by Nathan Long
Mile after mile she flew north along it, and saw nothing. She began to wonder if she had cut into the path too far north, and if Kodrescu’s force was behind her, or if she had missed it at one of the many places where the trees completely covered it. But then, just as the east began to lighten, she saw a ripple of movement between the trees.
Pulling back and down on the horror’s reins, she circled lower for a closer look, and the movement resolved itself into men and horses, all moving along the path in ranks of four. Without her night vision, she would not have seen them at all, for they had blackened their lance points and harnesses and covered their armour and helms with cloaks and hoods.
She urged the winged beast along their line until she reached the head of the column, then found a place where the trees were far enough back from the track that she could make a landing.
As the monster flapped to the ground, six knights in full plate thundered up on their war horses, Kodrescu at the fore, his proud head bare and a tight smile tensing his face.
‘General!’ he called as the dust settled. ‘This is an unexpected–’ He cut off in confusion, staring at Ulrika. ‘What is this? Why do you ride the general’s mount? Have you brought some message from him?’
Ulrika slid from the saddle and dropped to the ground with a weariness that was not at all feigned. ‘I – I have brought the mount for you, general. And I offer myself as well, for I have left that honourless cur, von Messinghof, and wish to join with you instead.’
Kodrescu looked down at her for a long moment, his cold eyes narrowing, as behind him, the rest of the column came out from under the gloom of the trees at a shuffling, jingling walk. At last he looked up at the sky, then turned to one of his knights.
‘Day grows near. We will camp here.’ He waved a hand at Ulrika. ‘And arrest this fool. She seeks to betray the count.’
For a long dark time, Ulrika lay in a tent, bound in ropes with a burlap sack over her head while she listened to the camp being set up around her and meals being prepared. There was no possibility of escape, for Kodrescu’s servants were well aware of her abilities, and had made sure there was no way she could reach the ropes with her claws or teeth. There was nothing to do but clench against the agony of her wounds and ponder her position. Had von Messinghof been wrong about Kodrescu? Was he not a traitor after all? Had Morgenthau deserted on his own, with no intention of joining up with his old ally? And what was going to happen to her? Would Kodrescu hold her prisoner until he returned to the count? Would he question her? Would he kill her?
Finally, long after the camp had quieted into daytime slumber, and the heat of the sun slowly grilled her through the canvas, footsteps entered the tent and rough hands grabbed her by the ankles and under the arms. She cried out in pain as she was carried out of the tent and through the camp in daylight. Even though she was covered head to foot by her clothes, gloves and the stinking sack over her head, the sun still pressed down on her like a hot iron.
A moment later she was taken into another tent and dropped on the ground. The sun-agony stopped, to be replaced by stabbing pain as they rolled her over to cut her ropes, and manhandled her silver-cut wounds. Finally, the burlap sack was pulled off and she uncurled, groaning, on a Cathay carpet that had been spread over the forest floor inside the tent.
A heavy boot kicked her in the head and she looked up, wincing, to see Kodrescu, dressed in elegant grey hunting clothes, looking down at her from his great height, his hands clasped behind his back, while a pair of vampires, one male and one female, watched from behind him.
‘Why,’ he said in a cold, slow voice, ‘are you here?’
Ulrika wondered what her best answer was. Did she tell him the truth and say she had come to spy on him? Did she lie and say she had been sent to test him, and that he had passed the test? Did she refuse to say anything and demand to be returned to von Messinghof? It all depended on whether he was still loyal to the general, or if he was covering his own treachery.
‘Von Messinghof sent me to spy on you, my lord,’ she said, sitting up and rubbing her wrists. ‘He gave me the winged mount and told me to tell you a story about escaping him to come to you, but – but after what he has done to me, what was meant to be a ruse is now the truth. I want nothing more to do with him, and I will not go back.’
Kodrescu raised an eyebrow. ‘Oh? And what has he done to you?’
‘Can you not see?’ she pulled back her right sleeve to show the black cut on her forearm, then turned her cheek so that the ugly gash there caught the light. ‘He said he would wound me, to make it appear I had fought my way out, but he did not tell me he would use silver. I am scarred for eternity.’
