A man came riding from the trees, flanked by the cloud of bats. He rode slowly, and carried no weapon; Jürgen imagined this was to show that he was not attacking, but kept his hand near the hilt of his sword anyway. The rider passed Varka and snarled; the Telyav fled towards the monastery.
Once the man reached Jürgen, he dismounted and the bats settled in the trees. Jürgen did not recognize the man’s garb or his features, but knew immediately that the dark-skinned vampire standing in front of him was Qarakh. The chieftain regarded Jürgen in the same way one hound might regard another—rivals for prey, rivals for attention, of the same kind but ready to kill one another just the same.
Jürgen could find no fault with that.
Favst took a few steps towards his sire. The woman took a step forward. As one, Jürgen and Qarakh raised their hands to warn their servants off. Jürgen nearly smiled, but had no idea how Qarakh might take such a gesture. As he did not know what language the Gangrel chieftain might speak, he waited for Qarakh to begin the discussion.
But Qarakh didn’t speak right away. He stared into Jürgen’s eyes, as if daring the Sword-Bearer to command him, to take his mind, to look at his memories and reshape them. Jürgen stared back, but did not make any attempt to control the Gangrel. He wasn’t sure it was possible, and in any event, the chieftain would fight. Jürgen had no desire to turn this into a battle; he wasn’t certain that the bats waiting in the trees didn’t hide Cainites among them, nor was he certain that, even if Qarakh and his fellows were the only enemy Cainites here that he and his knights could defeat them. Remember that this savage destroyed Alexander, thought Jürgen, and the Beast gave an icy whimper to punctuate that thought.
Qarakh stared for another moment, and then snarled something in a bestial tongue that Jürgen had never heard. The woman approached, spoke to Qarakh quietly in their shared language, and then addressed Jürgen in German. “The khan does not understand your tongue, nor the tongue of scholars, and he refuses to speak through the traitor-witch.”
“Varka?” Jürgen cast a glance around for the Telyav, but did not see her. All three Gangrel broke out laughing, and Jürgen reminded himself that “Varka” wasn’t her real name. “Very well, then. If you’re to be our interpreter, I should like to know your name.”
The woman cocked her head slightly, and the feeling of recognition grew stronger. He had seen this woman before, somewhere, not long ago, but not in a forest. It had been in court, in Magdeburg….
“Morrow,” he said. She nodded curtly. He refrained from asking what she was doing here, but guessed that since Jervais hadn’t mentioned her (and had met her the same night that Jürgen had) she had recently joined Qarakh’s tribe. He waited for her to speak on Qarakh’s behalf.
The chieftain spoke in his strange tongue, and Morrow translated. “The traitor-bitch says that you come here out of hunger. The khan respects that, but wishes you to know that you will meet the same fate as the last hungry Ventrue.”
So this is the brute that killed Alexander. Jürgen hadn’t wanted to believe it, but decided not to pursue the issue. If he did, he might be honor-bound to avenge his predecessor, and he didn’t know if he could stomach that. “It seems, though, that Tremere appetites aren’t met with such hostility.”
Morrow bared her teeth, but translated this. Qarakh took a moment to respond. Jürgen imagined that he was choosing his words carefully; admitting that Jervais had been quite successful in his mission without losing face would be difficult for the chieftain. Finally, he spoke and Morrow repeated, “The Tremere you sent ate his fill and left. Have you a similar hunger, or will you not stop until all the world rests in your gullet?”
Jürgen wished Rosamund was here; while this sort of parley was perhaps more brutal than what she was accustomed to, no doubt she would have appreciated the word play. “I have heard a saying among Cainites—‘Vengeance is best when the blood is still hot.’ I have struggled for years to keep the blood hot enough to be savory between myself and my enemy, and when that meal is finished, I think I shall be satisfied.”
Morrow repeated this to Qarakh, who took a moment before answering. Jürgen thought he looked confused. “Who,” asked Morrow, “is this enemy?”
