“You need to restore what you have lost,” Qarakh finished for her. “There is no shame in that.”
“But to drink the blood of an animal…”
“The steppe is sparsely populated. A Cainite can go for days, sometimes weeks without seeing a single mortal. All of our kind who live there—including myself—have drunk from the veins of animals.” He hesitated for a moment and then stepped forward and knelt on the other side of the stag, facing Deverra. They looked at each other for a time without speaking, and then as if reaching an unspoken agreement, they lowered their mouths to the deer’s carcass and fed.
Qarakh wished that he could stop and lash Aajav more securely to his saddle, for with each strike of his pony’s hoof, he was in danger of falling off his mount. Should that occur, the Anda would be upon them in moments, and Final Death would follow soon after.
He had no idea what manner of poison the Anda used to coat the tips of their arrows—demon blood, perhaps?—but whatever it was, it was potent. One strike had been enough to make Aajav lightheaded, and the second had rendered him nearly unconscious. Qarakh feared his blood brother would not survive a third strike.
Coward! Stand and fight!
Qarakh did his best to ignore the voice of his Beast, but it wasn’t easy. It galled him to flee, but he didn’t know what else he could do. If he hadn’t needed to keep hold of the bridle of Aajav’s horse, he could turn around and loose his own arrows at their pursuers, not that the shafts would do much good since the tips weren’t smeared with poison. But at least he would be fighting instead of running.
There was little to mark the Anda horsemen as different from any other Mongols. Indeed, in mortal life each had belonged to one of the nomad tribes that wandered the plains. They carried sabers and bows, wore leather helmets and leather coats, and rode hardy steppe ponies. The only indication that they weren’t human was the color of their skin: instead of a healthy dark brown, it was pale and washed-out. The color of death.
The Anda ruled the night world of the steppe, and they strictly regulated who could be Embraced and who could not. Aajav was not Anda, but they had accepted him after a fashion. As he had lived as a Mongol, he had been allowed to survive and hunt among them, but never as an equal. Again and again, he had had to surrender territory and feeding rights to his supposed betters. The Anda permitted him to sit in on their councils, but he was not allowed to speak. Most of all, Aajav was not permitted to create any childer.
But Aajav had, and while he’d been able to keep Qarakh’s transformation into one of the undead a secret for close to two years, the Anda had finally gotten wind of it and set a trap for them—a trap Aajav and Qarakh had fallen into far too easily. Now they were fleeing for their unlives.
They rode southward, and Qarakh glanced to his left, toward the east. The sky was a lighter shade of blue near the horizon, indicating that dawn wasn’t far off. Should the sun begin to rise before the Anda had caught up to them, they would all seek shelter from its searing rays by interring themselves as well as their horses in the ground. They would slumber in the embrace of the earth until sunset when they would rise to resume the hunt once more. And if the Anda should rise before Qarakh and Aajav—or if Qarakh was unable to help his blood brother wake—the Anda would have them.
Qarakh knew he had to do something, and swiftly, but what?
They approached a small depression in the steppe, and Qarakh knew that they would be hidden from the Anda’s view for a few precious seconds as Aajav and he rode down into it. The question was how to make those seconds count. And then it came to him. He would use the Anda’s own trick against them. He had no idea if it would work, but he could see no other choice if his blood brother and he were to live to see another nightfall.
As they came to the top of the rise, Qarakh released his hold of the piebald’s bridle and shouted, “Tchoo! Tchoo!” In response to the command, both ponies increased their speed, and Qarakh grabbed hold of Aajav’s left arm and launched himself from the saddle, pulling his blood brother with him. As they fell backward, Qarakh—still holding tight to Aajav’s arm—concentrated on becoming one with the earth. Instead of striking the ground, they slipped beneath it as easily and gently as if it were water. When they were successfully interred, Qarakh released his grip on his blood brother’s arm and listened for the Anda’s approach. There were six of them, and he could feel the vibrations from their horses’ hoofs judder through the soil as well as the substance of his interred body. The vibrations increased in intensity as the hunting party drew near, and when Qarakh judged they were close enough, he envisioned himself rising from the earth and drawing his saber.
He rose up beneath a sweat-slick horse belly, and before he was halfway out of the ground, he swung his saber in a sweeping arc. The blade sliced into the belly of one steed, then two, then three before the swing was completed. Flesh and muscle parted. Blood and loops of animal intestine spilled upon the steppe. The wounded ponies shrieked in agony. Their front legs buckled, and they stumbled forward.
Their riders fought to maintain control, but it was impossible. The three Anda went down with their mounts. The remaining