Kodrescu exchanged a look with the other vampires. ‘And this was enough to make you throw over your loyalty to him?’
Ulrika sneered and stood. ‘Loyalty? He recruited me only days ago, and made promises he did not keep. I am a boyar’s daughter, an Eagle of the North, a winged lancer. He promised me I would ride and fight in his army. I would lead men. Instead, he had me skulking and sneaking and lying like a spy. It is beneath my honour, beneath my dignity. He uses a sabre as a stiletto.’ She raised her eyes to Kodrescu’s and held them. ‘I heard you know the value of a tempered blade, and so I came to you.’
Kodrescu pursed his lips, then looked back at the other vampires again. One of them, the knight with hair the colour of blood who Ulrika had before seen at his leisure in the red glade, stepped forwards, looking at her. This would be Emmerich von Graal, Kodrescu’s second-in-command. Von Messinghof had said he was a vain and vapid degenerate, but second only to Kodrescu in skill at arms. He called himself the ‘Fair and Perfect Knight’, and wrote poetry using the skins of his victims as vellum and their blood as ink.
‘Why does the general suspect my lord Kodrescu of betraying him?’ he asked.
‘Morgenthau deserted,’ said Ulrika. ‘He took his men on a wide patrol and did not return. Von Messinghof was certain he was on his way to join you.’
Kodrescu barked a curse. ‘That hot-headed little pup!’
‘General,’ said von Graal, warningly, but Kodrescu didn’t hear.
‘I told him to wait! He was to turn on von Messinghof after we attacked!’
Von Graal sighed theatrically. ‘Well, that cat is out of the bag.’
Kodrescu turned on him, glaring, then paused and looked at Ulrika. ‘Ah. Yes. Indeed.’ He turned to von Graal and the woman. ‘Do you believe her story? What shall I do with her?’
‘Kill her,’ said the flame-haired knight. ‘Truth or lie, it won’t matter then.’
The woman, a fine-boned, raven-haired vampiress in hooded robes stitched with ancient Nehekharan symbols, shook her head. This was Lady Celia, Kodrescu’s lover of four hundred years, a powerful necromancer. Despite the martial prowess of Kodrescu and von Graal, von Messinghof insisted that it was she who was the most powerful of the three. ‘The count does not know she has turned her coat,’ she said. ‘We could use her as a conduit for false information.’
Ulrika snarled. ‘I did not quit spying for the general to come spying for you. I came to fight. Kill me or put me on a horse. I no longer care which.’
Von Graal and Lady Celia looked at her with sceptical eyes, but Kodrescu smiled, showing his fangs.
‘I like this girl,’ he said. ‘She wants to do her fighting on the battlefield, not in back alleys and bedchambers. There are so few who understand true honour these days.’ He clapped a hand on Ulrika’s shoulder, hard enough to jar her every wound. ‘You shall have your horse.’
‘But, general,’ said von Graal, ‘can you be sure she’s not lying?’
‘Does it matter?’ asked Kodrescu. ‘If we do not allow her to go back to von Messinghof, what harm can she do?’
‘She can turn on you as you hoped Morgenthau would turn on him,’ said Lady Celia.
‘Let her,’ said Kodre
scu, smiling and patting the ruby-pommelled sword that hung from his belt. ‘She will ride at my side. If she makes her play, I wish her good fortune. Wolf’s Fang and I have not been beaten in combat in centuries.’
‘But she cannot always be at your side, general,’ said von Graal. ‘She must be watched, guarded so she does not slip away. It will take resources that we–’
‘Then I give care of her to you, if it so concerns you,’ said Kodrescu. ‘Find room for her in your tent. Find her weapons and a mount. But if harm befalls her in your care,’ he continued as he saw the knight’s face fall, ‘then you will answer to me. Am I clear?’
Von Graal bowed, hiding a pained expression. ‘Perfectly, my lord. Perfectly.’
Ulrika bowed to Kodrescu as well, also to hide her face. Her lies about hating von Messinghof for scarring her and forcing her to spycraft seemed to have worked! At least, she was nearly certain they were lies.
