“And what if Alexander chooses to attack before then?” Arnulf demanded.
“Then we fight him as best we can,” Deverra said, unconcerned.
Arnulf leaped to his feet, and Qarakh—fearing the Goth had finally lost control of his Beast and intended to attack Deverra—jumped up and put himself between them. Arnulf locked gazes with Qarakh, and the Mongol saw that the Goth’s eyes had gone feral and yellow.
“I was only going to ask the witch if she had any weapons in her arsenal stronger than mere words.”
Qarakh struggled not to respond to Arnulf’s challenge, but he couldn’t help himself. He was also khan, and he couldn’t allow Arnulf to get away with this.
Qarakh’s voice came out as a low growl. “She is not a witch, and if she chose to waste her powers on the likes of you, she could slay you where you stand without lifting a finger.”
Arnulf didn’t take his eyes off Qarakh. “Perhaps, perhaps not. But what of you, Mongol? Do you have what it takes to slay me? You—who bargains with our enemy, who brings a Christian spy into our camp, who would rather talk than fight?” The Goth warrior leaned closer until their noses were almost touching. “You disgust me, Qarakh the Tamed!”
Qarakh felt Deverra’s hand on his shoulder. “Do not do this. Not now. We need to—”
But the rest of her words became nothing more than meaningless gibberish to Qarakh as he lost the ability to comprehend speech. Qarakh bared his fangs and slammed his forehead into Arnulf’s as hard as he could. The Goth grunted in pain and staggered back a few steps, but he didn’t fall. Qarakh didn’t give Arnulf time to recover; he drew his saber and dashed forward.
Qarakh swung his blade in a sweeping sideways arc designed to sever Arnulf’s head from his neck, but the Goth brought his ax up in time to block the strike. Qarakh’s sword clanged off the ax, and he used the momentum to bring the blade around and attack from the other side. Arnulf managed to block this blow as well, and the Goth retaliated by lashing out with a bone-shattering kick to Qarakh’s left knee. Qarakh grimaced in pain and leaned to the side, momentarily off balance. Arnulf took this opportunity to move his ax into position for an underhand swing, clearly intending to open Qarakh up from crotch to chin. Sensing the blow coming, Qarakh used his imbalance and pushed off with his right foot. Arnulf’s ax sliced through the air where Qarakh had been standing an instant before, the blade just missing the Mongol’s right foot as he leaped to the side. As he fell, Qarakh drew his saber close to his body so he wouldn’t risk it striking the ground and breaking when he landed. He hit the ground right shoulder first, rolled and came up on his feet, sword ready, kneecap fully healed.
Out of the corner of his eye, Qarakh noticed that the others had risen from the logs and moved back to give the two combatants room to fight. Other members of the tribe—Cainite, ghoul and mortal—had abandoned their duties and were rising to witness the fight. He paid them no notice. He needed his full attention to deal with Arnulf.
The Goth bellowed a war cry, and Qarakh saw that his teeth had grown longer and sharper. His face bristled with black fur. If Arnulf was in the midst of all-out frenzy, he might well be unstoppable.
The Goth charged and Qarakh waited—ignoring the screams of his Beast to run forward and meet their foe’s attack head on. Instead he drew a second weapon from his belt, a sharpened length of oak. At the last moment, Qarakh dodged to the side and brought the blade of his saber down on Arnulf’s wrist with all his strength. The blow severed the tendon. Though the Goth felt no pain, he couldn’t maintain its grip on the ax, and the weapon fell to the ground with a dull metallic thud. Arnulf continued stumbling forward, and Qarakh jumped up, spun around in midair, and slammed his sword hilt into the back of Arnulf’s head. The Goth warrior pitched forward and hit the ground face first. Before Arnulf could rise, Qarakh dropped his saber and leaped onto the Cainite’s back. There, he shifted his stake to a two-handed grip and jammed it between the Goth’s shoulder blades with all his strength—and through his heart. Arnulf stiffened and was still.
It was over.
No, it’s not! His beast insisted. Tear him to pieces with your teeth! Swallow his flesh, drink his blood! It’s no less than he deserves for challenging the khan!
Qarakh let go of the oaken stake and looked at his hands. The nails were long and black, and the backs and palms were covered with gray fur. He rode his Beast like a wild mare, but he could feel it bucking under him about to send him straight into a wild and frenzied killing spree. He could no longer resist—
But then he felt a hand on his shoulder once more, the grip strong, reassuring and—though he didn’t allow himself to believe it—loving.
He looked up into Deverra’s eyes, and though he felt his canines jutting forth from an upper jaw that was partially distended like a wolf’s snout, he saw no disgust in her gaze. Only understanding and again, love.
“It’s finished, Qarakh. You’ve won.”
Kill the bitch, too! Kill them all!
Qarakh closed his eyes and concentrated on the feeling of Deverra’s hand on his shoulder. He felt an urge to reach up and cover it with his own hand—now hairless and short-nailed—but he didn’t. He was a Cainite and also a khan. Such a display of emotion would have been inappropriate. He felt his teeth recede into his gums
