by Tim Waggoner
“But if he returns to his lord, he’ll be able to tell him the exact location of our camp!” the Iberian persisted. “At the very least we’ll have to take down the gers and move our camp. I respectfully suggest that we should—”
Alessandro grew silent as Grandfather placed a hand on his shoulder.
“Do not provoke him,” the ancient said softly. “He heeds the call of his Beast.”
Qarakh heard the two talking about him as if he weren’t present, but he didn’t care. The world had narrowed to a tunnel at the end of which was Marques and only Marques.
“Ride.” The word was barely recognizable as speech. “Ride as if the Devil himself is nipping at your heels.” Qarakh smiled, showing teeth grown wolfish. “Because he will be.”
The Ventrue knight looked as if he might faint. He understood the khan’s intent well enough, it seemed. He grabbed the mare’s reins and gave them a yank. The horse turned about and the knight dug his heels into her sides and shouted, “Eeyah!” With a startled whinny, the mare galloped away at full speed.
Qarakh’s body shifted, twisted and reformed until the last semblance of humanity was gone. In his place stood a large slavering gray wolf. The animal let forth a howl and sprang forward.
The hunt was on.
Alessandro watched with mixed feelings as his khan melted into the night. The Iberian had dedicated his unlife to understanding the Beast, had spent decades collecting every myth and legend he could find that might provide insight into how best to handle the undying hunger that dwelt within the heart of every Cainite. He understood why Qarakh needed to deal with the knight in this fashion, and he had to admit that there was a certain benefit in extracting justice in front of the assembled mortals—especially by performing the “miracle” of shape-changing. Still, from a military standpoint, he feared this hunt was a mistake. The khan wouldn’t be able to restrain his Beast long enough to question the knight before slaying him, and then whatever information they might have gained from the man would die with him.
Not for the first time, the Iberian wondered at the wisdom of attempting to forge a tribe comprised of those who listened to their bestial natures. Those who traveled that road were most often solitary wanderers, and when they did come together, their raging tempers made certain they didn’t remain so for long. Civilization was anathema to them, and what was Qarakh’s tribe if not an attempt at feral civilization? And yet, there was much to recommend the tribe. Qarakh had based it on the hunter-herder-nomad model of his homeland. Hunters were free to roam as they saw fit, but the camp and tribal territory gave them a home to return to when they wished. Those who remained in the camp traveled from village to village throughout the region, much as the khan said Mongolian herders followed their animals from one grazing place to another.
Our Beast is unlike a true animal, Qarakh had once said. An animal follows its instincts, lives by certain patterns of behavior. Not so the Beast. The only boundaries on its hunger and rage are those that an individual Cainite can impose. But the tribe—and the rules we live by—provide a tether for the Beast: one long enough to permit freedom, but not so long as to allow it to run completely wild. Mongols value a principle called yostoi—balance. Within my tribe, balance between Cainite and Beast is possible.
Alessandro wanted to believe in Qarakh’s dream of a feral tribe living in yostoi, and most nights he did. But this night, watching his khan lope away in the form of a wolf hungry for the kill, he wasn’t so certain.
“Damn him,” Arnulf growled. “Why should he have all the fun?”
Alessandro turned to the Goth, intending to explain why it was necessary for the khan to go after the Christian knight alone, but before he could speak, Arnulf’s form wavered and then a second wolf, this one black and significantly larger than the one Qarakh had become, stood in the warrior’s place.
With a yip at Alessandro, Arnulf took off in the direction the knight and Qarakh had gone. The Iberian turned to Deverra and Grandfather. The Telyav priestess seemed worried, but the lore-keeper just shrugged. Wilhelmina watched Arnulf speed away, looking as if she wished she could join the hunt too.
Alessandro sighed. So much for yostoi.
