A Journey of Black and Red-Novel

I thought that we could bring this incident to a close and use that opportunity to rush to the Ice Palace to take ownership of it. I was dead wrong.

The observatory was never meant to open fully. In fact, the mechanism had been disabled and laid covered in ice until the day of the duel, or so Yngvar and Loth had thought. The extent of the Ysvalir tampering gives the council a collective apoplexy, especially from the rigid Ragnar who had supported their clan until now. Such a violation is apparently unthinkable. So, we have some excuses for having approached the entire problem with such a high degree of incompetence, apparently.

The old coots’ collective ire falls on a grieving Erikur who is still reeling from the loss of his daughter. He was the most vocal in trying to get me to offer mercy. He could have brought me the moon on a silver platter, and it would not have mattered. I have brought this hunt to a satisfactory conclusion. I would have it no other way.

Erikur kills himself in his cell a day later.

With this, the council’s wrath peters out and cold tensions arise. I care not, although I can tell that this entire fiasco weighs on the mind of my Dvergur friends and affects their mood. One would think that the death of their enemies and the acquisition of a massive prize would soothe their feelings, but alas, the whole disaster leaves a bitter taste on their tongue. I do not understand why they would feel depressed, nor do I have to. It is enough for me to know that they are and respect their pain.

We eventually make our way back to the Skoragg compound. Loth insisted on leaving for the Ice Palace as soon as possible. His initiative is firmly denied by both Kari and Skjoll. The dedicated bodyguard reminds Loth that his new acquisition could be trapped, and that he has a responsibility to preserve his life as the sovereign. Skoragg scouts later find the stronghold abandoned, though not sabotaged.

I use this opportunity to pursue a few more projects with Loth. First, I am offered the mirror armor, which I accepted. I do need the reminder of how reckless I was to accept a duel during daytime in a place I could not personally check. My greed got the better of me. I will remember this lesson for the rest of my life.

Second, the pair of us forge a new gun using the technology I brought from the United States, with a twist.

“Ye think of firearms as a mortal weapon that’s just for flexibility, not something ye would use in real combat.”

“I would use it on a vampire.”

“But ye don’t believe it would take one down. Ye need ta think bigger. You are not restrained by the limits of mortal bodies.”

And so we end up making an absolute beast of a revolver, with a rotating cylinder and a massive barrel with an enchantment-laden counterweight. It fires a custom caliber bullet the size of my thumb. With that enormity, I would have no trouble killing werewolves at any range. I could blow a hole through a fortress gate.

The acquisition of such a marvel of engineering leads to the next obvious consequence.

I ask for another gun.

I express my concern for secretive work, and we end up with an opposite firearm: a tiny one with a pearl handle that could fit in a handbag. I collect both with giddy anticipation.

Finally, we go to our next project, the most promising yet.

Metis has always been by my side in the thickest battles, and while she is resistant to mundane harm, bullets can still hurt her as the battle with the Order of Gabriel had demonstrated. We now must work on giving the old girl an armor worthy of her talent.

The issue is two-fold.

First, we need to create a piece that can reliably stop bullets.

Two, she must be willing to wear it.

And here lies the crux of the matter. While the haughty Nightmare tolerates a light harness with relative grace, carrying hundreds of pounds of enchanted metal is simply out of the question, at least on a regular basis. I have no need for her rejection to understand that. Restraints of any sorts simply go against her nature.

If we want a practical set, we must juggle between functionality, and designing a piece of art that she will tolerate in battle. In order to guarantee success, her input is required.

I have negotiated with soldiers, merchants, mayors, and whores. I have made deals with mages, half-naked werewolves, fully-naked werewolves, and grumpy Dvergurs. I have held meetings with vampires to decide the fate of hundreds of souls. And now, finally, at the zenith of my diplomatic career, I must contend with my greatest challenge yet.

I must negotiate with my horse.

I might be interpreting her neigh a bit here. We now stand in the Skoragg fortress gardens as I submit one design after another to the grumpy flesh-eater. Even the materials are problematic. Simply put, they need to match her nature as an otherworldly creature of the forest. In the end, Loth just gives her every piece of exotic material in the Skoragg vaults to sniff one at a time. Just as we are about to give up, Metis’ ears perk up at the sight of a very peculiar piece of black leather. I take the dark fabric from Loth’s hands and run my fingers over it. Smooth and scaly.

