by Tim Waggoner
“As you will, my khan,” Alessandro acknowledged, “but I doubt there are very many mortals in the village—especially since a number have joined us here at the ordu. With your permission, I will send riders to neighboring villages and farms to gather those they can and bring them here.”
Qarakh nodded. “See that it is done.”
“I take it then that you’re dismissing the idea of an alliance with Alexander?” Deverra asked.
“No. But better to prepare for a war that doesn’t happen than to be caught at less than our full strength.” Qarakh took a moment to look at each member of his inner circle in turn, his gaze holding Arnulf’s for a second or two longer than the others’. “Before I decide about Alexander’s offer, I would hear your words on the matter.”
As one they turned to Grandfather. The oldest among them, it was his right to speak first. “High-blooded princes like Alexander normally have little use for our kind as anything other than servants, or as in the case of certain sorcerers, subjects for experimentation.” He glanced at Deverra. “I do not speak of the Telyavs, of course.”
Deverra acknowledged his words with a nod.
“I therefore find it difficult to believe that Alexander wishes to do anything more than use our tribe to further his own ambitions—and when we have served our purpose, he will seek to destroy us.”
Arnulf nodded vigorously at this.
Qarakh wanted to ignore the Goth, but he knew he couldn’t this time. “You agree?”
With a flick of his wrist, Arnulf released his ax. The weapon spun through the air, and the head buried itself in the ground between Qarakh’s feet with a dull thunk. Qarakh didn’t flinch, nor did he take his eyes off Arnulf.
“Alexander is our enemy. Instead of wasting our time sitting here and talking, we should attack!” Arnulf punctuated this last word by slamming his fist against his leg. There was a crack of breaking bone, followed by softer grinding and popping sounds as the injury healed.
“Aye!” Wilhelmina said, her voice thick with battle lust.
Qarakh understood what was happening. Their Beasts were talking to them, urging them to give in to their anger. He turned to Alessandro. Though the second-in-command could be as savage as the rest—indeed, his blood boiled over into rage with frightening speed—Alessandro nevertheless had a keen mind for tactics. He would be more levelheaded here, away from the actual battlefield.
“It is possible this displaced French prince is sincere in his offer of an alliance,” the Iberian said thoughtfully. “I doubt he wishes to establish a kingdom for himself in Livonia. In his eyes, it would be poor substitute for Paris.”
“He is a Christian,” Wilhelmina said. “Their kind spread across the land like a plague simply because they can.”
“Alexander told me himself that he is no Christian,” Qarakh said. “He merely uses the religion as a tool.”
Wilhelmina shrugged. “Perhaps the religion is using him and he is unaware of it.”
“And if he sees his religion as nothing more than a means to an end,” Grandfather put in, “then why would he view our tribe any differently? Or his oath, for that matter?”
Before Qarakh could respond, Arnulf jumped in. “He will attempt to conquer us because he is a conqueror. He can no more deny his nature than we can.” He scowled at Qarakh. “Though some find it easier to try to deny their nature than do others.”
Qarakh reached down and plucked Arnulf’s ax from the ground. He held the massive weapon lightly, as if it weighed nothing. And image flashed through his mind—the ax blade biting into Arnulf’s skull, cleaving flesh, bone, and brain, spraying a fountain of vitae mixed with chunks of gray matter into the air.
The Mongol gritted his teeth and tossed the ax back to its owner. Arnulf caught the weapon by the haft and tightened his fingers around it until the knuckles were bone white.
Qarakh turned to Grandfather once more. “I would have you finish your council, wise one.”
“If Alexander had his way, he would be sitting upon the Parisian throne this very moment. In order to reclaim what he believes to be his rightful place, he will do whatever is necessary. He will ally with us or seek to destroy us—whichever he ultimately believes will be to his best advantage. He does not care for Livonia, not does he care about us. I doubt he even cares about Paris, deep down. All Alexander cares about is fulfilling his own desires.”
“The same could be said of any Cainite,” Alessandro pointed out.
Deverra had been silent for a time, but now she spoke. “Some of us have learned to live with our hungers—both physical and spiritual—instead of for them.”
