She brought the horses to a halt and dismounted with a graceful leap from the saddle, her feet making no sound as they touched the ground. She was taller than most men and thin as a willow twig, but her slim form belied her true strength—a perception she had used to her advantage many times in battle. She wore an iron helmet of Viking design, with a mask to protect her eyes and nose, and metal flaps to shield her neck. The only armor she wore was a padded leather jerkin, and she carried a sword belted around her waist. Though she was a woman, she wore trousers and boots like a man. To Cainites, the distinction between the sexes wasn’t always as clear-cut as it was for mortals, and it meant little to Qarakh. He didn’t care what warriors had between their legs; all that concerned him was whether they could fight. And Wilhelmina was savage as a Mongolian tiger in battle.
She removed her helmet and tucked it under her arm. “My khan, I bring you a gift.” Her voice was devoid of emotion and cold as a blast of northern wind. Her blonde hair fell to her shoulders, and the lines of her narrow face were sharp as a knife blade. Her blue eyes were so bright they seemed to glow with frozen flame.
Qarakh walked over to Wilhelmina and her captive. Deverra, Alessandro, Grandfather and Arnulf followed behind. That the prisoner was a Cainite was obvious to any of the Damned who had eyes to see and a nose to smell. He was a handsome youth likely Embraced in his mid-twenties, with light brown hair and a neatly trimmed beard. He wore a mail vest beneath a tabard with a coat of arms emblazoned on it—a red shield with a white section at the top, on which two black ravens sat with folded wings. Qarakh didn’t know what the arms stood for, and he didn’t care; European heraldry meant nothing to him. The man was a knight of some sort, though probably not a Sword-Brother like those they’d fought last year.
“You do your tribe credit, Wilhelmina,” Qarakh said, “and you honor me with your gift. What is his crime?” The Mongol knew that the man had done something serious for Wilhelmina to capture him alive. The Viking maid usually didn’t take prisoners—especially knights. Christian raiders had some years ago murdered the other members of Wilhelmina’s war band by burning down their house. Upon learning of her band’s destruction, she’d vowed to hunt down those responsible and slay them all—which she did, mortal and Cainite alike.
But she didn’t stop there. She continued killing Christian knights and clergy, blaming their church for her people’s deaths. She’d come to pagan Livonia and joined Qarakh’s tribe because she believed they would stand against the Christian scourge, perhaps even grow to wipe it from the face of the earth. Qarakh wasn’t certain how realistic a goal that was but had no intention of disabusing her of the notion. Even a Cainite needed her dreams, dark as they might be.
Wilhelmina looked at her captive as if he were a particularly loathsome species of worm. “Poaching, my khan.”
Hackles rose and patches of fur sprung up on the backs of the Mongol’s hands.
Slay him! shrieked the Beast. Tear his throat out!
Qarakh felt the change coming over him, and he fought to resist it. Soon, he promised the Beast. For an instant, he thought he would fail to hold back the transformation, but then the fur subsided into the flesh of his hands, and he had control once again—for the moment.
“What is your name?” he asked the prisoner.
The man affected a haughty air and answered in a language Qarakh did not understand.
“He speaks French,” Grandfather said in the Livonian the tribe had adopted. “He is Sir Marques de Saignon, vassal of Alexander of Paris. He demands you release him at once.” The lore-keeper did not stifle his mocking tone.
Qarakh smiled just slightly and turned to Wilhelmina.
“Two nights past, I encountered this one, two other Cainites and six ghouls near the western village of Burian,” she said. “All were on horseback, and all wore mail and carried swords.”
Qarakh looked at the Viking’s horse and saw that the prisoner’s weapon was lashed to her saddle. He returned his gaze to Wilhelmina as she continued.
“I was patrolling the western marches of our territory, investigating reports of trespassers in the area. As I rode past a small farmhouse, I saw a number of horses outside, several untethered. I knew then that they were ghouls ordered by their masters to remain put until they returned. I dismounted, drew my sword and stepped inside. There I saw the knights gorging themselves on mortal blood while the human ghouls stood to the side, looking on with hungry eyes. The farmer, his wife and their five children were all dead, their corpses dry and brittle as old wood.”
Qarakh looked to the prisoner. Marques appeared suddenly pale, even for a Cainite. Ruby beads of blood-sweat had broken out on his forehead.
Wilhelmina went on. “I immediately attacked, and since I had the advantage of surprise, I was able to slay one of the Cainites and all of the ghouls without difficulty. This one”—she nodded at her captive—”I was only able to wound before the remaining knight, who was much more experienced and skilled than his companions, drew his weapon and engaged me in battle. I fought my best, but I am shamed to admit that he escaped me and fled on his steed. I debated whether to give chase, but in the end I decided to take the wounded Cainite prisoner and bring him here so that we might question him.”
“There is no need for shame,” Qarakh
