“Three against one,” Wilhelmina corrected. “The ghouls hardly count.”
This time Qarakh did smile. “Nevertheless, I am pleased.”
“After I disarmed and bound this one, I set the farmhouse aflame, both to release the family’s souls to whatever afterlife awaited them and to conceal how they had truly met their fate. I did not wish the villagers in Burian to think we had begun to kill mortals for sport.”
Qarakh nodded. “Another wise move.” He gestured toward the bound knight. “Did he say anything of note on the way back to camp?”
“He prattled on in his bastard tongue,” she said. “At one point he tried to offer me his purse, I think.”
Qarakh burst out laughing, as did Arnulf and Grandfather. Marques looked like a little boy who didn’t understand why the adults found him so amusing.
“Translate my words, lore-keeper.” The khan turned once more to the captive knight. “You are a fool, Christian, damned by your own hungers. We do not care if a Cainite who travels through our lands feeds while here, but it is forbidden for anyone not of our tribe to kill a mortal.”
He turned his back and waited until Grandfather had finished translating. He then raised his voice so that all in the camp—Cainite, ghoul, thrall and villager alike—could hear him. “This man is guilty of participating in the slaughter of an entire family in the west! What should be done with him?”
The villagers looked at each other, uncertain how or even if they should respond. The ghouls and thralls were likewise unsure, but one of the lower-ranking Cainites—Rikard, in fact—shouted, “He must be punished!” His voice was hoarse, but his words were clear enough.
Other Cainites took up the refrain then, chanting, “Punish him, punish him, punish him!”
Deverra leaned close and whispered in his ear. “What are you doing? We need to question him and find out why Alexander has come to Livonia!”
“Don’t worry, priestess. I will learn the answers we seek, but the mortals need to see us take a firm hand in this matter. The herd must know that the shepherd protects them.” And that was true enough, but there was another, deeper reason for what Qarakh intended to do, even if he couldn’t fully admit it to himself: His Beast had been put off long enough.
He turned to Wilhelmina. “Free his hands.”
The warrior-maid hesitated for a second, as if she might question her khan’s command, but then she drew a dagger from her belt, stepped closer to the mare and began sawing at the leather binding Marques’s hands. Within moments, he was rubbing his wrists and looking at Qarakh quizzically, as if he didn’t quite know if this turn of events was to his benefit.
The Mongol once more spoke to the knight. “Start riding.”
Grandfather translated and when the knight stammered out an answer, spoke to Qarakh. “He says he doesn’t understand. Perhaps my French is not up to his standards.”
It was Alessandro’s turn to speak up. “My khan, I do not know what you have planned, but I beg you to reconsider. If there is even the slightest chance that he might escape—”
“There isn’t,” Qarakh said gruffly, his voice thickening, growing bestial.
“But if he returns to his lord, he’ll be able to tell him the exact location of our camp!” the Iberian persisted. “At the very least we’ll have to take down the gers and move our camp. I respectfully suggest that we should—”
Alessandro grew silent as Grandfather placed a hand on his shoulder.
“Do not provoke him,” the ancient said softly. “He heeds the call of his Beast.”
Qarakh heard the two talking about him as if he weren’t present, but he didn’t care. The world had narrowed to a tunnel at the end of which was Marques and only Marques.
“Ride.” The word was barely recognizable as speech. “Ride as if the Devil himself is nipping at your heels.” Qarakh smiled, showing teeth grown wolfish. “Because he will be.”
The Ventrue knight looked as if he might faint. He understood the khan’s intent well enough, it seemed. He grabbed the mare’s reins and gave them a yank. The horse turned about and the knight dug his heels into her sides and shouted, “Eeyah!” With a startled whinny, the mare galloped away at full speed.
Qarakh’s body shifted, twisted and reformed until the last semblance of humanity was gone. In his place stood a large slavering gray wolf. The animal let forth a howl and sprang forward.
The hunt was on.
Alessandro watched with mixed feelings as his khan melted into the night. The Iberian had dedicated his unlife to understanding the Beast, had spent decades collecting every myth and legend he could find that might provide insight into how best to handle the undying hunger that dwelt within the heart of every Cainite. He understood why Qarakh needed to deal with the knight in this fashion, and he had to admit that there was a certain benefit in extracting justice in front of the assembled mortals—especially by performing the “miracle” of shape-changing. Still, from a military standpoint, he feared this hunt was a mistake. The khan wouldn’t be able to restrain his Beast long enough to question the knight before slaying him, and then whatever information they might have gained from the man would die with him.
Not for the first time, the Iberian wondered at the wisdom of attempting to forge a tribe comprised of those who listened to their bestial natures. Those who traveled that road were most often solitary wanderers, and when they did come together, their raging tempers made certain they didn’t remain so for long. Civilization was anathema to them, and what was Qarakh’s tribe if not an attempt at feral civilization? And yet, there was much to recommend the tribe. Qarakh had based it on the hunter-herder-nomad model of his homeland. Hunters were free to roam as they saw fit, but the camp and tribal territory gave them a home to return to when they wished.
