“Herr Josselin?” Hesitantly, one of the Black Cross knights—Brother Gerhard, if Josselin remembered correctly—came into the barracks reserved for the secular knights and their men, and offered him an abbreviated bow. “Sir. The Hochmeister requests your presence in his chambers.”
Lord Jürgen’s chamber was actually quite crowded; he must have summoned most of the Cainites in his company. Josselin spotted Sighard and Renaud, and made for them. “What’s happened?”
Sighard snorted and offered him a piece of parchment—it looked very official, written in an elegant hand, with the King of Hungary’s seal at the bottom. Josselin handed it back. “What does it say?”
“King Andras has ordered the Teutonic Knights to leave Hungary,” Renaud replied, dropping into French. “Effective immediately.”
“What? Who the hell let that happen?”
Renaud’s voice dropped to a whisper. “The impression I’m getting, milord, is that his lordship has no good agent of his own in the king’s court—and somehow this little matter seems to have slipped through Arpad fingers.”
“Well, they’re just a slippery-fingered lot, aren’t they?” Josselin muttered. What he had seen of the ruling Ventrue house of Hungary had failed to impress him in the least.
“You watch,” Renaud shook his head. “When Lord Miklós finally gets in here, he’ll know nothing about it, and be terribly shocked and appalled.”
“And then he make big offer, like he go to fix, and he ride away,” Sighard growled. “Cowardly snake.”
“Let’s pray you’re wrong, my friends,” Josselin murmured. “But I fear you’re dead on.” He headed for the table.
Lord Jürgen leaned over the table, studying the map. Brother Christof was moving troop counters and checking a list.
“How many at Marianburg?” Jürgen asked.
“That we can trust? Not nearly enough, Hochmeister. Of the thirty brother-knights, only eight are of our brotherhood, and only two of those Cainites. Perhaps twenty-five at most of lesser rank we can call upon.”
“We can’t hold it, then. Heldenburg?”
Christof checked his roster. “Ten brother-knights, six of them Cainites, thirty of lower rank.”
Jürgen scowled. “Not enough. Schwarzenburg?”
“Thirty brother-knights, ten of them Cainites. Fifty or more of the lower ranks, depending on how well Brother Adhemar has done in his recruiting effort.”
“How many total, Christof? Assuming the worst?”
“Assuming the worst…” Christof flipped through his notes, thought a moment. His expression was grim. “Without the mortal fighters and support personnel of the Teutonic Order, our forces will number approximately eighty to ninety Cainites, two-thirds of them knights, and between three and five hundred mortal troops, one third of whom are knights, and at least one hundred of whom are non-combatants.”
Those gathered had fallen silent at Jürgen’s question. Christof’s words carried throughout the room.
“Call them all in, Brother Christof,” Jürgen said at last. “I want everyone in either Kronstadt or Bran in three nights’ time. They are to bring with them as many of those not yet in our brotherhood as they can—recruiting them if at all feasible, and by any means necessary. Tell Václav he’s to hold Bran, send him our forces from Kreuzburg, Eulenburg and Rosenauer Berg. Tell all the others to come here. They are to travel by night only, and at their best possible speed. I do not want any Cainite traveling in a box by daylight unless there is absolutely no other choice.”
There was a murmuring of agreement across the room. Josselin studied the map. A string of seven fortresses across the valley, but without the mortals of the Teutonic Order, not enough men to hold them, nor protect the Saxon settlements in between. And how many does Rustovitch field in this, his home territory?
Lord Miklós Arpad, tall and darkly elegant, strode into the room and executed a perfectly graceful bow. “Ah, Lord Jürgen. I was wondering where everyone had gone. Have I missed anything?”
Someone handed him a copy of the proclamation. He read it, and his eyebrows arched nearly into his hairline. “What? I was not informed of this! This is absolutely appalling! Clearly something terrible is going on in Buda-Pest, milord! I will send word—no. I will ride there at once myself and straighten things out!”
The Hungarian started out, but paused at the door and looked back at István, standing at Alexander’s shoulder. The younger Arpad hesitated, but when Alexander laid a hand on his shoulder and spoke to him softly, István smiled and resolutely turned his back on his sire. Lord Miklós shrugged and left him to his fate.