Rikard watched as the four remaining members of Qarakh’s inner circle went their separate ways. The decrepit lore-keeper shuffled off toward his ger, moving as if he felt as old as he looked, and the Telyav witch walked away from the camp in the direction opposite that which Qarakh and the Goth barbarian had taken, shaking her head and muttering to herself. The Hound of Iberia (and what exactly was that sobriquet supposed to mean, anyway?) stood where he was a moment longer before heading over to speak with one of the Cainites standing guard at the edge of the camp. The Norsewoman summoned a ghoul to tend to her horse and then moved into the crowd of villagers to feed. Rikard wasn’t quite sure what had just transpired between them—though he was certain it had something to do with the knight Wilhelmina had taken prisoner—and he didn’t really care. It just showed that Qarakh’s all-important tribal rules applied to everyone but the great khan himself. Alessandro—who did the actual work of running the tribe while Qarakh was off roving the devil only knew where—was forever drumming the Tartar’s precious rules into the recruits’ heads.
Feed when you hunger, but kill only when necessary.
Show your enemies no mercy, but do not torment others needlessly.
He touched his throat. The blood of the girl he’d drained had healed him (and by Caine, hadn’t it been sweet as sin?), but he could still feel the wound. At least he could speak above a whisper now.
After Qarakh had cut his throat and shoved him out of the tree, he’d lain insensate for a time. But he’d managed to wake up and stagger back to the camp and into the ger he shared with several other recent recruits just as the first rays of dawn painted the eastern sky.
Do not torment others needlessly… kill only when necessary. What rubbish! Qarakh had definitely tormented him last night, and he’d nearly killed him as well. And for what? To teach him a lesson? How necessary was that? And what about hunting this Sir Marques? Was that torment necessary? His companions and he had only been feeding. That’s what mortals were for!
Being a night creature wasn’t about rules. It was about freedom—the freedom to do whatever one wanted whenever one wanted… and to whomever one wanted.
Rikard considered leaving the tribe that night. With everything going on—the feast, Wilhelmina’s return, Qarakh and Arnulf both off hunting the Frenchman—he could slip away without anyone noticing. And even if they did notice, he could always claim that he’d come down with a case of wanderlust. Half the tribe wandered off like filthy nomads at the drop of a hat anyway.
He had just about made up his mind to go (after draining one more child, perhaps a boy this time) when he noticed one of Qarakh’s ghouls walking toward the khan’s ger. (What was the man’s name? Sasha. That was it.) The ghoul heading to the tent wasn’t unusual—the Tartar actually allowed his ghouls to share his sleeping space, a practice that Rikard found not only distasteful but somewhat on the deviant side. What was unusual was the way the ghoul moved. Normally Sasha carried himself with a dignity that, in the ghoul’s mind at least, befitted his station. But now he barely lifted his feet off the ground as he walked, and he kept his head hung low, almost as if he were in mourning.
As he watched the ghoul step into the tent, Rikard was at a loss to explain the man’s demeanor, but when Sasha came back out of the tent carrying the body of Qarakh’s other ghoul—a woman whose name Rikard couldn’t remember—the Cainite grinned. The khan had once again broken the rule about killing without necessity. Sasha carried the woman away from the camp, and Rikard, intrigued, decided to postpone his leavetaking long enough to discover how the ghoul intended to dispose of the evidence of his khan’s hypocrisy.
And perhaps, Rikard thought as he began to follow, stepping as silently as a stalking cat, I might be able to pay back my almighty chieftain for giving me this little present. H
e rubbed the nonexistent wound on his throat and thought black thoughts as he continued after Sasha.
“How can he be so foolish?”
He only follows his nature.
It was dark here—so dark that even with her night-born eyes Deverra had trouble seeing. There were good reasons this place was called the Grove of Shadows, but the scarcity of light was the least of them.
“His ‘nature’ might well end up causing the death of the entire tribe! Not to mention destroying everything I have worked so hard to create!”
Death comes to all things—even such creatures as you. I’m surprised you have forgotten this, since you serve the Protector of the Dead. The voice sounded at once chiding and amused.
The rebuke stung. Still, Deverra persisted. “But Alexander—”
Will come, the voice interrupted. Whether the French knight survives to be questioned or not will make no difference. Even now, the one who escaped the Norsewoman rides toward his master’s encampment to report what has befallen his comrades.
