István thought for a moment before answering. “There is a young laundress barely into her womanhood whom I noticed earlier this night. She was watching one of the mortal squires with keen interest.”
“Is she pretty?”
“I’m afraid she’s rather plain, your highness.”
Alexander sighed. “I suppose one must take what one can get when in the wilderness. See that this laundress is brought to my tent after Vespers.” He paused. “And tell Rudiger to wait a while after complin to visit me. I prefer to talk strategy with a full stomach.”
As Rudiger walked toward his tent, he ground his teeth so hard that his incisors pierced his lower lip, causing two thin streams of blood to dribble into his beard. Everyone—mortals, ghouls and Cainites alike—hastened to get out of his way when they saw the furious expression on his face.
Despite his great age, Alexander was a fool. Worse, he was a blasphemous, unbelieving fool who viewed the Church as nothing more than a tool to further his own ends. If Lord Jürgen hadn’t tasked Rudiger with carrying out Alexander’s orders… But he had, and since Jürgen was the Hochmeister of the Order of the Black Cross, Rudiger was sworn to obey his every command—regardless of how he felt about it.
Rudiger knew full well that Alexander had ordered a fire built for his parley with the Tartar so that the knight would be unable to remain and listen. All Cainites feared fire to one degree or another, but Rudiger was absolutely terrified of it. It was his one true weakness, visited upon him by God to keep him humble, he believed. He also knew that Alexander intended to ally with the pagan tribe for his own reasons, and not as a tactic designed to eventually lead to its destruction. Rudiger was tempted to compose a missive to Lord Jürgen informing him of this development, but he would not. As much as it galled him, Alexander was his master—for the moment, at least—and it was his duty to serve the exiled prince to the best of his ability, whether he liked it or not.
But he would keep watching, and if he found incontrovertible proof that Alexander intended to betray Jürgen, then he would do what he had to. And if that meant harm must come to the former prince, then God’s will be done.
Smiling, Rudiger wiped the vitae from his beard, then licked his fingers as he continued on to his tent.
Dawn tinted the eastern sky as Rikard—tired, hungry, irritable and afraid that he was going to have to spend another day burrowed in the earth like a mole—rode into view of Alexander’s camp.
Finally! He should have just enough time to reach the camp before sunrise. He’d beg shelter in one of the tents, sleep, and when darkness fell, he’d seek an audience with Alexander of Paris. And then…
He grinned. And then.
He cracked the reins and kicked his horse into a gallop.
Qarakh swung his saber in a vicious arc, and the edge sliced across the knight’s face before the mortal could even think about raising his own sword to deflect the blow. The Mongol’s strike had nearly severed the man’s jaw. As blood gushed from the wound, the knight staggered back in agony and shock, but he still managed to keep hold of his sword. Qarakh was impressed; most mortals would have fallen by now. It seemed the Sword-Brothers’ reputation for being mighty warriors was well earned. Out of respect, Qarakh decided to grant the man a swift death. He plunged the point of his saber into the knight’s right eye, and the mortal stiffened as steel pierced his brain. Qarakh gave the blade a quick twist before yanking it free, and the man fell to the ground, dead but still gripping his sword.
Wilhelmina and Arnulf fought back to back, their blades moving so swiftly that they were blurs even to Qarakh’s eyes. Steel rang on steel, metal bit into flesh, screams of pain echoed through the night, and fountains of blood—mortal, ghoul and Cainite—sprayed the air.
Though his Beast urge him to keep fighting, Qarakh paused a moment to consider strategy. If all the knights of the Livonian order were of similar mettle, it was fortunate that there weren’t many Cainites among their ranks this night. He doubted that Arnulf or Wilhelmina shared that view. The two lived for battle—Wilhelmina so she could slay as many Christians as possible, and Arnulf… well, the Goth warrior just loved to kill, whoever the foe and whatever the reason. Mortals and ghouls provided little sport for either of them; they’d much prefer to go up against other Cainites.
Alessandro, though no less deadly a fighter, was more calculating. Instead of hacking at anything that came within range of his sword, he moved across the battlefield, selecting his targets with care. A handful of Cainite knights fought alongside the mortal Sword-Brothers, and while there were far fewer of them, they posed a much greater threat. Alessandro sought out the unliving knights and dispatched them with surgical precision, striking swiftly and without a single wasted motion. The Iberian’s face was composed and expressionless, but his eyes blazed with the controlled bloodlust of his Beast.
Grandfather stood well away from the battle, along with Deverra and several other Telyavs, at the edge of a grove of oak trees. The tribe had chosen this moment for battle in order to defend one of the Telyavs’ groves, one that had grown around a sacred fire tended by Deverra’s acolytes. For nearly a week the knights had marauded through the forest, killing as many of the locals as they could. Now Qarakh and his tribe were here, and the battle had
