A Journey of Black and Red

We run and we keep running until we reach the camp. Our retreat is made in silence as we spend all our attention searching the earth and sky for danger. No cloud of death descends upon us, nor do the stones beneath our feet rise up, but after seeing what we stand against, I can no longer dismiss the possibility as too outlandish.

We did not truly stop at the camp so much as take it with us. It only takes ten minutes for the twitchy mortals to pack up their wagons with our help, and we only halt several miles away just as the sun warns us of its coming. The four of us huddle together in Viktoriya’s armored cart which contains, to my surprise, several sealed sarcophagi concealed below thick, armored walls.

“I sometimes fetch prisoners or kin whose lives are in danger,” she tells me when I express my surprise, “this carriage was designed with group safety in mind, hence why my main bed remains outside.”

The absence of it obviously leaves her chagrined. The only comfort comes from several cushioned seats, a fluffy carpet, a myriad of plush pillows and a couch large enough to accomodate Jarek. The air is dry and smells faintly of rose. Absolutely Spartan.

“My attendants will swerve around and travel to Krakow. We will join the families there and link up with the Knights at dusk. My people shall provide nourishment when you wake.”

We three nod to indicate our gratitude. Viktoriya is clearly not done, however.

“I will not forget what you have done for me. Ariane, in particular, I would like to talk to you alone. Esmeray, Phineas, we will discuss your reward tomorrow after I have given it some thought.”

She rolls over their protests. We are, after all, Knights performing our duties.

“Nonsense. Your mission was to carry word of my demise, not to prevent it. Enough now! Go to bed, little ones. I need to talk to Ariane. Shoo!”

The two obey and I take the seat opposite the diminutive black-haired lady. She seems uncertain, which given her youthful air gives her a more convincing mortality than some Hastings I have met. Only the dark of her eyes still carry the weight of centuries of strife.

“Ariane...”

A pause.

“I know that you will be in the thick of battle tomorrow. It would pain me if you died before I could repay my debt, therefore allow me to offer you a valuable piece of advice. I do believe that it might save you in an hour of great need…”

Another pause. Viktoriya sighs deeply, and I smell the cold spice of her breath. Her eyes close.

“The Eye, though I believe you call it the Watcher, is more… active than some may think. You have the more fluid aura of those who almost went rogue, so you have tasted the alien essence we carry deep within our minds. You have felt the canvas of our foreign souls. You know of what I speak.”

“Yes… I just never expected…”

“We lords and ladies do not share with our less experienced brethren because there are no words in Akkad or all the tongues of men to convey the experience. To describe the nature of the Eye is to muddle and confuse with inaccurate statements. I shall not do so. What I will do, however, is to talk about you.”

“About me?”

“Yes. We, the bloodlines, each embody a principle. Our strengths and weaknesses reflect the concept, whether we know it or not. Our borrowed instincts will influence us while we, in turn, interpret it according to our own beliefs and experiences.”

“I remember that my servant John mentioned tranquility being at the heart of who he was.”

“Precisely. For Lord Jarek of the Natalis, tranquility stems from crushing all opposition. For me, domain is not a place I know and love but what I can control right now.”

What is she… Oh…

“For your lover, domain is the spirit of a place, which permeates everything up to its very soil. Do you understand?”

“So then…”

“You must ask yourself what conquest means to you.”

I do not speak as the possibilities swarm my mind.

“It will not suffice but it is a necessary step. All of us have spent at the very least twice as much time as you have before we took the final step on the path to growth. You are young, proactive and, besides, American. Long periods of melancholic introspections are not in your nature.”

I frown. She is exaggerating a bit.

“When I was at your stage of my life, I kept Aristotles’ five books on ethics and the biography of Hildegard von Bingen as my bedside books. You keep raunchy novels.”

“H—How do you know!”

