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

by Tim Waggoner

  Perhaps she’s a spirit, a voice whispered inside his head, and therefore doesn’t have a scent.

  Qarakh gripped his sword more tightly. He did not know what strange spirits or demons inhabited this land, or if his blade would prove effective against them, but he would stand and protect Aajav, even unto the Final Death.

  As the woman drew closer, she lowered her hood to reveal delicate features, curly red hair and smooth alabaster skin that almost shimmered in the moonlight. She smiled as she came toward them, but Qarakh knew better than to let his guard down. Did not a predator bare its teeth just before attacking? When she came within twenty feet, she stopped. Not quite within fighting distance, but still close enough to talk, Qarakh noted.

  She spoke again in that odd language, and Qarakh pointed to an ear with his free hand and shook his head.

  The woman acknowledged the gesture with a nod, and then reached into a leather pouch hanging from her belt. Qarakh tensed, ready to spring to the attack in case she should bring forth some manner of weapon, but all she withdrew was a handful of dried leaves. She then knelt and pulled up some blades of grass and a bit of soil from the ground. She crushed the leaves and added them to the other ingredients, then opened her mouth—displaying the sharpened canines that marked her as one of the undead—and bit her tongue. Vitae welled forth and she lowered her head over her cupped hands and gently spit a stream of blood into them. She whispered words that Qarakh didn’t understand, but he did note that one word in particular was repeated several times: Telyavel. She dipped her tongue into the mixture and swirled it around—three times to the right, then three to the left. Afterward, she rubbed her hands together and applied some to her ears, then wiped the remainder off in the grass.

  When she was finished with this strange ritual, she stood and looked at Qarakh.

  “I am Deverra, high priestess of Telyavel, Protector of the Dead,” she said in unaccented Mongolian. Or perhaps that was merely how Qarakh heard her words.

  He scowled and didn’t lower his saber. “You are a witch?”

  She smiled. “I suppose your people might call me a shaman.”

  Qarakh considered this for a moment, and then he nodded and lowered his sword, though he did not sheathe it. “I am called Qarakh, and this”—he gestured to his blood brother—”is Aajav.”

  “You are both Cainites, yes?”

  “I do not understand.”

  “Those who do not breathe, who feed on the blood of the living and sleep during the day,” the priestess explained.

  Qarakh nodded. “And you?”

  “Yes, though I wager I am from a different clan.”

  “We are of the tribe known as Gangrel. I am of Aajav’s blood, and he is of the hunter Oderic’s.”

  The priestess nodded as if she’d expected as much. “What is wrong with your sire?”

  “He is not merely my sire,” Qarakh said with some irritation. “He is my bonded brother. Our souls are linked now as they were in life. As to what malady has gripped him, I cannot say.”

  After Qarakh had slaughtered the Anda hunting party, the clan elders had put a high blood price on his head. And though he was a strong and fearless warrior, he wasn’t a foolish one. He knew he could never hope to stand against all the Anda in Mongolia—not alone and certainly not while caring for the ailing Aajav. So they had left the steppes and ridden westward, searching for a place where they not only would be out of the Anda’s reach but also removed from civilization. They had made it as far as the forests and grassy plains of this land—whatever it was called—before Aajav could ride no longer, not even bound to his saddle.

  Qarakh debated how much he should tell the priestess. “Five weeks past, he was struck by arrows coated with poison. He began to recover after a few days, but now…” He trailed off, as there was no need to explain further. Aajav’s still form was all the explanation necessary.

  “May I examine him?” the priestess asked.

  Qarakh hesitated before giving her permission. Even so, he kept his saber in hand as the priestess walked over and knelt next to Aajav. She gently pried open his eyelids, then opened his mouth and peered inside for a few moments. Afterward, she examined his fingernails and then removed his boots so she could get a look at his toenails. When she was done with that, she put his boots back on and lowered her face to his head and sniffed his hair.

  She looked up. “I need to taste his blood. A drop or two should be sufficient.”