Deverra, though not affected by cold the same way a mortal would be, nevertheless felt a chill run along her spine.
“And what will happen then?” she asked.
The voice was silent for a long moment before answering.
Death. What else is there?
Chapter Five
A sticky coating of blood-sweat covered Marques’s skin and soaked the padding beneath his mail. He desperately wished he could stop the flow of vitae—he couldn’t afford to lose any strength right now—but there was nothing he could do. He was too scared.
He’d given up simply swatting the mare on the rump to urge her on. Now, he pounded with his fist. She was a ghoul—not one of his, unfortunately, else he might’ve been able to get more speed out of her merely by willing it—and thus could take the blows more easily than a normal mount. But he was afraid that no matter how fast the horse ran, it would only be a matter of time before they both felt the teeth of their pursuers.
He wasn’t sure how close they were. Sometimes their howls seemed to come from miles distant, other times from only a few yards away. There were at least two of them from the sound of it, perhaps more. He had a chilling thought then: what if the entire group of pagans had transformed into wolves and were hunting him as a pack, merely toying with him until their leader gave the command to move in for the kill?
He could well imagine what his liege-lord would say in response to that.
Get hold of yourself, Marques—unless you want your fear to do the savages’ work for them!
If he hadn’t been so terrified, Marques might have smiled. Fear was alien to Alexander—one of the many qualities Marques admired in his lord. Unfortunately, though Marques had sworn a blood oath to him and thus some small amount of Alexander’s blood ran through his veins, fearlessness was not a quality that had carried over. It seemed he was afraid a good portion of the time, though he worked hard to conceal it by projecting a lordly air. He was afraid of not being able to find proper sustenance when he needed it. He was afraid of giving in to his Beast like some savage devil. But most of all, he was afraid of disappointing his lord—and of the punishment such disappointment would bring.
Another high-pitched howl echoed through the night, from somewhere off to his left.
Then again, he had other things to fear right now. Things with fur and claws and far too many teeth.
Marques was an experienced horseman, and riding at night was no problem for him, but he didn’t know this land and was traveling too swiftly to note his surroundings. Besides, everything looked the same: tree after tree after tree, the pattern broken only by the occasional grassy plain or marshy expanse. He was well and truly lost, and even if by some stroke of good fortune he managed to evade his pursuers, come morning he would have difficulty finding shelter from the sun’s deadly light. He didn’t relish digging a sleeping place with his bare hands. He could accomplish the task well enough, but without help, it was difficult to—
He saw a gray blur out of the corner of his eye, and then a heavy form slammed into his side and knocked him off his mount. He crashed into the ground, and only the hardiness of his undead frame kept him from breaking any bones. He tried to rise, but the great gray wolf that had attacked him pinned him down. Its foam-flecked muzzle was only inches from his face, and its eyes burned with a bottomless hunger.
The mare continued galloping, whinnying in terror as she ran. Marques knew exactly how she felt, but he couldn’t afford to allow his fear to control him, not if he wanted to survive the night. He grabbed the pagan chieftain by the throat—who else could it be?—with both hands and squeezed. If the wolf had been a mortal animal, he might’ve hoped to cut off its air, but this was a Cainite in wolfish skin. The best he could hope for was to snap its neck, and as strong as the Mongol was, even that would only slow him down. But during the few moments it would take him to heal, Marques could break a limb off a tree and jam the wood through the beast’s heart. Despite mortal legends, such an injury would only paralyze a Cainite, not kill it, but that would be more than enough. With the Gangrel rendered helpless, Marques could make his escape and leave his enemy to the unforgiving rays of the morning sun.
The wolf growled in frustration as it attempted to break free of Marques’s grip, but Marques was no weakling. His blood-filled muscles pressed ever harder. He forced the wolf’s head back slowly, inch by torturous inch, until he felt vertebrae grind. But then the Mongol pushed back, jaws snapping, eager to find purchase on Christian flesh. Marques’s arms began to tremble from the effort of holding the beast at bay. Marques was strong, yes, but not strong enough. He knew it would be mere moments before the wolf broke free from his grip and tore his throat out.
