She snarled and coiled her muscles, preparing to leap at the knight, but out of the corner of her eye she saw a figure approaching: an old man in a gray robe. There was something familiar about him, but it was so hard to think… there were so many distractions… the sounds of battle and falling rain, the stink of burnt wood and Cainite flesh, the flash of lightning and rumble of thunder… and above it all the blood-fury roaring in her ears.
The robe—old man—a monk—must kill, kill, kill!
Wilhelmina spun around and lashed out with her claws. Blood sprayed the air and the monk stiffened, eyes wide with surprise. His head teetered and fell backward, prevented from falling to the ground by a single strip of flesh that kept it connected to the body. The old man collapsed to the grass, the impact causing the strip of flesh to tear, and the monk’s head—no, Grandfather’s head—rolled across the wet grass and came to rest with its right cheek in a rain puddle.
Wilhelmina stared at Grandfather’s head, unable to believe what she had done. She let forth a howl of despair and then bounded off, sometimes running on two feet, sometimes four. She had no idea where she was going. All she wanted to do was run as fast and as far as she could. Perhaps if she ran far enough, she might even outrun the memory of the look in Grandfather’s eyes as awareness faded and they grew dim. A look of understanding, of pity and above all love.
Rudiger lowered his sword as he watched the she-wolf dash away. He wasn’ t sure what had just happened—why she had slain the old Gangrel and then fled—but war was chaos and ultimately beyond anyone’s understanding, save that of almighty God.
He could afford to spare no more thought for the matter. The rain was coming down harder now, and the pagans’ ambush had proven most effective. The vanguard was in complete disarray, and he had no sense of how many casualties they had suffered, let alone how the rest of the army fared. There was no hope for it; they needed to fall back (he didn’t think of it as a retreat, for a true knight would never do something so dishonorable).
He yanked the arrow from his wrist and threw it to the ground. He turned and began jogging toward the main body of the army, keeping his eye out for a horse he could commandeer.
Alessandro’s horsemen were almost out of arrows when he heard the sound of trumpets echo over the battlefield. He ordered the archers to hold their positions. Moments later, the Christian knights began to retreat. A cheer went up from Alessandro’s men, but the Iberian didn’t join in the exultation. They had fought and won but a single battle.
The war was by no means over.
Chapter Twenty
Qarakh ripped out the knight’s throat and spat the bloody hunk of flesh in the man’s face. He then leaped to the side to avoid a sword blow from one of the other abductors, then leaped again as yet another knight took a swing at him. In less time than it takes an eye to blink, Qarakh shed his wolf form and once again became the Mongol warrior known as the Untamed. He intended to show these two Christians exactly how he had come by that name.
As one of the remaining knights rode toward him, Qarakh ducked the man’s sword and sliced opened the horse’s throat with one stroke of his saber. The animal tried to whinny, but the best it could manage was a chuffing and gurgling sound as it went down. The knight flew over the horse’s head, arms and legs flailing.
Qarakh turn to meet the charge of the second knight. He drew a dagger from his belt and hurled it with all his strength at the man’s chest. The blade pierced the undead knight’s mail hauberk with an audible chunk. The impact ruined both his balance and his charge. As the knight struggled to retain control of his destrier, Qarakh leaped and drew a heavy wooden stake. Before the knight could regain control, the Mongol drove it into his undead heart. The Christian stiffened, suddenly paralyzed, and slid sideways off his horse and crashed to the ground.
Qarakh turned back to the first knight, who was staggering to his feet after a less than gentle landing. After four quick strides and a slash of Qarakh’s saber, the knight no longer had a head. Six more steps in the other direction and the paralyzed knight suffered the same fate as his companion. Qarakh bent down, yanked his stake from the dead knight’s chest, wiped it clean on the man’s tabard, then straightened and tucked it back into his belt. The Mongol warrior felt no elation at his victory. He felt nothing beyond the determination to rescue Aajav.
He once again donned wolf-shape—though it was more difficult this time and he knew he would soon have to feed once more—and resumed the hunt.
Lightning flashed and thunder roared. The rain sliced down from the heavens like a hail of miniature knives. István couldn’t see a foot in front of his face. His mount, and the one the unconscious Mongol lay astride, were both so spooked that he was having trouble controlling the animals. He had no idea if he was heading in the right direction anymore. All he knew was that he couldn’t afford to slow down, not if he hoped to—
Out of the darkness and the rain, blazing eyes and wide-open jaws came leaping at him, and István had time to think, At least it’s not Alexander, before Qarakh was upon him.
Qarakh, in man-shape once again, led the knight’s horse by the bridle toward a stand of pine trees. The steed upon which Aajav lay came along obediently. The horses were skittish, but he spoke to them in a soothing voice as they walked, and though
