His knights did well to fear the howls at night, Jürgen knew. But he feared Nikita more, and with every passing night, he dreaded walking down the long hallway to the abbot’s rooms. He dreamed daily that he would find that room awash in gore, that the archbishop would take the blood of the two ghouls assigned to guard him and then leap on Jürgen as a wave of vitae, dissolving him, consuming him, becoming him.
Tonight, Jürgen sat in the former scriptorium watching the knights sleep. The casket, currently housed in the dining hall, was nearly finished. The trick now was keeping Nikita’s body secure en route to Vykos. While he couldn’t know for certain, he imagined that Vykos was probably lurking in Brasov, but even knowing where Vykos was he still faced the thorny problem of not having enough knights to send on such a potentially dangerous mission.
Shaking off that problem for a moment, Jürgen pored over the latest message he’d received from Jovirdas. The Tzimisce seemed to be holding his end of the bargain quite well; he had been sending supplies and men along as promised, allowing Jürgen to send some of his troops back to Kybartai occasionally. He always rewarded men who traveled to the monastery with a healthy drink of his blood from the chalice, both to strengthen them for the trying nights ahead and to reinforce the blood oath to him, for although Jovirdas seemed to be upholding his end of their agreement, Jürgen could not forget that, on the night he had bested Nikita, someone had broken a promise to him.
He read Jovirdas’s letter again, looking for any signs of betrayal. The letter was brief and to the point; the only informal matter it discussed was the Letters of Acindynus, and Jovirdas only mentioned the topic to inform Jürgen that he would be sending the letters with the next knights to venture to the monastery. The Tzimisce had found them fascinating, and had in fact asked permission to make a copy when and if time allowed.
Along with Jovirdas’s letter was one from Rosamund. Jürgen had not read it yet, for it was the first one he’d seen since he’d left her behind at the fort. He was surprised that she had taken so long to write; she was normally verbose and the fact that he had sent a sincere (if admittedly somewhat brief) note for her back with the first knight he’d sent to Jovirdas should have driven her to write immediately. But she had not, and that only made him worry more. Had she betrayed him? Was the broken oath he had heard hers?
He could peer into her mind even now, even at this distance, and yet he dared not. He dared it not for the same reason that he feared to look in on Nikita’s torpid body. He feared to open the door, lest he find himself in a nightmare, just as his confessor had said. His Beast laughed at that fear, and with a snarl he grabbed Rosamund’s letter and broke the seal.
Jürgen read the letter at first with anxiety, then with sorrow. She was not angry with him for his brief letter, but had been in mourning for Thomas and had not been able to summon the words. Plus, she had been helping Jovirdas read the Letters—apparently, his literacy had improved dramatically in the last month. She did not ask about the siege of the monastery nor about Nikita, though since Raoul had undoubtedly heard details from his fellow knights by now, Rosamund surely wasn’t wanting for information on the subject.
Her final paragraphs read:
I know that you are a soldier, and knew when you left that you would be away some time. But has it only been six weeks? Not even two turnings of the moon, not so long to mortal time and an eyeblink to us? Shall we be apart for years or decades, watching the mortals around us grow old? Shall we meet again as young and strong as we were when we parted?
Will you remember me, and what we shared before you left? Do you remember now? I assure you that I do, and I think of it nightly, as the eastern side of my room grows warmer and I hear the mortals stir before blackness and silence claim me.
My lord, when can I join you? I can do much here, and I know that, but I could do much by your side as well. Though I am no warrior, I am a Scion, and I am of your kind if not of your blood. If it please you, write quickly and allow me to join you at the monastery. Jovirdas tells me he is finished with the Letters; perhaps we can read them together again. Perhaps I can simply be of company, but I am certain that you have other needs than company that I can meet.
I await your response. Though the days grow longer and the season changes around me, the only change in the world that matters is seeing you again.”
Yours,
Rosamund
Jürgen read the letter again several more times, finally simply running his hand down the parchment and feeling the texture of the ink beneath his fingers. The only change in the world that matters is seeing you again. Jürgen reflected again that a force that could change a Cainite was mighty indeed, and longed to feel that force again.