Across the room, Josselin caught Renaud’s eye. The ghoul knight made a little gesture, the tip of his index finger hitting his palm like an arrow hitting the mark.
Dead on.
Over the following weeks, Josselin had much reason to reevaluate his guess that the stories he had heard of the Tzimisce were exaggerations. Alexander led Marques, István, Sighard and him—along with ghouls and others—on a series of raids against the enemy. An enemy who seemed to be closing in on Kronstadt with every passing night.
On the night of the Feast of St. Gregory, they faced off against a large pack of what the men had come to call hellhounds, twisted beasts that might once have been wolves. They were fast and savage, but an hour before dawn, the last of them whimpered and died. Josselin wiped his sword blade clean of ichor and resheathed it, then whistled for Achilles. The hounds were far too fast to fight on horseback.
The scream that wafted out of the woods was like no animal or mortal Josselin had ever heard, a many-voiced wail that sent chills down even a Cainite spine. The breeze brought with it the foul carrion stench of an abattoir.
Whatever it was, it terrified the horses. Achilles reared suddenly, jerking the reins out of Josselin’s hands, and tore away, oblivious to his master’s summons. Alexander’s white tossed its head and stamped, held in place by the sheer force of its master’s will. Sighard had remounted, but he was barely holding his gray. Even Fabien was having trouble—Whitefoot turned in tight circles, fighting his rider’s control.
“Back!” Alexander shouted, and the command was repeated down the line.
Then a great hulking thing came lurching towards them out of the trees, and Josselin felt his blood turning cold, his limbs suddenly too heavy to move, out of sheer terror. It was taller than a peasant’s cottage. It had four arms that ended in claws as long as sword blades, multiple eyes glittering across its shadowy bulk, and multiple mouths, all of which were screaming. It was a monster out of hell, and suddenly Josselin realized that none of the stories he had heard had even come close to the truth. As he watched, still frozen in horror, the thing reached out with one of those taloned limbs and scooped a fleeing man from the ground, plucking the shield from his arm and tossing it away like a discarded bit of offal. Then it brought the struggling mortal up to its gaping maws, tore off one flailing arm, and began to feed each mouth in turn.
It was the very opposite of the rapture, but the same effect: Josselin couldn’t move, couldn’t turn away, couldn’t stop watching. Somewhere in the distance he heard someone calling his name, but he couldn’t take his eyes off the horror before him.
“Josselin! Don’t just stand there, idiot Frenchman, move!”
“Milord! Josselin!”
“Fabien! Get him!”
Suddenly his view was blocked by a black neck and mane; Fabien grabbed the back of his master’s surcoat and hauled him bodily up over the pommel of his saddle. The squire kicked his gelding’s sides, and Whitefoot was only too glad to flee.
Fabien released him when they caught up with some of the others, letting him slide to the ground. “Milord.” He was panting for breath. “Are you hurt, sir?”
Josselin shook his head. “What—what the hell was that thing?”
“Tzimisce war-ghoul,” Sighard growled, riding up. “Not natural, their creatures. Renaud! Over here!”
Renaud galloped up to jo
in them. “Lord Alexander’s having us regroup at Schwarzenburg. I think he has a plan.”
Fabien extended his hand. “Come on, mount up behind me, we’ll find Achilles later.”
Josselin took Fabien’s hand and swung up behind him, wrapping his arms around the mortal’s ribs. “Thank you.” he said.
Fabien grinned. “Anytime.”
They could still hear the monster screaming behind them as they rode away.
Chapter Eleven
The Burzenland, Eastern Hungary
During Pentecost, April and May, 1225
The rack had been all but useless with this one. The prisoner could lengthen its limbs as easily as the rack could stretch them. So Jürgen had ordered the prisoner’s arms and legs chopped off entirely, which had certainly stopped its flesh-twisting tricks, but not improved its cooperation.
The translator repeated Lord Jürgen’s question for the prisoner’s benefit.
The Tzimisce snarled, baring a mouthful of jagged teeth. It was all the creature could do—it was now secured to the table by two great spikes through its shoulders and several heavy iron chains. Jürgen signaled, and the leather-gauntleted Brother Farris took a pair of iron tongs heated red-hot from a brazier and held them where the prisoner could see them.