My friend smiles.

“I should have guessed that she would love that one.”

“What is it?”

“The skin of the alligator we slew for the Choctaw. Out first hunt together.”

“What? I thought it had been destroyed with your house?”

“No, I decided to keep it when we evacuated, and I was right. This will offer good protection and camouflage with a few correct enchantments. Besides, it holds significance for you as your first successful takedown of a magical beast.”

Successful takedown? The alligator caught me off guard and almost tore my arm off. Loth killed the beast before it could eat me. I was merely bait.

“Your contribution was important, even if you did not land the killing blow.”

“I am over it, Loth, do not concern yourself with my feelings.”

“Or your self-esteem.”

“Or my self-esteem. Everything is fine. I am fine.”

“Huh huh.”

“Moving on! Leather. Can it really stop bullets?”

“When I am done with it, it will. You will also find that your illusion spells extend over Metis more easily. Now, to find a proper design. Try to gauge how she would feel about adding a spike on her forehead. She could look like a unicorn!”

Metis’ answer is swift and unambiguous.

“Thankfully,” I remark, “we are already in the garden so it is just more fertilizer.”

Loth and I finish the armor in a week before focusing on his repeater gun. We take much more time for that one, and I believe that Loth considers it more as a project of love to distract him from his many duties rather than something practical he really wants to finish. We spend another few weeks together, but soon September comes and, with it, Kari’s ultimatum. Loth is late on many of his other projects and needs to up his game. I, too, have postponed my duties for too long.

My inquiries about Mask have not led to anything, especially from the Rosenthal who warned me against engaging in dangerous activities so far outside of my support structures. I agree with their sentiment. My decision made, I pack my belongings, including the tiny revolver, which I have named the Accessory, and the huge one, which I have dubbed the Big Iron after a suggestion from Sheridan.

Time to head home.

We soon ride back to Stockholm, then from there take a ship to Copenhagen where the vampire train network is active. I find passage aboard a transport leaving from Le Havre a few days later, and we resume our travels.

I meet a few Erenwald and Roland vampires during my trip through the German states. Unfortunately, I learn very little as they gang up on me to ask questions about the New World and its many opportunities. While they always remain polite, I can feel a certain distance between us that indicates that my traveling companions have little interest in getting to know me better, or even for longer. I do not know whether it is caused by my image as a provincial frontierswoman, my sire, or the inevitability of conflict.

The train puffs its way through sleepy hamlets and larger ones, but never stops long enough for me to visit. It appears that it is merely a means of transportation, while I would prefer a more leisurely pace. I also realize that I would be annoyed if I took the train back home, only to stop for twelve hours here and there for tourism. Unfortunately, staying in any place for longer than necessary would generate curiosity in people whose attention I would rather avoid.

The first real setback of my European trip (if I do not count the unexpected battle with a lord) occurs in the Lille train station, in northern France, where we stop for an hour. Delighted by the building and its august skylight supported by a complex structure of wrought iron, I make the mistake of ordering a cafe.

In French.

“Pfffft, c’est quoi cet accent?” the plump waitress scoffs with amusement.

“Un probleme, Marceline?” her employer asks from behind a polished counter.

I lean back into the dainty wicker chair and listen to her hasty apology, but the deed is done.

I have an amusing accent.

My… mother tongue’s pronunciation is that of a bumpkin of unknown provenance!

Ugh!

I have never felt so mortified! The realization that I have sounded like a clod to worldly French speakers every time I have opened my mouth sinks my mood to new depths of shame and despair.

I should eat the waitress to wipe the memory from her mind. No, no… No! I shall only speak English or German from now on, at least until I can absorb the local intonations. But not here, in Paris, where we will have a short stay.

Sheridan feels my dismay as we climb back up.

“Something the matter?” he inquires.

“Have you ever had the daunting realization that you have spoken a language all your life, and then you travel, and realize that everybody thinks that your way of pronunciation is that of a hopeless redneck?” I ask the Texan who grew up in a hacienda in the middle of nowhere.

“Huh?”

“Nevermind.”