  Qarakh didn’t like it, but he pressed the tip of his saber to the back of Aajav’s left hand and pushed slightly. The blade tip punctured the flesh, and a thick drop of crimson welled forth. She dipped her finger in the blood and then touched it to her tongue. She closed her mouth and looked thoughtful for several moments. She nodded to herself and then pressed her fingers to his cheeks. She closed her eyes. Qarakh tensed, wondering if she was attempting to cast some sort of foul spell on Aajav. He decided he couldn’t afford to take any chances and was just about to cut off the priestess’s head when she withdrew her fingers and stood.

  “I could detect only the faintest traces of poison in his body,” she said. “Not nearly enough to affect a strong young Cainite like him. I believe that while his body has purged the poison from his system, his mind has retreated into torpor.”

  Qarakh had only been a childe of darkness for five years, and he did not know to what the priestess referred. He didn’t wish to appear ignorant, though—especially since he was—so he nodded as if he understood.

  “Some Cainites retreat into deep slumber in order to rest while healing from severe injuries. Others lapse into the state as a result of some terrible trauma, while for some it is a last, desperate escape from the tedium of eternal life. As to why Aajav has fallen into torpor…” she broke off and shrugged.

  Qarakh looked upon the face of the man who was both brother and father to him and sheathed his sword. “Is there nothing that can be done for him?”

  The priestess considered the matter for some time. “We can provide a comfortable place for him to rest, somewhere he will be both safe and undisturbed. I can continue to pray to Telyavel and search for a magical remedy, thought I must be honest with you: I cannot guarantee that Aajav will ever rise again. Some Cainites emerge from torpor after only days or weeks, while others never do. Still, if you are willing to accept my help, I will do everything in my power to restore your brother to you.”

  Qarakh looked into the priestess’s eyes and tried to gauge whether he could trust her. He saw no guile or deception in her gaze, only kindness and concern.

  He bowed his head. “On behalf of Aajav and myself, I am both honored and grateful to accept your aid, priestess.”

  “Please, call me Deverra.”

  Qarakh woke to the sensation of warmth. He was lying naked beneath a bearskin blanket, and he wasn’t alone. His bedmate shifted position next to him, and he felt the smooth curve of a feminine behind press against his side. He thought he—they—were inside a ger, but the fire was little more than smoldering embers and didn’t provide enough light to see by, so he wasn’t certain.

  Qarakh wasn’t fully awake yet, but he knew something was wrong. He remembered riding toward Alexander’s camp with Deverra… remembered stopping when the eastern horizon began to grow light. They’d tied their horses to the low-hanging branches of a sapling and then walked to a majestic oak that Deverra had chosen. Using her Telyavic powers, the priestess had merged with the tree, and therein she would sleep untouched by the sun’s rays. Since one patch of earth was much the same as another to Qarakh, he elected to inter himself in the ground at the base of the oak. He remembered sinking in the soil and succumbing to the darkness of slumber, and then…

  And then he’d dreamed of fleeing the Anda hunting party, and of his first meeting with Deverra. So was this another dream? It couldn’t be anything but, and yet… it felt so real. He reached over and slid his hand along the smooth skin of a woman’s hip and smiled. It felt more than real—it felt goo
d.

  The woman made a purring sound deep in her throat and rolled over to face him, but when Qarakh saw who it was, he jerked his hand away as if he’d been burnt.

  “I like that. Don’t stop.” She sounded amused.

  “What is this place?”

  She shrugged and the bearskin slipped down to reveal a bare shoulder. “A place of the mind, a pleasant illusion, a shared dream. It is all these things, and more… and less.”

  “Make sense, woman!” he snapped.

  “I am still sleeping within the oak tree, and you remain interred in the ground at its base. I used magic to reach out through the tree roots and connect us, mind to mind.”

  Qarakh remembered the sensation of wooden tendrils stretching toward him, brushing against his temples before burrowing into his flesh. If he concentrated hard enough, he could feel the roots protruding from his skin.

  “If you wish, I can end the spell.” Deverra shifted slightly, and the blanket slipped farther down to reveal the curve of her breast.

  Qarakh thought for a moment before answering. “Tell me more about this place.”

