A Journey of Black and Red

I readjust the peasant’s garb and swear under my breath for what must be the sixteenth time tonight. The dress is nice enough, I suppose, with a white shirt and a small red skirt over a larger blue one that reaches my ankles. Unfortunately, it barely fits. The shirt is so large that I could fit two Arianes in there. The second skirt is just a little too short and my heavy boots peek from under the azure fabric. Were it not for them, I would be showing my ankles and thus die of embarrassment.

I look like a jester.

“You seem ill at ease,” Phineas innocently declares. The twit. He is aware of my feelings on the matter. While I packed cartridges, that dilettante brought a fancy hunter outfit he now wears. I cannot even complain since it was my idea.

“Hush. They are coming.”

A patrol of cavalrymen bearing lanterns emerges from a nearby forest. They immediately spot us since we stand in the open, in the middle of harvested fields. The sleepy village slumbers by our side though a few older folks inspect us with mixed feelings of distrust and concern for our well-being.

“Hallo!” I greet. I count ten of them in the white uniforms and black helmets of the Austrian dragoners. The leader frowns when he sees us and his gaze sweeps the plain, looking for anomalies. He is an old man, grizzled and scarred. I can detect in his caution the prudence of a veteran expecting an ambush. He knows that the region is in turmoil. Nevertheless, nothing happens and the wrinkled soldier pushes his ride forward.

“Was ist los?” he asks in a rather cavalier fashion, which I do not excuse even if he sits on a horse. He looks at Phineas inquiringly. The man should speak.

“Greetings officer, my name is Louisa and this is my employer, Lord Phineas Ainsworth, hailing from Great Britain. I act as his interpreter,” I tell him.

The soldier lifts his helmet.

“A pleasure.”

“I apologize for disturbing you, however my employer and I have fallen victim to horrible circumstances. We have been beset by bandits! They stole almost everything we had and sent us off on the road. They even forced me to swap my good dress against these ill-fitting clothes,” I add as the officer eyes me dubiously.

“I am outraged on your behalf, madam. I hope that they did not mistreat you further!” the man answers with some emotion.

“Fortunately, they stopped at robbery, or I might just have died.”

I need to be taken seriously and those who have been assaulted rarely are.

“And where did you say those men were?”

“Perhaps twenty miles away down the road, near an abandoned village.”

The rider considers me in silence while his men mutter among themselves. I hear words of ‘country going to the dogs’ and ‘Prussian low-lives, no doubt’ as well as other complaints. As for their leader, he has had the time to think about the situation and realize the gaping holes in my story.

“And what is Mr Phi… mr…”

“Phineas Ainsworth, sir.”

“What is that gentleman doing here, if I may ask?”

“Mr Phineas was visiting distant relatives with the intention to offer them passage to his land, a favor in these troubled times. Alas, we have not found them yet.”

“Have you mentioned our problem?” Phineas asks.

If Lars had come instead, I could have briefed him and he would do the talking. Instead, I find myself saddled with a man utterly devoid of acting skills and common sense. I rein my temper and address my companion.

“Kindly do not interrupt me again if you hope for our success.”

“What does he want?” the officer asks.

“Mr. Ainworth worries about the bandits and our safety, as they were quite numerous.”

“How numerous were they exactly?” the man asks with a frown. I turn to Phineas again.

“I am just wasting time because he wants to know the enemy numbers. Reply with anything as long as it sounds like a list.”

“In my life I have bedded five brunettes, one redhead and seven blondes. And one whose hair was gray.”

“Mediocre for a century of activity,” I reply coldly, before turning to the officer again.

“My employer says that he counted no less than sixty fighters in the ambush, most of them on foot and wearing strange metal plastrons not unlike those of cuirassiers.”

“Sixty? Is he quite sure? Perhaps the darkness played a trick on his mind?”

“He calls you a coward for exaggerating the numbers.”

“Oh, man of little faith. You will get to see those numbers with your own two eyes.”

“My employer says that sixty is his lowest estimate, and that he fought enough sepoys in India to count enemy soldiers at a glance.”

The rider inspects Phineas once more. I do not need to look at him to feel his aura deploy and his countenance to grow more predatory. The outward show of aggression grates on my frayed nerves. It proves sufficient to the task of convincing him, however.

“I see. This is grave news. I must report this piece of information to my superior officer. He will know what to do.”

“One more thing, officer,” I add in a pleading voice. I lick my lips and keep my eyes down. A hint of Hastings essence grants me a light blush under the lanterns’ glare.

“I may have dreamed it, perhaps, for I was afraid, but there were strange lights in some of the bandits’ hands. I may be wrong, yet I suspect…”

I lean forward and our eyes meet.

“... dark sorcery.”

