Dark Ages Clan Novel Ventrue: Book 12 of the Dark Ages Clan Novel Saga

by Matthew McFarland

  Rosamund shook his head. “He never said so much, not directly. But I saw it. I saw the way his colors and mind changed when I spoke of you and of Hardestadt. I think he has taken blood from your sire.”

  Jürgen ground his teeth. “Yes, I suppose his blood might well wash away the oath Albin had with me, especially since he has not received my own blood in so long.” Jürgen took a moment to put the pieces together. The Silent Fury never went too far from Magdeburg, which meant that Albin could spy on both them and Jürgen without too much difficulty, especially if he and the rebels were allied. But Hardestadt… what did the lord of the Fiefs of the Black Cross think to gain here?

  He stood. “Very well. I understand their plan, and I know what must be done. I ride tonight, alone.” His Beast leapt up and howled in delight, but Jürgen shushed it. He walked to the door, and then turned. “My lady…” He moved back to her and took her hands. “I do not know how to thank you for this. I can only say that I knew that there was more to learn from Albin, but that finding it myself would take time, as he would resist me.” He stepped closer. “But no one resists you.”

  He leaned in and kissed her. His fangs were still extended and they brushed gently against her lips, but drew no blood.

  They kissed, and he lost time. He lost rage and blood and honor. He lost everything but the kiss, but her, but what she had done for him without thought of boon or advantage.

  Love?

  The soldier refused to allow it. He stopped and pulled back. She looked surprised and perhaps a bit frightened—this was unlike Jürgen. He turned and left the room, instructing the guards to make sure that Rosamund was kept safe.

  Heinrich joined him immediately. “My lord, what is happening?”

  Jürgen grimaced. “I am leaving, Heinrich. I have important business.” He nodded towards the stables. “Go and make sure my horse is saddled, and tell Christof that he is to act as prince until I return. I doubt it will be more than a few nights.”

  “Alone, my lord?”

  “Yes.” He stopped at the prison door. “I am only staying to feed and get my sword, and then I ride.” He started to descend the stairs, and then turned back to his seneschal. “Heinrich, Albin must not know that I have left, under any circumstances.” Heinrich nodded and darted off to the stable. Jürgen continued down towards the prisoners. He would need his strength.

  He knew where to find the Silent Fury.

  Chapter Eight

  Jürgen rode south, his horse’s hooves deafening in the still night. He dearly wished he could dull his senses and hear as a mortal, but he could not—when riding at night, he needed to be able to see the road by the dim moonlight. While that was all very well, his hearing was similarly sharp, and the pounding hooves drowned out any other sound.

  Trabitz. He had never been there. It wasn’t a large town. It was significant only insofar as Hardestadt’s court stopped nearby. Hardestadt never held court in the same place for too long. Every few years, he would send word to Jürgen as to his traveling schedule for when and where he expected to see his childe. Hardestadt paid very little attention to what happened behind him, as ever more concerned with what was before him. Jürgen couldn’t find too much fault with his sire’s practices—his sire was unquestionably one of the most powerful Cainites in the world. But he hadn’t noticed the Silent Fury following him, dwelling ever in his shadow, probably only a week behind him. Feeding on his scraps like the dogs they were. Small wonder, then, that Albin had found them so easily.

  Small wonder that Albin had such incomplete information on Jürgen—he had traveled with the Silent Fury instead of gathering information for Hardestadt.

  Still, Jürgen could not help but pity the Ghost of Magdeburg. The Caitiff had no idea that he was meant to be a sacrificial lamb, simple bait to lead Jürgen into conflict with his sire. Jürgen rode on; he reasoned that he could reach Trabitz before daybreak. Once in the vicinity, he should have little trouble finding the Silent Fury—Cainites left evidence of their passing if they were not careful, and these Furores had most assuredly proven careless.

  His horse’s hooves flew over the uneven ground, but the steed—strengthened on Jürgen’s blood and trained with Akuji’s skill with animals—didn’t slow. Jürgen’s thoughts drifted to Rosamund. Would she have come on this mission, had I asked? How have I any right to ask such a thing? This mission is nothing more or less than war, and Rosamund is no warrior. That thought troubled Jürgen. All Cainites, no matter clan or road, possessed the capability for battle. The Rose Clan, known commonly as the Toreador, possessed skills of perception and speed that made them fearsome combatants. Some of them, like Rosamund’s brother-in-Blood, Josselin, did choose that path; others chose more artistic pursuits. Jürgen wondered if Rosamund’s sex held her back; he knew that sheer age and necessity made warriors out of many female Cainites.

