by Tim Waggoner
“Here he can see in any direction, and there is no cover for an attacking force,” Qarakh explained. “It also sends a message to anyone who comes near.”
Deverra frowned. “Which is?”
“‘I have no need to hide, for I am mighty enough to defeat all comers.’”
The priestess smirked. “He certainly doesn’t lack for confidence, does he?”
“If he has survived for two thousand years, his confidence is well earned.”
Deverra didn’t reply, and they continued riding in silence.
As they drew near the camp, Qarakh began making preliminary judgments about Alexander’s military capacity. He counted seventy-eight tents, each with the capacity to house four people apiece, perhaps five. Most would belong to mortals—stable boys, cooks, blacksmiths, laundresses and camp followers of all kinds—who would also serve as the Cainites’ food supply. The number of fires throughout the camp attested to just how many mortals there were. Cainites detested fire, and they had no need of it to cook or see by. There would likely be a number of human warriors as well—a mix of knights, men-at-arms and mercenaries—while the remainder of the fighting force would be made up of Cainites and ghouls. The higher-ranking vampires would sleep two to a tent, and of course Alexander would have his own quarters. Qarakh then counted the horses and wagons before doing a quick mental calculation. Around thirty Cainites, fifty or so ghouls, perhaps two hundred mortals. Three hundred all together, he decided.
Of those thirty Cainites, Qarakh doubted all were equal in power. Much depended on their age, individual skill and experience. Alexander was undoubtedly the most powerful, and the Ventrue would make certain to surround himself with the strongest Cainites that he could. But Alexander was a deposed prince, and because of this most likely had to take whatever warriors he could get. There would be a small inner circle of loyal followers that had accompanied their master into exile—made up primarily of Alexander’s childer, Qarakh guessed—and they would be deadly fighters to a man. But the remaining Cainites, while certainly competent, would not be up to the level of the others. In which case—
He realized that Deverra had just said something. “Yes?”
“I said, don’t you hear it?”
Qarakh listened. “I hear only the normal sounds of a camp: men talking while they tend to armor and weapons, horses whickering restlessly and pawing the ground, eager to be loosed from their fetters.”
Deverra shook her head in annoyance. “No, beneath all that.”
Qarakh listened again, more intently this time, and now he thought he heard something more than camp noises. It was a soft shushing sound, like ocean waves breaking on a distant shore. He gave Deverra a questioning look.
“It’s the wind whispering through the grass,” she said. “And I don’t like what it’s saying.”
“I hear no words.”
“You hear them, but you don’t understand. There are two words, one spoken overtop the other, as if they were one. The first is Alexander’s name.”
“And the second?”
Deverra hesitated a moment before answering. “The second word is ‘death.’”
Qarakh wasn’t certain how to take this, but before he could think more about it, a rider left the camp and headed in their direction.
Qarakh brought his mare to a halt and gestured for Deverra to do the same.
As the rider drew closer, the Telyav priestess stiffened. “Shouldn’t you draw your saber or nock an arrow, just in case he intends to attack?”
“If Alexander wished to kill or capture us, he would’ve sent more than a lone horseman. We are being greeted.”
“So what do we do?” she asked.
“We wait. This is, after all, why we came, is it not?”
Deverra nodded, but she continued to eye the rider warily as he approached. Qarakh wondered if the wind and grass were saying more to her than she admitted.
The rider slowed as he reached them and brought his mount to halt. He addressed the two in a language Qarakh did not understand, but the Mongol thought he could sense an undertone of distaste in the man’s voice. The Christian surely felt it beneath him to be addressing the newcomers as equals.
“He speaks German,” Deverra said. “He bids us welcome on behalf of his highness, Prince Alexander.”
The rider—a knight, Qarakh guessed—was brown-bearded and wore a helmet and a mail hauberk. On his tabard was a black cross, and Qarakh wondered at the significance of the symbol. The knights they had faced in previous years—the Livonian Sword-Brothers—wore a similar tabard but with a red cross and a sword emblazoned upon it. These were of a different order, then.