Qarakh turned to his tribe’s shaman, his… he almost thought companion, but he couldn’t bring himself to. Such relationships were an aspect of mortal life, and not for creatures such as they. Deverra was his shaman, one of his advisors, an important ally as leader of the Telyavs—nothing more.
“What do you think?” he asked her.
“When working magic, one often employs dangerous materials, energies and entities that are liable to turn on the caster if the ritual goes awry. But if one prepares thoroughly and performs the enchantment with care, the rewards can be well worth the risk. I view our current situation as much the same. Yes, Alexander is powerful, dangerous and duplicitous. But he also might be the key to securing our future. So far, we have managed to hold out against the encroachment of their civilization. But we all know that it is only a matter of time before the Christians—eager to spread the word of their god and extend their worldly power—descend upon our land in full force. Indeed, the Sword-Brothers are in Livonia to do just that to the mortal herd; without those whom we feed upon, we are lost. If Alexander is true to his word, he might be able to help prevent that from happening.”
“If,” Wilhelmina said. “You seem to forget that
Alexander is in the company of some of those very same Sword-Brothers and other monks in knight’s dress. He would have to keep their conquering zeal in check as well as his own. And even if he did, allying with Alexander would be like making a pact with a demon.”
“So?” Deverra said. “It wouldn’t be the first time I have done such a thing.”
Qarakh wondered if Deverra were speaking metaphorically or literally. He decided he didn’t want to know.
“I acknowledge that the risk is a great one,” the shaman went on, “but the potential benefits to Livonia make it a gamble worth taking. Still, I believe we should continue to shore up the tribe’s strength while we explore the possibility of an alliance with Alexander.” She smiled at Qarakh. “If only to be prudent. I have already sent a message on the night wind for my fellow Telyavs to gather here as swiftly as they can. Some will arrive in the next few days, and the remainder should be here within a week’s time, two at the most.”
“And what if Alexander chooses to attack before then?” Arnulf demanded.
“Then we fight him as best we can,” Deverra said, unconcerned.
Arnulf leaped to his feet, and Qarakh—fearing the Goth had finally lost control of his Beast and intended to attack Deverra—jumped up and put himself between them. Arnulf locked gazes with Qarakh, and the Mongol saw that the Goth’s eyes had gone feral and yellow.
“I was only going to ask the witch if she had any weapons in her arsenal stronger than mere words.”
Qarakh struggled not to respond to Arnulf’s challenge, but he couldn’t help himself. He was also khan, and he couldn’t allow Arnulf to get away with this.
Qarakh’s voice came out as a low growl. “She is not a witch, and if she chose to waste her powers on the likes of you, she could slay you where you stand without lifting a finger.”
Arnulf didn’t take his eyes off Qarakh. “Perhaps, perhaps not. But what of you, Mongol? Do you have what it takes to slay me? You—who bargains with our enemy, who brings a Christian spy into our camp, who would rather talk than fight?” The Goth warrior leaned closer until their noses were almost touching. “You disgust me, Qara
kh the Tamed!”
Qarakh felt Deverra’s hand on his shoulder. “Do not do this. Not now. We need to—”
But the rest of her words became nothing more than meaningless gibberish to Qarakh as he lost the ability to comprehend speech. Qarakh bared his fangs and slammed his forehead into Arnulf’s as hard as he could. The Goth grunted in pain and staggered back a few steps, but he didn’t fall. Qarakh didn’t give Arnulf time to recover; he drew his saber and dashed forward.
Qarakh swung his blade in a sweeping sideways arc designed to sever Arnulf’s head from his neck, but the Goth brought his ax up in time to block the strike. Qarakh’s sword clanged off the ax, and he used the momentum to bring the blade around and attack from the other side. Arnulf managed to block this blow as well, and the Goth retaliated by lashing out with a bone-shattering kick to Qarakh’s left knee. Qarakh grimaced in pain and leaned to the side, momentarily off balance. Arnulf took this opportunity to move his ax into position for an underhand swing, clearly intending to open Qarakh up from crotch to chin. Sensing the blow coming, Qarakh used his imbalance and pushed off with his right foot. Arnulf’s ax sliced through the air where Qarakh had been standing an instant before, the blade just missing the Mongol’s right foot as he leaped to the side. As he fell, Qarakh drew his saber close to his body so he wouldn’t risk it striking the ground and breaking when he landed. He hit the ground right shoulder first, rolled and came up on his feet, sword ready, kneecap fully healed.
