by Tim Waggoner
DARK AGES
GANGREL
Tenth of the Dark Ages Clan Novels
By Tim Waggoner
Digital Edition published by Crossroad Press
Dark Ages Gangrel is a product of White Wolf Publishing.
White Wolf is a subsidiary of Paradox Interactive.
Copyright © 2004 by White Wolf Publishing.
First Printing February 2004
Crossroad Press Edition published in Agreement with Paradox Interactive
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Table of Contents
What Has Come Before
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
What Has Come Before
It is the year 1231, and decades of warfare and intrigue continue among the living and the dead. The Teutonic Knights and Sword-Brothers have embarked on campaigns to conquer and convert pagan Prussia and Livonia, spreading the crusading zeal into new lands. Bloodshed has, as always, followed in its wake.
Away from the eyes of the living, in the shadowy world of the undead, matters are even worse. Alexander, the ancient vampire who had ruled Paris for many centuries, was deposed some eight years ago. Seeking allies to recapture his throne, Alexander traveled to the Saxon city of Magdeburg where he imposed himself on the prince, Lord Jürgen the Sword-Bearer. The two vampires now wrestle for control of the court and a claim on the heart of the vampire Rosamund of Islington, sent into exile with Alexander.
Jürgen, who heads the vampiric Order of the Black Cross, has many interests among the Teutonic Knights and Livonian Sword-Brothers and supports their crusades. Livonian efforts, however, have recently faced a setback. Apparently a Tartar vampire named Qarakh has formed a war band among the pagans and has defeated many Sword-Brothers in battle.
Alexander has stepped forward to lead Black Cross Knights against Qarakh, and Jürgen has been unable to refuse the request. Meanwhile, Rosamund has kept secret the fact that Qarakh has the aid of a group of sorcerers called the Telyavs.
So Alexander, powerful and mad with ambition, marches into Livonia. All that stands before him is the chieftain Qarakh….
Prologue
Steel rang on steel, swords wielded by arms so inhumanly strong that sparks flared to life with each impact. The brief flashes lit the faces of the two combatants as they fought. Not that they needed the sparks’ illumination to see. Darkness was light to their kind.
As if by mutual agreement, the two broke apart and circled each other warily, moving with liquid, feline grace. Their footfalls made no sound on the damp grass, and despite their exertions neither was breathing hard. They weren’t breathing at all.
The adversaries stood upon an open plain beneath a full moon, deep in the lands of the Livs east of the Baltic coast. A furious battle raged around them as mailed knights fought wilder warriors in leathers and furs, many of whom possessed animalistic features: tufted ears, jutting fangs and feral-yellow eyes. The knights fought on horseback, while many of the others battled on foot. Swords clashed, arrows flew, claws maimed. The battlefield was littered with bodies, many of the corpses savaged beyond recognition, and the fetor of spilled blood and Final Death hung heavy in the air.
The larger of the two combatants was a swarthy and muscular man with wild black hair, a short beard and a long, thin mustache, the tips of which hung well past his chin. He wore leather armor, a bearskin cloak and wielded a curved saber. His most striking feature, though, was his flat, expressionless eyes. They were the eyes of an animal, the eyes of the dead.
His opponent appeared to be a youth of no more than sixteen summers and was clad in the mail vest and tabard of Christian knighthood. Emblazoned on the chest was his coat of arms--a shield with a pattern of black spots bisected by a broad vertical stripe upon which rested a gold laurel wreath. He was handsome and slim, with curly dark hair and a regal bearing that belied his seeming youth.
The leather-clad warrior knew better than to judge his enemy by mere physical appearance. The “youth” was two millennia older than he, and the ancient blood that flowed through his veins granted him immense power. He wielded a broadsword one-handed, moving the tip in slow, small circles as if the blade were light as a dagger. But the ancient also had other weapons besides those made of steel. As they circled one another, the leather-clad warrior sensed his opponent reaching out with his mind, sending out waves of fear and awe, searching for a chink, however small, in the warrior’s resolve.
The youth smiled, but his eyes remained cold and deadly. “Your mind is as strong as your body, Tartar.”
The warrior didn’t bother to acknowledge his opponent’s words, or to correct his usage of a bastard term for the faraway steppe tribe he had been born into. Talk was nothing but a waste of time and energy in battle. All that mattered was who would prove stronger this night—the Ventrue prince called Alexander or the Gangrel chieftain known as Qarakh the Untamed.
Qarakh grinned, displaying a mouthful of sharp teeth. He raised his curved saber, bellowed a war cry and charged.