Qarakh replied in Livonian. “I am Qarakh, and this is the priestess Deverra. We have come to parley with your master.”
Deverra translated and the knight replied in German again. His expression remained neutral for the most part, but his nose wrinkled and his upper lip twitched, and Qarakh knew precisely how he felt about them.
“His name is Brother Rudiger,” Deverra said, “Commander of the Brothers of the Black Cross. He wears the tabard of a mortal order of monkish knights called the Teutonic Order, and I think the Black Cross must be a Cainite part of that order.”
Qarakh heard her words, but another voice imposed itself: Slay him! urged the Beast. The words were accompanied by a mental image of Qarakh plunging taloned fingers into the soft jelly of Rudiger’s eyes. It was tempting, but Qarakh restrained himself.
Then the Black Cross knight turned his mount and began riding back to the camp at a trot.
“He wishes us to follow,” Deverra said to Qarakh, and gave him a questioning glance. He nodded, and they followed after Rudiger.
As they entered the camp, Qarakh sensed a power permeating the atmosphere, as if the air itself crackled with barely restrained energy. He knew that Alexander was near. Deverra felt it too, perhaps even more strongly than he, for she kept glancing around like a rabbit that knows a predator lurks near. Qarakh felt an urge to reach out and touch her, to reassure her, but he kept his hands on the pommel of his saddle. Such an expression of tenderness was not only inappropriate because he was khan, but here it would be taken as a sign of weakness. Neither he nor Deverra could afford that.
They slowed their mounts to a walk as Rudiger led them toward the center of the camp. As they passed, Qarakh noted how no one—Cainite, ghoul or mortal—looked at them. They merely continued going about their business as if their camp had visitors every night. Qarakh wondered if Alexander had ordered them to display such nonchalance, or if they were so confident in their prince’s power that they were truly unconcerned with who these newcomers were and what they wanted.
Careful. That’s exactly what Alexander wants you to think.
As they approached the center of the camp,
Qarakh smelled the stink of burning wood and light stung his eyes. He squinted and managed to make out a slim figure sitting in a wooden chair before a blazing fire. Alexander of Paris.
Rudiger brought his horse to a halt. When he spoke, Deverra rapidly translated: “Your Highness, may I present for your pleasure Qarakh and the priestess Deverra.” There was something about the knight’s posture and tone that made Qarakh think Alexander didn’t completely command the man’s respect. If so, that was useful to know; any discord between the prince and his knights could only be an advantage.
“Thank you, Rudiger,” Alexander said, and Deverra translated. “Would you dismount and join me by the fire?” Alexander’s smile was thin and cruel. Qarakh soon saw why: Small beads of blood-sweat erupted on Rudiger’s forehead as he stared at the flames. Cainites possessed an almost animalistic fear of flame, which reminded them of the killing fire of the sun.
The Mongol warrior was no exception. The Beast inside him recoiled at the sight of the flames, but Qarakh continued to sit calmly in his saddle. He understood that Alexander was testing him, and he would not give the Ventrue the satisfaction of seeing him react to the fire. He wondered h
ow Deverra was faring, but he didn’t look at her; he could not take his gaze off Alexander lest the prince think she was more to him than a simple ally.
Alexander looked at Rudiger, smiling cruelly as the knight demure from approaching the flames. He then turned to Qarakh and Deverra. “Welcome. Perhaps the two of you shall join me?” The Ventrue spoke in nearly flawless Livonian, his tone polite and reserved, but Qarakh could sense the power behind the elder’s words. He wasn’t making a request so much as issuing a command.
Qarakh paused a moment to let Alexander know that he chose to dismount of his own volition before he did so. Out of the corner of his eye, he was pleased to note that Deverra did likewise. Two ghouls came forward to lead their horses to the camp’s stable, and Alexander dismissed Rudiger, who was clearly relieved to remove himself from the proximity of the campfire.
