by Tim Waggoner
Alexander gave Qarakh a puzzled look, as if the Mongol had just uttered the most unnecessary sentence in the history of the spoken word. “Of course you have. Lord Jürgen was kind enough to offer his hospitality to me after my leave-taking from Paris. When news of the your tribe’s victory reached him, he became concerned, and I offered to take a force to Livonia—”
“And deal with us,” Qarakh finished. “Indeed.”
“But now that you are here, you wish to bargain.” A slow smile spread across Qarakh’s lips. “Is my tribe so impressive that you are willing to give up without a fight?”
Alexander’s face betrayed no emotion, but the fingers of his left hand twitched. For a being of such self-control, this was tantamount to a frenzied outburst. Qarakh had the impression of pressure building behind his eyes, of Alexander’s gaze boring into him. The pressure increased to the point of pain, and Qarakh’s Beast howled for Alexander’s vitae. The Mongol warrior felt the itching sensation of fur sprouting on the backs of his hands, along his arms, neck and face, and he knew that this time his Beast would not be denied.
But then, just as suddenly as it had come, the pressure was gone. Qarakh struggled to keep from assuming wolf form, and though it was a near thing, in the end gray fur subsided into his skin, and the Beast remained tethered to its leash… for the moment.
When the Ventrue responded, his voice was cold and completely devoid of emotion, and Qarakh knew he was hearing the true Alexander—the undead creature that had lived for two millennia—speak for the first time. “Make no mistake, Tartar: I fear nothing in this world or beyond it. And if I desire something, I pursue it relentlessly. I do not give up.”
Qarakh glanced past Alexander and saw that Deverra and Malachite had broken off their discussion and were watching the two warlords intently, waiting to see what they would do next. Qarakh wondered if Deverra would be able to cast a spell before Alexander or Malachite could attack. He had no doubt she had one already in mind, but the question was whether she could make her preparations in time. He decided it was unlikely.
“Give up? Perhaps not,” Qarakh said. “But as a warrior, I’m sure you understand the concept of tactical withdrawal—especially when it suits your ultimate purpose.”
Alexander looked at him for a moment, face expressionless, and Qarakh wondered if he had pushed the deposed prince too far, but then Alexander threw back his head and laughed. The sound had a youthful quality to it, at once musical and boyish, and for an instant Alexander seemed as if he really were only as old as he appeared.
“True enough! You’re a bold one, Qarakh.” Alexander turned to look at Malachite and gave the Nosferatu a nod. Reassured all was well, Malachite returned to his conversation with Deverra. “I respect that. Perhaps we can make a deal after all. Just because Jürgen sent me here to bring you to heel doesn’t mean I intend to do so. It should come as no surprise to you that I desire to reclaim that which is rightfully mine: the throne of Paris. To be frank, I care not a whit for Livonia and who rules here, nor do I wish to spread the holy word of Christ to the pagans who inhabit this land.”
“Are you not a Christian knight?” Qarakh asked. “What I am,” Alexander said, “is a man who was born as a mortal and reborn as one of the Damned before Jesus was a gleam in Jehovah’s eye. But I am also a pragmatic man, and I use whatever resources are available to me. As far as I am concerned, Christianity is merely one more weapon in my arsenal: a tool to use when I have need of it, and one to discard when I do not.”
“Why do you tell me these things? We have only just met.”
“We are kindred spirits, you and I—warriors who take what they want without hesitation or apology, with the courage to dare all and the strength to succeed where others would surely fail. We are extraordinary men, even for our kind, and because of this we should be allies instead of enemies.”
Qarakh understood that Alexander’s words were nothing more than flattery designed to sway him, backed by the Ventrue’s raw will. Qarakh felt tendrils of that will stretching forth from Alexander, testing his defenses, probing for weaknesses, searching for any avenue of ingress they could find. And though he knew all this, Qarakh still found himself half-believing what Alexander was saying.
“You are well spoken, Prince, but you have already told me that you are a pragmatic man who will use and discard whatever tools he needs. Perhaps my tribe and I are merely tools to you. How can you be trusted?”
