Somewhat cheered by that thought, Alexander looked down at the map on his desk. He turned his attention to its eastern section, to the lands beyond Christendom. All maps were nothing but rough approximations of actual lands, of course, but this section was extremely speculative, drawn from secondhand stories from Saracens, Persians and Slavs. Still, at the edge was a marked Land of the Tartars. Tartarus itself, perhaps. Whatever the nature of this semi-mythical land, it had produced a Gangrel named Qarakh.
Alexander was mildly surprised to realize he was looking forward to testing his strength, his cunning and his two millennia of experience against Qarakh.
He opened his mouth and put his thumb against his right incisor and pushed. The sharp tooth pierced the finger’s flesh and blood welled forth. Alexander pressed his bleeding thumb onto the edge of the vellum map, right on the word Tartars, and began rubbing it around in slow, ever-widening circles. He did not stop until the word was entirely covered in wet crimson.
One night passed…
Two…
And the sun set for a third time.
“Tonight we shall dispatch a messenger to inform Alexander that there will be no alliance.”
Qarakh paused to gauge the reactions of those attending this kuriltai. The tribe’s inner circle stood—Deverra, Alessandro, Wilhelmina and Grandfather—leaving the logs for their guests as was only proper hospitality. As khan, Qarakh was seated, but sitting alongside and opposite him were those allied leaders he had invited to the kuriltai: Eirik Longtooth, Karl the Blue, Borovich the Grim, Tengael, Werter, and Lacplesis the Beastslayer. On the other side of Deverra stood a half-dozen Telyavs—two male, four female—all wearing the simple brown robes favored by their coven. So far, they were the only ones that had answered their high priestess’s call for aid.
Malachite was present as well, standing off to the side and ignoring the glances of mistrust the others gave him from time to time. Qarakh, however, had come to trust the Nosferatu enough to permit him to attend tonight’s council, though not yet enough to let him out of sight for very long.
There were no objections to his pronouncement, at least none that were spoken. Qarakh was gratified, if somewhat surprised. He had expected some of his allies to object to sending a messenger and instead demand that they mount an all-out attack on Alexander at once. But after two nights of discussion and debate, even Wilhelmina must have finally realized that when their tribe went to war with the Ventrue’s army, they weren’t going to win by sheer strength or martial skill. Many of the allies had fought their own battles with knights and had learned the hard way that stealth and deception were among the greatest weapons they possessed.
“Has there been any word from your spies?” Eirik asked. Like most of the Cainites from the north—Finland, Sweden, Norway and Denmark—he wore his blonde hair and beard long and wild, and was garbed in a tunic stitched together from animal fur.
“Not yet,” Qarakh said, “but it is almost two night’s ride to Alexander’s campsite. Perhaps just under a full night for one who can travel in animal form. Two nights past, we dispatched three spies. Even the swiftest has not yet had enough time to reach the camp, survey it and return.”
“Have there been any signs that the Ventrue has sent spies of his own?” Werter asked. The Gangrel leader of Uppsala looked much the same as Eirik, though he was somewhat shorter and his eyes were more bestial.
Many of the allies, as well as Deverra’s fellow Telyavs and Wilhelmina, turned to look at Malachite. To his credit, the Nosferatu displayed no reaction to their stares.
“We have had warriors patrolling the camp’s boundaries since Deverra and I first returned from our parley with Alexander. No spies have been sighted.”
“That doesn’t mean that there are not any. Merely that they have not been seen,” Borovich the Grim said. The Prussian Gangrel’s childe Tengael nodded agreement with his sire.
Deverra addressed this concern. “My people have employed their magic to set up wards around the campsite. We shall know if anyone, friend or foe, approaches.”
“Sorcery!” Borovich spat a gob of crimson-tinged saliva into the grass, but said no more.
Qarakh felt a drop of rain strike the back of his hand, and he knew the storm that he’d been smelling for the last several nights was nearly upon them.
Grandfather looked up at the sky. Dark clouds covered the stars and hid the moon.
“A bad omen,” the elder said, and a number of the allies nodded their agreement.
“It is only a bit of rain,” one of the male Telyavs said. His name was Sturla, and he was a tall, thin humorless man with a shaven head and a thatch of black beard. “The mortals will be grateful; their crops can certainly use it.”
Deverra gave the man a stern look, and he fell silent, though he didn’t look too happy at having been quieted.
He most likely resents having to humor a pack of superstitious strangers, Qarakh thought. If their situation hadn’t been so serious, he might’ve found this amusing—a sorcerer unable to accept the mystical beliefs of others.
The rain began to pick up then, but it was still hardly more than a light patter. Besides, they were all of the Damned—what was a little rain to them?
It was Malachite’s turn to ask a question. “Have you decided who will carry your message to Alexander? If you send a Cainite of low station—or worse yet, a ghoul—the prince will be most insulted.”
“Let him be!” Wilhelmina said, setting several of the allies as well as a few Telyavs to laughing.
Malachite, however, did not seem bothered by the others’ laughter. “You must understand: Alexander values matters of personal pride above all else. For all his calculating and scheming, in the end he bases every decision on it. It is the one true weakness that he possesses.”
“Then we must find a way to exploit it,” Alessandro said.
“Easier said than done,” Sturla said.
Qarakh frowned. It was one thing
