Late Evening
9th February 1204 AD
Mongolian steppes

Swift hoofbeats drummed a hurried rhythm down a valley between two sloping hills. The rider was in his early forties, clad in iron scales and heavy furs. His bow was slung over his back, ignored as he leaned forward in the saddle and concentrated on speed above all else.

The battle had gone poorly. He'd been weary and distracted, and missed the signs of ambush. Stupid of him. Jamukha's forces had routed the company before they could react or defend, and the survivors had scattered, their formation destroyed, forced to flee or die. The man riding down the valley had been alone for almost an hour. He didn't know where the others had gone, but doubling back would be suicide.

He urged his horse ever faster down the slope, throwing the occasional glance over his shoulder at the distant dust trails. His pursuers weren't close behind, but nor were they giving up. There were a few copses ahead, but no real cover he could lose them in, and he had counted at least ten. Maybe he could double back into the hills? Or just keep riding blindly into the night; he might be able to lose them in the twilight gloom.

Of course, night came with its own dangers, out here in the wilderness. One hand strayed to his sword, the leather-bound hilt comforting against his fingers. Reassurance against beasts and men it may have been, but against an arrow it was poor protection, and he barely caught the whisper of the shaft's descent before it slammed home into his horse's flank.

He had just enough time to wonder how in the hells his pursuers had made a shot like that, at the very limits of their range, against a moving target, from horseback. Then everything was the screams of his mount, and the darkening sky rearing up over him as it stumbled and tossed and bucked him to the ground before renewing its flight, whinnying in pain.

He could go after it. Perhaps he should. It had everything; his provisions, his saddle gear, his camping supplies... but the horse was lame now, and his pursuers were close on his tail. Even if he caught up with it, he would be dead within minutes.

He glanced around. There was a copse nearby. A small stand of trees, thick bushes and ample cover.

Something – a curse or prayer – passed between his lips, and he ran.

...

Far above, the cool evening air ruffled ghost-white wings.

'Hey, look. Breakfast.'

'Funny, Ling. We're not that hungry.'

'No, seriously. Breakfast. Look, there, in that stand of trees.'

'... huh. So there is. Good eye. Lian?'

'Hmm. Well, I am getting a little tired. And it's not like anybody will notice.'

'Excellent. And better yet, we might be able to find out where we are. Be sure to pay attention to that, would you?'

'I said I knew where we were!'

'And I said you were lying. Or deluded. Or...'

'Jingfei, don't. Ling, Jingfei is right. We're lost.'

'Come on, it's not like "south" is hard! Just put the sunset on our left and we're good!'

'South is easy. Countries aren't. Now hush, I don't need distractions while I hunt.'

With nary a sound, the pale wings shifted and their owner soared down towards the prey that she had spotted.

...

Lying still and silent under a dense row of bushes, the man watched as the riders drew near. They were looking around uncertainly – good, they hadn't seen him come in. And there were fewer than he'd seen over his shoulder. Some must have split off to pursue his horse. They didn't know he was here, not for certain. The distance, and the gloom of the oncoming dusk, must have concealed which way he'd gone.

His grip tightened on his bow, an arrow already nocked, the string already drawn taut. Still, he dared not fire. Not unless they found him. There were too many for him to take, even with the element of surprise – four or five, from the looks of things, all armed and mounted.

Sharp faces and wary eyes looked this way and that, searching the undergrowth. He tensed, but kept still. With his outline broken up by the bushes and most of his body covered by their deep shadows, he couldn't get any harder to spot. Only movement would make him obvious. His best option was to lie still and trust his concealment. He forced his breathing to slow, letting air out in quiet, measured breaths into his fur-covered arm, where it wouldn't steam in the cold air and give him away.

They moved closer, two of the men dismounting and moving into the copse with lit torches. One passed within a swordslength of his ankles, his boots horribly visible for a second in the firelight. As they moved deeper, he could hear them crashing through the trees behind him, trying to root him out. The other three – the clear leader among them, stayed where they were, surveying the shadows with a keen eye.