I show fear and let the thread between us inflate that emotion. The man turns pale and takes a deep breath, managing to hide most of his distress.

“I understand. Thank you for telling us, miss, your suspicions might not be as outlandish as you seem to believe. Would you mind joining us? I believe that my superior officer might want to hear your story as well.”

“Of course not, sir.”

“By the way, what… language did you two speak?”

“Welsh, sir.”

“I… I see.”

The officer steps aside to give a few orders just as Phineas leans in with an accusatory air.

“I caught that last sentence. Welsh? Really?”

“If you had spoken English like your character ought to, I would not have had a problem,” I hiss back, “and no I cannot lie and tell him that we were speaking English on the off chance that the lie is found out. Clearly, our interlocutor recognized Akkad as a different tongue. More people have a passing knowledge of the language of Shakespeare than you seem to believe. Your carelessness might yet undo the subterfuge!”

“And Welsh is different?”

“If anyone speaks Welsh in the surrounding one hundred square miles I shall eat this dress without condiments.”

“Fair enough.”

“Now please for the love of the Watcher keep quiet while I focus on a calming spell for the beast that will carry your useless self.”

The ride to the camp takes only an hour, the longest hour in my forsaken existence since I was last dying of Thirst. Keeping ten horses calm despite the scent of a monster titillating their nostrils has to be the dumbest and most exhausting use of Charm I have ever done in my second life. Never again.

I cannot believe that I overlooked that simple fact. Ugh. And to think that Lars would not have triggered a reaction since he is an Erenwald. Truly, our lack of experience is making itself known.

The Austrian force here is the size of a battalion, about eight hundred soldiers, I would say. It would be quite the prize to add it to our offensive. They do seem to have an artillery park, which I find rather curious since those are ill-fitted for maintaining order, however the men we pass by speak in Polish, Hungarian and even Italian and I suspect that their presence here is politically motivated. I suspect that the Austrian crown would perceive German speakers as more loyal to the throne in troubled times, though I may be wrong. In any case, they display the sort of discipline that we will need and we have to pass quite a few guards before we are allowed to wait by the command tent. After I hear the detachment officer being efficiently debriefed, we are called in to find a man in a decorated uniform and shiny black and gold helmet sitting in a field chair with a map in front of him. He is quite short, which is not uncommon in cavalrymen. I watch him twirl his moustache absent-mindedly as we approach. His keen eyes follow us, taking in every detail, while with a simple gesture, he tells two aides to stand at attention.

“And you must be Mr. Ainsworth,” he tells Phineas in English, “welcome to my humble and temporary abode.”

I feel the barest hint of surprise in my companion’s aura and resist the urge to flare my own in a vampiric equivalent of ‘I told you so’. His casual approach to our little plot annoys me deeply. Even if our target does not know what we are, even if he does not oppose us with faith, our attempt can still fail. He underestimates the mortals, a mistake that has killed quite a few of us.

“And a greetings to you too, sir. How may I address you?”

“I am Colonel Maximilian Reissig. You may call me Colonel Reissig, Colonel, or simply Herr Reissig, if it pleases you.”

“Well, Herr Reissig, I am both delighted and surprised to meet someone with such a mastery of my tongue so far from our shores.”

“Yes indeed, you are lucky,” the colonel replies. His tone is pleasant enough but his eyes remain full of distrust. “I had to study it to talk to my dogs. Beagles, you see? From Yorkshire. I purchased a pack to hunt hares.”

“Is... is that so?”

“Are you a hunting man, Mr. Ainsworth?”

“No, I prefer the city myself, at least since I returned from India.”

“A curious thing, Mr. Ainsworth. You see, you have the demeanor of a hunter. Even now, I can feel it in the confident poise you display even as you stand in the middle of a foreign army. I have tried to instill that spirit in my men, but far too many slouch and lounge like fat cats, showing some of the cunning but none of the finesse, which makes me wonder about you, Mr. Ainsworth. I would expect someone who just fell victim to ambush, lost his possession and now stands before me to show more emotion than you do. It makes me wonder where that stiff…”

He frowns in disapproval.

“...hairless upper lip stems from.”

Although he was caught off-guard, Phineas is still one of us and he recovers instantly.

“Perhaps we have misunderstood each other, Herr Reissig. I have never hunted animals that stand on four legs. As for my lost possessions, I would never travel outside of my own country with belongings I could not replace. I will not suffer much from the loss, I assure you, even if you and your gallant forces fail to recover them. In the end, my most dire concern, and the reason for my dedication to this cause, is the safety and tranquility of my relatives, some of whom may still live around. And one more thing.”

He leans in and whispers.