“Jimena of the Cadiz mentioned it the last time we met, and the thought of your prudish self reading bodice-rippers amused me enough to remember it. It does not matter. What I wish to convey is that you need to reflect on what your nature means to you. How do you see yourself as part of your bloodline? This is the best advice I can give.”

“I see. I understand.”

“There is a reason why we do not guide mature Masters on the path to ascension. More often than not, our advice will hurt them because what worked for us might not work for others. I still believe that my advice is worthy, because I am quite old and quite experienced in guiding others. That is all. We will speak no more of this.”

“I appreciate it.”

“It will not repay the debt I have towards you. I have no doubt that, given your propensity for conflict, an occasion will arise sooner than later… provided that you survive long enough.”

“You have a mistaken impression of me. I am more than capable of diplomacy.”

“Oh, I know. You would be dead otherwise. You still resort to violence more than most people I have met. Enough talks, Ariane. I know you feel the coming of the sun as well. Until tomorrow.”

I awaken in an unknown sarcophagus. The air inside is stale with the stench of ash and old blood. I carefully open the lid to find that the others have not risen yet, except for Viktoriya. A terse message leads me outside.

Our carriage, like many others, has been parked inside of a large, underground warehouse. The ceiling is high and arched, each section resting on four thick pillars, so numerous as to form a forest. Lamps shine everywhere and I hear the footsteps of mortals, as well as smell their sweat. Men huddle in groups and speak in hushed tones. I see a group of them in the non-descript, dull clothes of private guards. They fall silent when I allow them to spot me. The eldest bows and points me in a general direction in a Balkan language I do not recognize.

I make my way between crates of supply until I find a wall. Sentries let me in through a reinforced gate, and into what appears to be the vampire quarters.

“Good evening, Squire Ariane.”

“Knight Marlan…”

The warrior nods, his eyes hooded. He is surrounded by men I do not recognize and the Shade trainer. They stand in a circle, inspecting sheafs of paper in the antechamber I found myself in. We are still underground as the naked rock walls attest. Other auras come from beyond other doors.

“My condolences for the loss of Lars. Normally, you would be debriefed, however, we require the presence of every combatant for the following operation and Viktoriya vouched for your squad. I assume that they are still slumbering?”

“They were when I left them.”

“Please take the door to my left and go to the cells. You are on time for the next interview with our prisoner. We will give formal orders once everyone is awake.”

“We have a prisoner?”

“See for yourself,” the man finally says before dismissing me. I search for the jail across a maze of corridors and small rooms. The entire place is dank and filthy. It is also crawling with vampires, most of them Dvor Masters and Courtiers. None give me more than a passing glance. Eventually, I find myself in a large, empty room guarded by Anatole’s squad. We exchange greetings, then the leader himself addresses me.

“You arrived just as we were beginning.”

Anatole morosely bangs on a barred door behind him. A female vampire in a beautiful blue dress emerges from it. She looks incongruous in this dank, rancid basement. Her deep perfume overwhelms my senses. She is also sporting some cleavage.

Before I even have to mask my surprise, I see a large Natalis follow her. He has all the trappings of a mercenary up to the elaborate but bare armor. His face shows burn scars on the left side.

The reason for their presence becomes obvious when I see the one who follows: a pulse, a bald head and relatively short stature. Hints of a burn wound under his chin.

The man turns and sees me. His face shows a beatific smile. I had never seen such unadulterated joy in an adult before.

“You! You killed god!” he exclaims in broken German.

I am confident that I did not. I do, however, understand what he means.

He is one of the invaders, more precisely, one of the armored grunts the mages sacrifice by the dozens. It lets me wonder how he can still be alive. I must be staring at his chin, because the woman in a blue dress soon talks.

“His suicide glyph malfunctioned and fizzled out, Squire Ariane. He then escaped to us and was picked up by Austrian soldiers who happened to be around. Our men seized him before he could be executed. My name is Andrea of the Dvor, and I am pleased that you have joined us. You and your companions left a lasting impression on Kurshu.”

His name sounds like someone choked on a piece of vegetable, coughed, then swore.

