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

by Tim Waggoner

  “Sometimes a Cainite’s speed can be a drawback,” Wilhelmina said. “Because Arnulf was able to swing his ax so swiftly, when his blow didn’t find its target, the power of the swing put him momentarily off balance.” She grinned. “And for a cunning warrior, a moment is all that is required.”

  While Alessandro listened to Wilhelmina’s words, he kept his gaze on Arnulf. The Goth warrior lay on the ground, teeth gritted, hand clenched so tightly around the haft of his ax that it appeared the knuckles might burst through the skin any second. Alessandro thought he heard a low growling coming from the man’s throat, but he wasn’t certain. Then, with a speed that belied his large form, Arnulf was suddenly on his feet and swinging his ax in a sweeping arc toward Wilhelmina’s neck.

  Alessandro wanted to shout a warning, but knew he wouldn’t be able to get it out in time to save Wilhelmina. However, just as the ax blade was about to make contact with the tender flesh of the Viking maid’s neck, Arnulf halted his strike.

  “If you manage to gain an advantage over your opponent, do not hesitate to make the most of it,” Arnulf said, grinning with a mouthful of sharpened teeth. “For the tide of battle can shift in less than a moment.”

  Ax head a fraction of an inch from her throat, Wilhelmina stared into Arnulf’s eyes, her jaw muscles clenching and unclenching, sword arm quivering, eager to swing. Finally, in a husky voice, she said, “Indeed.” Arnulf kept the ax to her neck for a moment longer before lowering it and stepping back, nodding once to Wilhelmina who hesitated before returning the nod.

  Grandfather turned to Alessandro. “Does that answer your question?”

  It certainly did. Alessandro decided to keep an even closer eye on Arnulf as the tribe continued to prepare for the possibility of war. “Grandfather, could I speak with you—away from the others?”

  “Of course. We’ve already witnessed the most interesting part of tonight’s lesson, for after this Arnulf and Wilhelmina will both be keeping their Beasts on shorter leashes. Come, let us walk.” And though Alessandro was sure the ancient Cainite had no need to do so, Grandfather put his hand on the Iberian’s arm for support, and together they walked away from the training field as Wilhelmina began to pair the students up for sparring practice.

  As the sound of clashing steel rang through the air, Grandfather said, “What is on your mind, Alessandro?”

  Now that he was in the presence of the lorekeeper, Alessandro felt foolish discussing his concerns about omens, so instead he asked, “What is your assessment of our tribe’s strength?”

  A small smile played about Grandfather’s lips. “There are many kinds of strength. Could you be more specific?”

  “Our fighting strength.”

  “Of course you do.” Grandfather didn’t continue right away, and Alessandro began to think the elder might decline to comment, as he sometimes did. Others, Arnulf especially, took this habit as a sign of a wandering mind due to the lore-keeper’s age, but Alessandro knew differently. Grandfather simply preferred to keep his own counsel on certain matters.

  But after a time, Grandfather sighed. “In the end, there’s very little difference between us, you know. Cainites and mortals. Just as a grown man isn’t all much different from the boy he once was, so too are we not as far removed from the living beings we once were as we might like to think. It’s been the same story since the beginning of time… tribe against tribe, leader against leader. There may be different pretexts for war—territory, religion, honor, power—but in the end, it always comes down to the same thing: feeding the Beast.”

  “For mortals as well?” Alessandro asked.

  “Of course. Where do you think our Beasts came from?” Grandfather broke off and patted the Iberian’s arm. “Please forgive an old man for rambling. You asked what I think of our tribe’s strength. Our tribe is young and still in the process of growing, but we count among our number many powerful Cainites who are no strangers to battle.”

  “Many of them are off wandering, though.” Alessandro glanced over his shoulder at the training field. “And the majority of those who remain are young and unskilled.”

  “The young will learn, and in time the wanderers shall return.”

  “But that’s just it: time. Will there be enough for our messengers to locate the wanderers and tell them they are needed back home? Will the young ones learn the battle skills necessary to keep them from Final Death, let alone to defeat Alexander’s army?”