“My dear interpreter was deprived of her dress, a family heirloom if I understand. Although I am not personally affected, I share a part of the guilt for bringing her here and failing to guarantee her safety. It would lift a tremendous weight off my chest if that dress could be retrieved. The dear girl shows a brave face, as befits her good breeding, yet I know that she has a delicate heart and that the ordeal terrified her.”

The officer’s eyes flicker to my face while I pretend not to have eavesdropped.

“They stole her dress?” he hisses.

He sounds absolutely scandalized.

“They mercifully allowed her to change in a deserted house, thus preserving her virtue. Still, the mere thought of being so compelled...”

“This is a disgrace! We shall reclaim her honor and her dress in the name of the empire. Hmmm.”

The outburst is short-lived as the colonel remembers that he is not supposed to trust us so easily.

“You claim that those bandits numbered in the… how many was it?”

“Sixty, though I think that they had more fighters nearby. I heard dogs bay, as well. A large breed, and no mistake.”

“Tell me more.”

Phineas repeats the story we agreed upon, taking great care not to deviate too much from our line even if he enjoys embellishing details. If circumstances had not pushed him towards accounting, he might have made a decent socialite. There is still time, of course. We always have time.

Five minutes later, we are seated across the command table and the map, the colonel now more interested in distances and numbers. The story we brought was one of a twilight attack, leading to a release at dawn. Phineas explains in great care how the foe was careless during the night, seemingly confident that their position could not be discovered. It appears to be a trap, yet Phineas is smooth, and I look suitably exhausted, a hint of Hastings essence darkening my lids.

Despite his apparent acceptance, the colonel still attempts to trap Phineas a few times. The experienced Lancaster adroitly dodges both pitfalls and the annoyance such repetitive questions entail. He finally understands the interest in playing this well.

We are hunters, but we do not all share the same tastes. The Rosenthal seek knowledge, Dvor and Hastings women seek successful schemes. Phineas now understands better how proper manipulations become their own rewards. The eternal game never stops, and as I remind myself often, power is a crutch. To do without is to reach true mastery of the arts.

It will always surprise me how someone who spent so much time in this world could miss so many important experiences. Phineas certainly knows how to interact with mortals. It just happens that he has little experience getting them to perform tasks for him beyond, I assume, feeding.

“Vielen dank, mein Freund. Much obliged. And now, I would like you to accompany Lieutenant Skorezy here. He will show you pieces of gear the rebels might be using. I would like you to help him assess the provenance of their equipment.”

He smiles. We smile, even though a child could see the ploy. Phineas pretends concern on my behalf.

“Do not be alarmed, dear Louisa, I shan’t be far.”

I curtsey shily and wait for the colonel to focus his attention on me. He is a true gentleman, and he invites me to sit with a cup of chocolate which I sip gratefully. He added a bit of sugar and a little cinnamon. The drink is rich and decadent.

“What an amazing concoction!” I freely admit.

“Thank you, Fraulein. Sprechen sie Deutsch?”

The good Colonel steers the conversation towards me and my background, in German this time. I explain that I was born in England and learned German from an aunt. He asks me to describe my house. I pick the Bingle family domain as my reference, smiling at the slight irony. I even throw a few village names with the suitable amount of ‘shire’ around to assuage his worries. Truly, Herr Reissig is one of the most paranoid soldiers I have ever met. Finally, the time comes for him to dig at our tale.

“Is what Mr. Ainsworth said accurate? Is there something you would like to add?”

“It was accurate,” I assure him, “although…”

“Yes?” the man asks, curiosity piqued.

“No, no, I must be mistaken. Forgive me, for my emotions got the better of me, and I must have let fear twist my memories.”

“I assure you, madam, that although the fairer sex might be impressionable at times, every detail you remember might save lives at a later time, even if they are inexact.”

“Ah, well. Please forgive me for uttering such words, but I fear that I may have been witness to… to some devilry. Magic!” I spit.

“Mein Gott. Hexerei? It would explain much and I seem to remember that my subordinate hinted at it… but how come Mr. Ainsworth did not share those findings?”

“Oh, you believe me? I thought I would be laughed at and dismissed…” I interrupt with a grateful air. I meet his eyes and cannot resist tweaking his mind a little bit. I fan his protective instincts a smidgen.

“Please, madam. We live in strange times. The thought of magic is no longer quite as preposterous as it used to be.”

“I feared that I was mistaken when Mr Ainsworth himself omitted to mention the strange occurrences we noticed during our brief time as captives. Perhaps he feared being ridiculed? In truth, several dreadful details terrified me even more than those ruthless louts who held us at gunpoint. Were it not for their apparent lack of interest in us, I fear that they may have used us in some terrible ritual or some such pagan deeds!”