Our journey continues, through the dense fields of the French countryside, now quiescent and bare after the recent harvest. The air is dry and pleasant, for now, though I can already smell fall in the air. We are crossing through a colorful little town with dark blue tiled roofs when the train slows down for an unexpected stop. I frown as I look down through the tinted glass of the restaurant wagon, where I had settled with a book and a cup. My eyes confirm what my aura detected: we are being hailed by a group of vampires. Six, if I count correctly. At least two of them are masters.

“Stay here,” I order Sheridan.

I stand up, before realizing that all my weapons are in the usual secured locker. In fact, with the addition of two revolvers, just Sheridan and I occupy more than two thirds of the total available space. It matters little, as I still have my most powerful asset. No one will ever be able to strip it from me.

I stop in the next carriage as the train leader, a tiny Roland woman with short auburn hair, runs to me. Although she betrays no signs of nervousness, I can feel the tremor in her aura.

And a fat lot of good it will do the both of us. Well, nothing to it. I rush to my bedroom to retrieve my official documentation, then walk down on a deserted platform. The six unknown vampires gather around me in a half-circle that is decidedly hostile. I tilt my head in wonder, and adopt a defensive stance.

Those are Roland fighters. The four courtiers are non-entities if this turns into a fight, but the two masters are unknown. They wear black coats over dark suits, with white shirts, and red ties. There are only minor variations between each. Their bowler hats, however, are all identical. I feel like I am being robbed by a mob of pretentious ragamuffins.

I do not demand when I know that my requests will be ignored. Let them make the first mistake. Let them dig their own graves. My transit has been approved by both Mask and Eneru representatives long before I set foot on the continent. To aggress me now is to create a serious diplomatic incident.

I do not react to their daring, ARROGANT demands. They are legally allowed to do what they are doing, for now, even though the most naive of fledgelings could see where this is going. I must be patient. I must let them commit the first mistake. And so, I calmly hand them my passport, now heavy with stamps and notes.

The leader makes a token effort to consult the hallowed document. A vampire passport is a magical object, making tempering not just incredibly difficult, but also incredibly illegal, and therefore, dangerous.

I move and, with an explosive gesture, grab back what is mine. I open it at the right page as they grab weapons from pockets and sheaths. I am now faced with three shortswords, a gauntlet and dagger combo, and two maces. How quaint.

The leader picks back the document with deliberate slowness.

I do not answer. He rips it out.

Big mistake.

I think not.

FOOLISH CUR.

I let the aura of my anger explode outward as I materialize Rose. They think they have me? They think THEY ARE SMART? If they were smart, they would have brought more goons. They would not have forgotten what I am, and what I can do.

My first strike severs their leader from shoulder to heart. I do not finish him off, however, and punch the nearby courtier in the chest with a single finger. His face spasms and he starts to collapse. I have already moved on.

I lunge to the other master and the Rose’s blade extends, penetrating his heart through his hastily erected guard. The next two fledgelings fall in moments. For them, I make sure not to damage their hearts too much. A mere puncture is all it takes for essence-rich, dark blood to spill on the ground.

Only the mage is left, and I duck behind the falling form of his comrades to avoid the building spell. Alas, at the moment of the cast, I realize my mistake.

A red flare takes off the platform and explodes hundreds of yards into the air, basking us in its scarlet radiance. The magical call that emerges from it dwarfs even the most powerful of beacon spells. Only Semiramis’ summoning came close in terms of sheer power.

Ah…

AMUSING.

I grab him by his throat and bring him close to my face, so that only a few fingers separate us. Bones creak under my unyielding grasp.

Tsk! I wish I could kill all of them, but that would be going too far. The moment I slaughter an entire group, I pass the point of no return on a land filled with short-fused battle lords and ladies, and so, I must content myself with the tiny prize that the Rose fetched for me.

A broken spine later and recovered passport, I am moving back up to the train. The conductor stares at me with obvious horror.

We run back to the front when I come across Sheridan.

“Here, take this,” I inform him as I hand over my passport and the ripped off page, “keep it safe, as I may need it depending on how things go.”

“You need covering fire?”

“Not this time, my friend. Stay with the train, and make sure that the luggage reaches the ship. And keep the passport closely. It will clear me of wrongdoing if I do get caught. I shall meet you on the embankments.”

“Understood. Don’t you die on me.”

“I do not plan to. I must go.”

“Hey, give them hell.”

I nod, but I sincerely hope that it does not come to that. I do not wish to start a war.

