Mercedes Lackey - Much Fall of Blood (Heirs of Alexandria, #3)

This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to real people or incidents is purely coincidental.
Copyright 2010 by Mercedes Lackey, Eric Flint & Dave Freer
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form.
A Baen Books Original
Baen Publishing Enterprises
P.O. Box 1403
Riverdale, NY 10471
www.baen.com
ISBN: 978-1-4391-3351-4
Cover art by Larry Dixon
First printing, May 2010
Distributed by Simon & Schuster
1230 Avenue of the Americas
New York, NY 10020
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Lackey, Mercedes.
Much fall of blood / Mercedes Lackey, Eric Flint & Dave Freer.
p. cm. (Heirs of Alexandria series)
"A Baen Books original"T.p. verso.
ISBN 978-1-4391-3351-4 (hc)
1. BrothersFiction. 2. MagicFiction. 3. Carpathian MountainsFiction. I. Flint, Eric. II. Freer, Dave. III. Title.
PS3562.A246M83 2010
813'.54dc22
2010005098
Pages by Joy Freeman (www.pagesbyjoy.com)
Printed in the United States of America

The Shadow of the Lion
This Rough Magic
Much Fall of Blood
A Mankind Witch by Dave Freer
For a complete list of Baen Books by these authors
go to www.baen.com

The ochre dust hung in the air, heavy with the smell of sweating horses. It muffled the yarring yells and the thunder of hooves, a little. But only a little. Kildai's willow-root club sent the head flying, bouncing away from the pack of riders shouldering their horses forward. It hooked, by the hair, in a small bush. Kildai's pony was smaller than the average Mongol horse, but very quick on her feet. Good on her turns, and she could accelerate. He broke from the crush and leaned out of the saddle to club the head onward toward the post.

Just before he was knocked out of the saddle, he saw Gatu Orkhan talking to a man in a hooded cloak on the high dais. It was odd how some moments were caught like a fly in the amber of memoryperfectly preserved when all else faded and decayed. A strand of lank blond hair hung out of that hood. The native Vlachssome of them at leasthad the occasional blond head. As did the Rus. But what would either be doing here, at the great kurultai, on the high dais? The Mongol traditions of their forefathers might be dying away in everyday life, here in the lands that remained to the Golden Horde, but not on this occasion. That was not a place for a slave. Not now.

The sight distracted Kildai even in middle of the great game.

Being knocked senseless was the smallest price you could pay for that. But he would swear that something had actually knocked him out of the saddle. Something that felt like a great hand.

Count Mindaug had achieved the remarkable. Not only had he escaped Jagiellon and found otheradmittedly dangerousprotection, but he had spirited his library away, too.

His hostess did read. But she was not fond of research. She drew her power from elsewhere. From a bargain which she still dreamedfoolishly, vainlythat she could avoid paying the price for, eventually. Jagiellon had merely become one with, and been largely consumed by, that which he had sought to entrap and use for power. The powers and knowledge their masters had accumulated in planes beyond human ken and understanding was enormous... and devouring.

No one could talk Count Mindaug into such folly. The written word was less powerful, but drew from far wider sources. He had laid his plans skillfully. Eventually, he would risk another throw in the game of thrones and powers. Besides, it suited his own vanity to believe he could deceive both creatures of outer darkness and fallen angels. He knew that was probably just vanity, but it appealed to him, nonetheless.

He studied the passage in the small book again. The book was not bound in dark leather taken from some creature of the night, nor written on a fragile parchment of human skin. But it ought perhaps to have been, because the matters explained therein were compellingly evil. Mindaug had long since learned that content, not form, mattered. He was glad that this fact had bypassed so many of his peers.

He got up from his seat in the book-filled small apartment the countess had set aside for him. That was a calculated insult on her part, and one that had failed to put him in his place. The books there contained a far wider realm than she herself controlled. The details of this magic... well, he doubted she would read them. But she had a fascination with blood, for obvious reasons. She would not care what came of her experiments, of the lusts generated or the offspring created. But he, Mindaug, would control them. The keys to that control were right here in this book.

Unlike his former master, the Black Brain who had taken possession of the grand duke of Lithuania, Elizabeth did not care for the less than immediate and proximal things. Power over the rulers of Hungary was sufficient, as long as her comfort and vanity were ministered to. Mindaug did not threaten her directly with his machinations, but when she finally paid her price, or if Chernobog finally took on one foe too great or too many, Mindaug would be ready. He would return to his lands on the edge of Kievan Rus. The throne of the Grand Duchy was a short step from there.

Alternatively, if certain variables came to pass, he might instead become the power behind the throne of Hungary. That would be less satisfactory than seizing power directly in Lithuania, of course, but it might do well enough. Unlike most of those he maneuvered against, Count Mindaug had no interest in power for its own sake. His was ultimately a cautious nature. He needed powerpreferably great powersimply because he could ill afford to let anyone else have it. Such had been the great lesson his life had taught him.

But first he needed to persuade the countess that she needed the blood of the Dragon. As was his way, honed by long practice in the Grand Duke's court, he would do it by telling her that she needed something else. It never ceased to amaze him how those who had vast, immense power seemed very often to be so stupid. He supposed it had something to do with having untrammeled power, and having it for so long.

Jerusalem the golden lay behind him, outside, with its noise, and heat, and smells. It seemed as far away, right now, as fabled Cathay. Eneko Lopez knelt in a small chapel, a simple, humble place, as befitted the faith of the humble, because in the face of God, all men, even the greatest, are as dust motes.

He saw how the dust motes danced in the sunlight of the Levant, as the light shone through the high slit window. Dust motes... Yet the Father cared for and numbered even the least of those motes, he knew. Eneko knew too that pride had always been his weakness. Here, at last, on the hill of skulls, where the greatest had humbled himself, given himself as a willing sacrifice, Eneko knew that he had been weak, and that despite this, he was still beloved. It was no great moment of epiphany, but rather the blossoming of a slow-developing plant. Perhaps he was lightheaded with hunger from his vigil, but the path, so obscure, now seemed clear.