“Himmel, this is too terrible to behold. And what happenings, madam, what events led you to believe that you were in the presence of witchcraft?”

“Those breeds of dog, sir, I am no man to know my bloodhounds, yet they were too large and terrifying to be natural. Why, if I had met them in the sun-baked savannas of Africa, I would have thought them to be a strange species of lion heretofore undiscovered by science! They smelled terribly, sir, and those men who held their leashes wore thick armor as if to protect themselves from their fearsome bites! And they held orbs, sir, like crystal balls those gypsies claim can see the future, and from their depth shone a light most unnatural! They were green like a summer meadow or blue like a sapphire sea, and beautiful, but in a way a cruel woman is beautiful. I could feel the malevolence in their cursed depths, sir. Those were evil tools, I would wager my eternal soul on it!”

Haha. A costless promise. The good Colonel is mine now, drowned in the feelings of my recollection. I did not mean to enchant him but I became overwhelmed by the strange mix of beauty and horror the invaders bring with them, and I shared some of it with him. As soon as the spell fades, I channel the Hastings and don my weakest, meekest persona. Shoulders stooped and trembling lips to inspire trust, wet eyes to garner sympathy. Colonel Reissig’s cautiousness dips and falls into the abyss of outrage.

“Sir?” a soldier says as he enters, “the reports are confirmed by all surrounding villages. Three hamlets are deserted, their inhabitants gone. There are reports of strange beasts running through the fields!”

“Mein Gott, heathens and demons on my Vaterland? This shall not stand!”

“Please, sir, be careful!” I beg.

“Of course, madame. We will depart at… but wait, you said that the rebels let their guard down at night?” he asks, my suggestion worming its way into his psyche.

“Yes sir, they drink and make merry.”

“Then we shall teach them that this is not their land! To arms! The men are rested enough. We will catch those mongrels by surprise. To arms!”

He then struts out of the tent. His screams send the whole camp into a flurry of activity as orders burst out left and right.

Hmm.

I may have gone a bit too far. I thought that we would have more time, but a night attack is the only solution I came up with to reliably deal with the enemy. Should the army attack without us, there is a large chance that the undead mages might wipe them out before they even make contact. Those who have not trained to face magic react poorly to having spells tossed at them.

In short order, the entire detachment has been fed and they leave under the light of torches towards the invaders’ base. It will probably be a good three hours before they can make contact, assuming that they hurry.

“You will be safe at the base, Louisa. Wait for our return!” the Colonel tells me before riding off on a massive black horse. As for Phineas, he is drafted into leading the column to their foes.

“Congratulations, it appears that your feminine guiles have moved an army, Ariane. Are you perhaps related to Helen of Troy?”

“Do not compare me to that vacuous tart, Phineas, and mark my words since you think my role easy: most men show us kindness until we forget our place.”

I watch the slightly annoyed Lancaster summon his Nightmare and Charm the nearby soldiers into believing that the lithe mount was part of their stables all along. He departs and, as soon as the guard is down, so do I.

“Our window is short, Ariane. You leave us little time,” Viktoriya growls. Her eyes sweep our encampment while she considers our options. Lars is back and Esmeray lounges on the grass in wolf form. Her pet mages are here too, though the promised reinforcements are not.

“I am being unfair. You have managed to net us quite the prize and with no investment. It is quite an achievement without forcing a bite and all the risks it entails. You have my appreciation.”

“Perhaps I was a bit heavy-handed,” I admit.

“Nonsense. You did quite well for one whose focus is slaughter.”

Oi.

“Oh, do not make that face. If you had spent more time at court, you would see that it is a compliment. In any case, we absolutely need your spell, dearie. I shall depart forthwith and fetch my additional mages. In the meanwhile, You, Lars, and Esmeray should disable the alarms and perhaps create a disturbance if the army arrives before I do. Can you do this for me, Knights?”

“Certainly, milady,” Lars replies. I see no fault in her plan either. I change back into the now frivolous-feeling lamellar armor and stock up on weapons. I so wish I had Loth’s incredible work and not this lackluster piece of inferior craftsmanship. Alas.

We leave quickly.

Lars splits us at the edge of the invaders-controlled territory. Esmeray scouted entry points while I was gone and found another one.

“I shall start here. Any idea on how to disarm the alarm without arousing suspicion?”

“I would need to study the glyph to be certain. I believe that I can find it. Let us look for one.”

It appears that yesterday’s battle has not left our enemies unphased. Not only do we find a glyph close to the nearest deserted village, but this one has been camouflaged, though it remains a simple construct at best. Whoever made it dug the symbol into the very tree and took little care to leave it intact. A basic distraction element prevents the mundane from noticing the trigger until it is too late, but the effort is ruined by the poor state of its support. The tree has already started to die, its leaves brown and cracked. The glyph also lost some efficiency because whoever carved it dug deep into the trunk. They shed splintered bark on the ground in their… anger? Hurry? I would not know. In any case, it makes the study smoother. I merely need to follow the angriest strokes to guess in which order they were made.