Qarakh stepped toward Alexander and the fire. His eyes had adjusted to the brightness, and he could see that the Ventrue appeared relaxed despite the nearness of the flames. Physically, he wasn’t impressive, at least from a martial standpoint. His body was that of a boy-man, not a child but not an adult, either. But Alexander’s power came from his blood and millennia of experience, and together they made him almost unimaginably strong. He wore a purple tunic, black leggings, black boots and a flowing purple cape. Qarakh knew that Europeans thought of purple as the color of royalty, and he was certain Alexander had chosen it for that very reason. Qarakh noted that the Ventrue wore no armor beneath his tunic and carried no weapons: a sign both of hospitality and of strength. Despite himself, Qarakh approved.
As he approached the prince, Qarakh caught a whiff of ancient decay, like old bones buried for untold centuries and finally unearthed. He knew it was the scent of Alexander, the smell of time itself.
The prince gestured to a pair of empty wooden chairs set up next to his (but not too close), and with a nod, Qarakh accepted the invitation and took the one on Alexander’s right. Waves of heat rolled off the fire. Qarakh’s Beast whimpered like a frightened cur, but he ignored it. He was a Mongol, born to the harsh life of the steppe. He had endured far worse than a little heat in his time.
He expected Deverra to take the remaining seat, but the priestess held back and stared at the fire with wide, fear-filled eyes. Qarakh understood that she was fighting her own Beast, attempting to force it into submission so that she might come near the flames, but she was losing the battle.
“If it would make your companion more comfortable, she is welcome to stand behind us next to Malachite,” Alexander said, gesturing over his shoulder.
Qarakh looked in the direction the prince had indicated. Thanks to the glare of the fire, he hadn’t noticed before, but standing ten feet behind Alexander was a man garbed in a black robe. His hood was down, revealing the misshapen, distorted features of the Nosferatu. Many Cainites found them repulsive and shunned them like the lepers they resembled, but Qarakh knew better than to judge by appearances. Few things were exactly as they seemed.
Deverra gave him a look that was half apologetic and half pleading, and he nodded his assent. With a grateful smile, she backed away from the fire and, giving it a wide berth, walked over to stand beside the Nosferatu. Rather than viewing Deverra’s choice with disapproval, Qarakh saw it as a fortuitous development. Whoever this Malachite was and whatever his relationship to Alexander, he might be more talkative standing apart from the Ventrue, thus giving Deverra a chance to learn much more than if she merely sat next to Qarakh while he and Alexander parleyed.
“You are a Tartar, are you not?” Alexander asked. Without waiting for an answer—which was good, since Qarakh thought it was a foolish question and had no intention of replying—he continued. “You are the first of your people I have ever met face to face, so you will forgive that we converse in Livonian and not your tongue, I hope. You’ll also overlook Rudiger’s reluctance to learn even that language, I hope. He can be somewhat stubborn.”
“Yes. Livonian is fine.”
“Excellent. Now, first a gift to establish our good intentions.” Alexander gestured and a ghoul came forward, leading a family of mortals: a man, his wife and their three children. Their heads were bowed, as if in supplication—or fear. “I understand that a few of my people overindulged themselves at a farmhouse in your territory. Please accept these mortals as replacements for those who were lost. You may do with them as you see fit.”
Qarakh understood now why the humans were so frightened: They feared they were going to die. In truth, he did thirst—the Beast sent him a cascade of sensations: gushing crimson, terrified screams, life essence pouring down his throat hot and sweet—but he resisted the urge to fall upon the mortals and begin tearing at their flesh with his teeth. This prince and his men likely already thought of any Gangrel as an animal. Qarakh saw no need to reinforce that perception in Alexander just now.
“I thank you for your most gracious gift,” Qarakh said. “They shall accompany us back to our camp when we depart.”
Alexander turned to the ghoul who had brought the family and spoke something in German. The ghoul bowed low, turned and walked away, the family following close behind, all of them looking relieved and somewhat surprised to still be alive.