As soon as the locker is unlocked, I ditch my dress to reveal the small cloth underneath, to the obvious appreciation of the conductor. I decide to take everything but the rifle, as it is too unwieldy. I end up with my armor, mask, throwing knives, spare dagger, the Big Iron, and a spare revolver, all loaded with silver bullets. And my gauntlet, of course.

I jump out on the platform after a last farewell, then onto a nearby roof. After that, I sprint out of the village and into nearby woods.

So.

That happened.

I suppose that my unknown enemies in Mask have made their move. It just feels so incredibly brazen. Not only are they creating a diplomatic incident, but it will certainly split their own ranks. Mask and Eneru are more groups of interests than a firm alliance united in purpose. Except for wars or exceptional ‘cas de force majeure’, their members have no obligation to act on behalf of each other. Such is not the case now. I am not important enough that Mask would reach a consensus to dispose of me, at least not yet. The only explanation I can think of is that someone committed a blunder, as there was little incentive to act in such a heavy-handed fashion.

Now, for my options.

I could try to run to Le Havre, but I sincerely doubt that I can manage it. That flare they sent means that they prepared something in the eventuality of their failure. I will face heavy opposition. More than I can handle, certainly.

No, the best I can do is to be taken into custody by someone who is not part of the ploy to arrest me in the first place, and they are bound to come and see what is happening if I resist long enough.

I think that this is the most likely outcome. I will have to strike a delicate balance between defense and mercy. Ugh, to play with stupid rules. I hate politics, but I hate dying even more.

Twenty minutes later, I emerge from the forest at full speed only to feel a spell ping against my aura. I am even now wearing Nashoba’s earrings, however, the enemy construct is not a proper tracker, but something different. It expands in a wave and returns the presence of anything with an aura. Truly, they are well-prepared. My time is short, and I realize my predicament.

I have spent so much time developing spells and techniques to find someone that I have neglected countermeasures against being found. I know what I shall focus on next. That is fine. I did not expect to escape without fighting anyway.

I run across an empty field and past an ancient stone house with a baying dog. The next forest is thick and old, with roots popping out of the packed earth like ancient bones out of a ruined grave. I weave my way between bulbous trunks and gnarly branches, barely slowing down.

Something is coming.

“Nu Sharran.”

A thin layer of darkness spreads from the gauntlet to cover the entire area, more fog than impenetrable wall this time. I am improvising. It seems to be working.

Time to learn more. I rush to my assailants. The other groups will soon converge on the cloud anyway, so I might as well attempt some defeat in detail.

I jump up a trunk and then from one tree to another like the planet’s most elegant chimpanzee. Predators always forget to look up.

I stare down.

Three masters stand back to back, covering each other. This time, they are clearly decked for war in light armor and powerful heart protectors. They carry an assortment of weapons and, surprisingly, nets. One of them holds a shiny golden globe with a single ruby jumping on its surface. It looks like a powerful tracking device. I kind of want it.

“Nu Sarrehin,” I barely whisper, and a suspicious radiance pulses away from me, near the ground.

All three of the foes react by instinct, brandishing weapons at the distraction.

The fastest one immediately realizes that it is a trap, and already turns around with a sweeping motion. Unfortunately for him, I come from above.

I stab the slowest fighter in the clavicle, through the thinner armor covering the shoulder, and all the way to his heart. Hahaha, YES! I dodge above a counter strike by bouncing off the falling body and launch a knife, which my opponent deflects by twisting to the side. They are already attacking as I touch the ground. The left one drops his device and takes a sword and dagger, looking like a musketeer with his curly brown hair and sharp face, while the other brandishes a short spear. That one is weirdly plump, with a frizzy dark beard.

I lunge, but do not manage to extend it as the swordmaster smartly locks it with his two weapons. The bearded man takes a step to the side and attempts to stab me. I disengage by using a lot of strength and pulling with the shredding part of my soul weapon. The ghastly grinding sound surprises the first one who stumbles forward. I punch him in the face as he is now very close and his companion drives me back with a flurry of blows before I can capitalize on it. They resume their attack.

I angle myself to place the swordsman in front of the spear-wielder, and am surprised when the first simply goes low to allow the second to strike above him. They really fight together well.

I smile as I back up against a trunk. I can tell the moment where their eyes widen with the typical ‘gotcha’ expression that I myself convey. Unfortunately for them, it was planned.