He placed the letter carefully aside and began to study the maps of the area. He needed a way to find Vykos; again, while he could simply find his mind with a moment’s concentration, he did not wish to give anything away by such tactics. He relished the image of Vykos’s shock when he opened the casket and saw Nikita before him. He smiled at the thought, absently, staring at the wall of the scriptorium.
“Something amuses my lord?”
Wolfgang stood at the door, about to wake the next knight for the watch. “Nothing I think you’d understand, Wolfgang,” murmured Jürgen.
Perhaps I can simply be of company, the letter had said. Jürgen had not spoken to another Cainite since Gotzon had left. Václav had been the only one he had taken with him from Kybartai. Jürgen hadn’t needed much incentive to invite her here, and this realization—the knowledge that no other thinking being in his immediate area could truly understand him—was enough to set his hand to writing. Jürgen picked up a fresh piece of parchment and sharpened his quill.
My dear Rosamund…
Chapter Thirty-Four
“Dawn is coming, my lord.”
Jürgen glanced up from his maps to see Friederich standing in the doorway. Jürgen had taken over the abbot’s rooms as his own, after making certain the window was securely blocked. Nikita rested in his casket outside of the monastery, between the burial ground and the pile of bone and ash that constituted the remains of the monks.
“I suppose winter couldn’t last forever.” Jürgen frowned. The days were growing longer, meaning his ghoul knights would become even more important. He had considered granting the Embrace to one of them—Bertolt, perhaps, or even Friederich himself—but at present he needed his forces to be strongest by day. “Inform the men that tomorrow they shall drink from the chalice.”
“Yes, my lord.” He turned to go.
“Has an envoy from Kybartai been sighted?”
Friederich shook his head. “No, my lord. I could send a scout farther from the monastery to see if…”
“No need. They probably won’t arrive by night, anyway.” He nodded at the knight to dismiss him and went back to his own thoughts.
Having the men drink from the chalice was risky. It required Jürgen to feed heavily, and while enough of the monks survived for the ritual to take place, it would probably kill the last of them. And yet, if he did not give the gift of his own vitae to his knights, they would lose their strength and their devotion in short order.
A hunter must leave his home in the harshest winter if he is to eat, thought Jürgen. If I am to survive here, I must find prey as well. He had spent too long worrying about his “message” to Vykos, combing through maps and sending out scouts to other settlements to find the best routes. Jürgen considered simply sending the archbishop to a closer monastery, but if the brothers there inadvertently exposed him to the sun or (worse) removed the stake from his heart, the effect would be lost.
Nikita could wait, Jürgen decided. It was time to make war once again, before the days grew so long that he would be incapable of going to battle. But upon whom?
He had assumed that the Obertus order had been a pillar of support for Rustovitch, since Vykos was technically his subordinate. If Jürgen was to claim territory here, he would need to knock out any of
the other supports that Rustovitch was using. He suspected that sending Nikita to Vykos would send a clear enough message. Vykos probably wouldn’t risk freeing the archbishop, for fear of his unlife, and if he did, Jürgen would be more prepared for Nikita next time.
The Obertus order had other monasteries in the area, of course, but Jürgen was unsure of the necessity of attacking them and sending the archbishop to Vykos. It might be seen as overkill, as zealotry that Jürgen did not wish to exhibit. But who, then, is left?
He knew from Jervais that the beast that had slain Alexander had allies here, allies that performed arcane rituals in sacred groves, but according to the Tremere, their leader had been destroyed. Going after them would be pointless, simply a waste of resources. Let those Telyavs die out along with their pagan peoples, Jürgen thought dismissively.
His Beast snarled in disagreement. It demanded that he hunt those beings down and take the blood of their human followers, burn their blasphemous groves and reduce them to dust.
Jürgen paused, and for once decided he’d listen to his Beast, after a fashion.