“I can always be trusted to act in my own best interests. That is how I have survived for so many centuries, and why I shall continue to survive for many more to come, perhaps even unto the end of time itself.” Alexander’s gaze became distant for a moment, as if he were peering down the long tunnel of eternity toward whatever unguessable fate lay waiting for him at its end. “I believe an alliance would not only benefit me, but you and your tribe as well. I can return to Magdeburg and report to Jürgen that the threat posed by your tribe was overblown and easily dealt with. I can then work to discourage others from mounting campaigns on Livonia. Jürgen can be redirected to Prussia.” The Ventrue’s words took on a slight mocking tone. “Thereby safeguarding your pagan utopia.”
“And what would you expect in return for your… patronage?” Qarakh asked.
“When the night comes for me to retake Paris, you and your tribe will fight alongside the rest of my forces. And when I have retaken my throne, I shall do everything in my power to see to it that Livonia remains free from outside interference of any kind.”
“Including yours?”
Alexander smiled. “I am a creature of the city and look to the Ile de France above all. I do not desire to rule over distant grasslands and forests.”
Qarakh considered the Ventrue’s words, trying to gauge the depth of their sincerity—if any—and wondering what treachery might lie beneath them. “I see that you still do not believe me. What can I do to convince you?” Alexander glanced at the fire. It had burned down some since they had begun talking, but the flames were still full and strong. “I guess that Tartars take matters of honor and pride very seriously, and that they do not give their word lightly.”
“This is true.”
“I will not suggest a blood oath, for we both know the insidious powers of that humor upon us. So we must find other ways of proving our commitments and pledging our loyalties.” Without warning, Alexander plunged his right hand into the fire. Immediately the skin began to sizzle and blacken, and the stink of burning flesh filled the air.
Behind them, Deverra gasped and Malachite called out Alexander’s name. But Qarakh didn’t turn to look at either of them; he kept his gaze fastened on the Ventrue’s face. His brow was furrowed, his jaw muscles bunched tight, but despite the agony he surely was experiencing his eyes were clear and calm. “I pledge to you, Qarakh who is called the Untamed, that should you enter into an alliance with me, I shall never attack your tribe, and I shall use all my power and influence to protect it.” Alexander’s voice was strained, and blood-sweat had broken out on his brow, but still he did not cry out in pain.
Qarakh considered for another moment before putting his own hand into the flames. White hot agony blazed along his undead nerves, and the Beast inside him screamed.
“I accept your pledge, Alexander of Paris, and in turn I vow to consider your offer and give you an answer within a fortnight. May the flames of this sacred fire bind us both—for as long as each remains true to his word.”
The two Cainites stared into each other’s eyes as their burning flesh hissed and popped. For an instant it seemed as if Alexander might say more, but then he nodded and pulled his ruined, blackened hand from the fire. Qarakh waited one more moment and then withdrew his.
Deverra and Malachite were at their sides then, as if they both wished to give aid but were unsure exactly what to do.
Alexander grinned and then called out, “István!” A Cainite that had been standing in the background came forward and bowed. “Yes, my prince?” The man’s Livonian was
accented, but passable. Apparently, he didn’t share Rudiger’s stubbornness on the matter of language.
“Bring us bowls of blood in which to soak our hands. Bleed only the strongest and healthiest mortal you can find for Qarakh. As for myself… you know my needs. Bring two flagons full as well so that we might slake our thirst and drink to our new friendship. Bring flagons for Malachite and the priestess as well.”
István bowed even lower this time, and Qarakh had the impression he was striving to be more attentive than normal, as if he were trying to make up for some transgression. “At once, my prince.”
István straightened and started off to do his master’s bidding, but before he could get far, Alexander said, “One more thing.”
István stopped and turned back around. “Yes, my prince?”
“Bring a bucket of water and put out this damn fire.”
Chapter Eleven
“Must you be going?” Alexander said, though he didn’t sound all that unhappy at the prospect. On the Ventrue’s right stood Malachite, to his left was István and Brother Rudiger.
“I should return to the camp and hold council to discuss the matter of our alliance,” Qarakh said.
