A Journey of Black and Red-Novel

I would love to fight with the wind in my hair at the prow of the Fury. Sady, the dead world lacks both wind and the magic to keep us afloat. I still enjoy the view as we fly over the Polish countryside.

The last time I was here, I was running for my life pursued by the deadliest law enforcer of the planet. Much has happened since then and the land below us bears the stigma of half a century of planar siege. Plains bear the round scars of mortar fire. Train tracks and warehouses dot mark the land like old wounds still covered in steel stitches, for the nerve of war is logistics and no place on this planet has more roads and tracks than this one. The Germans and Austrians fully expect soviet encroachment when the lich tide recedes, a concern that does not speak of paranoia so much as it speaks of experience. There are enough lights here to guide even a blind man to whatever concentration of forces he would wish to find. We fly over barracks. We fly over airfields. We fly over concentric rings of trenches, bunkers and pillboxes filled with men. Artillery emplacements are more common than farm houses here despite the endless fields of ripening wheat. There certainly will be a harvest.

This land is crowded and the air is no exception. Even now at night we come across fighter

squadrons and quite a few modern, barded airships bristling with machine guns. I watch this concentration of force with amazement. Even during the height of the Civil War, encampments were just the size of small towns. Here the mortal military spreads out to the horizon in bright patches of fighters and those who make them ready. There are millions of humans wielding years of industrial production engineered and designed for the express purpose of ending life. I would be scared if I had not brought them here myself.

I had help, of course, but what is a queen without her minions? My pleasure would have been complete if I had been the face of the conflict. But I will not be and this is acceptable. Pride has ever preceded the fall for us, and I will not let my own get in the way of victory.

We approach our final destination around 9PM local time or so my watch tells me. For a moment, I believe we have flown too far east, so dense the network of lights is but I soon realize my mistake. No city could ever be this ordered even by design. No architecture could be so painfully utilitarian, and no human population wears only uniforms. The united base of mankind covers the area of a city around a massive open square and around it, ordered in neat rows, wait the tip of the spear of our operation. Armored vehicles. Thousands of them.

“We are being hailed, ma’am.”

“Take us down, Skipper.”

Dozens of warships wait parked by the side of the base, crates of supplies being loaded even this late at night. The latest Fury and her sister ships follow the signals of a control tower into prepared mooring spots. I know that we have been cleared, yet an officer in Austrian uniform still waits for us with a considerable escort. The gesture is mostly symbolic. Their small arms would be of little use against warships and we would be blown to smithereens by the armada around us. This is just posturing. Fortunately, vampires are really good at posturing.

It is time.

I retreat into my cabin using my full speed. The Aurora’s sealed case opens with a press of my fingers to reveal the sleek cobalt lines of the cold armor. Although it takes me only a few seconds to put it on, the air outside is already colder when I step out. The Skipper addresses me with a subdued voice.

“Should we lower the gangplank?”

The Dvergur does not move, does not flinch, yet I can taste the terror pumping blood through his veins. The heavy clank of armored boots rings on the deck, my deck, and I grit my teeth to keep a leash on my instincts.

Nirari wears a heavy plate of pure black material that looks more like stone than metal. It weighs so much that armored steel planks groan under the pressure, and black symbols glitter on its surface like glass in an asphalte bath. He also looks larger than before. I know that lords can change their appearance to a certain degree but I always thought major changes would be foolish as balance needs to be relearned. My sire has no such qualms, and he is now as tall as Jarek.

He merely chuckles while Malakim arrives by his side, giving me a murderous glare.

“Come out and state your business,” a voice says in German.

Nirari drops over the railing like a comet. He lands with a heavy thud, interrupting the annoyed officer. I watch anger lead to surprise which leads to terror on his face. Technically, he could have rung the alarm here and there and the night would have ended poorly. Instead, he freezes.

Nirari’s immense aura blankets the airfield and beyond until every man, every creature down to the basest insect freezes. Those who find their crosses burning an incandescent blue still kneel in desperate prayer because the weight of his presence surpasses the strength of even the staunchest faith. Those that pray do not beg their god to keep a monster away. They pray to stop another god, an old terror from the dawn of history when religions enjoyed blood quite a bit more. They pray for an immaterial deity to defend them against a striding one, each of his steps ringing over the silent plain like the dirge of a funeral bell. Even the most distant of sentries prostrates in fear. The radios fall silent. Approaching airships slow down until they are static. The world holds its breath.

Cadiz jumps down from the Voice of Nashoba, then Constantine and Aki. Their own auras echo the monstrous power of the first of our kind. I jump followed by John and Urchin. Jarek, Ceron, Suarez, Adrian, Wilhelm, Melusine, one by one, all of the lords and ladies of the Accords land followed by retinues of battle masters. The clouds above us part to let in a purple light that shines over the hoarfrost freezing every last blade of grass caught slumbering in the spring’s air.

The vampires are here.

Armed and armored shapes walk past the terrified soldiers in perfect silence behind the eldest of our race. I am given a place of honor behind the progenitors. Our march through the base is unchallenged. Nirari’s domineering aura sees to that.

He lowers it to a more manageable level when we approach the central square. A tent has been erected at its edge to host the commanders of the eclectic force assembled to defeat earth’s invaders once and for all. They will retreat to their respective command posts tomorrow but for now, they are all in one place.