“Kurshu has been very cooperative with us and we have managed to learn much from him despite the language barrier. He has shown a… refreshing approach to our planet.”

“Could you elaborate?”

“He was given fruit and cried with emotion.”

I hope that they do not let him try maple syrup or his heart will stop.

“I was more interested in what we learned from him,” I tell her. She smiles in a way that does not reach her eyes, a polite rebuke. I feel a stillness in her aura that reminds me of another, but who? Ah, yes. Ignace. Constantine’s torturer.

She is the Dvor interrogator. That alien showed wisdom in its enthusiasm.

“Kurshu here informs us that he is a resident of ‘The Last City,’ commonly referred to as the City. It hosts quite a few of his brethren and extends up and down in a monumental, labyrinthine complex.”

“He told you that?”

“City very big, many many many streets, and cave,” the woman replies laconically.

She glares.

“Please stop interrupting. The City also harbors the last remnants of life on their planet, as well as sixty-eight gods numbered by rank. That is, until you came along. Now there are sixty-five.”

“Killed the gods,” the man whispers in wonderment.

“And the half-snake thing we faced was…”

“The Eighth."

I digest this piece of information for a little while.

“This does not bode well.”

“The ‘gods’, although I assume that they merely asked what the German term was for ‘ultimate beings’, practice the true path which consists of ‘harnessing the life of the world’. They used their ultimate powers in times immemorial to save the Last City from a looming disaster, and should be worshipped and obeyed as a result.”

“They probably destroyed their own planet by consuming its very life.”

“The present members of the Dvor council and the Knights agree with your assessment. As for the rest, the renegade mages opened a path too close to the Last City and were discovered, following which mercenaries were captured and interrogated, hence why the invaders know a bit of German. The undead mages then opened a portal of their own from inside their city and started capturing prisoners. We estimate that they have upward to a thousand slaves, which are ‘harvested’ for their life force. Kurshu confirmed our suspicions on the current politics of the Last City. They are not united. Instead, the faction to which the Eighth belongs seeks to ‘make more gods’.”

“Let me guess, it will kill our planet.”

Anatole’s team forms a concerned circle around us.

“I suspect that the existence of… over sixty of those gods means that the planet can survive quite a bit more than one ceremony. Only a fool would believe that sixty is what there is instead of what is left. Nevertheless, the Dvor council unanimously agreed that an attempt at creating more would be unacceptable. We have fully mobilized for an assault on the gates. Together with the Knights, of course.”

Her late smile shows exactly what she thinks about our support.

“Now, I believe that you do not need a deeper understanding of the City’s caste society and utter lack of food to carry out your mission, therefore I suggest that you make your way to the command room in order to be briefed.”

She makes to leave, only to stop when the de facto prisoner moves towards me. He seems eager to speak.

“Great one! Will you kill more gods?”

“Yes, I will.”

Come to think of it, I have more questions for our amusing rescue, starting with those orbs they use. And the hounds.

“Andrea of the Dvor, why not take a break and let us speak further with Kurshu here. We have questions on their weaponry. I am sure that you can delve deeper into the lore at a later date.”

Ah, I finally get more of a reaction than condescending disdain.

“We have no reports of the invaders deploying special weaponry,” she retorts.

Anatole cracks the mercenary’s grip open with the clever use of leverage and the relative fragility of wrists.

“Beast collars and concentrated life used as a mental manipulator count as weaponry,” Anatole says, surprisingly coming to my help. “The Order will take custody of your ward until the time of the briefing as stated in our arrangement. Thank you.”

“Very well then,” the torturer replies with the same fixed rictus as before. I would bet a gold bar against a bag of chestnuts that she wears the same expression when showing prisoners their own pancreas. We move out and I follow Anatole throughout the chaotic depths while the ever-smiling Kurthus fixes me with puppy eyes.

“I have questions.”

“Of course, great one! Your world… amazing! Many trees! Apples! You like apples?”