They stood at the edge of Alexander’s camp. Qarakh and Deverra’s horses had been prepared for them, and they held the reins in their hands, ready to mount and ride. Both horses pawed the ground restlessly, as if anxious to start the return journey. Qarakh had already sent ahead the human family that had been Alexander’s gift to him, with directions to drive their wagon east. The Cainites would be able to catch up with them easily on horseback—a fact that would prevent the mortals from taking advantage of their lead to try and escape.
Qarakh extended the burned fingers of his hand and then curled them into a fist. Thanks to a good soaking in blood—both internal and external—his hand was mostly healed, though the flesh was still shiny and pale pink, like that of a mortal infant. Alexander’s hand, however, was completely restored—a testament to his age and power.
Alexander glanced toward the east. “Dawn is not far off. Perhaps you should spend the day here and get a fresh start tomorrow evening.”
“I appreciate your hospitality, but unlike you, Deverra and I are creatures of the forests and plains. We shall have no trouble finding resting places along the way.”
“So be it. Then there is nothing left for me to do but wish you good traveling.”
“One moment, my prince, if I may.” The exhalation from Malachite’s speech tainted the air with the odor of rot, and Qarakh had to keep from wrinkling his nose at the smell. This one too had learned the language of the Livs.
Alexander turned to the Nosferatu with a puzzled look. “Yes?”
“Deverra has told me something of how her tribe is structured, and I am curious to see it for myself. I find the notion of Livs adopting Tartar tribal patterns and behaviors most fascinating. I believe there is much to learn by directly observing their tribe.”
In and of itself, Malachite’s curiosity wasn’t suspicious. Despite their monstrous appearance, Nosferatu had a reputation for being scholars; they also could be adept at concealment and moving without detection when they wished—perfect attributes for a spy. Qarakh was about to deny Malachite’s request when Deverra caught his eye. The priestess nodded almost imperceptibly, and Qarakh, though he did not know why Deverra wished the Nosferatu to accompany them, nevertheless kept his objections to himself. He trusted Deverra’s judgment as much, if not more, than he did his own.
Ghosts of emotion drifted across Alexander’s face, too faint and subtle to read clearly. If Qarakh had to guess, he would say the Ventrue was experiencing a mixture of surprise, anger and disbelief. It appeared that Malachite’s request was unplanned, but Qarakh knew better than to trust appearances—especially where Alexander of Paris was concerned.
The Ventrue turned to Qarakh. “Do you have any objection to Malachite accompanying you?”
“No. He may ride with either Deverra or myself, if he wishes.”
“Nonsense. I can afford to spare a horse for my good friend Malachite.” Alexander ordered István to fetch a steed, and the Cainite nodded and hurried off, almost but not quite running. Rudiger watched István go, amusement dancing in his eyes.
Qarakh tried to gauge the Nosferatu’s response to obtaining Alexander’s permission, but his face was nearly as expressionless as the prince’s. There was a glint of anticipation in Malachite’s eyes, though, and Qarakh wondered if he’d made a wise decision in agreeing to take the Nosferatu with them.
While they waited for István to return, Qarakh addressed Malachite for the first time since entering Alexander’s camp. “Deverra and I shall have no difficulty finding shelter from the sun as we travel. Will sleeping in the open be a problem for you?”
Malachite shook his head. “I have been traveling for many years since I left Constantinople.” The Nosferatu’s mouth twisted into an approximation of a smile. “I’ve learned how to make do.” There was a sadness in Malachite’s voice that hinted at a story behind his words.
István returned then, leading a roan gelding. Qarakh and Deverra mounted their steeds. While István held the gelding’s bridle, Malachite climbed into the leather saddle with more grace than Qarakh expected.
“Farewell, my new friends,” Alexander said. He fixed Malachite with a stare. “And farewell to my old one. I shall look forward to our eventual reunion.”
“As shall I, your highness.”
Qarakh noticed the Nosferatu kept his tone carefully neutral. Whatever the precise nature of the relationship between Alexander and Malachite, it was obviously more complex than it appeared on the surface. Perhaps the Nosferatu has more than one story to tell, Qarakh thought.
“Farewell to you, Alexander of Paris,” Qarakh said. “Our meeting has given me much to think on—and perhaps act upon as well.”
Alexander smiled, upper lip curling away from his smallish incisors. “I couldn’t have said it better myself.”