  She smiled. “As I said, it is a shared dream. Here, we can be together as man and woman. As a mortal man and woman.”

  Now Qarakh understood why his vision couldn’t easily penetrate the dimness within the ger. For the first time in years, he was seeing through mortal eyes. It was strange, but at the same time, it was… exciting. There were many advantages to being a Cainite, but for everything gained by the casting off of morality—enhanced senses, increased strength, the power to heal wounds that would slay a human—something was lost. One of these things was the ability to perform the physical act of love. Cainite bodies could go through the motions, but they were undead bodies, and as such could only engage in a hollow mockery of the most life-affirming act of all.

  But now, here in this place of dreams, such limitations no longer applied.

  Qarakh smiled, showing teeth that were small, blunt and altogether human. Then Deverra came into his arms, and they gave themselves over to a sweet ritual older than even Caine.

  Chapter Nine

  When Qarakh rose from the earth the next evening, Deverra was already up and waiting for him. At first, it was something of a shock to perceive the world once again through Cainite senses—in varying ways they were both more keen and more limited than mortal ones—but within moments he had readjusted and was ready to continue on to Alexander’s camp.

  Deverra had prepared the horses for travel, and as Qarakh approached her, she handed him the reins of his dusky gray mare.

  “Sleep well?” she asked, a twinkle in her eye.

  Qarakh took the reins from her and climbed into the saddle in a single smooth motion. “Yes, though I did have some strange dreams.”

  Deverra mounted her piebald and turned to look at him. “Truly? I never recall my dreams upon awakening.” With a mischievous grin, she turned away, gave the reins a shake, shouted “Tchoo!” The piebald immediately launched into a gallop.

  Qarakh shook his head as the priestess rode off. No matter how long he might ultimately continue to stalk the night, he doubted he would ever fully understand the ways of women.

  “Tchoo!” he called, and the gray set out in pursuit of the piebald.

  Alessandro strode away from his ger, the skin on his left wrist a ragged, dripping ruin. He wasn’t concerned about the wound; it would heal soon enough. But he was troubled by the manner in which he’d received it. He’d been feeding Osip, one of his ghouls, when suddenly the young man—who up to that point had been contentedly sipping vitae from a small cut on his master’s wrist—bit down on Alessandro’s flesh and began tearing at it like a starved animal. Alessandro had cuffed Osip once, but though the blow had been less than gentle, it hadn’t been enough to dislodge the ghoul. Alessandro’s anger had risen then, along with his Beast, and he’d grabbed a fistful of Osip’s hair and yanked. He’d managed to pull the youth away from his bloody wrist, but Osip had continued snarling and snapping, ravenous for more blood, until finally Alessandro was forced to strike the ghoul hard enough to render him unconscious.

  He’d nearly pounced upon Osip then, but despite how much his Beast had wanted to rip the little bastard apart for having the temerity to insult his master’s flesh, Alessandro had held back. He knew it hadn’t been Osip’s fault—before Qarakh had departed with Deverra, the Mongol had ordered every Cainite with a ghoul (human or animal) to increase the number of feedings so they might be at full strength should Alexander choose to attack. But ghouls’ intake of vitae had to be carefully managed or they became aggressive and disobedient. Even so, Alessandro still might have killed Osip if it hadn’t been for what had happened to Qarakh’s two ghouls. The khan hadn’t said anything before he departed the previous evening, but when Sasha and Pavla hadn’t shown up for martial training, the other ghouls began talking and the truth soon came out.

  Of course, Qarakh’s ghouls were his to do with as he pleased, but knowing how much the Mongol hated waste, Alessandro believed it likely that his Beast had gotten the better of him, and that had given Alessandro the strength to resist his own Beast when Osip lost control.

  Pavla and Sasha hadn’t been the only ones who failed to attend martial training; Rikard had also been missing. Alessandro had checked Rikard’s ger then asked around camp if anyone had seen him lately, but the answer was always the same: not since the feast the previous night.

