“It is… dirt?”
“Livonian soil,” the smith said. “If you eat it, you shall be bonded to the land, and as long as you remain in direct physical contact with it, you shall be able to draw upon my power for short periods of time.”
Qarakh eyed the dirt skeptically. “Will this enchantment give me enough strength to defeat Alexander?”
“Even your body is only capable of containing a minute fraction of my power, but it should be enough to give you a fighting chance against the Ventrue.”
Qarakh turned his hand palm up, and the smith gently deposited the soil into it, then shook off the last few remaining bits. Qarakh felt no special power contained within the earth; it felt like dirt and nothing more. He lifted it to his face and sniffed it. Smelled like dirt, too.
He then looked into the smith’s eyes and was shocked to see they contained swirls of stars set against fields of utter darkness—just like the eyes of the strange Cainite Qarakh had encountered outside of the monastery.
“There must be a price,” Qarakh said. “Such power does not come free.”
“True.” The smith glanced at Deverra before returning his gaze to Qarakh. “For you, the price is simple, though you may be unwilling to pay it. As I said, once you swallow that soil, you will be bound to the land. This means that you shall be unable to leave Livonia except for short lengths of time, and no matter how many centuries you live, you will always be forced to return in order to replenish your strength. If you do not, you will grow weaker and weaker until you eventually meet the Final Death. This will last so long as my bond with your priestess does.”
Once again, Qarakh looked at the soil in his hand as he thought about what the smith had told him. To be bound to one place would mean giving up the freedom to roam whenever and wherever he wished. No longer would he be able to follow the path of the nomad. No longer would he truly be Qarakh.
“You must ask yourself one final question,” the smith said. “How badly do you wish to defeat your enemy?”
“You mean, how badly do I wish to protect my tribe.” Qarakh looked to Deverra. “As well as the Telyavs.”
The smith shrugged. “Rephrase the question however you like; it remains essentially the same. You know the price—are you willing to pay it?”
Deverra’s expression was unreadable, and Qarakh knew she was trying to keep from influencing his choice one way or another. But in the end, there really was no choice. He had already allowed Aajav to offer his life so that he could defeat Alexander, but the additional strength he had received from his brother had not been enough to counter the Ventrue’s power. There was only one way Alexander was going to be stopped.
Qarakh brought the soil to his mouth and began eating.
Deverra watched as Qarakh became a phantom and then vanished. She knew his spirit had returned to its body upon the battlefield to resume the fight against Alexander.
“It is done,” the smith said. Instead of Qarakh, the being now resembled a red-headed woman garbed in a brown robe. “And now, my daughter, it is time for you to pay your half of the price.”
“Yes.” She did not know precisely what that price might be, only that it would be high indeed.
The smith smiled and reached for Deverra with slender, feminine hands.
Qarakh got his saber up in time to meet Alexander’s strike, but as disoriented as he was, he wasn’t prepared to counter the strength of the blow. The saber went tumbling out of his hand. He jumped backward just as the Ventrue slashed at his midsection. The tip of the blade sliced through his leather vest and cut a line across the flesh beneath, but it was a minor wound and healed almost immediately.
Despite the smith’s promise, Qarakh felt no stronger than he had before his vision of the Grove of Shadows.
… you shall be bonded to the land, and as long as you remain in direct physical contact with it, you shall be able to draw upon my power…
Qarakh understood then what he needed to do. Alexander rushed forward with inhuman speed, sword now held in a two-handed grip over his head, ready to bring the blade down like an ax upon his opponent. Qarakh fell into crouching position and pressed his bare hand to the earth. Power surged into his being, unlike anything he had ever known before. It was beyond the heady sensation of blood gushing down his throat, beyond the exhilaration of riding into battle upon the back of a hardy steed, beyond the wild abandon of being swept up in the hunt.
Is this what Alexander feels? Qarakh thought. No wonder he believes he is unstoppable.
Qarakh’s perceptions altered, and suddenly Alexander was moving no more swiftly than an ordinary Cainite. As the Venture brought his sword down—clearly intending to cleave Qarakh in twain, the Mongol warrior reached up with his free hand and caught Alexander’s wrists in an iron grip. Qarakh’s Beast howled with delight while the prince’s eyes widened in surprise, but before he had a chance to react, the Mongol warrior twisted the Ventrue’s wrists as hard as he could. Alexander cried out in pain and dropped his sword. Qarakh then yanked Alexander in the other direction. Off balance and confused, the prince slammed into the ground and lay there, stunned.
Qarakh’s first impulse was to grab the Ventrue’s sword, rush over and cut off Alexander’s head, but he knew that if he removed his hand from the ground, he would lose the strength and speed granted by the dark god who dwelled in the Grove of Shadows. Without