The man grabs in the pocket of the simple shift he wears and offers me a brownish apple core with the seeds exposed.

“Thank you, but I already had dinner,” I lie.

The strange man nods in understanding before shoving the entire thing, twig included, into his mouth and chewing pensively.

“Sweet.”

He sighs deeply.

“May I ask you a few questions?” I say.

“What?”

“I ask questions.”

“Of course, Great One. Natürlich! Ask away.”

“How do the collars work?”

“Collars?”

I gesture at my throat and then mimic the opening maw of a Merghol hound.

I catch sight of Mannfred from the corner of my eye, the man looks so shocked that his opera villain moustache bristles.

“Oh yes! Collar? They are made with the true path. Feed the…”

He mimics.

“Hounds, but slowly, and with trick! It makes the hound sated, but is lie!”

He gestures strangely with his hands, as if his face were melting.

“Deception! The hounds is still hungry. It just doesn’t know. Other part makes like very, very big hound.”

I remember the horror we faced with Nami all those years ago. It appears that the undead and their servants favor the medium specimen. I wonder why? Perhaps they are the most efficient. I also assume that the largest creatures being the size of small wagons, collaring them might be a more daunting process, especially if the mages consider the activity beneath them.

“Why capture hounds?”

“They hunt, hmm, bad servants. Very good and very cheap. There are always hounds outside. Take the collar again and find another hound when they die.”

“So there are people who go against the gods?” I ask with some hope, but those are shattered immediately when the man crosses his arm and makes a pained expression.

“Not fight. Flee duty.”

“Where do the hounds come from anyway?”

“What?”

“Who made the hounds?”

The man looks fearfully around, but seems quickly comforted by the sight of moldy bricks glimmering ominously under the twilight glare of oily lanterns, and armor-clad vampires.

“Bad servants say that it was made for war between gods, by those who follow the true path. To kill the rest. The gods say they came with the great thing that killed the world.”

“If this is the truth, there could be ruins across this world, with more answers,” Anatole’s Vestal says.

“It could have happened millennia ago,” Anatole retorts, “long enough for only dust and bones to remain.”

Kurshu observes my companions a bit fearfully during their exchange.

“Kurshu,” I continue, “what of the orbs?”

“Orbs?”

I try to for a ball but he apparently cannot quite catch my meaning. After a minute of fruitless inquiries, by which time we have emerged back into the underground warehouse, I give up and summon a light illusion of the real thing. Kurshu’s eyes widen in amazement.

“You are like a god.”

Perhaps we could liberate more of those invaders. They might be bad for the planet but they are good for my self-esteem.

“Please answer me. Those are orbs. What are they?”

“Many servants die, make one. Very useful. Even servants can use the true path when they have an orb, if they have, hmmm. If they are very good. The gods give their orbs to their best servants. It is a great honor.”

“How do servants use the true path?”

“It depends on the thing below the orbs. There are…”

He pretends to write with a stylus.

“Glyphs.”

“Glyphs say what the orb can do, then the servant says the orb should do it now. Not easy.”

“I understand.”

I consider experimenting with the orbs we should still have, but then give up on the attempt. I refuse to resort to this tainted power. I would rather break the tool and free its imprisoned life force.

Our steps lead us to a great gathering of vampires around a central table. I have some experience being among so many powerful auras, but this is the first time that I see such a divided assembly outside of peace talks.

One side of the large, lantern-lit underground belongs to the Knights. On top of my team, I also see three others whose members are unknown to me, but whose armors are significantly more elaborate than my own. I curse once again the need to wear a uniform. Loth’s armor would have made a difference here. Even the armor Octave currently wears as our representative pales in comparison to that masterpiece, in my own unbiased opinion. The Knight Champion sits on one end of the command table with the Shade trainer and Marlan by his side. I force myself not to smile when I recognize someone I know well standing behind him. Kurshu is returned to Andrea and I make my way to my team, as is proper. She does not care and moves around the assembly and bumps against me. I smell the cold spice of her perfume covering that of mildew.