Rustovitch was a Scion—perhaps not a proper one, perhaps following some debased version of the Via Regalis, but a Scion nonetheless. He would take whatever advantage he could, using the Obertus monks one night and the Telyavs the next. The Gangrel of the forest, one of whom had slain Alexander, might patronize the Telyavs and their people, but Jürgen very much doubted that Rustovitch received no tribute or boon from them. It makes sense for the pagans, anyway, thought Jürgen, to choose the devil they know over “invaders” like Alexander… and myself.
Jürgen wrote a letter to a knight of the Teutonic Order. If von Salza had stuck to his original travel plans, they shouldn’t be too far away from the monastery at present. Jürgen didn’t have the manpower to send Nikita’s casket to Vykos and launch any kind of assault, but he knew that at least seven members of the Order of the Black Cross were traveling with von Salza. That should be enough to destroy the fragmented Telyavs… if he could find them.
Jürgen stood and left the offices. He heard the knights saying their prayers, some rising to greet the day, others bedding down after a night watch. Jürgen insisted that the monastery be guarded as if it could be attacked at any moment.
He left the monastery and walked out onto the grounds. The snow was melting and the earth was growing softer beneath his feet. He walked to the edge of the trees and looked down at the ground; he could see tracks from various animals. Wolves, deer, rodents. He wasn’t the tracker that Bertolt was, but he could see this forest teemed with life.
And all of it useless to me, he thought. Except perhaps the wolves.
He walked back towards the monastery, wishing that he could sleep somewhere else today. He felt sleep tug at his senses, and for a moment, just a moment, he wondered about the sleep of ages, wondered whether he should simply fall into torpor and awaken in some new era, with new enemies to fight, new blood to spill.
Ridiculous, of course, he realized. Such thoughts were for old Cainites, those so out of touch with the world and the mortals that they fed on that they could not relate to anyone but others of their age… but others of their age were more often plotting against them than exchanging reminisces. Jürgen wasn’t so old as that, even as many wars and years as he’d seen.
But slaughtering monks? Even given the horrific battle with Nikita’s creature and then the archbishop himself, the battle hadn’t been what he’d wanted. He would rather have fought in the outdoors, in the open, where he could truly revel in the glory of battle. It seemed a sin to do it indoors, monastery or not.
He heard something in the forest and immediately gave a shrill whistle. Four knights rushed to his side. Jürgen listened, sharpening his hearing to what was coming.
Whatever it was, it was wounded. It stumbled and walked irregularly, bumping into trees, falling, but continuing on its way as though being chased.
Chased?
Jürgen listened more closely and heard the pursuers as well. But they weren’t men. “Wolves,” he whispered. “Wolves are chasing something towards us.”
“A hart?” The knight who asked sounded fearful, and Jürgen didn’t blame him.
“I don’t think so. Wolves wouldn’t chase a hart towards the smell of fire.” He cocked his head again. “Besides, their prey is running on two legs.” One of the knights stepped forward as though to enter the woods. Jürgen stopped him. “No. It could be a decoy, and in any case, if we intercept the wolves’ prey we join it. We will wait—the victim is heading straight for us.”
The knights spread out, drawing weapons. Others came to join them. Jürgen stood still, sword still sheathed, listening to the man running in the woods. He was close enough that Jürgen could hear his breath coming in ragged gasps, and could hear something splattering to the ground around the man. Sweat? Blood, more likely. Jürgen’s Beast stirred, but he only shook his head helplessly. The man was no enemy of Jürgen, no prisoner of war, and so that blood would go to waste.
The man broke into a run. The wolves did likewise. Some of the knights gasped; they could see flashes of movement in the trees.
The man burst through the trees into the clearing. Jürgen had enough time to register that he was wearing the mantle of a Sword-Brother before the wolves broke the clearing.
Jürgen gave a quick rallying cry and his soldiers fell back, making a defensive circle around the man. The wolves closed in on them, and Jürgen peered at the animals, searching for a human mind within them. To his relief, he found only one—a huge, gray wolf with red, gleaming eyes and a bloodied snout. While the other wolves sported the dull, featureless haloes of true animals, this one crackled with violets and reds… but pale, bloodless.