“This is the trigger part, I am sure of it. The signal is not sent by the glyph but by the rope itself. The glyph only exists to sustain it. Hmmm.”

“Fascinating, Ariane. Unfortunately, we do not have time for a full lecture on alien magical theory. If you would?”

“You are asking me to decipher a new language on the go, and use it to divine the working of an elaborate spell,” I reproach, “You must be patient. The matter is extremely complex.”

It really is not, but I would like some appreciation for the decades I spent studying arcanistry, thank you very much.

“Here, if we disable this part, it should make the rope insubstantial. In other words, no matter what goes through the alarm, it will fail to trigger.”

“What if you are wrong?”

“Then the caster will detect a malfunction, not a full breach. Here, let me do it.”

I use my glove to alter the glyph by the tiniest amount and watch the rope flicker with satisfaction. With this, only a large amount of magic should trigger the spell and the soldiers possess none.

“You must carve a line here between those two parts. It will do the trick.”

“Very well,” Lars replies, “then please clear that path since the army should take it. I will go on the other side and handle the other. Esmeray will cover you and check for additional surprises in the bushes. Any objection?”

“None.”

“Yip!”

“Then good luck.”

Lars leaves and my task continues. I have never asked Esmeray if she could perform magic — I assume not — however she can apparently ‘sniff’ it for lack of a better term. Besides the alarms, she finds pits and a few other string-based traps that use magically-enhanced tools but are not spells themselves. Contrary to the alarm, those have been made by ‘human’ hands and show a level of care and dedication that I can appreciate. I look closely at one specific trigger mechanism and see an oily fingerprint marring its pristine surface. Not made by an undead then. I am starting to think that the difference between living fighters and undead mages is one of caste, or even of species. They do not share the same mentality at all.

I only stop when I am close enough to the undead camp that I can see the light of their fires. During that time, I have avoided two patrols and taken great care to mask my smell by staying downwind. The hounds do not detect magic unless it is active and I have made sure not to use it anywhere close to them. As to how their collars can control them, I suspect that the defiling magic of the undead is to be credited. I am certainly unwilling to conduct experiments.

Those creatures disgust me. Locusts.

I fall back and run around the camp at a safe distance, soon joined by Esmeray. There, the woods are pristine and undisturbed. Even the beast trails have been covered with new brambles. The silence is complete. It is the silence of the grave, unnatural in this place of green things. It is our fate, should we fail to hold back those creatures.

I realize that something happened as we complete our half-circle. I hear sounds of battle. It is too early.

Esmeray and I sprint through the foliage with little subtlety. The sounds of conflict grow closer and we burst into a clearing to find Lars deeply engaged with a patrol. Hounds lie bleeding on the ground while those orb-wielding men try to keep him at bay with jets of pure energy, unfocused yet mesmerizing. I attack from the back, annoyed beyond words. How did it come to this? It is too soon! I shred the backs of both wielders in the same strike and disperse the rest while Esmeray mauls foes left and right. The fight is over in only a few moments, but the damage is done.

“They used a different glyph for one of the alarms,” Lars explains, anticipating my question. He anticipates erroneously. I only care about one thing right now.

“Run, idiot. Run!”

We sprint away. I do not wish to be on the receiving end of the kind of spells that leveled an entire field’s worth of vegetation. Unfortunately, my instincts scream in alarm thirty seconds into our flight. We are too late.

“Incoming,” I warn Lars. Esmeray wisely splits from us and disappears in a cloud of canine darkness. I feel pressure behind us, overhead. I turn expecting a massive spell and instead meet a pair of pale blue orbs. This skeleton is flying after us. My eyes widen with surprise. Flight! It is considered too energy-intensive to be viable! But of course, with the price being paid by life itself and the casters being short-sighted insects, limits no longer matter.

Just like its kin, the creature is mummified flesh and sinews covered in elaborate and highly decorated robes. It carries no obvious ornaments because it has no need for them. Its bony claw holds a twisted branch of some unknown wood, expanding strangely in a double helix. In each hollow, a colorful orb shimmers with vibrant light. This mage came prepared.

I feel a disgusting pull on the life around us. Something shimmers in the air before us and I instinctively slash with Rose. The deadly blade meets an unyielding barrier. We jump to the side and I rake the barrier as I pass.

A circle.

We are trapped.