“Sister,” I whisper.

Jimena only winks. Ah, but it is a comfort to see someone I can truly, fully rely on. A pressure is lifted from my shoulders.

More relaxed, I study our counterparts. The Dvor form a much more eclectic mix of fighters, most of them male and armored in antiquated, though well-crafted and enchanted armors. They remind me of engravings of soldiers throughout the ages in some expensive historical recounting. Despite what their diverse appearances might suggest, the warriors stand in close formations behind a handful of battle lords like retinues. Viktoriya sits on their side of the table but she does not lead. Instead, authority was seized by a greying, bearded lord wearing a genuine lion skin over his shoulder. He has strange traits, drawn and sharp, possibly of an ethnic group that no longer exists. While I do not doubt that Octave can defeat him in a duel, it will have to be through skill alone because the aura radiating from the seated figure speaks of the strength to crush boulders. A few Natalis mercenaries add their not-inconsiderable weight to their side.

A few weaker fighters join us, quickly emerging from their dwelling places to join us in silence. The only person still moving is Kurshu, who tries to amble around every minute like a guttersnipe on a sugar rush. Eventually, all who matter are gathered and the old Dvor lord addresses us in a rumbling basso.

“Welcome to Krakow. For those of you who live under a rock, I am Commenus, second member of the Dvor council. We are here to address yet another barbaric invasion on our lands, this time by…” he sighs, “skeleton mages from another world. I do not know who cocked up this time and I do not care. We are here to kill every last one of those things and send their heads home as a warning. Speaking of which, Andrea, you will retire this instant with the prisoner. This is a war council.”

Another smile from the strange woman, with one death glare thrown my way for good measure. Well, am I truly to blame? Nobody said that she had to stay.

“Women…” the old lord grumbles. Ah, one of those. Torran warned me that his kind’s views transcended time and space.

“Right. We face an enemy whose knowledge of witchcraft defies everything we know on earth. Now, I was led to believe that our own magicians somehow made themselves useful for once by levelling the playing field? Who was it?”

A forest of gazes settles on me and I take a step forward in silence. I know better than to speak. Any discussion I could have with this gentleman would be counterproductive and, besides, I do not value his opinion.

I feel the brush of aura against my own. It stops short of being rude and so I do not have to enter a contest of control against an ancient monster.

“A… foreigner. You will give the spell to one of our elder mages for study.”

Vikotriya hisses softly, then deliberately points at a note on the table by the man’s side. The pair glares at each other with the sort of animosity bred by centuries of conflict, but he eventually relents and reads the report.

“Ismael will handle the spell, unless the Knights have a caster lady hidden under their armored skirts? I thought not.”

It annoys me, yet once again I made an oath to serve the Knights and I will abide by it.

“The spell requires a circle to be formed around the affected area,” Octave informs the old Dvor, “we will need everyone capable of casting to work together if we want a circle large enough to affect the right battlefield.”

“Fine, all the mortal mages will be under the supervision of Ismael then. Can it be cast several times in a row?”

We enter the more tedious part of the briefing. It is decided to cast the spell twice, once to address the invader vanguard, and a second time around their base. I hope that they have not developed a countermeasure yet, though to be fair, the interdiction field seems to be more of a nuisance than anything else.

“As of an hour ago, the invader forward troops have engaged the Austrian army and Krakow garrison within riding distance of the city. Casualties seem to be heavy on both sides but the local forces are holding, a pleasant surprise. It appears that a certain Colonel Reissig managed to bring back enough bodies to convince authorities of the reality of the threat. Hmmm. We will crush them first to get used to the opposition and then move on to the base.”