Jürgen stepped out of the cluster of men towards the Gangrel. The wolves, sensing the power of the Sword-Bearer, flanked their leader. Jürgen glared down at the undead wolf and bared his fangs in challenge.
The natural wolves—probably battened on the Gangrel’s blood—snarled and snapped at Jürgen, but their vampiric alpha didn’t move. Jürgen locked eyes with him and hissed, “Become a man.”
The wolf took a step back, but did not change. He looked over the monastery grounds and past Jürgen at the wooden casket, and then back at Jürgen.
Jürgen heard sound from the road, off to his left. The envoy from Kybartai had arrived… and that meant Rosamund.
He leaped forward and kicked one of the wolves hard enough to splinter its skull. Another bit his leg, but Jürgen grabbed it by the scruff of the neck and threw it against a tree. The other wolves backed off, snarling. The Gangrel glanced at them, probably trying to retain control, but as Jürgen advanced, they retreated into the trees.
The envoy was now in view. The Gangrel glanced over Jürgen’s shoulder; Jürgen had no need to do so. He could hear her footsteps on the muddied ground, smell her hair, feel the bond between them.
He drew his sword and struck at the wolf. It dodged to one side easily, but did not attack.
From behind him, Jürgen heard one of the knights say, “He’s dying. He’s been bitten.”
“Good God, will he change?” another asked.
If he dies, thought Jürgen, I shall have to rely on reading the memories of his clothing to see what happened to him. Grimacing, Jürgen slashed at the wolf again. He fought the urge to look back at Rosamund, to see her running towards him.
The wolf tensed, as if to spring, and then backed away. It bared its teeth to Jürgen, and then turned and ran off into the forest. Jürgen listened for a few seconds to make sure it wasn’t doubling back, and then turned to see her.
She stood near the casket, mud from the ground staining her dress. He sheathed his sword and opened his arms, wanting nothing more than to hold her. That is what I wanted, he thought. Those arms could hold me against torpor and time, could—
“My lord?” Friederich looked up at him. Jürgen’s head snapped downwards, away from his lady. “This man is dying.”
&
nbsp; Jürgen crouched next to the injured knight. His left arm had been savaged and he was soaked in blood. He would surely die within a moment. He began to whisper in a language Jürgen did not understand, and then his eyes focused and he saw the knights’ mantles. “Save me,” he whispered in Latin.
Jürgen closed his eyes. “The chalice, Friederich.”
“Sir?”
“Chalice, boy! The rest of you leave. Take Lady Rosamund and the others from the envoy inside.”
Friederich pulled the chalice from the pouch at his side and handed it to Jürgen. “Lift his head up,” he instructed. Friederich did so. Jürgen leaned down to whisper to the man. “You were brought low by demons, my friend.” The knight’s eyes widened. “But you have another chance, if you devote yourself to fighting against those demons. If you swear loyalty to the Black Cross and to me.”
Friederich’s eyes grew wide. He had never seen anyone come fully under the Black Cross before, of course. Jürgen wondered if the chalice-bearer harbored desires to do so himself. “I don’t understand,” whispered the dying knight.
“I have no time to explain. You must choose. You may die and be taken into Heaven… but understand, no priest is here to hear your sins or to say your Mass.” The man looked about to cry. “Or, you may come unto the Black Cross and do the Lord’s work on Earth, forever, as a soldier to God and to me.”
The Cross or the Crown, thought Jürgen. Am I giving him the same choice, in a way? Go to Heaven or stay here with me? But would he go to Heaven? Has he sins on his head?
The man’s lips moved, but no sound came forth. Finally, he choked, “You.”
Friederich’s face was a combination of terror and fascination. Jürgen leaned down and bit into the man’s throat, taking the rest of his blood. The taste was foul, unclean—Jürgen could take no sustenance from a man who was not his enemy, but if the knight had blood remaining in his body, the Embrace might not work. Jürgen bit his wrist and filled the chalice with his blood, and then lifted the cup to the knight’s lips. The knight drank, swallowed, and then was still.
Dark Ages Clan Novel Ventrue: Book 12 of the Dark Ages Clan Novel Saga Page 22