“His ‘nature’ might well end up causing the death of the entire tribe! Not to mention destroying everything I have worked so hard to create!”
Death comes to all things—even such creatures as you. I’m surprised you have forgotten this, since you serve the Protector of the Dead. The voice sounded at once chiding and amused.
The rebuke stung. Still, Deverra persisted. “But Alexander—”
Will come, the voice interrupted. Whether the French knight survives to be questioned or not will make no difference. Even now, the one who escaped the Norsewoman rides toward his master’s encampment to report what has befallen his comrades.
Deverra, though not affected by cold the same way a mortal would be, nevertheless felt a chill run along her spine.
“And what will happen then?” she asked.
The voice was silent for a long moment before answering.
Death. What else is there?
Chapter Five
A sticky coating of blood-sweat covered Marques’s skin and soaked the padding beneath his mail. He desperately wished he could stop the flow of vitae—he couldn’t afford to lose any strength right now—but there was nothing he could do. He was too scared.
He’d given up simply swatting the mare on the rump to urge her on. Now, he pounded with his fist. She was a ghoul—not one of his, unfortunately, else he might’ve been able to get more speed out of her merely by willing it—and thus could take the blows more easily than a normal mount. But he was afraid that no matter how fast the horse ran, it would only be a matter of time before they both felt the teeth of their pursuers.
He wasn’t sure how close they were. Sometimes their howls seemed to come from miles distant, other times from only a few yards away. There were at least two of them from the sound of it, perhaps more. He had a chilling thought then: what if the entire group of pagans had transformed into wolves and were hunting him as a pack, merely toying with him until their leader gave the command to move in for the kill?
He could well imagine what his liege-lord would say in response to that.
Get hold of yourself, Marques—unless you want your fear to do the savages’ work for them!
If he hadn’t been so terrified, Marques might have smiled. Fear was alien to Alexander—one of the many qualities Marques admired in his lord. Unfortunately, though Marques had sworn a blood oath to him and thus some small amount of Alexander’s blood ran through his veins, fearlessness was not a quality that had carried over. It seemed he was afraid a good portion of the time, though he worked hard to conceal it by projecting a lordly air. He was afraid of not being able to find proper sustenance when he needed it. He was afraid of giving in to his Beast like some savage devil. But most of all, he was afraid of disappointing his lord—and of the punishment such disappointment would bring.
Another high-pitched howl echoed through the night, from somewhere off to his left.
Then again, he had other things to fear right now. Things with fur and claws and far too many teeth.
Marques was an experienced horseman, and riding at night was no problem for him, but he didn’t know this land and was traveling too swiftly to note his surroundings. Besides, everything looked the same: tree after tree after tree, the pattern broken only by the occasional grassy plain or marshy expanse. He was well and truly lost, and even if by some stroke of good fortune he managed to evade his pursuers, come morning he would have difficulty finding shelter from the sun’s deadly light. He didn’t relish digging a sleeping place with his bare hands. He could accomplish the task well enough, but without help, it was difficult to—
He saw a gray blur out of the corner of his eye, and then a heavy form slammed into his side and knocked him off his mount. He crashed into the ground, and only the hardiness of his undead frame kept him from breaking any bones. He tried to rise, but the great gray wolf that had attacked him pinned him down. Its foam-flecked muzzle was only inches from his face, and its eyes burned with a bottomless hunger.
The mare continued galloping, whinnying in terror as she ran. Marques knew exactly how she felt, but he couldn’t afford to allow his fear to control him, not if he wanted to survive the night. He grabbed the pagan chieftain by the throat—who else could it be?—with both hands and squeezed. If the wolf had been a mortal animal, he might’ve hoped to cut off its air, but this was a Cainite in wolfish skin. The best he could hope for was to snap its neck, and as strong as the Mongol was, even that would only slow him down. But during the few moments it would take him to heal, Marques could break a limb off a tree and jam the wood through the beast’s heart. Despite mortal legends, such an injury would only paralyze a Cainite, not kill it, but that would be more than enough. With the Gangrel rendered helpless, Marques could make his escape and leave his enemy to the unforgiving rays of the morning sun.
The wolf growled in frustration as it attempted to break free of Marques’s grip, but Marques was no weakling. His blood-filled muscles pressed ever harder. He forced the wolf’s head back slowly, inch by torturous inch, until he felt vertebrae grind. But then the Mongol pushed back, jaws snapping, eager to find purchase on Christian flesh. Marques’s arms began to tremble from the effort of holding the beast at bay. Marques was strong, yes, but not strong enough. He knew it would be mere moments before the wolf broke free from his grip and tore his throat out.
A