“Someone who I think both the,” Jürgen struggled to remember the term she had used, “khan and I could agree is an enemy to us both.” He paused for a few seconds. In a few words, he was about to make a daring move. A lesser soldier would have paused to consider backing out. Jürgen of Magdeburg paused to savor the moment. “Vladimir Rustovitch.”
Jürgen had considered this move every night since Varka had sent his message. He had originally thought to lay an ambush for the Gangrel, but dismissed the idea because they knew the land and its secrets so much better than he did. He had considered setting them against all manner of enemies here, including the Tremere, since he knew that many of them hated the sorcerers anyway. What had finally decided him, though, was something Varka had said—that Qarakh hated and feared civilization above all else.
Jürgen, after all, was an unknown. He was bringing change, after a fashion. Rustovitch was already entrenched, and representative of civilization in a way that, Jürgen hoped, the Gangrel already knew and hated. It was a gamble, true, but one that he felt would work well.
And so Jürgen was not at all prepared for the way that Morrow reacted.
She took a half step back, as though about to pounce, and bared her teeth like a great cat. Then she seemed to remember herself and turned to Qarakh, translating what Jürgen had said. He heard Rustovitch’s name in her speech, but more than that, heard the bitterness and hatred with which she spoke. While Jürgen hoped that this vitriol was directed at Rustovitch, he somehow felt that he had made an error.
Qarakh answered, but much more calmly than his interpreter. The two of them conversed for a moment, and Jürgen glanced off to his right and saw Favst listening. From the look on his face, Jürgen guessed that he understood the language they were using, and that the topic was alarming. Of course, thought Jürgen, everything alarms Favst.
Finally, Morrow spoke. “Rustovitch has enemies in common with us already—you included, Sword-Bearer. I told you once that Rustovitch holds lands here only at our sufferance.”
“True,” replied Jürgen. “And yet, battle was still joined and more than one Gangrel’s ashes lie mixed with the mud in Hungary to this night.”
“Alongside Ventrue and Tzimisce,” she shot back. He briefly reflected how well-traveled this savage woman was.
“And others besides, and what of it?” Jürgen raised his voice slightly; if these animals required a bit of brutal emotion in their diplomacy, so be it. “The point is, Rustovitch couldn’t keep my forces out of his lands, and your people weren’t any kind of deciding factor. Rustovitch has lost support here already—I’ve seen to that—and he will continue to lose it. The elder who once inhabited this place is gone—”
Morrow began translating and Jürgen stopped to let her finish. Qarakh’s expression changed when she stopped speaking; he looked, if not fearful, then more concerned than before. He rasped a question to Morrow, who repeated it: “You destroyed the Cainite who slept here?”
Jürgen smiled smugly. “I defeated him. He is no longer here.”
Another exchange followed between the Gangrel, and then Morrow asked, “That was the contents of the wagon that left here some weeks ago, then? Along with some of your knights and a pretty woman—Rosamund of Islington, if memory serves?”
Jürgen’s Beast suggested that he tear the woman’s tongue out with his teeth for daring to speak Rosamund’s name. Is my Beast now my lady’s champion? he thought. “Yes. I trust you left the wagon unmolested.” He called up power into his gaze and let it wash over the Gangrel. They felt it, even if they would never acknowledge it, and Morrow translated Jürgen’s words for Qarakh.
The chieftain responded, and Morrow said, “We have not stopped that wagon, nor do we intend to.” Jürgen had the feeling that the words
‘now that we know what it contains’ might have fit neatly onto the end of her sentence. “What has this to do with Rustovitch, and why should we view him as an enemy?”
If you have to ask, you are stupider than I thought. Jürgen glanced at Favst and reached out into his mind, pulling what he could understand from the Gangrel’s conversation.
They fear the Cainite that once dwelt here, came Favst’s thoughts.
Jürgen needed to know more. “Why not view me as an ally? I have already slain the monks who lived here—probably not for the same reasons you would wish, but they are dead nonetheless.”
Morrow translated, and Jürgen reached to Favst’s mind again. The Cainite who dwelt here used to hunt the Gangrel, and they left the monks alone, hoping to avoid his wrath.