That one was bad news, and the hidden man watched him carefully, tensing every time those dark eyes passed over his hiding place. They were starting to linger on his clump of bushes as the other men began to return, shouting of their lack of success. If he shot the leader, he might – might – be able to get off another arrow at one of the other two before they were able to react. That would leave him with one man out in the open and two in the trees. If he moved fast and used the dark to his advantage...

Something fluttered above him, ghost-white against the dusk. His heart nearly stopped. A ghost?

No.

An owl. A large one for its kind, and pale as death. It landed on a branch, almost directly above him, and looked downward. For a terrifying heartbeat, he was sure its eyes would fix on him, staring intently and giving away his position.

But no. It glanced at the men returning from deeper in the trees and fluttered out of their path, then went back to scanning the ground in slow, sweeping arcs, looking for food. As they left the bushes, it returned to its original position and turned, staring into the forest behind him with similar unconcern for his presence.

With his heartbeat pounding in his ears, he held his breath and prayed.

"Enough of this!" called the leader. "He's not here, that bird wouldn't have landed if he was. Come on, we're wasting time here. Let's try the next stand of trees."

The man held quite still, barely daring to move a muscle, until their hoofbeats had receded and he could hear them engaged in tearing through another copse some distance away. Then, very slowly, he breathed out in relief.

"Thank you, little bird," he murmured, almost too quiet even for his ears. "I owe you a..."

But as he looked up, he blinked.

The owl was gone.

...

Slowly, ever-so-slowly, the vampire crept through the undergrowth. It had been a long time since she had fed, and the need for stealth barely overruled her hunger. The other two men had borne torches; crackling fire that she shrank from instinctively. But this one, this one was defenceless. The only weapons he bore were of wood and steel, and they would not be enough to hold her back. Not when all she needed was a single bite.

Edging closer, she took in the scent of his blood, warm in his veins and just metres away. A tongue flicked out unconsciously, running over cracked lips and displaying teeth like a bear trap. Nearer and nearer she drew, crouching to lessen her silhouette, hands and feet set down with utmost care to avoid any sound. She could almost taste his throat between her teeth, so close was she to pouncing.

And then, as if warned by some silent premonition, he turned.

She must have made quite a sight; hunkered down predatorily on all fours, with drool-flecked jaws that would have given pause to a wolf pack and unnatural yellow eyes burning into him hungrily. Her clothes were tattered, her frame skeletal, and her skin was the grotesque green-yellow of rot. He rolled away with a shout, bringing his bow around, and she simply sprang. There was no further need for stealth or subtlety. All that mattered now was to feed.

The arrow took her in mid-air, punching deep into her shoulder. It barely gave her pause. His sword cleared its sheath just as she hit him, and it was all that prevented her from ripping his throat out immediately. Instead, his forearms barred the way to his jugular as she tackled him to the ground, and man and vampire struggled viciously for the one moment they each needed.

She was monstrously strong, and he was weak and tired after a day of hard riding, but not for nothing had the clans rallied behind him. Sheer adrenaline and greater mass was enough to let him throw her clear, and with enough space to use it, his sword flashed twice before stabbing home.

Slowly, she looked down in surprise at the iron blade buried in her lung, and the two deep gashes that split her chest and stomach. Deep red-black ichor dripped from the wounds onto the soil.

She looked back up at him. And leered.

Eyes wide, sweating with fear, he let go of the hilt with a cry of alarm and scrambled away. She began to chuckle; a dark, guttural, mocking and triumphant sound that flecked her lips with cold blood. She stepped forward for every step back he took, ignoring the blade in her chest, eyes alight and hungry. Her wounds were already, sluggishly, beginning to scab over. This was no woman. This was a monster in human skin.

