The stake protruded from Arnulf’s back. Vitae soaked his leather jerkin and pooled on the ground around him. The Goth wasn’t dead, though. At least, no more so than Qarakh or any other night creature. Wood through the heart caused paralysis until it was withdrawn.
Fully aware that everyone, mortal and no, was watching him, Qarakh crouched down next to Arnulf’s head.
“I know you can still hear me. Normally I would slay anyone who challenged me as you did, but you are a mighty warrior, Arnulf, and your strong right arm would be missed if we should go to war with Alexander. In a moment, I will withdraw my weapon. What occurs afterward is up to you.”
Qarakh paused to give Arnulf—whose body might be paralyzed but whose mind was still functioning—a chance to think about what he had just said. He took up his saber in his right hand. He then gripped the oaken stake with his left and yanked it free of Arnulf’s body. The Mongol stepped back, blade held ready and waited for Arnulf’s wound to heal. The Goth lay still for a moment, but his fingers eventually twitched. He moaned deep in his throat. With obvious effort, he pushed himself into a kneeling position then stood on wobbly legs. Though his wounds were healing, the front of his jerkin was smeared with vitae, and his skin was bleached white as a result of the blood loss he’d suffered. Arnulf would have to feed soon.
Though the Goth was in no condition to fight, still Qarakh did not lower his weapons. Even if Arnulf had met the Final Death, Qarakh wouldn’t have relaxed his guard—the warrior was that dangerous.
“Have you decided?” Qarakh asked.
Arnulf looked at him for a moment, jaw and throat muscles working as if he had forgotten how to speak during his temporary paralysis.
“Yes,” he croaked. Then he turned, nearly falling over in the process, and began walking away from Qarakh, his stride becoming surer and stronger with every step he took. The entire tribe watched as the Goth continued walking away from the campsite and toward the line of trees not far distant. The message was clear. He hadn’t chosen to continue their fight, nor had he chosen to remain with the tribe. Arnulf had chosen exile.
Wilhelmina was at Qarakh’s side then. “He shall return. He merely needs some time for the fire within him die down.” But the Viking maid’s tone suggested she didn’t quite believe it herself.
Alessandro, Deverra and Grandfather joined them.
“There was nothing else you could have done,” the Iberian said.
“Except slay him,” Grandfather added. “It might have been better if you had. He isn’t the kind of man who forgives and forgets.”
Qarakh knew the elder spoke truth, and he feared that all he had done was postpone their battle for another time and place.
Deverra said nothing. She merely stood by him and watched as Arnulf reached the forest, passed between two large oak trees and was gone.
Alexander sat in a small wooden boat in the midst of a vast slate gray sea. The sky was overcast, the clouds purple-black, as if the heavens had been bruised by the fist of some great merciless god. The wind was cold and strong, lashing the dark water into choppy waves and causing the small boat to rock and pitch. Alexander gripped the sides of the boat to steady himself. The turbulent waters did not alarm him. During his long existence, he’d had more than one occasion to take to the sea. While he was far from being a master mariner, he was comfortable enough on the ocean.
“Hello.”
Alexander had been alone in the boat, but now he had company. Seated facing him was a youth of no more than sixteen or seventeen summers, handsome, with close-cropped curly black hair. He was dressed in a robe of royal purple, and there was something about the way he sat—a tilt to his head, a mocking hint of a smile—that gave off an air of patrician haughtiness.
Alexander was looking at himself.
The newcomer smiled, revealing Cainite teeth. “It’s Narcissus’s dream come true, eh? I’m far more solid than a mere reflection in a stream.”
Alexander was disturbed by this—vision? apparition?—but he maintained his calm. He’d encountered all manner of strange beings and enchantments in the last two thousand years, and he’d managed to defeat, bargain with or evade them all. This time would be no different.
“Who are you and what is this place?” Alexander had to shout to be heard over the wind and waves, but the newcomer that wore his face had no such problem. He spoke normally and Alexander could hear him without difficulty.
“You tell me.”
Alexander felt anger rise. He didn’t like being toyed with; the role of tormentor was usually his. But he forced himself to ignore his feelings and think upon his doppelganger’s challenge.
“This is… a dream?”
The newcomer’s smile widened into a grin, but there was no mirth in his eyes.
Alexander was surprised by this revelation. While it wasn’t unheard of for Cainites to dream as they slumbered, it was something of a rarity. A few dreamed quite regularly from what he understood, but he wasn’t one of them. He’d had only a handful of dreams over the course of two millennia, none of which he could clearly recall. This was something of a novelty to him, and he found himself becoming intrigued. After two thousand years of unlife, novelties were very few and far between for Alexander of Paris.
“I can’t say I think much of the setting I’ve chosen,” he said aloud. “It demonstrates a regrettable lack of imagination.”
The other chuckled. “You do Narcissus one better. Even he wasn’t vain enough to imagine himself creator of the universe. This is a dream, yes, but it’s not your dream.” The other gestured toward the water. “It’s theirs.”
Alexander looked where the newcomer indicated and saw, just beneath the waves, the