  In and of itself, Rikard’s disappearance wasn’t remarkable. A number of the tribe’s members—including its khan—were ultimately nomadic, and came and went with little warning. But Rikard wasn’t overly fond of traveling. In fact, he seemed to enjoy little about tribal life. Perhaps the possibility of a coming battle with Alexander’s forces had finally convinced him that it was time to move on. If so, Alessandro doubted there would be many tears shed over his departure—not that the tribe could afford to lose anyone at a time like this.

  Alessandro wasn’t superstitious by nature, but he was beginning to wonder if these events weren’t in truth ill omens, and if so, what they might portend for Qarakh’s meeting with Alexander. The Iberian decided to seek Grandfather’s counsel on the matter, and he found the lore-keeper in a nearby field watching Arnulf and Wilhelmina instruct the lesser warriors of the tribe in the finer points of swordplay. The students had formed a wide circle, and in the middle the two teachers faced each other, weapons drawn, feet planted in battle stances. Alessandro took a position next to Grandfather and decided to observe the lesson.

  Wilhelmina spoke loudly so all could hear. “Many Cainites believe that their strength and speed alone will win battles for them. And often they will—should your opponent be mortal.” She flicked her sword toward Arnulf’s face, but the Goth easily intercepted the blow with his ax. “But if your opponent is a Cainite, he—”

  “Or she,” Arnulf added.

  Wilhelmina lowered her sword and bowed her head in acknowledgement. “He or she will most likely be equally as fast and strong, if not more so. Look at the two of us: Arnulf is obviously taller and more muscular than I, and his ax seems a far more formidable weapon than my sword.”

  A number of students murmured agreement, but most simply continued to watch with silent interest.

  “But we all know that appearances can be deceptive when it comes to our kind. I might well be a great deal older than Arnulf, or perhaps the vitae that runs through my veins came from a more powerful sire than his. But for the sake of argument, let us say that all is at it appears, and Arnulf truly is faster and stronger than I.”

  Arnulf grinned. “Was there ever any doubt?”

  A few students chuckled—Probably new to the tribe, Alessandro thought—but the rest remained quiet.

  Up to this moment, Grandfather hadn’t given any sign that he was aware of Alessandro’s presence, but now the lore-keeper turned to him and whispered, “Have you noticed Arnulf’s eyebrows?”

  Frowning, Alessandro took a closer look a
t the Goth warrior’s face. The brow (for now the two met in the middle) was darker and bushier than it had been before Arnulf had run off after Qarakh and the Ventrue knight that Wilhelmina had captured. Though Alessandro had understood the necessity of it at the time, he now wished that Qarakh hadn’t ordered—and carried out—Marques’s execution. There was much information they might’ve gained from questioning the knight, especially if Deverra could’ve employed her magic, or even if Alessandro had been given the opportunity to use some of the more effective techniques of persuasion he’d learned during his time as one of the fanatical Lions of Rodrigo. A pity—and perhaps another omen, along with the change in Arnulf’s eyebrows?

  “I hadn’t noticed,” Alessandro admitted.

  Steel rang on steel as Wilhelmina tried a different attack on Arnulf, and the Goth once again easily deflected it.

  “I’ll grant that it is not a huge change, but it is often the minor ones which are the most disturbing,” Grandfather said.

  Alessandro didn’t need the lore-keeper to explain any further. Like all Cainites, the Iberian understood only too well. Surrendering completely to the Beast, even for a short time, always left its mark on Cainites one way or another. For Gangrel, that mark was physical, a bodily feature turned permanently bestial. Alessandro glanced at Grandfather’s fur-covered hands and not for the first time wondered when and how they had gotten that way; Grandfather, more successfully than anyone the Iberian had ever met, lived in harmony with his Beast.

  “Do you think Arnulf is beginning to lose himself?” Alessandro asked.

  Before Grandfather could reply, Arnulf let out a surprised grunt and Alessandro turned his attention back to the demonstration. Wilhelmina had sidestepped Arnulf’s latest attack, and the Goth stumbled forward, unbalanced. Before he could right himself, Wilhelmina planted a foot against his backside and shoved. Arnulf took a couple more stumble-steps forward before crashing to the ground.

  More laughter from the students, louder this time.