Qarakh thought of how Aajav’s body had begun to decay after the diablerie was finished. Qarakh had waited until his brother was nothing more than a pile of ashes, and then he had carefully gathered the remains and placed them in one of the gelding’s saddlebags. One day he would return to Mongolia and scatter the ashes on the shore of the Onan River, the Anda be damned. He almost patted the saddlebag to reassure himself that Aajav’s ashes were still there, but he resisted. Though he thought it likely Deverra might suspect what had occurred—he seemed unable to hide anything from her—he didn’t want Alessandro to know. Perhaps because he was ashamed, but also because what had transpired between Aajav and himself had been an intimate, private thing.
“That has already been dealt with,” Qarakh said in a tone that indicated he wished to speak no more about it.
Alessandro looked at his khan for a moment before nodding his acceptance.
Qarakh took another look around the battlefield. The stench of blood and voided mortal waste hung in the air like the residue of agony and fury. Delicious, his Beast said, and Qarakh had to fight to keep from salivating. Too bad we missed all the fun. Then again, Aajav was delicious, too.
“How did the tribe fare?” Qarakh asked.
“Well, my khan,” Alessandro said. “By my count, we’ve slain sixty-seven of the enemy: seventeen Cainites, thirty-one ghouls and nineteen mortals. I estimate the number to be roughly half of their fighting force.”
Despite his sorrow at Aajav’s loss, Qarakh was pleased with this result. It was better than he had hoped for—especially since he hadn’t fought alongside his tribesmen.
“And Alexander?” Qarakh asked.
The Iberian shook his head. “His body has not been found.”
It was possible that the prince had been killed and his body removed by the surviving knights, or even that his body had eroded to ash like Aajav’s, but Qarakh doubted it. Alexander still survived.
“How many warriors did we lose?”
“Only twelve, and that number includes the Telyav Sturla.”
Qarakh sniffed. He wasn’t sorry to hear of that sorcerer’s demise.
“Among the fallen are Eirik Longtooth and Tengael—and Wilhelmina is missing, though there is no reason to presume she has met the Final Death. Knowing her, she pursued the Christians as they retreated.”
“Most likely,” Qarakh agreed. He sensed that Alessandro had something more to tell him and was stalling, reluctant to get to it. Qarakh felt like yelling at the man to spit it out, but he forced himself to wait patiently.
“We also lost Grandfather,” Alessandro said, clearly struggling to keep the sadness out of his voice. The news struck Qarakh like a physical blow.
Grandfather had not only been the tribe’s lorekeeper, he had been its greatest teacher. The elder had instructed countless Gangrel and other vampires on how to find yostoi with the Beast. His teachings had set the landmarks for many travelers on the most primal philosophical road a vampire could follow through the night. Alessandro had made it something of a personal mission to learn all he could of the ways of the Beast, and Grandfather had served as both mentor and role model to him. The death of the ancient Gangrel had no doubt hit the Iberian especially hard.
“It is a great loss,” Qarakh said. “We shall add his name to the list of those to be avenged.”
Alessandro didn’t appear especially comforted, but he nodded anyway. “What are your orders, my khan?”
“Continue to gather our fallen, but make sure that all Cainites return to the camp well before dawn. As much as we might like to honor the dead with a proper funeral pyre, we don’t want to lose anyone else. If that means leaving some of our casualties to be devoured by the sun’s rays, then so be it. Also, post sentries—both ghouls who can keep watch during the day and Gangrel who can inter themselves until the next sunset. Alexander will be stung by this defeat, and he will surely attack again, sooner rather than later. We must be prepared.”
“Yes, my khan.” Alessandro departed to carry out Qarakh’s commands.
After the Iberian had gone, Deverra laid a swollen reddish purple hand on Qarakh’s leg. “I’m so sorry about Aajav,” she said.
Emotions warred in Qarakh: gratitude for Deverra’s sympathy, revulsion at the sight of what she had become, guilt at the knowledge that it was his command that had led to her transformation, and a fury whose source was unclear to him.
“I am weary and must return to my tent and rest. I suggest you do the same.”
A hurt look came into Deverra’s eyes, and she withdrew her hand from his leg. Before she could say anything else, Qarakh turned the gelding around and headed away from the battlefield at a brisk trot.
Deverra watched Qarakh ride off. She knew how Aajav had died—not all the specifics, but she knew enough—and she understood how hard diablerizing his blood brother had been for him. It was just like the stoic Mongol not to want to talk about it.
I’m weary and must return to my tent to rest. I suggest you do the same.
What a splendid idea. Deverra started walking in the direction of the camp.
Alexander sat at his desk, his great map of Christendom and the lands still unconverted spread out on the surface before him. He looked first at the Christian kingdoms, than at the pagan lands, before placing one hand on each section. Then slowly he curled his fingers and began crumpling the map. Within moments he had wadded it into a ball slightly larger than his fists. He then began to squeeze the wad, compacting it even further with his great strength. Then, when he had squeezed the map down as far as he could, he raised his fists up over his head and brought them crashing down onto his desk, reducing it