Perfect, thought Jürgen.
“What have the monks to do with this?” Morrow asked. Jürgen could hear her control slipping. She was confused, her Beast close to the surface.
“Why, didn’t you know? The monks work for Rustovitch,” he answered. “They carry messages for him, they perform research for him. The Cainite that dwelt here was of Rustovitch’s clan, if not his very line. And it’s Vykos, Rustovitch’s vassal, who controls the Obertus order.” He paused to gauge her reaction. She looked furious, as though she had been betrayed. “All of this,” gesturing towards the monastery, “goes back to the voivode of voivodes.”
The two Gangrel began speaking in their odd tongue, quickly, furiously, and Jürgen simply watched. He knew that Nikita had been feeding on Cainites, and so it followed that the archbishop had destroyed some Gangrel—perhaps some Telyavs—in his time. Jürgen actually doubted any direct connection between Rustovitch and Nikita, but the connection between Rustovitch and the Obertus was real enough. The choice is simple, he thought. Either battle me, who defeated Nikita, or battle Rustovitch, who supported him and his monks.
In his heart, Jürgen prayed that Qarakh would make the right choice. If he chose to fight Jürgen, whether here and now or in the future, Jürgen didn’t know what the outcome would be.
After long moments of conversation, Morrow turned once again to face the Sword-Bearer. “You have taken Kybartai?”
Jürgen nodded. “I have. The kunigaikstis, Geidas, is dead, now replaced by his childe Jovirdas, who is loyal to me.” Unless it was he who broke an oath to me, Jürgen reminded himself. But the Gangrel don’t know that—unless of course he broke it while speaking with them.
“The messenger Geidas sent traveled to Bistritz. We let him pass because Rustovitch is there.”
As is Geidas’s sire, thought Jürgen, but they don’t need to know that.
Qarakh and Morrow spoke again, but this time the speech was slow, almost weary. Finally, Morrow asked, “The woods will remain wild? Those Gangrel who choose to stay can stay?”
Jürgen nodded. “Those who obey the Traditions of Caine are welcome. The land is vast. Of course, those who choose to follow pagan gods should do so carefully, for many reasons.” Morrow nodded, and glanced at Qarakh.
“We will go, then,” she said. “We will not battle Rustovitch in your name, but if he has betrayed us, he will feel our wrath.” Qarakh took a step towards Jürgen, looked him up and down, and then growled something in his guttural tongue and mounted his horse. Jürgen could hear the shrieking of the bats as they took wing again, and watched as Morrow tensed her body, presumably to join them. Jürgen called out to her.
“Morrow,” he said. “Out of curiosity, what does ‘Varka’ mean?”
Morrow smiled, not without malice. “It means ‘martyr,’” she said. And then she was gone, flying off to join her people in the forest.
Chapter Forty-Three
During the winter, the Livonian nights had been silent. Jürgen remembered the eerie quiet that had blanketed the monastery when first he’d seen it.
During the spring, the forest had been alive, even at night, but the howls of wolves had often silenced the sounds of birds and animals in their nightly doings. Jürgen moved quill across parchment and remembered the noises and scents of the forest in spring, muddy, waking after the long icy months.
Now it was summer. The nights were short and humid, and the forests were often deafening to Jürgen’s acute senses, but not because of the animals. The Sword-Bearer had made good on his name and his vow.
Jürgen surveyed the maps of the area. The Gangrel, true to their word, had moved south. Some had stayed, of course—even if Qarakh was a leader, Jürgen hadn’t expected all of the savages to follow him. The loss was theirs. They and the pagans upon which they fed were falling before the Sword-Brothers by day, and before the Order of the Black Cross by night. Jürgen still didn’t have enough Cainite soldiers here to mount any kind of large-scale assaults, and so contented himself with nudging von Salza’s men towards the largest pockets of resistance and then sending his own men in to clean up afterwards. The monastery’s larders had been converted into prisons. Wiftet, newly arrived from Kybartai, wasted no time in pointing out that the rooms’ functions really hadn’t changed much. Jürgen had his tribute, once again.