Chapter One
Two Weeks Earlier
The sky was clear, and stars hung in the darkness above, cold and glittering like chips of ice. Though it was spring in Livonia, the night air held enough of a chill to turn his mount’s breath to mist. The temperature meant nothing to Qarakh. He’d endured much worse during his mortal life on the steppes of Mongolia. And since his rebirth as a creature of the night, the only time he had ever truly
been warm was when he had a bellyful of fresh blood. His horse, however, wasn’t quite so hardy. Even a steppe pony would’ve had trouble keeping the pace Qarakh had set for the last week, and with this less hardy breed the effort was finally beginning to show. The mare’s coat was covered in froth, and her gait had been erratic for the last mile or so. She was a ghoul—fed on his own blood since she’d been a foal—and therefore stronger and faster than a normal steed. For all that, she was still a mortal creature. But unless her master commanded otherwise, she’d continue on until her heart burst.
He slowed the mare to a walk by merely willing her to do so. There was no need for Qarakh to tug on the reins—the blood she’d drunk meant his desire was her desire, simple as that. Sparing her was no product of sentiment; the mare was no more than a tool to him, akin to his saber or bow. And he hadn’t spared her out of need. He could travel just as easily, and more swiftly, in wolf form. But he was returning to his ulus—his tribe—after months away, and it was more dignified for a khan to return on horseback from a long absence.
The landscape in Livonia was primarily flat and forested, and there was little to differentiate one place from another—at least by sight. But Qarakh navigated by other means: the position of the stars, the sound and feel of his mount’s hooves on the ground, the scent of the trees. All told him that it would take a little over two hours to reach his tribe’s main territory, its ordu, at this pace. He would still arrive well before sunrise, and his horse would be alive, its death postponed for a night when its blood was more needed. On the Mongolian steppe that had birthed him, Qarakh had learned not to waste anything. That lesson held true even here, in this distant land to which he had been exiled. Where he had made a new home.
Since his Embrace twenty-four years ago, Rikard had—like all Cainites—shunned the deadly light of day. But now, sitting here in the branches of an oak tree, arrow nocked and ready, with nothing to do but sit and listen to the sounds of nocturnal animals scurrying about as they foraged for food or searched for mates, he found himself actually looking forward to the pink of predawn. For then he could retire to his tent, crawl beneath a blanket and sleep while one of the mortals was forced to endure the mind-numbing monotony of watch duty.
This wasn’t exactly the glamorous existence that his sire had promised Rikard before his Embrace. The picture she had painted was that of an eternal bacchanal filled with unimaginable power and endless dark pleasures. So how was he spending his unlife these nights? Sitting in a tree like some damned owl.
I should be nuzzling the smooth, alabaster neck of some young virgin instead, he thought. Running the tip of my tongue over her artery as it flutters ever so gently…
His canine teeth began to ache at the roots, and his stomach cramped. His sire had told him all about the Beast—the raging fury and hunger that was the curse of all Cainites. But what she hadn’t told him was that the Beast could manifest itself in numerous ways. In his case, as pain—from mild discomfort, like now, to agony so intense that he would do anything, anything at all, to make it stop.
Thank you so very much for the dark gift you bestowed upon me, Abiageal. The thought was directed at his not so dear but very much departed sire. He hoped she could detect his sarcasm from whatever level of hell she’d been consigned to after her Final Death at the hands of overzealous churchmen.
He’d come to Livonia because he’d heard rumors of a Cainite kingdom here, a place where the undying could live openly and without fear. And while all that was true enough in its own way, what the rumors had failed to mention was how dreadfully boring it was. The leader of the kingdom, a savage called Qarakh, insisted on being addressed as “khan” instead of “prince,” as was more common with Cainite rulers. He also insisted that all the members of his “tribe” be skilled warriors in order to protect the region from “those who would take our land from us.” Those would be the Livonian Sword-Brothers—second-rate Templars intent on Christianizing the place—and the few German vampires who seemed to lurk among them. But they’d been beaten back last year, well before Rikard arrived. No, his time with the tribe had been spent training. The Cainites in Qarakh’s tribe, as well as the ghouls, trained nightly in the martial arts, learning how to use a bow, wield a sword and ride a horse. Tedious though such training was, it had proven effective. While Rikard didn’t consider himself a soldier yet, he had become competent with a weapon, though he still needed work on his horsemanship. At least he didn’t fall off the damned animals anymore.
He never should have sworn allegiance to Qarakh. He had convinced himself that the Tartar’s kingdom would one day become the Cainite paradise that Abiageal hadn’t been able to deliver, but in the months since he had come to Livonia, all he’d done was train and, for the last week, sit watch in the trees.