"J-jiangshi!" he accused, fumbling for the knife at his belt and cursing himself for letting go of the sword. She drew it slowly out of her chest, letting it drop behind her as she advanced. He was out of the bushes now, out in the moonlight, and though it was faint, it was enough. Some spark of human intelligence bloomed in her eyes, along with recognition.

"Temüjin," she crooned in delight, the dreadful grin spreading wider than ever. He drew the knife, his heart racing, hoping against hope that it would be enough, and that his pursuers hadn't heard the scuffle. As the thought crossed his mind, his eyes couldn't help but flicker, just for a second, in the direction they had gone. In that quick glance, he saw something impossible, and the vampire saw her chance.

She lunged.

...

She lunged.

The owl had been large when it was perched above him. Now, as it dived, white wings blotted out the stars. The bird that hit the monster in mid-leap was a monster itself, easily as large as a grown man, and its talons wrapped almost around her entire body. Unprepared for the sudden assault, the vampire couldn't even make a sound as it tossed her from its grip like a rag doll, dashing her against a tree. She lay prone for a moment, dazed, before snarling and starting to rise.

The owl's second dive; talons extended, caught her full in the heart and throat.

A strangled scream was all Temüjin heard as the great bird of prey dug cruel claws into its prey, the wicked hooked beak darting down again and again to savagely tear at undead flesh and bone. Even the scream was cut short within seconds, and though the vast white wings and body blocked his view of what was happening, he needed no great imagination to picture it. Shivering, he started to slowly back away. His horse should still be somewhere out on the steppes. With luck, it would have avoided the men sent after it. With more, he would be able to find it again.

At the moment, he didn't really care, as long as it got him away from the pair of monsters before him.

But it seemed that his quiet retreat didn't go unnoticed. The owl turned, and in turning changed, like a reflection in water dashed by a careless hand. White wings became a heavy cloak, hooked talons became bare feet, pale plumage became paler skin. With a heartbeat, it was a girl staring at him. Her eyes were not an owl's, but a burnt, smouldering orange; embers seen through smoke. She was young – or seemed young, at least. He knew better than to think she looked her true age, with the blood of another monster still smeared across her delicate face. From her features, she was Chinese, but she considered him with the clinical gaze of an animal, no hint of recognition on her blank features.

Knife in hand, he stared back, alert in case she decided he looked equally appetising.

She blinked, and seemed to look at him in a new light for a moment, recognizing him as more than a piece of mobile scenery as those glowing eyes swept him up and down. Cocking her head to glance down, she bent bonelessly, retrieved his sword and bow from where they had fallen with a single sweep of her arm, and tossed them towards him with another.

Keeping a wary eye on her, he crept forward to retrieve them. Weapons once more in hand, he stood, and bowed shortly in thanks, never letting her out of his sight. For her own part, she seemed content to simply watch him, as a child might watch a passing cloud, her slim form still blocking his view of the corpse. Though his every instinct screamed she was a threat, it didn't seem like she was inclined to attack him.

Still, he wasn't going to take the chance. Backing away, pace by pace, he slowly retreated into the gloom of dusk, sheathing his sword and nocking an arrow as he went.

Those bright embers in her eyes were the last he saw of her as she faded into the night.

...

"Afterward, the Khan rode with a few companies to behold the strength of the country that he had won. And so it befell, that a great multitude of his enemies met with him. And to give good example of hardiness to his people, he was the first that fought, and encountered his enemies in the midst, and there he was cast from his horse, and his horse slain. And when his folk saw him on the Earth, they were all abashed, and thought he had been dead, and fled every one. And their Enemies followed after and chased them, but they wist not that the Emperor was there.

And when they were come again from the chase, they went and sought the woods if any of them had been hid in the thick of the woods; and many they found and slew them anon. So it happened as they went searching toward the place where that the Emperor was, they saw an Owl sitting upon a tree above him; and then they said amongst them, that no man was there because that they saw that bird there, and so they went their way; and thus escaped the Emperor from Death."

From 'The Voyages and Travels of Sir Jehan de Maundeville'

...