‘I will not be your keeper,’ sniffed von Graal, as he crossed to his tent under a parasol held over him by a human slave. It was an oppressive overcast day, but still a crushing agony to Ulrika, even under the dense cover of the trees. ‘I haven’t time for such foolishness. Nor will I have you in my tent, eavesdropping on me for your master. My soldiers will watch you. You will sleep with them.’
Ulrika scuttled behind him, trying to keep under the parasol’s shadow. ‘Aren’t you afraid I will run away, back to “my master”?’ she asked. ‘Do you not fear Kodrescu’s wrath?’
Von Graal turned at the entrance to his tent. ‘It is my fondest wish that you run away,’ he said. ‘You can tell von Messinghof nothing he has not already guessed, and you will no longer be my responsibility. As to Kodrescu’s wrath, he cannot afford to lose a knight of my calibre. He will do little, no matter what he threatens.’
He motioned to the slave that held the parasol. ‘Take her to Stahleker. Tell him to find her a horse and armour, but to keep her locked up until the general calls for her. And let her bleed you. She looks fit for the grave.’
The slave bowed, and as von Graal disappeared into his tent, he held the parasol over Ulrika’s head and led her to the tents of the horse soldiers. These were not the neat white tents of Imperial cavalry, nor the colourful shelters of Kossar lancers. These tents were filthy, stained and patched, and of a hundred different designs, and the weapons and gear that lay strewn outside them were the same – hard-used, dented and no two pieces alike.
Ulrika eyed it all critically. They were no household troops, then. No lord would allow his followers to look so rag-tag. No matter how poor, he would have at least given them uniforms to make them seem a cohesive unit. These were mercenaries, and not the most reputable either.
The slave stopped before the largest tent in the cluster and raised his fist to rap upon a shield set up outside it for the purpose. Before he could, an amorous moan came from within, as well as what sounded like the grunting of an enthusiastic pig. The slave hesitated, wide-eyed, then rapped timidly on the shield.
There was no response except for an increase in the volume of the moaning and the tempo of the grunting. He swallowed and rapped a little louder.
‘Sergeant Stahleker? Are you there?’
The grunting stopped abruptly, and the moaning trailed off. Then there was a thud and a crash, followed by a curse and a squeak. The slave cowered back as footsteps crossed to the tent flap.
A hairy hand swept the flap aside and an ugly, unshaven face glared out, dripping sweat. ‘Whaddaya want? I’m… I’m tryin’ to sleep.’
The man was a brute. A thick-necked, barrel-chested ape with a grizzled, balding head, a nose like a potato, a scarred chin and brows so heavy it was hard to see his eyes under them. Ulrika recognised him right away. He was the lance sergeant who had complained about the poor fodder for his horses when she had first arrived at von Messinghof’s camp.
‘Your – your pardon, sergeant,’ said the slave, bowing convulsively. ‘But Master von Graal has requested you give this person armour and a horse, and also keep her under arrest until called for. Thank you.’
Stahleker gave Ulrika the once-over. His eyes were hard and angry, but she saw intelligence behind them – and strangely, none of the fear or desire she had come to expect from the Sylvanians’ human troops. He raised an eyebrow like a fat hairy caterpillar.
‘Ain’t she a bloodsucker?’
‘Indeed, sergeant.’
‘Then why ain’t she gettin’ her feet kissed in the fancy tents?’
‘I could not say, sergeant,’ said the slave. ‘I am only doing as my master bids.’
Stahleker growled. ‘And how’m I supposed t’keep her locked up when she could tear a dozen of my boys t’pieces without blinking?’
‘The master did not inform me,’ said the slave.
‘I’ll make no trouble, sergeant,’ said Ulrika. ‘I am here to serve, though your masters do not trust me yet.’
Stahleker looked at her again. ‘Yer the spy.’
Ulrika shrugged, cold. ‘So von Graal thinks me.’
The sergeant continued to glare at her, then cursed and looked back into the tent. ‘Hold that thought, Mags. I gotta take care of this.’
He strode out of the tent, dressed only in a pair of sagging breeks, and crossed to another.
‘Rachman! Get your arse out here!’
After a moment of muffled cursing a wiry beanpole, as ugly in a pale, fish-like way as Stahleker was dark and bearish, stumbled out and looked around, blinking.
‘Whut?’ he asked.