As the reality of our situation settles in, I cannot help but feel anger at my teammate. Why would he risk it? It was such a stupid decision. He should have waited for me. This was not even a vital avenue of approach! A trained Knight should know better! We have been taught so many times not to overextend, to forget our pride and ask for help… Lars just called for reinforcements, for the Watcher’s sake. Why? This was no time to make such a mistake.

“Little parasites,” the skeleton says in German. Contrary to the previous one we faced, it has a smooth, extremely deep voice, like a condescending god. Its German is slurred and clipped, yet the power behind every syllable evokes a lack of interest in mortal tongues rather than a failure to learn.

“The Eight was correct, there are parasites among the cattle. You miserable creatures, you have committed the unforgivable. Your filthy hands have touched what is sacred.”

“If you are talking about the other mummies, we are going to commit many more such things.”

The creature laughs then, a deep, gravelly sound that shocks me to my core. Rogues do not laugh. Automatons do not laugh. Those things are capable of complex thought, and they still decided to practice their vile magic.

Unbelievable.

“You are weak and this world is rich. We will add more worthy candidates to our rank until your planet is but a husk.”

“Like your own?”

Lars is stalling for time. He might be right to do so as no more skeletons appear. They are not needed. With his power unsealed, this one is more than enough to handle the two of us.

“There are many more worlds to reap and you have shown us how. Yours will feed our expansion. Only those who follow the true path are worthy. You will remain parasites until we kill you, beasts. Now, I shall test another of the Eighth’s hypotheses.”

I could swear the skeleton grins then, though its face does not move. Flames appear on its closed fist.

“Do not shoot,” Lars warns, “wait for my opening.”

“Our window is short.”

“I know.”

The skeleton hurls its fire and I dodge to the side, my instincts and eyes showing me clearly where the projectile will fall. The skeleton pays no heed to its failure as it summons another ball and I know why. The first fire still roars, turning the loam under our feet to ashes and feeding off the surrounding life. The world grows grey and dim around us.

FIRE.

Shut up, me, I know. We dodge once more, with more difficulty this time. The skeleton descends and makes the projectile smaller, faster. I could not reach it if I jumped and I see the faint sheen of a shield around its dessicated body. All of this, fuelled by the world. I hate it.

Another attack. The temper

ature increases and I frantically attack our prison, in vain. The creature’s reserves are simply too vast.

“Almost,” Lars says as the skeleton descends a bit more. It is fully confident that we cannot reach it.

“Now.”

The skeleton casts a fire spell directly at Lars, who jumps up. His arm whirls and I hear a terrible crack.

In one beautiful moment, one of Lars’ javelins smashes through the spell and into the monster’s hand, destroying the closest orb in its utter violence. It was a beautiful throw, a perfect hit. Before our foe can so much as hiss, I lodge a bullet in its skull.

It doesn’t kill it.

I am limited by the material I work with. The Big Iron is an impressive tool, but the hammer can only fall so fast while the shield reforms. The second bullet, I lodge into its chest and see dust fan out from its back. The third and fourth follow. I place the next one in its waist and blow its right knee off with the last. It stumbles and tries to flee.

“Lars, we got it!”

There is no response.

“Lars?”

Silence. I cannot feel his aura. Around us, no, around me, the fires dim.

Wait, it cannot be.

“Lars, where are you?”

The spell.

He went through it, through the blazing fire.

He is… dead? I see only ash. Some fragments of armor.

Oh.

He’s dead, the absolute idiot.

I… never liked him, not really, and yet, I feel grief. Lars died. He died to save me? The imbecile. We just needed to stall! I have no need for people dying for me! By the Watcher.

Far away, the creature tries to stay afloat.

“Oh no, you are going nowhere.”

Just as I rush forward, a black trident flies through the ether and lands on the thing’s back. It pins it against the ground. Viktoriya is here. Too late for Lars.

“You.”

I smash a weak shield. Hard to digest an inch of enchanted silver with no stomach, huh?

“Are.”

I grab its helmet.

“A blight.”

No more jaw.

“And we.”

No more face.

“Will.”

No more head.

“Stop you.”

“Enough of this,” Viktoriya says as she pulls me away. She is late. “There is no time. You must cast the spell right away.”

She is right. This is a nightmare. If the mages are free to devour the magic around us, I might as well have fed them the army tied up on silver platters. I must hurry. There will be time for recriminations and reflection later.

“The mages are here. Henkel will stay. You will lead this one to the right side and take the third position. I shall handle the left and then warn Phineas. Hurry!”

“Without Lars, I will be unable to form a perfect circle…”

“The mages will feel the construct form and adjust their position. Have faith in your Speaker, Ariane, if not in your fellow Knights.”

What does it have to do with anything? Pah! I grab a squealing caster in a Princess carry and drop him inside of the thicket with ticks and his regrets for sole company.