Out of the corner of his eye, Qarakh noticed that the others had risen from the logs and moved back to give the two combatants room to fight. Other members of the tribe—Cainite, ghoul and mortal—had abandoned their duties and were rising to witness the fight. He paid them no notice. He needed his full attention to deal with Arnulf.
The Goth bellowed a war cry, and Qarakh saw that his teeth had grown longer and sharper. His face bristled with black fur. If Arnulf was in the midst of all-out frenzy, he might well be unstoppable.
The Goth charged and Qarakh waited—ignoring the screams of his Beast to run forward and meet their foe’s attack head on. Instead he drew a second weapon from his belt, a sharpened length of oak. At the last moment, Qarakh dodged to the side and brought the blade of his saber down on Arnulf’s wrist with all his strength. The blow severed the tendon. Though the Goth felt no pain, he couldn’t maintain its grip on the ax, and the weapon fell to the ground with a dull metallic thud. Arnulf continued stumbling forward, and Qarakh jumped up, spun around in midair, and slammed his sword hilt into the back of Arnulf’s head. The Goth warrior pitched forward and hit the ground face first. Before Arnulf could rise, Qarakh dropped his saber and leaped onto the Cainite’s back. There, he shifted his stake to a two-handed grip and jammed it between the Goth’s shoulder blades with all his strength—and through his heart. Arnulf stiffened and was still.
It was over.
No, it’s not! His beast insisted. Tear him to pieces with your teeth! Swallow his flesh, drink his blood! It’s no less than he deserves for challenging the khan!
Qarakh let go of the oaken stake and looked at his hands. The nails were long and black, and the backs and palms were covered with gray fur. He rode his Beast like a wild mare, but he could feel it bucking under him about to send him straight into a wild and frenzied killing spree. He could no longer resist—
But then he felt a hand on his shoulder once more, the grip strong, reassuring and—though he didn’t allow himself to believe it—loving.
He looked up into Deverra’s eyes, and though he felt his canines jutting forth from an upper jaw that was partially distended like a wolf’s snout, he saw no disgust in her gaze. Only understanding and again, love.
“It’s finished, Qarakh. You’ve won.”
Kill the bitch, too! Kill them all!
Qarakh closed his eyes and concentrated on the feeling of Deverra’s hand on his shoulder. He felt an urge to reach up and cover it with his own hand—now hairless and short-nailed—but he didn’t. He was a Cainite and also a khan. Such a display of emotion would have been inappropriate. He felt his teeth recede into his gums as they returned to their normal size. He then opened his eyes, gave Deverra a grateful look, and stood up.
The stake protruded from Arnulf’s back. Vitae soaked his leather jerkin and pooled on the ground around him. The Goth wasn’t dead, though. At least, no more so than Qarakh or any other night creature. Wood through the heart caused paralysis until it was withdrawn.
Fully aware that everyone, mortal and no, was watching him, Qarakh crouched down next to Arnulf’s head.
“I know you can still hear me. Normally I would slay anyone who challenged me as you did, but you are a mighty warrior, Arnulf, and your strong right arm would be missed if we should go to war with Alexander. In a moment, I will withdraw my weapon. What occurs afterward is up to you.”
Qarakh paused to give Arnulf—whose body might be paralyzed but whose mind was still functioning—a chance to think about what he had just said. He took up his saber in his right hand. He then gripped the oaken stake with his left and yanked it free of Arnulf’s body. The Mongol stepped back, blade held ready and waited for Arnulf’s wound to heal. The Goth lay still for a moment, but his fingers eventually twitched. He moaned deep in his throat. With obvious effort, he pushed himself into a kneeling position then stood on wobbly legs. Though his wounds were healing, the front of his jerkin was smeared with vitae, and his skin was bleached white as a result of the blood loss he’d suffered. Arnulf would have to feed soon.