  “These are questions only time may answer,” Grandfather said. “But if it’s reassurance you seek, remember that word spreads fast among night-walkers and that our people can travel quite swiftly when needed. Several wanderers have already returned since the call first went out, have they not?”

  “Only three.”

  “That is three more than we had two nights ago, and still more will come. And while the young ones might not be battle-hardened veterans yet, at least they now know which end of a sword is which.” He smiled. “Most of them. And all shall continue to improve.”

  “But Alexander’s men are no doubt highly trained and experienced. I don’t see how we can hope to stand against them.”

  “It might not come to that, depending on how Qarakh’s meeting with the prince goes. After all, what is a parley but a battle of words? But in the end, when two tribes go to war, victory is determined by one thing alone: the strength of the leader. Would you like to hear a story?”

  Alessandro was surprised by this sudden change of topic, but he agreed out of respect for the ancient Gangrel, if nothing else.

  “Two shepherds tended their flocks at opposite ends of a valley. It was a large valley, and fertile, so the few conflicts that arose between the shepherds were minor and easily resolved. But then one day a lone wolf came into the valley and began preying upon the flocks, first taking a sheep from one and then from the other. Both shepherds were saddened and angered by their loss, and though they had always tended their flocks with care, they vowed to do so with even greater diligence in the future. But the wolf was a crafty devil, and despite the shepherds’ best efforts, they were unable to prevent him from continuing to take sheep from the two flocks.

  “The first shepherd was so angry that he gathered together all of his friends and relations and set out to hunt down and destroy the wolf. The second shepherd, though also angry over his losses, was a more pragmatic man. He understood that the wolf wasn’t a demon sent to plague him, but rather an animal simply following its nature. So the second shepherd chose his best remaining sheep and slaughtered it. He left a portion of its meat in a place where he knew the wolf roamed and would be sure to find it. The next day, the shepherd returned and found the meat gone, so he left a second piece.

  “Meanwhile, the first shepherd and his hunting party searched throughout the valley, but as I said before, the wolf was a clever creature, and they did not find him. The shepherd, who now thought of himself as the hunter, become increasingly frustrated, for not only couldn’t he track down the wolf, but he continued to lose sheep from his flock to the beast’s hunger.

  “The second shepherd hadn’t lost any more sheep, except for the one he sacrificed to feed the wolf. And since the wolf was content with the meat as the shepherd doled it out, the shepherd was able to keep the animal placated for a fortnight before he was forced to kill another of his sheep, thus saving all the others the wolf would’ve taken otherwise.

  “The hunter continued his search, but before long his friends and relatives grew weary and departed one by one until only the hunter was left to carry on his quest for vengeance. And then, one night, the hunter’s prayers were answered when he found himself face to face with the wolf that had been preying on his flock for so long. So long, in fact, that there wasn’t much of a flock left. The hunter, whose only weapon was a spear he had carved himself from a cedar branch, prepared to strike at his most hated enemy. But before he could even raise his spear, let alone cast it, the wolf attacked him and tore out his throat. That night, the wolf did
not go in search of sheep, nor did he eat the meat offered to him by the shepherd, for he had far more than enough to fill his belly.”

  Alessandro waited for Grandfather to continue, but when the lore-keeper said nothing more, he realized that the tale was finished.

  “Forgive me, Grandfather, but I do not understand.”

  “It is a simple story with an equally simple message. One man died because he thought he could dominate the beast, with another man lived and managed to protect his flock because he came to understand the beast and learned how to live with it.”

  “I must be thickheaded tonight, for I do not see how this story applies to Qarakh and Alexander.”

  “As I said before, victory will go to the tribe with the strongest leader. Which of the two men in my story would you say was the strongest? The hunter who had many friends to help him—at least at first—and a weapon to slay the wolf, or the shepherd who had only himself, his understanding and the willingness to sacrifice?”