“Do you truly believe that was wise?” Rudiger asked. Alexander watched as the Tartar, his priestess and
Malachite rode off at a trot. The Nosferatu didn’t look especially comfortable on horseback, and Alexander thought it was a good thing he possessed the preternatural healing abilities of a Cainite. The way he sat in the saddle, he’d need them.
Alexander didn’t look at the knight as he replied. “Could you be more specific?”
“I speak of your allowing the Nosferatu to accompany those pagans.” Rudiger didn’t bother trying to conceal his disgust for them.
“I couldn’t very well deny him in front of Qarakh, not after the oath I made with the Gangrel.” Alexander thought Malachite had chosen his moment well, but the man’s intentions were still unclear. Alexander supposed it was possible that Malachite’s request was exactly what it seemed, but he doubted it. In his own way, the Nosferatu could be just as devious as any prince. Whatever Malachite’s game was, Alexander was confident he would eventually uncover its true nature, and then he would find a way to turn it to his advantage. He always did.
Then he thought of Geoffrey, his childe, who now sat upon the throne of Paris.
His throne.
And he thought of a woman named Rosamund.
Some games, he told himself, take a little longer to win than others.
“Then the Tartar believes you truly intend to ally with him?” István asked.
“Fool!” Alexander snapped. “Qarakh believes nothing of the sort. He knows better than to trust me.” He heard the Gangrel’s words once more: May the flames of this sacred fire bind us both—for as long as each remains true to his word. Clever, that last bit. “And while that normally would be a wise decision, I am quite serious about forging an alliance with Qarakh and his tribe.” At least a temporary one, he added mentally. “In time, I hope he comes to see that.”
“Perhaps Malachite will help to convince him,” István offered.
“Perhaps.” But whatever reason
Malachite now rode with Qarakh the Untamed, Alexander doubted it had anything to do with playing the role of ambassador. “Still, we must prepare in case the alliance fails to come to fruition.” He turned to Rudiger. “Come to my tent after complin tomorrow night so that we might plan strategy.”
“Yes, your highness.” Rudiger bowed his head and departed. As he walked away, Alexander looked at István.
“Tell me, are you aware of anyone… new?” Ventrue didn’t like to speak openly of their tastes in blood, but István was a loyal clansman. Moreover, he was already aware that only the blood of women in love could satisfy Alexander—just as István himself was restricted to feeding on mortals in pain, and Rudiger on the ill.
István thought for a moment before answering. “There is a young laundress barely into her womanhood whom I noticed earlier this night. She was watching one of the mortal squires with keen interest.”
“Is she pretty?”
“I’m afraid she’s rather plain, your highness.”
Alexander sighed. “I suppose one must take what one can get when in the wilderness. See that this laundress is brought to my tent after Vespers.” He paused. “And tell Rudiger to wait a while after complin to visit me. I prefer to talk strategy with a full stomach.”
As Rudiger walked toward his tent, he ground his teeth so hard that his incisors pierced his lower lip, causing two thin streams of blood to dribble into his beard. Everyone—mortals, ghouls and Cainites alike—hastened to get out of his way when they saw the furious expression on his face.
Despite his great age, Alexander was a fool. Worse, he was a blasphemous, unbelieving fool who viewed the Church as nothing more than a tool to further his own ends. If Lord Jürgen hadn’t tasked Rudiger with carrying out Alexander’s orders… But he had, and since Jürgen was the Hochmeister of the Order of the Black Cross, Rudiger was sworn to obey his every command—regardless of how he felt about it.
Rudiger knew full well that Alexander had ordered a fire built for his parley with the Tartar so that the knight would be unable to remain and listen. All Cainites feared fire to one degree or another, but Rudiger was absolutely terrified of it. It was his one true weakness, visited upon him by God to keep him humble, he believed. He also knew that Alexander intended to ally with the pagan tribe for his own reasons, and not as a tactic designed to eventually lead to its destruction. Rudiger was tempted to compose a missive to Lord Jürgen informing him of this development, but he would not. As much as it galled him, Alexander was his master—for the moment, at least—and it was his duty to serve the exiled prince to the best of his ability, whether he liked it or not.