  He heard the river to the east and urged his horse closer to it. Hardestadt’s court had followed the river for a time, and so the Sword-Bearer assumed that the Silent Fury had as well. He ducked under a branch and slowed slightly. He’d been riding for hours; his quarry should be somewhat nearby. Their leader had been a merchant in life, and if he was correct in his assumption that Pierre Cardinal was now a Cainite, spreading his tunes as he had in life, the pack of them wouldn’t be too far from Trabitz. They must sleep outdoors or in a wagon, perhaps with a ghoul guard, and enter the city to feed at night. Now Jürgen only had to track them.

  Trabitz wasn’t a large settlement—the population wouldn’t support five Cainites easily. As he rode, he smelled tilled earth. People, farmers perhaps, were nearby. He dismounted and walked his horse, having no desire to tire the stallion out too much. He would need to ride back as quickly as he’d come, after all.

  From the distance he heard someone singing. The words were German, but the tune was familiar.

  Sits in his castle on the Elbe,

  Happy in his sty, happy in his swill.

  Jürgen noted with some distaste that the lyrics had been reworked to fit him. He drew his sword.

  Spends nights at the teat of his fair French whore,

  The pig, the pig with the shining sword.

  Jürgen crept closer. He had no gift for stealth, but the Cainites of the Silent Fury seemed not to notice. He peered out at them—the moonlight was enough for him to see by, and of course they had no fire lit. Fire only served to frighten Cainites, for it could not warm them and many of them had no need of the light.

  He only saw four. One sat near a small wagon and played on a lute. His clothes and accent marked him as Pierre Cardinal, the Toreador. His childe was nowhere to be seen, but she wasn’t the one Jürgen was most concerned about. Christoffel Weiss, the Caitiff, stood near the Toreador and sang along. Armin Brenner stood off, peering towards the river.

  Where is the Tzimisce?

  Members of this clan, often called the Clan of Dragons, were dangerous in ways that no other Cainites could be. The merest touch of a Tzimisce could reshape flesh, splinter bone and even—if legends were to be believed—draw the blood from an unliving body. Jürgen wished to kill the wild-looking woman first, but could not see her.

  And then Jürgen’s horse shrieked, and he knew that she was near after all.

  He heard the music stop and a warning called out in a language Jürgen had heard before, but did not understand—some bastard Slavic tongue.

  The Sword-Bearer leapt to his feet and strode towards the Cainites. He had no need to hide, or to sneak, or to cower. He was the Prince of Magdeburg, and he had no fear of the peasants before him.

  They attacked as a group—they had clearly been training for the night when they might face Jürgen in battle. Pierre darted in more quickly than a human eye would have been able to follow, stabbing at Jürgen’s face with a short blade. Jürgen deflected it easily, and lashed out at the Toreador. The blow caught him by surprise and Pierre stumbled backwards, out of Jürgen’s reach. Jürgen raised his sword and advanced, just as Christof
fel leapt on him from behind.

  The Caitiff’s fangs pierced the back of Jürgen’s neck, and Jürgen realized with a trickle of cold fear that they intended to take his blood and soul as well as his unlife. He wasn’t surprised, of course—while performing the Amaranth on another Cainite, especially a prince, was tantamount to blasphemy, surely nothing was beneath these wretches.

  Jürgen’s Beast roared in frustration, but Jürgen quieted it. He stabbed his sword into the ground, reached behind him and seized Weiss with both hands, and flung him against a tree. He heard bones crack in the impact, and more break as the Caitiff tried to regain his footing, but ignored them. Weiss would have to waste precious blood and time healing himself, and Jürgen did not intend to give him the chance. He snatched his sword from the ground and rushed at the Caitiff still struggling to his feet. Christoffel’s eyes grew wide as Jürgen drew back his sword to decapitate him—but the blow didn’t land.

  Armin Brenner tackled the prince, and Jürgen mentally chastised himself for not keeping his attention to the side. Brenner, as was typical of his clan, was much stronger than his small frame would indicate. Also characteristically, he was on the verge of frenzy.