  Alessandro didn’t have to think about it for long. “The shepherd, I suppose. Though at first he seems weaker, at the end of the story he is still alive, as is most of his flock. More to the point, he knows how to continue to protect them.”

  Grandfather nodded, as if he were a teacher pleased with the progress of a student. “Now which of those two men would you say is Alexander and which is Qarakh?”

  Alessandro suddenly understood. “Alexander is the first shepherd, and Qarakh is the second.”

  “Alexander may be stronger than Qarakh in the ways that most Cainites measure power, but the khan of our tribe understands the ways of the Beast like few others I have encountered—and I speak of myself as well. Despite what some of the Damned would like to believe about our kind’s destiny and our ultimate purpose, a Cainite’s existence can be boiled down to one undeniable truth: Will he succumb to the Beast or will he learn to live with it? And if one can fully learn to do the latter, he possesses a strength that no other Cainite, no matter how ancient, can ever hope to match.”

  Alessandro considered Grandfather’s words for some time as they walked. “I believe that I understand your lesson, and I find it reassuring. But there is one thing that troubles me. In your tale, the shepherd had to select and sacrifice one of his sheep in order to protect the rest of his flock.”

  “Yes.”

  “Then if your story should prove prophetic, which of us will Qarakh sacrifice in order to defeat Alexander?”

  The Iberian hoped that Grandfather would tell him not to be so foolish as to mistake a simple parable for prophecy, but he didn’t. Instead, the ancient Gangrel remained silent, a look of worry on his face.

  Holleb coughed—a deep, barking sound—and his tiny body shuddered as he struggled to draw in breath.

  “Hush, sweetness. It’s not far to Lechsinska’s.” Tears rolled down Rahel’s cheeks. She knew she shouldn’t cry, that tears would only blur her vision and make it harder to see in the darkness, but she couldn’t help herself. She wrapped the blanket tighter around her baby brother and quickened her pace.

  Rahel also knew she shouldn’t be out at night. Hadn’t her father told her often enough? You might fall and break a leg—or your neck. You might become lost in the forest and never find your way out again. There are wolves abroad at night, and worse things.

  No matter how many times Rahel asked, her father would never say what those “worse things” were, only that she wouldn’t want to meet one alone on a dark trail. So where was she now? Alone on a dark trail, of course.

  Holleb wheezed, coughed, struggled for breath. No, she wasn’t alone, and she was here for a good reason. Her baby brother was ill, and she was taking him to see Lechsinska, the healer woman who lived in the forest. Many people believed Lechsinska was a witch and claimed that she cast spells to spread illness so that the afflicted would then come to her for “healing.” Rahel knew better, though. Her father was a woodcutter, and they lived in a small cottage on the edge of the forest. Rahel had visited the old woman many times as she was growing up—much to her parents’ displeasure—and she knew that Lechsinska’s abilities didn’t stem from black magic, but rather her knowledge of herbs and their healing properties. She’d spent many an afternoon helping the old woman gather mushrooms and blossoms, all the while listening as Lechsinska enumerated their benefits.

  This one is good for gout… and this one will help a barren woman conceive… and this one…

  But even though Rahel was thirteen now and almost a woman herself, her father had forbidden her to have anything more to do with Lechsinska. The healer had acted as midwife during Holleb’s birth: a birth their mother hadn’t survived. Rahel didn’t blame the old woman. She understood that herbs and knowledge could only do so much, but her father had been so devastated by the loss of his wife that he accused Lechsinska of killing her with witchcraft, and delivering unto him not a son, but a demon in the form of a human infant. He cast Lechsinska out of his home, buried his wife and then intended to slay Holleb, but Rahel stood up to her father and said that if he killed her brother, he would have to kill her, too. And for a moment, she thought he would, but then he turned away from her, walked to the straw-filled pallet that had once been his marriage bed, lay down alone and cried.

