Arnulf nodded. “So he might increase his military strength and ultimately return to Paris and take revenge upon his usurpers.”
Qarakh grinned in agreement. “Again, that is what I would do.”
“But we are still targets, whether or not he wants our lands,” Deverra said. “If he has made common cause with the Germans, then he will support their crusade. They seek to bring the Cross to Livonia. We are pagan heathens to them.”
“You sound like Wilhelmina,” Alessandro said.
“The Christians rooted out her gods and they would so the same to ours,” the priestess said.
“Your gods,” Arnulf said. “Not mine.”
The priestess looked at him for a moment before closing her mouth and averting her gaze.
“Enough,” Qarakh said. “There is only one way to know Alexander’s intent for certain. I must parley with the former Prince of Paris.”
“My khan,” Alessandro said, “let me go in your place. I am expendable. You are not.”
Not for the first time, Qarakh thought the Brujah a good man, and he was glad to have him as his second-in-command. “Your bravery does you credit, Alessandro, but were I to send anyone in my stead, this prince would be sure to take that as a sign of weakness. Besides, I would see this Alexander for myself, the better to gauge his strengths and weaknesses.”
“If he has any,” Deverra added.
“All men—breathing or not—have at least one weakness,” Grandfather said. “The trick is to learn what it is and discover a way to exploit it.”
Arnulf stood and in a single fluid motion drew his ax from the stump in which he’d planted it. “Everything falls before a keen-edged blade and a strong arm! That is all we need!”
“Hush now,” Deverra said. “You’re scaring the mortals.”
True enough, a number of villagers were looking in their direction with expressions of alarm. Standing and swinging his ax, hair wild, razorlike teeth bared, Arnulf looked like a demon from the deepest pits of hell.
The Goth warrior laughed. “What do I care for mortals? Let them be afraid!”
“If you scare them, they will leave,” Alessandro said. “And they will take their blood with them.”
Arnulf considered this for a moment before lowering his ax and once again taking his seat. He looked down at the broken shards of his mug lying in the grass, then lifted his head and cupped his hands to his mouth. “More!” he bellowed, and a half-dozen ghouls snapped to attention and scurried to fill mugs from open veins.
Qarakh smiled. In many ways, Arnulf was the Beast made solid: He lived solely to hunt, kill, feed and sleep. Qarakh envied the Goth’s simplicity and wished that his own existence could be so uncomplicated. But he was khan, and he couldn’t afford to live like an animal, much as he might want to. Not if his tribe was to thrive and prosper.
They waited until the ghouls had served them once more before resuming their council.
Qarakh turned to Alessandro. “I will leave tomorrow night in search of Alexander and his men. Most likely they will approach from the southwest, so that is where I shall look first. In the meantime, send out our swiftest runners to spread the word: I want all of our wanderers to return to the camp lands as fast as they can. And I want all Cainites in the tribe—including the four of you—to send forth appeals to whatever childer they might have. Though they are not members of our tribe, ask if they will stand and fight with their sires should Alexander and his forces attack. More, tell them to bring whatever ghouls and thralls they possess. If we are Alexander’s true target, we will need all the people we can get as quickly as we can get them.”
“Yes, my khan,” Alessandro said.
Qarakh nodded, then turned to Deverra. “Send word to your coven and fellow priests. We will need them as well.”
Deverra merely nodded, saying nothing.
“And do you have a task for me, great khan?” Grandfather asked, without the slightest hint of mockery in his voice, though he was older than Qarakh by hundreds, perhaps even thousands, of years.
“Search your memory for all that you know of Alexander, and find out more any way that you can. If I am to fight this boy-faced monster, I need to know him as well as I know myself. Better, even.”
Grandfather nodded. “As you will.”
“As for myself, I shall—”
“Master?”
Qarakh whirled, a snarl on his lips. It was Sasha.
The ghoul held up his hands in a placating gesture and took a step back. “I—I hate to interrupt, but there is among the villagers a man and woman who were recently married and are now expecting their first child. They seek your blessing, yours and Mistress Deverra’s.”
Qarakh was beginning to wish he’d killed Sasha instead of Pavla last night.
Deverra stood and held out her hand to the Mongol. “Come, my consort. We have a holy duty to perform.” She grinned.
The blessing consisted of Qarakh and Deverra drinking from the bride at the same time—one on either side of the woman’s neck. Not only did Qarakh dislike drinking from the neck as a rule, the intimacy of performing the ritual with the Telyav was… disquieting.
He took her hand—only because he knew the villagers would expect it—and stood. “You are enjoying this entirely too much.”
She grinned even wider. “Come, let us—”
Before she could finish, one of the lower-ranking Cainites standing watch at the edge of the camp shouted, “A rider approaches from the west!”
Qarakh swore. If the thrice-damned mortals hadn’t been making so much noise, he would have heard the rider himself long before now. He turned to the Goth. “Arnulf?”
The warrior stood and inhaled deeply through his nostrils, eyes closed that he might better concentrate. When he exhaled, he opened his eyes and said, “Wilhelmina.”
Qarakh started to relax, but then Grandfather said, “And she’s brought us a present.”
Chapter Four
Wilhelmina rode into camp