I press two feet against the solid base and barrel forward with an extended overhead strike.

The Rose cracks as the tip of the blade whips forward and down. The swordsman collapses with half of his head split in two while the fat man falls to his knees, yelling in pain. Their essence is rich and the fight makes it all the more tasty. It is unfortunate that I cannot devour them. Perhaps they would tolerate A DEATH OR TWO. No! No. I shall stick to the plan.

I resist the temptation to dishearten the bearded man. I must stick to the plan and KILL THEM ALL. No! Just… disable and force them to… I do not know. Negotiate? Yes, negotiate. I am not GETTING BOUND, FINGERS CUT. NEVER AGAIN. RUN. RUN!

I leave and run, now feeling a distinct pull on my presence. They know where I am. I have to keep moving or I will be corralled. My instincts are rising to the surface with frightening speed at the thought of captivity, and yet, they feel more fluid than usual. They lack their previous indomitability. As if the experience of briefly going rogue shielded me from succumbing again.

More forest to hide me. I avoid the empty fields. I see a small elevation in the distance with the gutted remnant of a stone fort, but do not go there. Visible. Useless. More fields, which I cannot avoid now. Pine trees. Danger.

Intuition makes me dodge left as a dark arrow digs in, then through, a nearby trunk in a hail of splinters. A woman with a bow, in metal armor. Five other masters with a variety of weapons. Keep running.

I dodge again as another arrow drills through every obstacle before smashing into the ground in a shower of dust. The woman swears behind, and I slow down to allow the fastest pursuers to catch up.

And then I turn around, dodge under a thrown net which shimmers with enchantments as I avoid it by a hair, and stab forward. The lithe fighter was not expecting that. He parries with a foil but my strength cannot be denied and I mash him against a nearby tree, which cracks under the strain. An elbow to the face and my spare knife in his chest, pushed in with Natalis essence. One down, many to go.

A halberd smacks me in the shoulder. I roll with the blow and allow the armor to absorb the impact of the heavy enchanted weapon. I kick a heavyset man with an axe as he appears from behind a ravine. A spear and halberd strike together.

WORTHY PREY.

The spell strikes a tall woman in the arm at point blank range. She screams and drops her spear as the skin of her arm peels off, leaving behind grey, dessicated flesh. She tastes nice. I repulse the halberd wielder with a sweep, then catch him by surprise with a return strike. The Rose curves nicely around his guard to dig into his extended leg. A twist of the toothy side, and the limb is lopped off. Black blood on the ground.

I reverse course and rush back. The archer is here with two companions.

“Nu Sharran.”

Darkness spreads over the forest once more. A projectile zips over my head. Good try. My turn.

I take out the Big Iron from its holster on my back and level it at the archer.

I shoot her in the gut.

The poor girl screams when half of her abdomen flies out of her back. Gonna need a bigger armor, dearie. UNPREPARED. ARROGANT. I should punish them for daring to go against me.

The need to kill has faded somewhat. I am no longer here to destroy, but to teach them a painful lesson.

The next bullet pierces a quickly erected shield, but the mage manages to deflect the shot so that it barely grazes his torso. The last man has a shield, and he uses it to stop the next two shots. Powerful enchantments on that one. Heavy too.

I bend forward to avoid a sweeping blow from the axe wielder coming from behind, and slice his foot off. The Rose bounces back. Heavily armored. Still leave a bleeding furrow.

“Ya!”

I dig both feet into the ground and sweep the Rose at maximum extension. It whistles through the air and pushes all three combatants to the ground, even digging into the shield.

Time to try something fun! I jump and pull on the Rose, flying towards the tip instead of pulling it back. I stab one of my throwing daggers in the axeman’s eyes as I go over him. I land with both feet on the unbalanced shield wielder.

The mage grips his exploding gauntlet. I dodge back to avoid a sword thrust. My counter blow places the Rose’s edge into the attacker’s head. He falls to the ground, and his shield crashes on a stone with a deafening clang. I strike the mage through the heart.

Intuition screams.

I barely block the axeman as he tries, once again, to cut my head off. The attack still pierces through Loth’s armor and I feel pain for the first time tonight.

STRONG OPPONENT. GOOD ESSENCE.