“Be ready,” I warn.

“Ich weiss!” the man grumbles back.

I move up in a circle and realize our predicament. I hear musket fire, full volleys of them. A red halo speaks of many men carrying torches.

I stop when I believe that I am in position. There are no real landmarks here, I just tried to remain at a constant distance away from the light of the invaders’ camp I could see. It will have to do.

I draw a circle with Rose, fall and gasp. A mighty draw is swallowing every piece of vitality in the surrounding world. This place is about to become a desert.

No.

No, they will not win. Their cruel and callous magic has the appearance of power, but it is the bloody grasp of the usurper, a rule steeped in terror and death. Unsustainable. The world might be at their mercy, but I am not, and if there is one thing I learned about magic by myself throughout the years, it is that only one thing attracts it more than creative thinking.

Balance.

“Stubborn foot and clenching jaws

Downward boot and closing maws

Take back what was once taken

Be fortress and be haven.”

The other mages are not quite in a circle. I am not the best caster, far from it, in fact. I use a circle of dirt and ferns instead of proper glyph inscriptions. None of it matters. When the spell winds up, all the energies drawn in by the undead pull back with merciless strength. I become the focus in a tug of war between greedy ants and a full world bent on survival.

I have not felt that much power since I drank the blood of the fae royal couple. This time, however, I am a tool. It matters not. I would do it a hundred times more.

Sweet, untainted life rushes through me, escaping the grasp of the invaders. I am a crux, an anchor. The very trees sway under the absolute power rushing out of the area. Around me, the brambles and vines could not be a more exquisite emerald color. I breathe in freshness untouched by the hand of man. Somewhere in the distance, a bird tweets a greeting to a sun that only dawned in its mind. And then, the hammer falls.

With the weight of millennia of grumpy inertia, reality settles down to stay. Again, I feel heavier and more shackled than before, but this time, I also feel more grounded. More resilient. The exception granted to my kind extends as protection.

This is just the beginning, however, and I rush to the main road where rifles crack like fireworks. I stop as I near the edge of the burnt out clearing left by yesterday’s massive spell. The ashy plain is the scene of a furious battle. Austrians and Hungarians in white uniforms stand in triple ranks, shooting down waves of hounds and armor-clad invaders. I start picking off isolated targets while I observe the battle. A single skeleton stands at a distance, drawing from its reserves to throw dark javelins at infantrymen who die on contact, but most of its attention is turned to its defense and I quickly understand why when a hail of steel balls crash against its radiant shield. The guns are in play. Meanwhile, the foot soldiers attempt to advance from behind large shields close to Roman scutum. It appears that the mesmerizing range is limited. What a pity.

Between picking down wounds, soldiers carefully aim shots at advancing formations. Most of the bullets ping against the surprisingly durable shields, but others find arms, feet, or inquisitive eyes and a warrior falls. As I watch, an orb wielder loses his cover and falls down on the spot. A blueish cloud of smoke rises from a nearby tree. Our soldiers have brought jaegers, it seems. I can sense Phineas’ aura farther out, on the other side of the clearing. I decide to join him, but not before giving our side an edge.

I disappear back in the underbrush and reload the Big Iron with my most potent bullets. I weave between sentries until I am at the skeleton’s flanks and inspect it. Why are they all so tall? The shield only protects its front, as expected.

My instincts scream danger.

I shoot it in the head.

I dive to the side and rush out as a massive tongue of fire roasts everything in a cone, including the sentries. The lamellar armor protects me from most of the heat. I may have judged it too quickly. The skeleton wavers and flies up, then away. A second bullet pings against another shield.

Nevermind, I have already overstayed my welcome. I keep weaving and slaying the invaders I come across on my way to Phineas. On the edge of the forest, Esmeray jumps out from the darkness to steal an orb-wielder’s treasure. And also his head. We run side by side. I do not speak.

“Yip?” she yelps around the orb.

“He sacrificed himself to slay a foe.”

Esmeray says nothing but her ears droop.

We find Phineas wiping his blade on a stained jacket. He stands among a sea of corpses, some of them Austrian riders. I recognize the officer who led us to the camp.

“I almost fell trying to cast that spell, Ariane. Where are the others?”

“Viktoriya should be here? Lars is gone.”

It is the first time I see the Englishman truly lose his composure.

“He is dead?”

“He walked through a fire spell to give me an opening. I could only avenge him.”

Phineas hisses softly, then our eyes meet.

“When this is all over, we will open a portal to the other side and pay them a visit, I think.”