Whether Alexander knew it or not, according to Mongolian custom, it was now Qarakh’s turn to proffer a gift. He reached into a leather pouch that hung from his belt and drew forth a shock of light brown hair bound at one end by a strip of hide. He tossed the hair to Alexander, and without appearing to move the Ventrue caught it in the air. First his hand was at his side, then it was holding the shock of hair, without seeming to cross the intervening distance.
Alexander raised the roots of the hair to his nose and sniffed the sticky black residue coating them. He then looked at Qarakh and though when he spoke his tone was even, his gaze was winter cold. “Marques.”
“I thought you might wish to have something to remember him by,” Qarakh said. “I would have brought more, but this was all that remained.”
The prince and the warrior locked gazes for a long, tense moment, and then Alexander smiled. It was an easy, natural smile, and Qarakh almost believed it.
“Poor Marques. He wasn’t the strongest or brightest, but he was a faithful enough servant.” He tossed the hair into the fire, where it crackled as it burned, filling the air with an acrid stink that Qarakh found at once repulsive and enticing.
“Now that we’ve dispensed with the pleasantries—not to mention Sir Marques—to what do I owe the pleasure and honor of your visit?”
Alexander’s words were velvet-wrapped steel, and Qarakh knew better than to believe them. “I’ve come to learn the reason for your presence in Livonia. I would think there is little in this land to interest a prince—certainly nothing worth assembling an army for.”
“Anything and everything is of interest to me… provided I can find a way to use it to my advantage.” Qarakh was somewhat taken aback by this sudden honesty on Alexander’s part. Perhaps the Ventrue was only attempting to seem forthcoming in order to deceive him. Or perhaps he truly was being sincere now so as to set up a later deception. This thinking in circles was maddening; Qarakh had to suppress a growl of frustration. He was almost tempted to draw his saber and attack the prince, caution be damned. But he doubted he’d catch Alexander off guard—he recalled how swiftly the Ventrue had moved when he’d caught Marques’s hair—and even if he should somehow gain the upper hand against him, Qarakh doubted he could slay the prince before his knights came to their master’s rescue. So he forced himself continue talking. If he had to fight Alexander using double meanings and veiled threats instead of steel, tooth and claw, so be it—for now. “And what have you found to interest you here?”
“You, of course. The chieftain who has repelled the Sword-Brothers and Rudiger’s fellows among them. Some of the locals speak of you as divine. They say you travel in the company of priests and gods.”
Qarakh looked to Deverra to see if she had any reaction, but she w
as too engrossed in a whispered conversation with Malachite to have heard Alexander’s comment. He wondered how much the Ventrue knew about the Telyavs.
“I take it that your interest in my tribe and our land is due to more than curiosity. One does not need to gather an army just to learn the answers to a few questions.”
Alexander grinned, revealing small, almost delicate incisors more suited to a child than a being two millennia old. “I suppose that all depends on the nature of the questions, doesn’t it? Still, you are correct in your assumption. I have not come merely to learn about you: I have been dispatched to… deal with you.”
It took an effort of will for Qarakh to refrain from reaching for his sword. “The way you say deal makes it sound as if you mean destroy.”
“That may be why I was sent here, but that doesn’t mean it is my intention. If I can, I’d prefer to strike a bargain instead.”
Despite himself, Qarakh was intrigued. “Go on.
Five years ago, word first came to us that there was a chieftain in Livonia who claimed to be a Tartar. From that point on we heard of reversals for the Christian crusaders in these parts. A year and a half ago, Cainites allied with the Sword-Brothers came here to put an end to that opposition. Instead, they ran into you.”
“While I enjoy listening to a well-told story as much as any man, I already know how this one ends,” Qarakh said. “These knights sought to remake our herd into theirs and we repelled them.”
“Repelled is hardly the word. You destroyed them. Only a single knight survived to carry news of their defeat to the ears of Jürgen the Sword-Bearer, Prince of Magdeburg.”
Qarakh was now certain that Alexander knew little or nothing about the Telyavs’ skill with sorcery, else he would’ve mentioned it during his tale. Good. That gave his tribe an advantage.
“I have heard of this Jürgen.”