“What of it?” Eirik Longtooth said, stabbing his sword at the night sky. “However he comes, we shall crush him!”
Qarakh scowled at Longtooth’s gesture—it was an insult to Father Tengri—but he said nothing.
Many of the others shouted their agreement, and Qarakh knew he had only seconds before they broke away and raced off to the attack, all pretense of military order forgotten.
“If we do not stand together as a tribe, Alexander and his knights will surely defeat us. Not all of us shall meet the Final Death, but the tribe will fall, and then Livonia will belong to Alexander and the Christians. Before long their numbers will increase, and mortals will follow. They will establish more villages that will in time become cities. They will cut down the trees and slay the wildlife for food. Alexander brings worse than the Final Death with him. He brings civilization.”
Qarakh looked around at the faces of the assembled Cainites—a number of whom now looked more bestial than they had a few moments ago. In their eyes he could see the struggle taking place as cold intelligence warred with ravening Beast. But they remained standing where they were, and they still listened.
“How can you be sure of these things?” Tengael demanded.
Qarakh didn’t know how to respond to that, but Deverra answered for him.
“Because he is Qarakh, and he is khan.”
The struggle between thought and appetite continued a moment longer, and though the Beast didn’t recede completely (did it ever?), Qarakh could see in his allies’ gazes that intelligence had won—for now.
Karl the Blue got down on one knee and bowed his head. One by one all the other Cainites—including the Telyavs—did likewise.
“What are your orders, my khan?” Karl asked.
Qarakh took no pleasure in the others’ submission. He was simply glad that they could now attend to the work that lay before them.
“Rise and listen well, for we have little time to prepare.”
Alexander rode next to Rudiger in the middle of the formation. In front of the central group (called the battle) rode the vanguard, to the right and left sides were the wings, and riding behind came the rearguard. The vast majority of the ranks was made up of mortals and ghouls, with the Cainites riding primarily in the battle, though a half-dozen rode in the other formations, commanding the ghouls and mortals. The Cainites rode ghoul horses—Alexander was particularly fond of the midnight black stallion that served as his steed—while the human ghouls and mortals sat astride ordinary mounts. Everyone was equipped with the same complement of arms and armor: lance, sword, helmet and mail hauberk. None had bows, however. The knightly classes emphasized personal combat, and thus disdained their use—an attitude Alexander found ridiculous but knew he couldn’t change. Four separate standards were emblazoned on flags carried by heralds that rode with each formation: those of Alexander, Jürgen, the Teutonic Knights and the Black Cross knights. Alexander would have preferred to ride beneath a single standard—his, of course—but sometimes one had to make sacrifices to keep one’s soldiers happy.
All together, the army numbered thirty-one Cainites, fifty-four ghouls and thirty-nine mortals, making for a total fighting force of one hundred and twenty-four. The remainder of their people—the servants, blacksmiths, stable masters, cooks, laundresses and simple feeding stock—now camped two miles behind the army, well out of the range of battle, but close enough for the soldiers to return to them once the fighting was finished.
The army rode across a grassy plain, a small thatch of forest off to the right. An empty thatch… at least, according to Rudiger’s scouts. The man might be an officious, humorless bore, but Alexander had to admit that he was an effective field commander.
If all goes well, Alexander thought, feeling in a generous mood, perhaps I won’t kill him after all.
“It’s a lovely night for conquest, is it not, Commander?” It had started to rain a short while ago, and Alexander had feared that Rudiger would insist on calling off the attack, for muddy ground and armored knights on horseback were not an effective combination. Though Alexander would have insisted they continue on, regardless of the weather, he doubted he could have convinced Rudiger to order the knights to do so, save by backing his request with the crushing force of his will. Rudiger was not some weak-minded simpleton that could be easily swayed by another’s will, but he would bow to Alexander of Paris—eventually.
But the rain had dissipated without becoming a major storm, and the ground, while damp, had not turned to muddy soup. The sky was clearing and patches of stars were visible, along with occasional glimpses of a nearly full moon.
“It’s the sort of night that inspires bards to song, eh, Rudiger?”
“There’ll be time enough to contemplate such things after the fight is won.”
“I value a man who believes in keeping his mind on his work, but when you’re as old as I am—assuming that you’re fortunate enough to survive that long—you’ll understand that taking the time to appreciate the small details is often what keeps you focused.”
Alexander found himself wishing that István was here. He’d have no more understanding of Alexander’s insights than Rudiger, but at least he would pretend to. But István, along with several handpicked men, was off on a separate mission, one just as vital—if not more so—than that of the army as a whole.
“I am thinking of the small details. For example, the Mongol sent spies to watch over our camp—all of whom we found and killed. Yet our scouts have discovered no sign of any sentries