“This will have to —”

I do not finish. We all feel it. A domineering aura like no other. Silence falls upon the battlefield. Even the guns, much farther removed, fall silent. Unmatched power unleashed with casual ease captivates everyone by its very presence. We three run back to the quiet battlefield.

I find it quite unfair that after all those efforts, we would be defeated by a mere presence. This undead skeleton does not fly, it hovers. Its chest is covered in embroidered robes while a massive headpiece the likes of which a pharaoh would envy adorn its front. Silvery orbs observe the assembled forces with glacial contempt.

The undead would be quite impressive, even if from the torso down, its bones were not that of a colossal serpent. The creature must be at least forty feet long from head to, well, tip. Its tail undulates in the air with lazy grace.

We stand dumbstruck. Is this still Poland? Have I been transported to some fantastic land of horrors?

It grumbles a few things in a clicking tongue. With a single finger, it points at the closest line of soldiers which had started to push on. They die. They fall one by one without a word.

A trident as black as the void flies through the air and impacts a barrier with a clear sound like a delicate chime. The spell is broken, and behind the lines, Colonel Reissig comes back to his senses.

“Rückzug! Zieht euch zurück!”

The cry to retreat wakes his men from their stupor. By ones and twos, then all together, they run. I can hardly blame them. I would do the same, but the Dvor lady lands in front of us.

“You must run, Knights. You must run and tell the others of everything you know. Go. Now.”

The serpent undead sees her and lifts a single finger. Viktoriya is lifted from the air. She struggles but her form is still slowly brought forward. It is casting this through the heavy mantle. Its control must be divine.

“PARASITE. IT HAS BEEN EONS SINCE I LAST CRACKED OPEN A NEW SPECIMEN.”

It did not speak German like the others. It thought, and I understood.

“I am no specimen. Everywhere I go… I.. am… Queen! Magna Arqa!”

Against all odds, the spell breaks and Viktoriya lands on her feet. The area around her shakes and breathes and I realize that she has claimed it.

She is a Dvor Lady on her home ground.

I now understand why she would be the one they deploy. With this, she can fight at full power wherever she goes…

No, she cannot. The stopgap merely allows her to match a powerful battle lord and what we face is even deadlier. A shield encloses her, preventing her from escaping. The trident reappears in her hand but even as we run, I know that it will not suffice.

We flee. There is nothing I can do. This creature is too much. Only old monsters would be a match, only those who have survived for centuries could face its ancient malice and live.

Unless.

“Hold on, I have an idea.”

“Ariane, no heroics! We have a mission!”

“We are not returning. We are merely sending a last message.”

“What in the name of the Eye are you talking about?”

“I want to tell that abomination to embrace modernity.”

“What?”

Soldiers and lesser undead mages — I cannot believe that I would ever have to use the terms — take positions around the clearing behind us, bearing their strange orbs. Viktoriya is trapped. She does her best to dodge and deflect spells but this is only a matter of time. I find the nearest abandoned gun and grab a solid shot from one of the fallen servants. He was killed by a long range spell. The cannon is primed, the powder in place. I only need to add a projectile.

Black talon against dark iron. I inscribe, and wish, and pray, and beg. I write the Likaean symbol for scorn on its smooth surface. A pearl of blood and I bring the ball to my mouth.

“Will of the world, carry my hatred. Let it be known. Let it be known.”

I feel my aura deplete as the enchantment takes hold. It is a rough thing, a spur of the moment born from desperation and defiance. The old magic sinks into the modern implement in an unholy marriage of technological excellence and primal savagery. The old and new arts merge as they always have in the pursuit of carnage. We have ruled over Earth since time immemorial. Every human civilization has carved its place in blood just like I have, back home. We are not animals, but we do bite.

“Nu Rask Enthreis.”

Let my hatred go forth.

With one last thanks sent at Sinead for his lessons. I push the projectile into the waiting maw where it disappears with whispers of doom. The barrel shakes when the payload comes to a rest.

The floating thing is just there, chuckling to itself. I move the gun and align it, just like Loth taught me. A blind man could not miss at this range. I grab the rope and press my body against the frame. I have to keep it stable or the recoil will send the projectile off-course.

A pair of hands grip the wheel to my left. Dark eyes, dark hair. A silent nod. I turn when another does the same on the other side.

“For Lars,” Phineas hisses.

I pull the rope, and the world goes white.

The ensuing roar deafens and blinds me. It sounds like five cannons shooting simultaneously if the cannonballs were made of damned souls. I feel more than hear glass breaking, then the most mind-rending shriek I have ever heard. The sound makes me scream and grab my head. Someone pulls me. I find myself running next to Phineas and Esmeray. Viktoriya is there looking worse for the wear.

“You are an idiot!” she bellows. “Also, thank you!”

Behind us, the forest burns. We flee without looking.

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