“Right ear,” Jürgen said. Brother Farris grabbed the prisoner’s ear with the tongs—the Tzimisce screamed, and there was an acrid stench of burning carrion.
“Milord! Milord!” A young brother-squire came rattling down the stairs. “There’s word from Marianburg! A messenger from Brother Henricus!”
Jürgen stood up. “Tell him to think carefully,” he told the translator. “My patience wears thin.”
The messenger was a dirty, exhausted peasant boy, no older than fifteen, half-naked and terrified out of his wits. “Milord. Hochmeister,” he gasped. “They’re dead. They’re all dead, I saw it. The demons killed them all….”
Jürgen regarded him warily. “Who’s dead, boy?” he asked. “What happened?”
“Everyone!” he gasped. “They surrounded the village, the keep. Monsters came out of the woods, breathing Greek fire. There were giant wolves with teeth like spikes. Men in armor, riding terrible horned beasts. Too many, too many of them.” He was crying. “He told them to let me live. He said I had to bring you the message.”
“What message?” Jürgen demanded. “Speak, boy!”
“Milord.” A short, cloaked figure, its face hidden under the shadows of its hood, appeared beside the boy. It bent and turned the boy around, pulled away the ragged mantle he clutched over his shoulders, exposing the boy’s bare back. “Here, I fear, is Rustovitch’s true message.”
There was a man’s face there, embedded in the boy’s flesh, caught up in a rictus of total agony, blue eyes staring blindly, mouth gaping, the remnants of a graying beard still bristling around what had once been its chin.
“Brother Henricus.” Jürgen spoke through gritted teeth; his fangs were down, and he was all but trembling from fury. The boy began to cry.
It took several minutes for Jürgen to master the crimson fury in his soul, to regain control enough to speak without screaming, move without succumbing to the Beast’s need to lash out and destroy. “Thank you, Akuji,” he said at last, then glanced down at the boy. “Herr Michael. Kill it.”
The knight closest to the wretched messenger nodded grimly, and drew his sword. Jürgen turned and stalked back downstairs.
“Out!” he snapped at Brother Farris and the translator, and they fled.
Jürgen and the prisoner locked eyes for a moment. The Tzimisce’s eyes grew wide, and he started to babble in a mixture of Slavonic, German and Latin, but it did him no good. The Sword-Bearer was no longer interested in listening.
Lord Jürgen picked up the discarded leather gauntlets, put them on. Then he picked up the tongs in both hands and rammed the red-hot metal through muscle, sinew and bone to tear out the Tzimisce’s unbeating heart.
“Sighard, childe of Cuno, come forward and stand before us.”
Sighard had grudgingly consented to a shave and hair trimming; even with the yellow eyes and wolf’s teeth, and the curved claws that protruded from his gloves, he looked more human than Josselin had ever seen him. He wore a knight’s surcoat over his leathers, green with two running wolves in white, the device he had chosen himself, though it was Fabien who had stitched it together for him. The Gangrel came to the front of the hall, bowed, and then stood stiffly before Lord Jürgen.
Alexander formally presented him with Olivier’s sword, horse and armor that he had already held for so long. Two brothers of the Black Cross put the white belt around his waist, and attached the spurs to his heels as best they could, for Sighard wore no shoes. Sighard knelt, repeated the words of the oath as Jürgen gave them to him, his hand on Lord Jürgen’s sword. His pronunciation of the Latin was less than perfect, but that hardly mattered.
Jürgen then raised the sword and lightly tapped Sighard’s shoulders with it. “I dub thee once, I dub thee twice, I dub thee three times knight. Rise, Herr Sighard, and receive the buffet. Let this be the last blow you ever accept unanswered.”
Sighard rose, his grin exposing all his teeth. Jürgen struck him in the middle of his chest, hard enough to knock him back a step, but not knock him down. The assembled witnesses, mostly members of the Black Cross, broke into applause and shouts of congratulations in three different languages while Jürgen clasped Sighard’s forearm and congratulated him personally.