‘Clear out a tent and put a guard on it.’ Stahleker stabbed a thick finger at Ulrika. ‘She goes inside. And stake down the edges o’the tent, all around. Not that it’ll make one damned bit o’difference.’
‘But…’ said Rachman. ‘But she’s a vampire.’
‘Don’t ask questions,’ barked Stahleker. ‘Just do it. We’ll sort it all out after reveille. Now I’m going back to bed.’
Ulrika turned to the slave while Rachman roused more men and ordered them to prepare a tent for her. She would have much preferred to hunt, but it was not an option. ‘Step under this tree with me. I would feed.’
The slave trembled with anticipation. ‘Yes, mistress.’
Ulrika smirked as she led him behind the tents and began to drink. If she wanted to escape she was not lacking in opportunities to do so. There was enough cover under the trees that, though it was the middle of the day, she could have stolen off and survived – albeit painfully – until night, then raced back to von Messinghof. But though she now knew that Kodrescu meant to attack the general, she still didn’t know how, or when.
Nor did she yet know if she wanted to go back.
chapter eighteen
STAHLEKER AND MORGENTHAU
Ulrika woke to a slither of canvas and a soft step, and snatched up her dagger. It was Sergeant Stahleker, dressed now in dirty brown leathers with a sabre at his side, stepping backwards and lifting his hands as she rose to a crouch.
‘Easy,’ he said. ‘Easy.’
Ulrika remained on guard. Humans were not to be trusted. ‘What do you want? Are we moving?’
‘Nah. Kodrescu’s waiting for Morgenthau to catch us up. We’ll be here another day, most like.’ He jerked his thumb over his shoulder. ‘Found you some kit and a horse, if you want to see it.’
What she wanted was some air. The tent was still stifling though the day had passed. ‘Aye. Show me.’
He ducked through the flap, then came back with a bulky bundle and set it before her – a breastplate, helm, jack of plates, saddle, harness and blankets for a horse, all dirty and worn, and all strapped together with the saddle cinch. ‘If those don’t fit, we’ll find others.’
‘It will do.’
Ulrika knelt and undid the cinch, then gathered up the saddle, blanket and harness and stood again. ‘Lead on.’
/> Outside, his men squatted around their fires, cooking lamb for breakfast and boiling buttered tea over small fires. The smell of it reminded her very much of a Kossar camp, and made her suddenly homesick for mornings on the march with her father. These must be men from the Empire’s far eastern edge, where Kossar ways had bled across the border.
‘You are Ostermark men,’ she said as she followed Stahleker to a corral made of ropes slung between trees. ‘One stirrup in the Empire, one in Kislev.’
The sergeant shrugged. ‘Not any more. The pay wagon is our country now.’
He unslipped a rope and waved her in, then pushed through the crowd of shifting horses with the ease of a man born among the herds, whispering and stroking them with calm hands as he stepped past. At the far side of the enclosure he found a roan mare with black face and forelegs, and chirruped to her. Ulrika eyed her, curious. She hadn’t the hulking mass of a knight’s destrier, nor the compact sturdiness of an oblast pony. She was lean and lanky, with an arched neck, a long, narrow head, and a wicked fire in her eyes.
‘Yasim, a daughter of Araby,’ said Stahleker, stepping to her and stroking her flank. She whickered at him nervously, but stood her ground. ‘Runs like the wind – or would if we’d ever get out from under these damned trees.’
‘She is beautiful,’ said Ulrika.
‘Aye. She was Lund’s mount – my first lieutenant – until he was killed on patrol last week. If you can ride her, you can have her. She won’t take everyone.’
Ulrika smirked. ‘You’re hoping she kills me.’
Stahleker was stone-faced. ‘I would never wish harm on my employer’s allies.’
‘And who is your employer at the moment?’ she asked. ‘Aren’t you von Messinghof’s men?’
‘Lord Kodrescu didn’t really give us a choice in the matter. He waited t’tell us he’d gone rogue till we was two days out. He’s paying better though.’
‘Ah.’
Ulrika draped the saddle and blanket over her arm and approached Yasim’s shoulder, moving slowly but confidently. The horse eyed her warily, and snorted at her inhuman scent.
