But this realm of darkness he now inhabited had its compensations. His senses had sharpened to an unimaginable degree—sounds now had texture and taste. Smells had color and mass. The wind whispered secrets from the dawn of time, and the soil beneath his feet spoke of eternities yet to come.
And then, of course, there was the glory of the hunt, the ecstasy of the kill, and the joy and wonder of blood. Ahead of him by many yards, Aajav suddenly stopped. One instant he was a blur of motion, the next he stood still as a rock. Qarakh caught up with him a moment later, marveling at how he felt no aftereffects of exertion: no panting breaths, no pounding pulse, only a light sheen of blood-sweat on his forehead.
“What is wrong?” he asked his sire. “Do you grow tired of playing chase?”
In reply, Aajav merely pointed, a grim expression on his face. They stood at the edge of a depression in the plain not quite large enough to be called a valley. At the bottom lay the mutilated bodies of a half dozen horses, saddled for riding in the Mongolian fashion. The stink of animal blood lay heavy in the air, along with something richer that made Qarakh’s mouth water.
“Anda,” Aajav said.
Qarakh saw them then, several desiccated bodies strewn among the horseflesh. They looked like corpses left out in the harsh steppe winter, even though it was well into spring. Dried and blackened, their skin stretched taut across bones with little hint of flesh beneath it. They were freshly slain night-walkers, their bodies withering away to dust but not yet eroded.
The smell is their blood, said a voice deep in Qarakh’s unbeating heart. It should be ours.
Qarakh couldn’t imagine who—or what—could have done such a thing to a party of Anda. They were also beings of darkness and lived in secret among the Mongolian tribes. While he was still new to the shadowy existence of night-walkers, Qarakh understood that even though he and Aajav were Mongolian, they were of a different clan from the Anda, a clan called Gangrel. He also knew that while the Anda tolerated Aajav—for he had been Embraced by a wandering Gangrel who had been impressed with his battle skill and the Anda did not blame him for it—they did not fully accept him either. As far as they were concerned, he was not Anda and never would be. The Anda maintained strict control over who was Embraced on the steppe, and when Aajav sought permission to make Qarakh his childe, the Anda had denied him. So Aajav, being Aajav, had done it anyway. The Anda were unaware of Qarakh’s existence, and if they learned of it, they would most likely condemn them both to the Final Death.
“We should go, and quickly,” Aajav said. Qarakh was surprised to detect a note of fear in his sire’s voice. He had known Aajav since they were children, and he had never seen his blood brother display fear toward any man or beast before.
“What is wrong?”
Aajav replied in a hushed tone. “They have been slain by one of the Ten Thousand Demons.” He sniffed. “And not that long ago. We must flee before—”
The air next to Aajav rippled like water, and where there had been nothing a moment before, now stood a horse and rider. The rider’s features were those of a man from the other side of the Great Wall, nothing demonic about him at all, save that his ears tapered to slight points, and the hairs of his neatly trimmed beard writhed slowly as if they were tiny black serpents. He wore the armor of an eastern warrior, comprised of many interlocking scales that hung down to his knees like a woman’s skirt. A horse’s mane adorned his helmet, and his armor blazed with reds, oranges and yellows. The warrior’s horse was black, but not, Qarakh realized, because the animal had an ebon coat; the creature seemed to be formed from living shadow.
The demon made no move to attack. Indeed, he didn’t appear to possess any weapons: no sword, no dagger. He merely sat astride his strange mount—no reins and no saddle either, Qarakh noted—and regarded them impassively.
Aajav interposed himself between the demon and Qarakh. “Back away slowly, my brother. You are still too young in darkness to stand against such a being.”
Part of Qarakh was grateful for Aajav’s protection, but another part was furious. Not only was Qarakh a warrior born and bred, he was also a dark and terrible master of the night. What had he to fear from a supposed demon that didn’t even carry a sword?
This demon slew an entire party of Anda, he reminded himself.
But then the voice inside him spoke again, this time tinged with fury. This, Qarakh realized, was the Beast in his heart. The Anda were weak; you are strong. Attack and kill!
Qarakh tensed his muscles and bared his teeth, prepared to spring at this so-called demon, but before he could make a move, the eastern warrior raised his hands and grinned, displaying his own set of fangs. Talons of white bone pierced the flesh of the demon’s fingers, lengthening and growing sharper until each was as long as a short sword. Qarakh suddenly understood why the demon (and he now had no trouble at all believing this creature was indeed one) didn’t carry weapons of steel. He didn’t need them.
The demon sprang from the shadow mount’s back and landed on the ground without making a sound. He turned toward the horse, opened his mouth, and took in a deep breath. The ebon substance of the steed broke apart like black fog, and the demon drew the dark wisps into his lungs. Within seconds, the horse was gone, completely assimilated by its master. The demon was larger now, nearly half again the size he had been, as if he had added his mount’s strength and mass to his own. His armor had stretched somewhat to accommodate