The knife did not go deep enough. I also do not know of many foes who would get stabbed in the eye, pull it out and then get back into the fight without pause.

To my surprise, my foe takes a few steps back and the cause becomes immediately obvious. The third group of pursuers is upon us.

Though she does not reply, a blond man covered with knives does so in her stead.

Our deadly dance resumes. I rush back and disable a charging spearman with a shot to the face.

A loss of cohesion, ey? THE SCENT OF BLOOD, THE VISION OF DEFEAT. THEY KNOW.

One down, six to go.

My last two bullets are blocked by a man in heavy armor, and the small woman who literally cuts the projectile in the air. She smirks. I holster the Big Iron and… take out my spare gun.

I sprint back and shoot out the vampires at the edge of the formation. The knife one manages to get away with superficial wounds, but a man in light armor and a pike is hit repeatedly. He stumbles, his wounds not healing.

I aim my last bullet at the frontrunner. He has picked up the shield and charges me with the intent to slam it against my form. He ducks under cover and… I flip the revolver to aim the gauntlet instead.

“Shred.”

Enchantments groan under my attack, and finally snap with a dose of Rose fangs. I still have to disengage when the two-handed swordswoman almost cleaves me in two. Her fast attack catches me off-guard to bite deep into my chest plate.

“Hsss.”

That hurt. And her blade is enchanted, so healing will be slow. She deflects my counter strike with a powerful sweep and returns to formation. I am at risk of being overwhelmed. I keep retreating until we reach another patch of woods. This one is too young to offer much cover so I merely keep moving until they grow dense enough to play with.

They work well together. I have difficulties capitalizing on my superior power as they do their damnedest to cover each other. That is fine. I can just chip at them until enough break. They are powerful fighters, all of them, and this combat is exciting. YES.

A worthy challenge!

“Nu Sharran.”

I throw blood-magic reinforced spells at weak points using the cover of the darkness spell. Even those who manage to dodge only reveal their comrades’ exposed backs. I have already used more power than two average battle mages, and I still feel far from exhausted. I would have been even more dangerous if I let myself feed as well. It feels… amazing.

I take out the swordswoman by stabbing her in the gut through a trunk, then severing both with a furious snap.

This is AMUSING. Yes, little things, come and entertain me, so that I may teach you.

We exit another patch to yet another open ground, this one filled with ripening apple trees. The perfume of fruit and blood mix pleasantly in the early night. The five fighters still standing stop at the edge of the forest in a loose circle, wary of me. I swipe the Rose so that the extremity cracks in the air. The axeman flinches.

Both the enemies and myself turn with more than a bit of surprise, as two men emerge from the shadows of the orchard. I have not felt them come at all.

They are twins, I notice. Roland. I can taste their age and power from their movements alone. Even then, they stay at a respectable distance.

The two have very dark curly hair, pencil moustaches and thin, pointy beards. Their expressions are filled with melancholy, as if the spectacle before them caused them pain on a fundamental level. They wear vastly different outfits, however, with one of them looking like a shepherd in a simple shirt and white trouser. The other wears a princely blue vest with shiny brass buttons. I see no weapons.

The other group turns to the axe-wielder who shakes his head.

Silence now reigns over the fertile land. A nightly wind caresses my skin and cools the tingly sensation of my knitting flesh, where my defenses faltered. The grass undulates around us. The momentum of the night grinds to a stop as I feel their twinned aura rise from its slumber to anchor us all.

The oath takes hold, and all present wait with eager expectation. Fate leaves me unscathed.

Of course, there are ways to circumvent even the most direct of promises. It still holds weight, especially when the situation is messy enough that a complex scheme appears unlikely.

The twins make black foils appear from their hands, the rich one having a longer and more elaborate one while the shepherd’s is thicker and heavier.

“Magna Arqa!” they declare at the same time. Their eyes flash purple.

Arg! All my focus ends on the shepherd who charges at vertiginous speed. I lunge, but the strike is deflected with minimal movement.

I pull back and let intuition take over.

Left.

Right. I move, and, with desperate speed, block a sweep that would have gutted me like a fish.

I suddenly feel a great pain.

The rich twin has reappeared. He was completely gone from my perception, and my attention had been entirely swallowed by the other one! Is this their Magna Arqa?

His blade is lodged in my chest.

Oh, this is bullsh—