arrows flew at the advancing enemy, striking knights and horses alike. A number of ghoul and mortal knights went down, arrows protruding from the throats and eye sockets. Many Cainites were similarly wounded, but they remained in the saddle, swords held tight, ignoring the pain of their injuries.

  As planned, Alessandro himself targeted the Ventrue prince. His first arrow was aimed at Alexander’s right eye, but the ancient Cainite dodged it easily. The first arrow had only been meant as a distraction, though. As soon as he’d let it fly, Alessandro drew, nocked and released another with blinding speed. This one struck Alexander’s mount in the chest, piercing the stallion’s heart. The horse whinnied in pain and went down on its front legs, causing Alexander to tumble out of the saddle and fly over the steed’s head.

  “Tchoo! Tchoo!” Qarakh urged, though his new mount had not been trained to respond to the Mongolian signal. He snapped the reins and dug his heels into the animal’s sides, and the gelding bounded forward. Qarakh drew his saber and rode hard toward the Ventrue ancient, who was only just getting to his feet. He intended to lop off the prince’s head with a single stroke and end this battle before it had truly gotten started.

  Qarakh heard Alessandro call out behind him. “Archers, with me!” The Iberian would lead the bowmen away from the main fighting so they could fire from a safer distance and have more time to choose their targets. The remaining tribesmen charged, swords, axes and claws held high, all of them wild to spill the blood of their enemies.

  As Qarakh rode toward Alexander, he felt a sense of rightness. This was the way it was supposed to be. This was true harmony with the Beast.

  Alexander rolled onto his feet, sword in hand, ready to meet Qarakh’s charge. Qarakh swung his saber as fast and as hard as he could, but Alexander spun to the side, and the saber only managed to nick his shoulder, tearing the Ventrue’s tabard and taking a small chink out of his mail vest.

  As Alexander came back around, he chopped at the gelding’s front legs, shearing them cleanly in two. The horse went down at once, but Qarakh launched himself from the saddle and landed nimbly on his feet in front of Alexander. His Beast crooned a song of sweet slaughter, and the Mongol warrior stepped forward and swung his saber at Alexander of Paris. Grinning, eyes flashing with a mixture of fury, bloodlust and delight, the boy prince brought his sword up to block the blow. The battle began in earnest.

  Malachite watched the fighting from within the shadows of the
nearby woods. He’d returned to Qarakh’s camp, informed the chieftain that Alexander had accepted his challenge, and then the Tartar, satisfied, kept his word and told Malachite the story (and location) of the Obertus monastery. The Nosferatu’s mind still boggled at the news. The Obertus order had been founded by the Dracon’s progeny in Constantinople but had no known holdings here. And it certainly had no love for the Cainite Heresy or Archbishop Nikita. But the coincidence was too much—it was another sign and Malachite would follow it.

  But not yet. First, he would watch what was likely to be the final encounter between the knights and the tribesmen. Malachite wasn’t certain why he felt he must. Perhaps it was a need to sate his scholar’s curiosity, or perhaps he wished to witness what might very well prove to be Cainite history in the making. Or perhaps he had come to sympathize with the tribe and wanted to stay and help them, if only by watching and wishing them success.

  He heard a rustling of underbrush behind him, and he instinctively melted into the shadows to conceal himself. A moment later, he saw a group of Telyavs. They approached the edge and stood close to the trees, their brown robes seeming to change color and texture to match that of the bark. Malachite noted that Deverra was not among them. He wondered at the absence of the high priestess. He knew that Qarakh wished to conduct this battle without the aid of witchery, but that hardly explained her absence from her followers’ sides.

  The Telyavs watched the fighting for several moments before turning their backs on the battle and walking over to the spot where they had sat the previous night when casting their spell. They settled into a small circle, crossed their legs, and then withdrew waterskins from the folds of their robes. The Telyavs bit their lips and vitae welled forth. They leaned forward and allowed the blood to drip upon the ground while they chanted words in a language Malachite didn’t recognize. The Telyavs then uncorked their waterskins and raised them to their gore-slick lips, but they did not swallow. They swished the water around in their mouths for a moment and then spat the liquid—now mixed with their blood—onto the ground before them. They linked hands, closed their eyes and resumed chanting.