Despite himself, Qarakh was intrigued. “Go on.
Five years ago, word first came to us that there was a chieftain in Livonia who claimed to be a Tartar. From that point on we heard of reversals for the Christian crusaders in these parts. A year and a half ago, Cainites allied with the Sword-Brothers came here to put an end to that opposition. Instead, they ran into you.”
“While I enjoy listening to a well-told story as much as any man, I already know how this one ends,” Qarakh said. “These knights sought to remake our herd into theirs and we repelled them.”
“Repelled is hardly the word. You destroyed them. Only a single knight survived to carry news of their defeat to the ears of Jürgen the Sword-Bearer, Prince of Magdeburg.”
Qarakh was now certain that Alexander knew little or nothing about the Telyavs’ skill with sorcery, else he would’ve mentioned it during his tale. Good. That gave his tribe an advantage.
“I have heard of this Jürgen.”
Alexander gave Qarakh a puzzled look, as if the Mongol had just uttered the most unnecessary sentence in the history of the spoken word. “Of course you have. Lord Jürgen was kind enough to offer his hospitality to me after my leave-taking from Paris. When news of the your tribe’s victory reached him, he became concerned, and I offered to take a force to Livonia—”
“And deal with us,” Qarakh finished. “Indeed.”
“But now that you are here, you wish to bargain.” A slow smile spread across Qarakh’s lips. “Is my tribe so impressive that you are willing to give up without a fight?”
Alexander’s face betrayed no emotion, but the fingers of his left hand twitched. For a being of such self-control, this was tantamount to a frenzied outburst. Qarakh had the impression of pressure building behind his eyes, of Alexander’s gaze boring into him. The pressure increased to the point of pain, and Qarakh’s Beast howled for Alexander’s vitae. The Mongol warrior felt the itching sensation of fur sprouting on the backs of his hands, along his arms, neck and face, and he knew that this time his Beast would not be denied.
But then, just as suddenly as it had come, the pressure was gone. Qarakh struggled to keep from assuming wolf form, and though it was a near thing, in the end gray fur subsided into his skin, and the Beast remained tethered to its leash… for the moment.
When the Ventrue responded, his voice was cold and completely devoid of emotion, and Qarakh knew he was hearing the true Alexander—the undead creature that had lived for two millennia—speak for the first time. “Make no mistake, Tartar: I fear nothing in this world or beyond it. And if I desire something, I pursue it relentlessly. I do not give up.”
Qarakh glanced past Alexander and saw that Deverra and Malachite had broken off their discussion and were watching the two warlords intently, waiting to see what they would do next. Qarakh wondered if Deverra would be able to cast a spell before Alexander or Malachite could attack. He had no doubt she had one already in mind, but the question was whether she could make her preparations in time. He decided it was unlikely.
“Give up? Perhaps not,” Qarakh said. “But as a warrior, I’m sure you understand the concept of tactical withdrawal—especially when it suits your ultimate purpose.”
Alexander looked at him for a moment, face expressionless, and Qarakh wondered if he had pushed the deposed prince too far, but then Alexander threw back his head and laughed. The sound had a youthful quality to it, at once musical and boyish, and for an instant Alexander seemed as if he really were only as old as he appeared.
“True enough! You’re a bold one, Qarakh.” Alexander turned to look at Malachite and gave the Nosferatu a nod. Reassured all was well, Malachite returned to his conversation with Deverra. “I respect that. Perhaps we can make a deal after all. Just because Jürgen sent me here to bring you to heel doesn’t mean I intend to do so. It should come as no surprise to you that I desire to reclaim that which is rightfully mine: the throne of Paris. To be frank, I care not a whit for Livonia and who rules here, nor do I wish to spread the holy word of Christ to the pagans who inhabit this land.”
“Are you not a Christian knight?” Qarakh asked. “What I am,” Alexander said, “is a man who was born as a mortal and reborn as one of the Damned before Jesus was a gleam in Jehovah’s eye. But I am also a pragmatic man, and I use whatever resources are available to me. As far as I am concerned, Christianity is merely one more weapon in my arsenal: a tool to use when I have need of it, and one to discard when I do not.”
“Why do you tell me these things? We have only just met.”
“We are kindred spirits, you and I—warriors who take what they want without hesitation or apology, with the courage to dare all and the strength to succeed where others would surely fail. We are extraordinary men, even for our kind, and because of this we should be allies instead of enemies.”
Qarakh understood that Alexander’s words were nothing more than flattery designed to sway him, backed by the Ventrue’s raw will. Qarakh felt tendrils of that will stretching forth from Alexander, testing his defenses, probing for weaknesses, searching for any avenue of ingress they could find. And though he knew all this, Qarakh still found himself half-believing what Alexander was saying.
“You are well spoken, Prince, but you have already told me that you are a pragmatic man who will use and discard whatever tools he needs. Perhaps my tribe and I are merely tools to you. How can you be trusted?”
“I can always be trusted to act in my own best
