Dark Ages Clan Novel Gangrel: Book 10 of the Dark Ages Clan Novel Saga

trees. He wasn’t certain, for his horse still refused to settle down, but it looked as if the newcomers’ hands were bleeding. As the Gangrel raced forward with Qarakh in the lead, the robed ones—could they be Telyavs?—knelt and pressed their bleeding palms to the grass. There was a rustling whispering sound, and the grass surrounding the knights began to sway back and forth as if stirred by a restless wind, though the air remained still. Then the blades stretched forth from the ground, growing longer and thicker as they came and—Rudiger was certain he must be hallucinating this—each blade of grass now possessed a small gaping mouth ringed by rows of hard toothlike thorns. The grass (or whatever it had become) struck serpent-swift, tiny mouths affixing to horses’ flanks, bellies, withers, barrels or necks—and they began to drink.

The horses shrieked in agony, bucking and jumping as they tried to tear free of the horrible mouths that had clamped onto their flesh and were now sucking their blood with loud moist sounds. But no matter how hard the equines fought, they couldn’t dislodge the parasites.

And then, just as swiftly as it had come upon them, the enchantment faded, and the mouths fell away from the horses, like leeches that had finally had their fill. Though the mounts bled from dozens of wounds apiece, none had been killed and no knight had been unseated. Had the spell somehow failed?

Rudiger looked up to see Qarakh bearing down upon him, the other Gangrel running alongside, some still in human form, some changed into bestial things that ran on two legs, and others that had forsaken all pretense of humanity and ran on all fours. Rudiger understood: The purpose of the grass creatures hadn’t been to slay the knights’ horses, but rather to hold them in place long enough for the Gangrel to attack in force.

Rudiger didn’t have any more time to think. Qarakh the Untamed was upon him.

Chapter Nineteen

Qarakh recognized the German knight from his visit to Alexander’s camp. He wasn’t certain what the man’s rank was, but it was clear he was leading the Christians’ charge, so Qarakh rode toward him. Around him ran his fellow Gangrel—Wilhelmina, Karl the Blue, Eirik Longtooth and all the rest.

All save Arnulf, his Beast reminded him.

Many of the Gangrel were in the midst of transformation, either by choice or as a result of succumbing to frenzy. Wilhelmina concerned him the most. Given her deep hatred of Christians, she was especially vulnerable.

Qarakh risked a quick glance at her. The Viking maid’s eyes were wild and bulging. Her tongue had become long and gray, and it lolled against her cheek. Her skin was covered with patches of amber fur, and her nose and mouth protruded from her face—almost but not quite merged into a snout. Her mouth was filled with wolf’s teeth, and white froth flecked her lips.

Forget her and concentrate on the German—unless you intend to become a martyr for your tribe this day.

Qarakh didn’t know if the voice was his or the Beast’s, and he supposed right now it didn’t matter. He gave forth a war cry that was more monster than Mongol. With subtle changes in the pressure of his legs against the mare’s sides, he directed her toward the German.

The knight was having trouble controlling his own horse. Frightened and weakened by the Telyavs’ spell, the animal struggled against its rider’s commands and was attempting to flee the battlefield. And regardless of how he worked the reins or how much he swore at the animal in German, the knight couldn’t make his mount obey.

Qarakh grinned, revealing teeth that didn’t look much different than Wilhelmina’s. Qarakh galloped toward the German, and the Mongol warrior raised his saber, preparing to slash at the Cainite’s neck as he rode past. He hoped to lay open the knight’s throat, perhaps even decapitate him. But given the erratic movements of the man’s horse, Qarakh would have to time his strike just—

A wordless, soundless cry echoed through Qarakh’s mind. A cry of anger, of fear, of helplessness…

He knew at once that the cry came from Aajav.

Qarakh forgot all about the German knight and the army of Christian warriors. He forgot about the Gangrel loping alongside him, and about the Telyavs back in the woods, resting after the exertion of casing their spell. He even forgot about Deverra. Only one thing existed for him now: his brother.

He yanked his steed’s reins hard to the right, shouted, “Tchoo! Tchoo!” and urged the mare away from the battlefield at the fastest pace the horse could manage.

Rudiger watched in stunned surprise as the Mongol broke off his attack and rode away at a full gallop. At first he thought that it must be another trick of some kind, for he could not imagine Qarakh purposely refusing to fight, but then he realized what had happened. Somehow the Mongol had sensed what István and his men were up to, and he was riding to his blood brother’s aid. The tactic hadn’t quite worked the way Alexander had hoped, but it had at least removed Qarakh from the fight—though Rudiger didn’t envy István when the Gangrel chieftain caught up with him.

Rudiger stopped thinking then as a bestial female Cainite with amber-hued fur ran toward him and leaped into the air. He tried to bring his sword around in time to meet her attack, but the she-wolf was too swift and slammed into him before he could defend himself. The two Cainites tumbled toward the ground, and Rudiger’s mount—free of its rider at last—took off at a feeble trot.

The savage bitch tried to sink her fangs into his throat, and he brought up his forearm just in time to protect himself. The she-wolf bit into his arm instead, and vitae gushed forth, hot and red. Then Rudiger’s own Beast rose to the fore, and he began to fight for his unlife.

The air was filled with screams and growls as Cainites, ghouls and mortals fought, rending each other’s