  From that day on, he would have nothing to do with Holleb or Rahel. Oh, he made certain there was enough food for them—even goat’s milk for the baby—but he would barely look at either of them, let alone talk to them. Rahel tended to her brother and told herself that her father would return to his former self once his grief ran its course, but as the days turned to weeks and then months with little improvement on his part, she was no longer so sure.

  With no older siblings, grandmothers or aunts to turn to, Rahel become both sister and mother to Holleb. She had cared for the little one as best she could, and though it hadn’t been easy, she was happy to do it, not only because she loved her brother but because he was all she had left of her mother.

  So when he had come down with the croup in the middle of the night, she had bundled him up and gone outside, leaving her father sleeping in their cottage. Despite the dangers the night held, they held far less terror for her than the thought of losing her brother.

  She continued along the path to Lechsinska’s hut, almost running, when a figure detached itself from the shadows and stepped onto the trail, blocking her way. She gasped and only just managed to stop before bumping into the man—if indeed it was a man.

  “Good evening to you, child.” The man’s voice was soft and kind, but with a mocking edge that frightened Rahel. “What brings you to the forest at such a late hour?”

  Rahel was too scared to speak, but then Holleb answered for her with one of his barking coughs.

  “Ah, taking the little one to see a healer, I wager. Surely he can’t be your child, though. You are too young. A brother, perhaps?”

  The best Rahel could manage was a nod, and though it was dark and she could not make out the stranger’s features, for some reason she knew he could see her just fine.

  Holleb coughed once more.

  “I can see how badly the little one needs medicine, so I won’t keep you much longer. I am searching for the encampment of a man named Alexander. I am confident that he is in this part of the country, but I am unsure as to his exact location. Have you heard anything about him, or if not him specifically, about a group of knights that has come to Livonia?”

  Rahel tried to reply, but her mouth was dry as dirt and she could not speak.

  Holleb coughed again, and the man stepped forward and placed his hand over the baby’s mouth.

  “If you do not answer me, I’ll make sure the whelp never coughs again.”

  Rahel found her voice then. “Please, sir! Do not hurt my little brother! I’ll—I’ll do anything you ask!” She had a good idea what a strange man might want from a young girl he encountered in the forest at night, and while the thought frightened her, she was determined to do whatever it took to safeguard her br
other’s life.

  The man removed his hand and Holleb took in a wheezing breath. She expected the baby to begin crying from fear, but he merely whimpered, too sick and exhausted to do more.

  “Very well. I promise that I shall not harm the child. If you tell me what I want to know.”

  “My father is a woodcutter. A week ago we took a wagonload of wood to the village of Kolya. Some of the men there were talking about a group of Christian knights that had made camp a day’s ride west of the village.”

  “And what did they say about these knights?”

  “Some feared that they came here to force us to worship their god at swordpoint. Others said that the knights do not walk in the light of day, that they are demons who have come to plague our land.”

  “And what do you think? Are they demons?” She couldn’t see his face, but she could hear the smile in his voice.

  She shrugged. “Men tell many stories.”

  The man leaned his face close to hers. Despite the darkness, she could make out his sharp teeth.

  “Some of the stories they tell are true.”

  When Rikard was finished with the girl, he dropped her lifeless body to the ground and continued along the trail. He intended to find the girl’s home, slay her father and take their horse—for surely they had one to draw their wagonload of wood when they went to the village.

  Ever since leaving the tribal camp, Rikard had been traveling by foot. He would’ve taken one of the tribe’s horses, but knowing how much Qarakh valued the animals, Rikard feared they might come after him. Now he was tired of walking and eager to reach Alexander’s camp and see what sort of deal he might be able to work out with the Ventrue prince.

  Behind him, lying on the ground not far from his sister’s corpse, the infant burst out with a wracking cough. Rikard had been true to his pledge; he had not harmed the child.

  He continued on to the woodcutter’s cottage.

  Chapter Ten

  It was well after midnight by the time Qarakh and Deverra approached Alexander’s camp. The ancient’s standard flew above tents pitched in the middle of flat, featureless grassland. Deverra remarked that she was surprised Alexander would choose such an exposed camping ground.