  Jürgen dropped his sword again. He grabbed the Brujah by the throat and groin, raised him above his head, and brought Brenner’s back down on his knee. Brenner’s spine shattered with a sickening crunch, and he screamed in pain. Jürgen threw him to the side—repairing a wound of that magnitude would take only minutes, but minutes would be enough. He picked up his sword and saw that Weiss was retreating towards the wagon, obviously as the precursor to an attack by the others.

  Jürgen had no intention of playing into their hands. He sprinted towards the wagon and jumped on top of it. Looking down, he saw Weiss, Cardinal, and Cardinal’s childe waiting for him. The girl was terrified—almost in Rötschreck, Jürgen guessed. He glared down at her and bared his fangs, his gaze cutting through her mind as surely as his blade would her head. She shrieked and ran. Cardinal looked after her and shouted, “Mathilde!”

  Weiss kept his eyes on Jürgen, but he was still trying to set the bones in his legs. The Sword-Bearer leapt nimbly down from the wagon and landed behind the Toreador, grabbed a handful of hair, and drove his blade through the small of Cardinal’s back. He fell to his knees as Jürgen’s sword severed his spine, and, shoving the musician to the ground, Jürgen turned his attention to Weiss.

  “Christoffel Weiss, isn’t it?”

  The Caitiff said nothing, but held his ground. Stupid, thought Jürgen. In a Ventrue, someone who has a hope of dying honorably, it might be brave, but from this rabble?

  “Your minstrel here gave you away.” Jürgen ground his booted heel into Cardinal’s back with enough force to shove his broken spine out through the stomach wall. “He apparently is very fond of that pig song, as he has managed to leave it in villages all over the Empire. Those villages match my sire’s route, as it happens.” Jürgen heard someone rushing towards him from behind; he could tell by the force of the steps and their speed that it must be Brenner.

  Jürgen spun, but kept his foot planted on Cardinal’s back and his sword pointed at Weiss’s head. Brenner, as he expected, was charging him, but his angle of attacking was wrong. A feint, Jürgen realized. He jumped forward to meet the Brujah, whipping his sword around in front of him. Brenner might have had enough time to dodge if Jürgen had stayed in place and attacked, but the sudden jump towards him surprised him. Jürgen’s sword pierced Brenner’s stomach and exited from his back. The Sword-Bearer looked down into the Brujah’s eyes and saw humanity and reason melt away—Armin Brenner had given way to his Beast, and was now much more dangerous. Jürgen spun and threw him off his sword towards Cardinal’s prone body. Then he turned to meet the fiend.

  Mathilde—Cardinal’s cowardly childe—was a weakling, but the Silent Fury’s other female member was obviously anything but. She carried no weapons, but the bones of her fingers extended past the flesh and came to wicked-looking points. Her hair was gone—the top of her head boasted only a thick layer of skin and Jürgen realized that she must have removed her own hair to prevent him from using it to his advantage in battle. He opened his mouth to comment, but then stopped. She would not be able to hear him. Her own Beast guided her, but she stalked Jürgen with the single-minded ferocity of a trained hunting dog preparing to bring down a hart.

  How does her Beast know me? Does she command it?

  Jürgen’s own Beast cackled and demanded leave to fight this battle. Jürgen refused and shouted a challenge. The Tzimisce crouched and pounced like a cat.

  Jürgen braced himself and then swung his sword at the tips of her outstretched fingers. He knocked her hands aside, splintering the bone claws she had fashioned for herself and, more importantly, knocking her hands away from his face. He had no idea if the fiend could use her foul flesh-crafting powers while the Beast rode her, but he had no wish to take a chance on having his skin reduced to jelly. She landed from her pounce awkwardly, her hands bloodied, and crouched again.

  Jürgen drew back his sword. If she leapt at him again, he could probably take her head off and end this battle before the others could regroup. Already he heard splintering wood from the wagon and a yelp of pain, but dared not turn his head to see what had happened.

  The Tzimisce leapt, and Jürgen stepped forward to meet her. Too late, he realized that she had twisted in midair and landed beyond the reach of his sword. She reached out, grabbed the weapon by the blade and locked her fingers around it. Jürgen pulled and saw the blade part her flesh, but she was much stronger than he would have thought possible. However, both of her hands were now engaged.