Between the monastery in Ezerelis and the town of Auce, more than a hundred miles north, four towns now held troops loyal to Jürgen. Auce was the largest of them; he meant to travel there himself, but was waiting for Rosamund to return. The outpost was secure enough. Bertolt had been installed as a commander there, and he was so competent that Jürgen had been able to move troops from the village to other, less secure venues.
Jürgen opened a letter from Heinrich in Magdeburg. More troops were en route, Cainites among them. Other letters from various courts across the Empire promised other Scions hoping to swear fealty to the Sword-Bearer. Perfect, he thought. He would need more vassals when this war was over; he had no intention of staying out here himself, but wished to place trustworthy Cainites in command of his new holdings. Anyone willing to fight by his side would have ample opportunity to prove himself.
In the letter, Heinrich mentioned that Christof was eager to journey east herself. Perhaps I could let her rule here, Jürgen thought, make her overlord of these territories? He had been agonizing over whom to leave in his stead when at last he returned home; it had to be someone strong and capable, for whomever it was would undoubtedly face immediate attack by Tzimisce forces. He had considered Jovirdas, but decided against it—the Tzimisce’s wrath for the Ventrue was nothing compared to the venom they reserved for one of their own turned traitor.
He shook off the thought. It wasn’t an issue yet; the area wasn’t nearly stable enough for him to consider leaving. He leaned out the door to the abbot’s office and called for Favst.
The knight had come along well in the months since his Embrace, adapting as well as could be expected. Jürgen had hoped that he might take a position of rulership here, but had decided against it—although Favst was intelligent and brave, he lacked the initiative and necessary brutality to make a leader. It pained Jürgen to admit it, but his newest childe was likely to be forever a soldier, never a commander. The worst part was that it didn’t seem to chafe him, but then, he’d only had a few months. A century might change his mind.
Favst entered, and Jürgen noted that his tunic was splattered with fresh blood. The Sword-Bearer shook his head and pointed to the spots; Favst glanced down and his eyes grew sheepish, but he could do nothing but tug at his shirt. Favst had finally found the blood that would sustain him, but apparently had yet to learn to feed neatly. Jürgen recalled the night Favst had made that discovery. Scant hours before dawn, they had discovered a knight of Favst’s former order rutting with a pagan girl. Jürgen was merely amused—he had no illusions as to what a vow of chastity meant to many knights. Favst, however, was incensed, and fell upon them. When he rose at last, leaving behind only bloodied corpses, Jürgen had asked him what it was he tasted on their blood.
“Sin,” he’d said, and Jürgen had asked him nothing further.
Jürgen looked his childe over, and wondered at the fury ag
ainst sin that lurked beneath his otherwise quiet demeanor. Maybe you should have been Gotzon’s childe, he thought.
“Favst,” he said aloud, “anything to report?”
Favst nodded. “Our outposts at Auce and Taurag send word that they’ve faced increased resistance.”
“Just after I pulled troops from both,” muttered Jürgen.
“Yes. Also, I received word from Sigismund.” Favst looked uncomfortable. Jürgen decided not to let that feeling fester.
“Favst, I know you don’t approve of using the old man this way.”
“My lord, I—”
Jürgen cut him off with a wave of his hand. “Please, let me finish. Sigismund has no idea that he is even writing the letters. He is not using parchment or ink from your order—your former order—and for all he knows, he might as well be sleeping while he writes. Using him, a cellarer, is much more palatable to me than using one of the knights thusly. I should think you would feel that way as well.”
“Yes, my lord.”
“The alternative would be to put him under the blood, induct him into the order, and I’m not sure he is worthy.”
Favst shook his head. “I do not think he is, my lord.”
Jürgen gave his childe a piercing look; Favst seemed contrite. “Go on, then.”
Dark Ages Clan Novel Ventrue: Book 12 of the Dark Ages Clan Novel Saga Page 26