Pavla and Sasha hadn’t been the only ones who failed to attend martial training; Rikard had also been missing. Alessandro had checked Rikard’s ger then asked around camp if anyone had seen him lately, but the answer was always the same: not since the feast the previous night.
In and of itself, Rikard’s disappearance wasn’t remarkable. A number of the tribe’s members—including its khan—were ultimately nomadic, and came and went with little warning. But Rikard wasn’t overly fond of traveling. In fact, he seemed to enjoy little about tribal life. Perhaps the possibility of a coming battle with Alexander’s forces had finally convinced him that it was time to move on. If so, Alessandro doubted there would be many tears shed over his departure—not that the tribe could afford to lose anyone at a time like this.
Alessandro wasn’t superstitious by nature, but he was beginning to wonder if these events weren’t in truth ill omens, and if so, what they might portend for Qarakh’s meeting with Alexander. The Iberian decided to seek Grandfather’s counsel on the matter, and he found the lore-keeper in a nearby field watching Arnulf and Wilhelmina instruct the lesser warriors of the tribe in the finer points of swordplay. The students had formed a wide circle, and in the middle the two teachers faced each other, weapons drawn, feet planted in battle stances. Alessandro took a position next to Grandfather and decided to observe the lesson.
Wilhelmina spoke loudly so all could hear. “Many Cainites believe that their strength and speed alone will win battles for them. And often they will—should your opponent be mortal.” She flicked her sword toward Arnulf’s face, but the Goth easily intercepted the blow with his ax. “But if your opponent is a Cainite, he—”
“Or she,” Arnulf added.
Wilhelmina lowered her sword and bowed her head in acknowledgement. “He or she will most likely be equally as fast and strong, if not more so. Look at the two of us: Arnulf is obviously taller and more muscular than I, and his ax seems a far more formidable weapon than my sword.”
A number of students murmured agreement, but most simply continued to watch with silent interest.
“But we all know that appearances can be deceptive when it comes to our kind. I might well be a great deal older than Arnulf, or perhaps the vitae that runs through my veins came from a more powerful sire than his. But for the sake of argument, let us say that all is at it appears, and Arnulf truly is faster and stronger than I.”
Arnulf grinned. “Was there ever any doubt?”
A few students chuckled—Probably new to the tribe, Alessandro thought—but the rest remained quiet.
Up to this moment, Grandfather hadn’t given any sign that he was aware of Alessandro’s presence, but now the lore-keeper turned to him and whispered, “Have you noticed Arnulf’s eyebrows?”
Frowning, Alessandro took a closer look at the Goth warrior’s face. The brow (for now the two met in the middle) was darker and bushier than it had been before Arnulf had run off after Qarakh and the Ventrue knight that Wilhelmina had captured. Though Alessandro had understood the necessity of it at the time, he now wished that Qarakh hadn’t ordered—and carried out—Marques’s execution. There was much information they might’ve gained from questioning the knight, especially if Deverra could’ve employed her magic, or even if Alessandro had been given the opportunity to use some of the more effective techniques of persuasion he’d learned during his time as one of the fanatical Lions of Rodrigo. A pity—and perhaps another omen, along with the change in Arnulf’s eyebrows?
“I hadn’t noticed,” Alessandro admitted.
Steel rang on steel as Wilhelmina tried a different attack on Arnulf, and the Goth once again easily deflected it.
“I’ll grant that it is not a huge change, but it is often the minor ones which are the most disturbing,” Grandfather said.
Alessandro didn’t need the lore-keeper to explain any further. Like all Cainites, the Iberian understood only too well. Surrendering completely to the Beast, even for a short time, always left its mark on Cainites one way or another. For Gangrel, that mark was physical, a bodily feature turned permanently bestial. Alessandro glanced at Grandfather’s fur-covered hands and not for the first time wondered when and how they had gotten that way; Grandfather, more successfully than anyone the Iberian had ever met, lived in harmony with his Beast.
“Do you think Arnulf is beginning to lose himself?” Alessandro asked.
Before Grandfather could reply, Arnulf let out a surprised grunt and Alessandro turned his attention back to the demonstration. Wilhelmina had sidestepped Arnulf’s latest attack, and the Goth stumbled forward, unbalanced. Before he could right himself, Wilhelmina planted a foot against his backside and shoved. Arnulf took a couple more stumble-steps forward before crashing to the ground.
More laughter from the students, louder this time.
“Sometimes a Cainite’s speed can be a drawback,” Wilhelmina said. “Because Arnulf was able to swing his ax so swiftly, when his blow didn’t find its target, the power of the swing put him momentarily off balance.” She grinned. “And for a cunning warrior, a moment is all that is required.”
While Alessandro listened to Wilhelmina’s words, he kept his gaze on Arnulf. The Goth warrior lay on the ground, teeth gritted, hand clenched so tightly around the haft of his ax that it appeared the knuckles might burst through the skin any second. Alessandro thought he heard a low growling coming from the man’s throat, but he wasn’t certain. Then, with a speed that belied his large form, Arnulf was suddenly on his feet and swinging his ax in a sweeping arc toward Wilhelmina’s neck.
Alessandro wanted to shout a warning, but knew he wouldn’t be able to get it out in time to save Wilhelmina. However, just as the ax blade was about to make contact with the tender flesh of the Viking maid’s neck, Arnulf halted his strike.
“If you manage to