After a few discussions, the two clans align to start the battle by casting my spell around the current battlefield, then by attacking all together. The Dvor command the Dvor and the Knights command the Knights, each taking a wing. A special detachment of a Dvor and a Knight squad are charged with protecting the mages during the process before they rejoin the battle. Then, we are to repeat the same plan around the base and move in to destroy all opposition. Both groups have stockpiled projectiles and weapons enchanted to destroy shields, the skeletons having proved themselves rather flimsy. Those are distributed, then Marlan goes into great detail about the enemy capabilities up to and including their telekinesis and deadly fire spells. Word is sent to get specially enchanted shields from the nearby armory. I am amazed at the quality of the materials soon distributed around the room, and I realize another difference between New and Old World means. Our difference does not just stem from our lack of Fae blood. They have also been stockpiling master-crafted arms for centuries.

With a few last orders to the respective team leaders, the meeting is about to finish when I raise my hand.

“Yes?” Viktoriya asks before both Marlan and Commenus shut me down.

“How do we close the gate?”

The susurrus of conversation dies out as all eyes return to the speakers, me included.

“In case you have forgotten, the gate is not a spell, it is an anchored magical construct teetered on the other side of the veil. Only the aperture appears on our side. With magic sealed, we have no means of closing it on our end.”

“And would they not close the gate behind themselves when we descend upon their camp?” Commenus asks, annoyed.

Oh, so kind of him to hand me the stick.

“You seem to believe that we are facing the bulk of their forces. Our prisoner indicated that the undead mages number themselves by ranking power, and the creature that endangered Viktoriya was called the Eighth. Moreover, we have only come across a handful of the sixty-five undead mages present in their city. For whatever reason, our foes are holding back. I see no reason to assume that they intend to persevere in this mistake.”

“You are making assumptions,” Commenus says.

“And you are basing your plan on an enemy failure.”

“Ariane,” Marlan says, but I have time for one last jab.

“Bold of you to assume fear from creatures lacking endocrine glands.”

Perhaps that was a bit too much as the man stands and growls. Ah, I simply cannot help myself, it seems, even when I know better.

“Ariane!”

“She is correct,” Viktoriya interrupts, though she does not look pleased by my antics, “and unless we intend to cross to the other side, we need a solution. I do not see us triumphing if the foe has free access to our planet’s lifeforce. Ariane, do you have a solution?”

“It will be explosives,” Jimena says, nodding wisely.

The Knights and Dvor combatants focus on me.

“Well. We could pass a powerful bomb through the aperture and destroy their installation,” I admit, “but it needs to be done carefully lest the first spell sends us to a fiery doom.”

“I knew it.”

“Not helping,” I hiss.

“I have no objection provided that you build the bomb, prime it, and deliver it yourself,” Commenus says with a ghastly smile.

“Of course!” I retort with outrage, “I would not trust luddites with such a delicate project.”

The table groans under two different sets of claws, only one whose owner can give me orders.

“That will be all, Ariane, thank you,” Marlan says between gritted teeth. “You may now pursue this endeavor, but keep in mind that you only have a few hours, then we leave and push the invaders out in any case.”

I consider the question. We have receptacles capable of withstanding powerful spells already, but I do not see us achieving the sort of damage we need with just powder. I sigh.

“What do you need to create your bomb?” Phineas asks by my side.

“I can find all the ingredients easily. The problem is getting enough power to damage whatever is on the other side in a way that deters any further attempt.”

“You need power?” Esmeray asks.

“Yes?” I ask with some surprise, but Esmeray merely bounces away and returns, giving me a bag. Even before opening, I know what it contains from the powerful energy it emits.

Orbs in every shade of the rainbow lie there like pilfered eggs. I remember that she captured as many as she could to deny them to our foes.

“Will that do?”

I caress the surface of one of the mighty artefacts. Roiling power pushes back tamely against my fingers like a purring tiger, containing more magical might than I have ever held.

And there are eight of them.

“I am going to need those, Kurshu, a sarcophagus, air-tight bags, mercury fulminate and as much phosphorus as you can find me...”

Phineas massages his temple as I keep listing supplies.

No backsies.

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