Sighard’s was the first but not the last knighting that evening. Twelve squire-brothers of the Order also received the accolade, but for five of those, the occasion was even more significant, for they were led off by senior brothers in the order for a further initiation—the Embrace, to replenish the ranks of Cainites lost in the fighting.
Jürgen took the last parchment from the stack Brother Christof had been holding, and read it aloud. “Fabien d’Auxerre, son of the Seigneur de Conches, come forward and stand before us.”
Fabien didn’t react at first. Then his eyes widened and his mouth hung open in total astonishment. Josselin nudged him. “Go on, Fabien, don’t keep him waiting.”
“But I—I’m not—”
“If you’re not worthy, cher, then no man is. Go.”
Fabien squared his shoulders and went to accept the accolade of knighthood.
Lord Jürgen let a drop of his blood fall into the glob of wax, and the scribe pressed the seal into it before it cooled. Three letters, three couriers, one very important message.
“The Tzimisce hold Rosenauer Berg, and have infiltrated the woods near Eulenburg and Bran. Rustovitch seeks to divide us. Instead, we will trap him between us. Send the messengers out one hour before dawn. We will stage a sortie at that time, to draw Tzimisce attention, and give them a chance to get through the sentries.”
“Whom should we send?” Christof asked.
“Ask for volunteers, and weed out any whom you think can’t make it through. Bring me the names, and your recommendations. Don’t tell them where they’re going yet. I want those who are willing to run to Constantinople if I ask it of them, not just ride a few miles to Bran.”
“Yes, Hochmeister.”
“He’s late.” Renaud wiggled into the angled opening in the crenellations of Kronstadt and leaned out as far as he dared, as if that would stretch the range of his sight even a few feet more, but the heavy fog rendered everything not within three strides all but invisible. Sighard had left three nights before to carry Lord Jürgen’s message to Bran.
“Careful.” Fabien hooked his fingers in Renaud’s belt, just in case. “It’s a long way down on this side.”
“He should have come back by now,” Renaud muttered. “What’s taking him so long?”
“The fog, maybe?” Fabien shrugged. “Josselin, can you see anything?”
The Cainite joined them, took Renaud’s place himself. Fabien hooked his fingers into Josselin’s belt as well, just to be safe.
> “No,” Josselin began, and then held up his hand. “Wait—the fog’s lifting. There’s a fire—no, two fires—on the hill over there….”
“Sorcery,” Fabien murmured, and crossed himself.
“Holy Mary—” Josselin growled, pulling back out of the opening. His fangs were down. “Lord Jürgen must know about this.”
“What?” Renaud pushed forward; Josselin caught the ghoul by the shoulders, blocking his view for a moment.
“Renaud—” Josselin hesitated, but the grief in his eyes said as much as was needed. Renaud cried out, shoved past Josselin and all but threw himself into the opening, staring with horror at the spectacle across the river.
“No!”
The fog had vanished as mysteriously as it had come. On the hill across the river, three tall stakes had been set up, between two great bonfires—clearly the Tzimisce wanted their victims to be recognizable. And indeed, he did recognize all three, but it was the one in the middle whose agony drew him in, and cut the deepest into his heart.
Sighard had been impaled from below, the stake passing up through his belly, his heart and into his skull. His jaw with its wolf’s teeth hung open, but the yellow eyes blazed in fury—though wounded and paralyzed, the Gangrel still survived.
But only for the moment. One of the Tzimisce took a flaming brand from the fire and held it up, setting the prisoners’ clothing alight. And even as Renaud cried out in horror, there came the clamor of horns, horses, and the clash of steel from across the river, and he spotted mounted knights in white wearing the black cross. The Tzimisce were under attack. Václav! He got through. Sighard got the message through!
Behind him, the keep’s bell began to ring; men scrambled for weapons and horses. “To arms! To arms! Brothers, to arms!”
Renaud left the wall, and ran to get Ghost from the stable, moving with a grim purpose that overpowered, at least for the moment, the soul-wrenching agony deep inside him. This time, at least, vengeance for the master he had loved was not beyond his reach.
Dark Ages Clan Novel Toreador: Book 9 of the Dark Ages Clan Novel Saga Page 13