He prayed to Tengri that having her neck broken hadn’t damaged Pavla’s soul too severely, otherwise she could not be reincarnated.
Qarakh looked down at Pavla’s body. “Goodbye, woman. You served your khan well. I hope you find many rewards in your next life.” He then strode toward the ger’s door, eager to get the council underway. But when he stepped outside, careful as always not to allow his feet to touch the threshold, he was met by a chorus of cheers.
The camp was filled with mortals: men, women and children, all wearing the dress of Livonian peasants. Some of them he recognized as ghouls and thralls, but most were unknown to him. He estimated the newcomers at three dozen or more. Standing apart from the crowd were the other Cainites in the camp—evidently he had slept longer than he’d intended and was the last to rise this night.
Deverra stood with the other Cainites, and now she stepped forward. “These mortals live in the nearby village of Gutka. They heard that the great khan had returned to their land, and they have come to pay homage.”
Qarakh knew he should have expected this. The camp was always set up close to a human village so the Cainites in his tribe would have easy access to sustenance, and since the Livs believed the vampires were demigods, they were more than eager to sacrifice their blood for good fortune, a bountiful harvest and strong, healthy children. In order to keep from draining any one village dry, the tribe moved every few months and made camp on the outskirts of another human settlement. The arrangement—not unlike that of a Mongolian sheepherder in some ways—worked quite well, but occasionally it meant that Qarakh was forced to play host to his “worshippers.”
As a priestess of Telyavel, the Protector of the Dead, Deverra served as the liaison between the mortals and the spirit world, so it was only right that he address his words to her. “Priestess, your people are welcome among us.” His tone was formal, and he spoke loud enough for all to hear. “We accept their tribute and bid that they remain among us for a time and receive our blessing.”
This brought a few scattered cheers from mortals who were quickly shushed by those standing close to them. The ritual wasn’t finished yet.
Deverra folded her hands over her chest and bowed. “On behalf of the people of Gutka, I thank you, oh great khan. May Telyavel hold our ancestors close and lend them his ear when they seek his favor on our behalf.” She straightened and Qarakh was surprised when she winked at him.
Qarakh turned toward the humans and spread his arms wide.
“Let the communion begin!”
In the center of the camp, a celebratory fire had been lit, though it was not very big, and the Cainites kept well away from it, averting their eyes from the bright flames. The villagers sat around the fire, eating bread and cheese and drinking wine, all of which they had brought themselves. They offered none to the Cainites or their ghouls; the people knew what fare they subsisted on. An old man played a sprightly tune on a violin while several pretty young women danced, no doubt trying to attract the attentions of the male Cainites.
Qarakh sat on a felled tree trunk, Deverra at his right side. The Livs viewed her as the female complement to his male energy, almost a consort of sorts, and so the two always remained together when in the presence of mortals that revered them. Sitting on a second log and facing Qarakh and Deverra were three other Cainites, all members of the Mongol’s inner circle.
In the middle, wrapped in an old blanket, sat an ancient vampire known simply as Grandfather who served as the tribe’s lore-keeper. His face was wizened, as if he had been Embraced toward the end of his mortal lifespan, and his eyes were slitted like a cat’s or a serpent’s. His arms and hands, neither of which was visible at the moment, were covered with coarse gray fur. When he spoke, his deep voice belied his apparent feebleness, and though he normally remained still, when he chose to move, he could do so with a panther’s deadly speed.
To Grandfather’s left sat a large brooding man with long black hair that spilled past his shoulders. A ponytail hung back from the center of his head, and two twin braids dangled past his bearded chin. His eyes were cold blue, and a scar ran across the right, a legacy of his mortal life. Despite the fact that his mouth was closed in a grim line, the tips of his two razor-sharp canines protruded over his lip, and his ears were tufted like an animal’s. Though concealed at the moment, his torso was covered with fur—another mark of the Beast. Before his Embrace centuries ago, Arnulf had been a Goth soldier, and now he wore simple leather armor, deerskin pants, black boots and a black cape. He carried a broadax that Qarakh had rarely seen him without.
Like Qarakh, and much of the other blood-drinkers in the tribe, Grandfather and Arnulf traced their line to the Gangrel clan. One of the great lines of the undead, the Gangrel were known for their animalistic gifts and their stalwart hearts. The hidebound Cainites of the cities and settled lands looked down on Gangrel as wild and barbaric, but Qarakh knew they simply hid their fear. Unlike the khan
