A Journey of Black and Red-Novel

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.

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.

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

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

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.

A pause.

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

What is she… Oh…

I do not speak as the possibilities swarm my mind.

I frown. She is exaggerating a bit.

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.

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.

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

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

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

She glares.

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

I digest this piece of information for a little while.

Anatole’s team forms a concerned circle around us.

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

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.

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

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

“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.”

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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

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.

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.

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

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

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.

The Knights and Dvor combatants focus on me.

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

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.

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.

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.

Phineas massages his temple as I keep listing supplies.

No backsies.