“I should just leave,” he whispered to himself, giving voice to his thoughts to help relieve the boredom. “It’s not as if the Tartar would miss me, even if he were here.”
“Yes I would.”
A lance of cold terror pierced Rikard’s unbeating heart. The words came only inches from his left ear, which meant their speaker was crouching next to him, but he hadn’t heard anyone climb the tree. He knew he should turn to face the newcomer, but he was too scared to move.
“Once a man or woman swears fealty to me and is accepted into my tribe, they become as my own childer, whether they are of my blood or not. And ‘Tartar’ is the Christians’ word for my kind. I am Mongolian.”
The words were spoken in Livonian—a language Qarakh insisted all members of his tribe learn—but there was no mistaking that accent. The khan had returned home.
“Like any good father, I would miss my children, should they stray from the tribe. Miss them so much, in fact, that I would hunt them across all the lands of the earth until I had found them again.”
Rikard felt the cold, sharp edge of a dagger suddenly pressed against his throat.
“And do you know what I would do once we were reunited?”
Rikard was so frightened he lost his grip on his bow, and both it and the arrow he had ready tumbled down the ground. Beads of blood-sweat erupted on his forehead, and he would’ve swallowed nervously if it hadn’t been for the dagger.
“I would clasp them in my arms and say, ‘The tribe misses you. I miss you. Come home.’”
Rikard felt the first faint spark of hope that he was going to survive. He didn’t fail to notice, however, that Qarakh kept the knife to his throat.
“But you didn’t leave, did you?” The khan’s voice was utterly devoid of emotion now. No anger, no disappointment. Nothing. “You merely failed to remain alert at your post. You didn’t hear the approach of my horse, and you didn’t hear me climb up next to you, though I purposely made enough noise to alarm every sentry from here to the Great Wall. If I were an invader, I could slit your throat before you could make a sound, and then continue on to the camp undetected. Do you understand?”
Rikard couldn’t speak. His throat felt full of sand. The best he could manage was an almost imperceptible nod.
“Good. Then you will do better next time.”
A wave of relief washed over Rikard. Qarakh was only trying to teach him a lesson! A hard lesson, but one that Rikard knew he deserved. In the future, he would be more careful to—
Fire-sharp pain blossomed in Rikard’s throat, and warm blood gushed onto the front of his tunic.
“If you are strong enough, your wound will heal and you will make your way back to camp before dawn. If not…”
Rikard felt a hand press between his shoulder blades and shove, and then he was falling through darkness toward the forest floor. He didn’t feel the impact when he landed.
Qarakh leaped into the air and came down less than a foot from Rikard’s head, his leather boots hitting the ground silently. He intended to walk back to where he’d left his horse tethered to a low-hanging branch, mount up and continue on to the camp, but he hesitated. The scent of Rikard’s blood hung thick and sweet in
the air. Mortal blood was for nourishment, but Cainite vitae—no matter how diluted—contained power. It was the smell of that power which called to Qarakh now.
A harsh, animalistic voice spoke in his mind. On the steppe, one learns not to waste anything; survival depends on it.
Qarakh gazed down at Rikard. The Cainite lay on his back, eyes wide and staring, blood still bubbling from his slit throat as he tried to speak.
“This is not the steppe,” Qarakh whispered.
And you are not a man. You are an animal. You hunger and there is food before you. Take it.
“This man swore allegiance to me as his khan.”
He is no man. He is a weakling. His kind exists only to serve the strong. Right now, he would serve you best as sustenance.
Qarakh shook his head. “Perhaps that is how he would serve you best. He would serve me and my people far better if he survives to learn from his mistake and makes the tribe stronger.” The Mongol warrior knelt down, wiped his dagger on a clean spot on Rikard’s sleeve, then straightened and returned the knife to its belt sheathe. He then walked off toward his horse, ignoring the frustrated howls of the Beast inside him.
The boundaries of Qarakh’s tribal lands were marked by a quartet of small altars, one for each point on the compass, representing what Mongols called the Four Directions: Front, Back, Left and Right. Qarakh rode up to the southern (front) one and, as was his custom, cut several hairs from his horse’s mane with his dagger. He then dismounted and approached the altar on foot. It was a construction of sticks and poles built on top of a stone mound. Qarakh had made all four of them himself, after the style of the Mongolian tribes he had left on the steppe. Tattered blue prayer flags were tied to the poles, and they stirred in the gentle breeze. Offerings were piled onto the stones: coins, fox tails, eagle feathers and, of course, patches of dried blood. Qarakh walked three times around the altar, then tied the horsehairs to one of the poles. Now it was time to leave his offering. He lifted his right wrist to his mouth, bared his fangs, and bit into his own flesh.