  He released the blade and grabbed her by the throat. Immediately, she dropped the sword and drove her fingers—had the bones regrown already?—into his wrists. The pain was bearable, but Jürgen knew that if she were to use her powers of flesh-crafting now she might sever his hands, and he had no idea if he could repair the damage. A tiny sliver of fear entered his mind—what was a warrior without hands? In that sliver, his Beast slipped its leash.

  Jürgen pulled the woman close as though to embrace her, and then sank his fangs into her throat. She howled in rage and dug her claws deeper into his wrists, but Jürgen’s pain was lost in the throes of the Beast’s hunger. His mouth filled with her blood, he drank in great, hurried gulps. The taste was strange—he had fed from other vampires before, of course, even in battle, but never from a Tzimisce. The blood burned his tongue as heavily spiced food might burn that of a mortal, and his Beast faltered.

  Jürgen seized control of his Beast and forced it to the back of his mind. He pushed the woman back, knocked her prone and looked down. For a moment she looked pitiable, and Jürgen felt that he should spare her—she could fight, after all, and so perhaps he had a place for her?

  He shook the thought off and retrieved his sword. The Tzimisce struggled to her feet, but by that time Jürgen was already swinging the blade. The sword’s edge met her throat at the same point his teeth had, and cleaved her flesh just as readily. Her head fell to the ground, her body already decaying. The pity and respect Jürgen felt faded just as quickly. All Cainites could enslave others merely with a drop of their blood, and Jürgen knew well the power of the blood oath.

  He turned towards the wagon and saw Cardinal and Weiss wrestling with Brenner. Weiss raised a jagged chunk of wood—probably torn from the wagon—and stabbed it into the Brujah’s heart. Jürgen smiled. If they had been better tacticians, one of them would have led Brenner back towards Jürgen and the Tzimisce and then let the three of them destroy each other. Jürgen wasn’t sure, in fact, that he would have been able to defeat them both so easily. Now, battened on the blood of the wild woman, he strode towards the two Cainites.

  Cardinal saw him coming and jumped to his feet, but Jürgen willed himself to become faster. He sprang forward and sliced at the Toreador’s face with his sword, cleaving a section of bone away and putting out both of Cardinal’s eyes. He
dropped to his knees, screaming, and Jürgen’s sword flashed downwards to separate his head from his body.

  Weiss backed off in horror. Jürgen advanced, stepping over the torpid body of Armin Brenner. He would remain insensate until the stake was removed, and Jürgen didn’t see the need to let him watch the demise of the Silent Fury.

  From the nearby brush came a scream and Mathilde came charging towards the wagon, fangs bared, blind with rage over her sire’s death. Weiss turned to face her for an instant, and Jürgen took his chance. The sword stopped at his spine, and Weiss collapsed forward, trying to speak around the steel cleaving his throat. Jürgen pinned him to the ground and worked the sword through his neck until his head fell away. For a mortal man, this would have taken minutes; for Jürgen, it took only the time for Weiss to gasp the words “Pater noster—”

  Mathilde flung herself onto Jürgen’s back. The Sword-Bearer reached behind him with his left hand and snapped her neck, and then flung her to the ground. She was obviously weakened from fear and hunger—rather than heal herself, she simply lay there and twitched. Jürgen took the moment to heal the remaining wounds on his wrists and study her more closely.

  She had once been his prisoner, he realized. Some three years before she had been caught skulking around one of the outlying towns of Magdeburg, but Jürgen had been busy with matters involving the Church’s inquisitors and hadn’t bothered to interrogate her. She had either escaped or been freed; at the time, Jürgen had berated the agent that had found her, but was just as annoyed at himself for not immediately transferring her to his own prisons. Now he had even more cause to regret the mistake—she was a member of the Silent Fury. Had he questioned her then, he could have learned enough about the Furores to avoid this waste of time.

  Jürgen smacked his lips. The Tzimisce blood dried against his lips like rancid milk. He would need to wash his mouth before leaving. He wondered if he could reach Magdeburg before dawn. Even if he couldn’t, he could probably reach some sort of haven closer to his city. He briefly considered taking Mathilde back with him for questioning, but decided against it. Best not to let anyone survive who had escaped his grasp. He growled as he thought of Albin—he should never have let the Ghost back into his service.