Nostrils flaring at the scent of equine blood, Qarakh rose the rest of the way out of the earth and stepped forward. As the Anda struggled to get to their feet—two were pinned by their ponies and one was simply stunned—Qarakh swung his gore-slick saber three times, and three Anda heads rolled upon the ground. Vitae gushed from their neck stumps, and Qarakh’s Beast screamed for him to drink before the sweet blood was wasted on the hard rocky soil of the steppe. But Qarakh resisted. There were still three more Anda to deal with.
As the surviving hunters turned their mounts around and headed back to attack their ambusher, Qarakh sheathed his sword and bent to pick up one of the decapitated Anda’s bows. As was the Mongolian custom, the riders approached side by side, for only a defeated party rode in single file, and Qarakh had an excellent shot at each. He drew a poisoned arrow from a quiver, nocked it, took aim and let the shaft fly. The hunter on the right stiffened as a poisoned arrow pierced his eye and buried itself in his brain. Before the wounded hunter could fall out of his saddle, Qarakh had nocked another arrow and fired. One more arrow, one more twang of a bowstring, and all three riders were down.
Frightened, the hunters’ ponies ran off. Qarakh dropped the bow and started forward, intending to draw his saber and lop off the remaining Anda’s heads to ensure that they were truly dead, but then he felt a tingling sensation on the back of his neck and a cold fluttering in the pit of his belly. He looked to the east and saw a splash of faint rose pink on the horizon, and he didn’t hesitate. He sank into the ground where he stood, and moments later he heard screams as the first rays of dawn kissed the flesh of the three Anda he had brought down.
Satisfied that Aajav and he were safe for the time being, he fell into the darkness of day-sleep.
Roots curling toward him, tendrils pushing through soil like thick wooden worms. Tips touching his face, caressing it, before undulating toward his temples and gently piercing the skin.
Another’s presence in his mind, but not the Beast, not this time.
This presence he welcomed.
“We shall rest here, and when dawn draws nigh, I shall inter us in the soil, and we will sleep.” He didn’t expect a response. It had been weeks since Aajav had so much as twitched an eyelid, let alone spoke.
Aajav lay on his back, eyes closed, face pointed toward Tengri, arms and hands at his sides—just as Qarakh had arranged him. They were in a clearing, surrounded by pine and oak trees, the sky above them clear and filled with stars. A nearly full moon glowed greenish white. Their mounts were untethered and grazed contentedly on the grass the clearing had to offer. Qarakh sat cross-legged next to his blood brother and sire, and tried to think of what to do next.
This new land was very different from the steppe; there was so much life here. Though it was night, birds still sang and flew from tree to tree. Small animals scurried along branches and rustled through leaves. Larger animals—rabbits, foxes, deer and wolves—moved through the forest as they hunted or avoided being hunted. Even the ground was teeming with life: Insects crawled in the grass, and earthworms burrowed through the soil. The steppe had these things too, but there everything was spread out across miles upon miles of barren plain. Here, it was too much, too close….
He heard a word then, spoken by a feminine voice in a language he didn’t understand. Before whoever it was could speak again, Qarakh stood, drew his saber and turned to confront her.
A brown-robed figure emerged from the shadows between two trees and began walking toward Qarakh and Aajav. He sniffed, trying to catch her scent, but the air was a confusion of unknown smells, and he couldn’t tell which—if any—belonged to her.
Perhaps she’s a spirit, a voice whispered inside his head, and therefore doesn’t have a scent.
Qarakh gripped his sword more tightly. He did not know what strange spirits or demons inhabited this land, or if his blade would prove effective against them, but he would stand and protect Aajav, even unto the Final Death.
As the woman drew closer, she lowered her hood to reveal delicate features, curly red hair and smooth alabaster skin that almost shimmered in the moonlight. She smiled as she came toward them, but Qarakh knew better than to let his guard down. Did not a predator bare its teeth just before attacking? When she came within twenty feet, she stopped. Not quite within fighting distance, but still close enough to talk, Qarakh noted.
She spoke again in that odd language, and Qarakh pointed to an ear with his free hand and shook his head.
The woman acknowledged the gesture with a nod, and then reached into a leather pouch hanging from her belt. Qarakh tensed, ready to spring to the attack in case she should bring forth some manner of weapon, but all she withdrew was a handful of dried leaves. She then knelt and pulled up some blades of grass and a bit of soil from the ground. She crushed the leaves and added them to the other ingredients, then opened her mouth—displaying the sharpened canines that marked her as one of the undead—and bit her tongue. Vitae welled forth and she lowered her head over her cupped hands and gently spit a stream of blood into them. She whispered words that Qarakh didn’t understand, but he did note that one word in particular was repeated several times: Telyavel. She dipped her tongue into the mixture and swirled it around—three times to the right, then three to the left. Afterward, she rubbed her hands together and applied some to her ears, then wiped the remainder off
