Malachite watched the fighting from within the shadows of the nearby woods. He’d returned to Qarakh’s camp, informed the chieftain that Alexander had accepted his challenge, and then the Tartar, satisfied, kept his word and told Malachite the story (and location) of the Obertus monastery. The Nosferatu’s mind still boggled at the news. The Obertus order had been founded by the Dracon’s progeny in Constantinople but had no known holdings here. And it certainly had no love for the Cainite Heresy or Archbishop Nikita. But the coincidence was too much—it was another sign and Malachite would follow it.
But not yet. First, he would watch what was likely to be the final encounter between the knights and the tribesmen. Malachite wasn’t certain why he felt he must. Perhaps it was a need to sate his scholar’s curiosity, or perhaps he wished to witness what might very well prove to be Cainite history in the making. Or perhaps he had come to sympathize with the tribe and wanted to stay and help them, if only by watching and wishing them success.
He heard a rustling of underbrush behind him, and he instinctively melted into the shadows to conceal himself. A moment later, he saw a group of Telyavs. They approached the edge and stood close to the trees, their brown robes seeming to change color and texture to match that of the bark. Malachite noted that Deverra was not among them. He wondered at the absence of the high priestess. He knew that Qarakh wished to conduct this battle without the aid of witchery, but that hardly explained her absence from her followers’ sides.
The Telyavs watched the fighting for several moments before turning their backs on the battle and walking over to the spot where they had sat the previous night when casting their spell. They settled into a small circle, crossed their legs, and then withdrew waterskins from the folds of their robes. The Telyavs bit their lips and vitae welled forth. They leaned forward and allowed the blood to drip upon the ground while they chanted words in a language Malachite didn’t recognize. The Telyavs then uncorked their waterskins and raised them to their gore-slick lips, but they did not swallow. They swished the water around in their mouths for a moment and then spat the liquid—now mixed with their blood—onto the ground before them. They linked hands, closed their eyes and resumed chanting.
Moments later, shouts of surprise and anger drifted from the battlefield as whatever enchantment the Telyavs had worked took effect.
Qarakh raised his saber barely in time to parry a sword thrust aimed directly at his heart. Alexander moved with a speed and grace beyond anything the Mongol warrior had ever seen. He was hard-pressed to counter the Ventrue’s moves, let alone make any attacks of his own. Worst of all, he had the sense that Alexander was merely toying with him, and that he could move even more swiftly if he wished.
Kill him! his Beast shrieked. Kill him now!
For once, Qarakh would have loved to give in completely to his Beast’s wishes, but even with the additional strength and speed he had gained from Aajav’s sacrifice, he knew he was still no match for his ancient opponent. He could continue fighting as savagely as he could, but he knew it was only a matter of time before Alexander defeated him. Qarakh would survive only as long as Alexander was amused by their sparring match. The moment the Ventrue grew bored, he would deliver Qarakh unto the Final Death.
Qarakh was not dismayed by this knowledge. Part of him thought he deserved to die for his foolish belief in a dream of creating a tribal nation of Cainites in Livonia, and more, for taking the life of his beloved brother and sire. Even so, he was determined to fight on to the last, if for no other reason than to honor Aajav’s memory. But before he could swing his saber at Alexander again, shouts erupted from the combatants around them, both pagans and Christians.
The ground they stood upon—which had already been damp and muddy from last night’s rain—had suddenly grown more so. It continued to liquefy until horses and foot soldiers sank. Mounts whinnied in frustration and fear as they slid into muck up to their bellies. Their riders yanked on the reins and shouted commands for their steeds to pull free from the mire, but the horses were unable to escape.
Those warriors afoot fared just as poorly. The bog swallowed them up to their knees, and the more they struggled, the deeper they sank. Some were in up to their waists, some up to their chests. Of all of the assembled warriors, only Alexander and Qarakh still stood upon solid ground.
The Ventrue glared at Qarakh. “I knew you would never give up witchcraft!”
Qarakh fought to contain his fury. Not at Alexander, but at Deverra and her fellow Telyavs, for surely this was an enchantment of their making.
“I have nothing to do with this,” Qarakh said. “I commanded the Telyavs to stay out of this battle.”
Alexander sneered. “Of course you did.”
“Upon my honor, Ventrue. Besides, this spell is working as much against my people as it is yours.”
Alexander considered this for a moment. “In that case, then, either your sorcerers lost control of their enchantment, or they have turned against you and your entire tribe.”
Qarakh glanced down at the ground beneath their feet. It was difficult to tell, but it looked as if the solid earth extended in a rough circle around them for a radius of fifteen feet or so.
“So what do we do now?” Alexander asked. “Declare a draw and resume our conflict on another night? Or should we combine forces long