Though the Goth was in no condition to fight, still Qarakh did not lower his weapons. Even if Arnulf had met the Final Death, Qarakh wouldn’t have relaxed his guard—the warrior was that dangerous.
“Have you decided?” Qarakh asked.
Arnulf looked at him for a moment, jaw and throat muscles working as if he had forgotten how to speak during his temporary paralysis.
“Yes,” he croaked. Then he turned, nearly falling over in the process, and began walking away from Qarakh, his stride becoming surer and stronger with every step he took. The entire tribe watched as the Goth continued walking away from the campsite and toward the line of trees not far distant. The message was clear. He hadn’t chosen to continue their fight, nor had he chosen to remain with the tribe. Arnulf had chosen exile.
Wilhelmina was at Qarakh’s side then. “He shall return. He merely needs some time for the fire within him die down.” But the Viking maid’s tone suggested she didn’t quite believe it herself.
Alessandro, Deverra and Grandfather joined them.
“There was nothing else you could have done,” the Iberian said.
“Except slay him,” Grandfather added. “It might have been better if you had. He isn’t the kind of man who forgives and forgets.”
Qarakh knew the elder spoke truth, and he feared that all he had done was postpone their battle for another time and place.
Deverra said nothing. She merely stood by him and watched as Arnulf reached the forest, passed between two large oak trees and was gone.
Alexander sat in a small wooden boat in the midst of a vast slate gray sea. The sky was overcast, the clouds purple-black, as if the heavens had been bruised by the fist of some great merciless god. The wind was cold and strong, lashing the dark water into choppy waves and causing the small boat to rock and pitch. Alexander gripped the sides of the boat to steady himself. The turbulent waters did not alarm him. During his long existence, he’d had more than one occasion to take to the sea. While he was far from being a master mariner, he was comfortable enough on the ocean.
“Hello.”
Alexander had been alone in the boat, but now he had company. Seated facing him was a youth of no more than sixteen or seventeen summers, handsome, with close-cropped curly black hair. He was dressed in a robe of royal purple, and there was something about the way he sat—a tilt to his head, a mocking hint of a smile—that gave off an air of patrician haughtiness.
Alexander was looking at himself.
The newcomer smiled, revealing Cainite teeth. “It’s Narcissus’s dream come true, eh? I’m far more solid than a mere reflection in a stream.”
Alexander was disturbed by this—vision? apparition?—but he maintained his calm. He’d encountered all manner of strange beings and enchantments in the last two thousand years, and he’d managed to defeat, bargain with or evade them all. This time would be no different.
“Who are you and what is this place?” Alexander had to shout to be heard over the wind and waves, but the newcomer that wore his face had no such problem. He spoke normally and Alexander could hear him without difficulty.
“You tell me.”
Alexander felt anger rise. He didn’t like being toyed with; the role of tormentor was usually his. But he forced himself to ignore his feelings and think upon his doppelganger’s challenge.
“This is… a dream?”
The newcomer’s smile widened into a grin, but there was no mirth in his eyes.
Alexander was surprised by this revelation. While it wasn’t unheard of for Cainites to dream as they slumbered, it was something of a rarity. A few dreamed quite regularly from what he understood, but he wasn’t one of them. He’d had only a handful of dreams over the course of two millennia, none of which he could clearly recall. This was something of a novelty to him, and he found himself becoming intrigued. After two thousand years of unlife, novelties were very few and far between for Alexander of Paris.
“I can’t say I think much of the setting I’ve chosen,” he said aloud. “It demonstrates a regrettable lack of imagination.”
The other chuckled. “You do Narcissus one better. Even he wasn’t vain enough to imagine himself creator of the universe. This is a dream, yes, but it’s not your dream.” The other gestured toward the water. “It’s theirs.”
Alexander looked where the newcomer indicated and saw, just beneath the waves, the silhouettes of dark forms gliding through the water. They were roughly man-shaped and swam around the boat in slow circles. He extended his gaze farther and saw that the ocean was filled with the dark shapes. Hundreds, thousands, perhaps millions of them, as far as the eye could see in all directions, and all of them were swimming around his tiny, fragile wooden craft.