A shadow leaped forth from the darkness and struck the gray wolf in the side. The Mongol was knocked out of Marques’s hands, and the impact sent both of them tumbling. When the knight stopped rolling, he quickly scuttled backward on all fours like a crab. There were two wolves now—one gray, one black—and they stood muzzle to muzzle, growling and snarling. They then began to slowly circle one another, gazes locked, animal eyes unblinking as each searched for an opening to attack.
Marques wasn’t certain what was going on here—perhaps one of the Tartar’s tribesmen had taken this opportunity to challenge his leader?—but he didn’t really care. For whatever reason, Providence had granted him a chance to escape.
He got to his feet and started running.
The Gray’s first instinct was to attack the newcomer for having the audacity to interfere with his hunt, but even though he was possessed by the fury of the Beast, he still retained enough sense of self to recognize the black wolf’s scent.
Kill! shrieked the Beast that shared his soul. Kill him now!
The Gray wanted to—but he couldn’t escape the niggling feeling that there was some reason he shouldn’t. If only he could remember…
But before the memory could return to him, the Black charged. The Beast urged him to meet his attacker head on, but instead the Gray waited until the last instant then darted to the side, nipping the Black on the haunch as he passed—hard enough to hurt, but not hard enough to do any real damage.
No! protested the Beast. Claw-bite-tear-rip-chew-swallow-bite again! Kill-kill-kill-kill-kill!
The Black howled more in frustration than in pain, and spun around to attack again. But before he could complete the maneuver, the Gray lowered his head and butted him in the side, knocking him down. The Gray pressed his advantage by leaping atop the Black and fastening his dripping jaws on the other’s throat.
Yes!
The Gray’s teeth—all of them long and needle-sharp now, not just the canines—dimpled the flesh of the black wolf’s neck. All it would take was a bit more pressure, and the skin would be pierced and sweet blood would gush into the Gray’s mouth, splash hot and thick on his tongue, slide down his throat and into a belly that was a cold aching pit of endless need.
Do it!
And
the Gray almost did. But his nostrils were full of the Black’s scent, and a name drifted into his mind to accompany the smell: Arnulf. It was quickly followed by another name: Qarakh.
The Gray released the Black’s neck and stepped back. The black wolf’s body shimmered, blurred and reformed into that of a large black-bearded man with a scar running across one eye and a huge grin splitting his face.
“Good fight! For a moment there, I actually thought you were going to tear my throat out!”
The Gray vanished and in his place stood Qarakh. “For a moment, I was.”
The Goth laughed. He rose to his feet and clapped the Mongol on the shoulder. “What do you say we finish this hunt together, eh?”
Qarakh was irritated at Arnulf for horning in on his hunt, but he understood the Goth’s need to periodically test his leader. If he were in Arnulf’s place, he would likely do the same.
Qarakh returned the warrior’s grin. “If you can keep up.”
Seconds later, two sleek wolfish forms bounded off into the night. Soon after, a Cainite named Marques screamed as he was torn apart by two sets of fang-filled mouths.
He didn’t scream for very long.
Arnulf licked a smear of crimson from the back of his hand. “Not bad at all.”
Qarakh looked away as the Goth warrior continued licking his hand like a cat cleaning itself, lest his Beast be roused again. “His master will not be so easy to fell, I think.”
Arnulf lowered his hand and started working on the other, speaking between licks. “Let him come. Him and however many other weaklings he has with him.”
Qarakh nodded to the grisly mutilated thing that had once been Marques. “We have no way of finding out anymore, do we?”
“So, will you tend to the ghoul now?” Arnulf asked.
For a moment, Qarakh wasn’t certain what the Goth was talking about, but then he remembered Sasha.
“May I join you? It won’t be much of a hunt compared to this,” Arnulf said as he gestured at the ravaged remains of Marques. “But blood is blood.”