I judge the tent to be adequately protected with sentries from elite regiments and subtly woven wards. They all amount to nothing when Nirari marches in like the walking natural disaster he is. A last line of defense composed of German ‘Nacht ritters’ stands in front of the entrance flaps but it is clear to all they do not stand a chance. The leader bows, though he does not step aside. Nirari stops and smirks. We arrange ourselves around him in order of importance.

Nirari still does not move.

Our host bows a second time. It does not take long to see why. A wave of approaching cold auras rounds another avenue and the forces of Mask come into view. Under Bertrand’s leadership, his elites join us, more numerous than we are but we were first and we have the first with us. Numbers mean nothing. Hastings steps forward with a frown, her form clad in golden armor covered in pockets.

Nirari considers her for a few moments.

His answer elicits no hisses. Hastings stands but she does not protest. Her bluff was called. No one insults Nirari unpunished, not even her. Another wave saves her from further humiliation.

More vampires arrive in more piecemeal order but still unchallenged by the mages I feel assembling on the edges of the field. Many lords of the Dvor walk with arrogance wearing ancient liveries. I recognize old Commenus and Viktoriya with her strange trident. Torran gives me a wink through the lid of the armor I gifted him from the fae lands. Then come more troublesome allies including Octave the leader of the Knights, who glares at me with hooded eyes. The last group to arrive wear chain armor under the leadership of Svyatoslav. All four living Devourers are here. The new arrivals are wiser. None of them dare defy the one standing in our midst with absolute confidence despite the army of apex predators surrounding him and for good reasons. He is the deadliest of us all.

Under the radiant light of the Watcher, he addresses us as the first and possibly last united assembly of vampires.

Nirari enters the tent unopposed, followed by Cadiz and the rest of us one by one. My sire has created a situation where to defy him is to stay outside. Similarly, to challenge his order means entering a tent where he is present. No one dares to oppose him.

Hmmm.

Perhaps I am the one obsessed with defiance. I assume a majority of people here will worry about tomorrow’s assault since Nirari’s existence is a tyranny they can never hope to overthrow. As for me, his death is not a possibility but an obligation, and I am the only one on earth who can stand toe to toe with him.

The interior of the tent is now crowded, despite sentries and aides being evacuated. I count quite a few high-ranking officers as well as a group of five powerful archmages standing proudly behind an invisible shield. I recognize the Myrddin, a man with a short dark beard and the title of most powerful caster in all of Europe. He is in charge of the portal. A map of the dead world and the edges of the Last City awaits along with pieces showing proposed lines of defense. For safety reasons, the portal will be facing away from the city so as to avoid providing the liches with a direct line of fire into our reserves. Nirari walks casually to the map which he inspects with mild interest. His aura still smothers anyone around though it seems to be thicker around the pale archmages. I can smell the terror in the sweat of those around. My sire is done with subtlety, it seems.

I step forward, Nirari’s fear applying to me as well by proximity. I pick German as the language of my choice because most of the men present understand it. The Imperials speak it by default. The French speak it for the same reason a shepherd recognizes the howl of a wolf. The English speak it because they are allied with the French. The Italian General present speaks it because he comes from Milan and was trained in Munich. As for the Soviets, even Hastings herself could not force the Imperials to tolerate their presence on their land without breaking their entire command chain one mind after the other.

“Guten abendt. You know who and what we are so I will be brief. We have come bearing two answers and one gift. The first answer replies to the question: how do we keep the liches away from our troops. The answer is that we will engage them. The second answer replies to the question: how do we take a city from an entrenched foe who has been fortifying it for centuries. The answer is that you will not. We will handle them. You merely need to hold the line against the many threats those monsters send at you. As for our gift, it will protect you from the liches’ most common and frustrating tool: the ability to wrench the life from people with a wave of their hand.”

I reach for the pack at my back to remove a carefully engraved and decorated spike made of dark wood, carved and polished to perfection. To his credit, the Myrddin leaves the protection of his circle to pick the item. He inspects the glyphs for all of three seconds before speaking.

“A portable becalming area hex. I believe it depends on earth’s willingness to defend itself, Fraulein.”

“It will work in the dead world so long as there is an open portal nearby. I have tested it.”

“What is the range and the duration?”

“The item covers everything in a fifty meters radius around itself. It will last for a week.”

“And I assume you have more of them?”

“I have over a thousand. I made them myself. I call these the scorn spikes.”

“It feels unusually strong. Were you the first?”

“I was the first to cast this spell, yes, although the credit for its design belongs to another,” I say, sending a glance towards Constantine.

“I can vouch for this if other spikes match this one’s quality. They must overlap. Our mages will have great difficulties casting within its area of effect, however we would be of limited use over there anyway. Well done.”

He fixes me with a glare.

“They do not explode, do they?”

“We have given our word that we would come as allies. Do you question our honor, mortal?”

“I suppose not.”

“I have questions,” the general in charge says after a miraculous recovery.

Did Nirari permit him to speak? Some of those mortals boast some impressive willpower.

“General Stiglitz. Do tell.”

“How exactly do you expect to take down the city?”

“For the sake of operational security, we cannot share this detail, General Stiglitz,” I allow with a smile. “Besides, you have stockpiles designed for a real siege so just act as if you intended to grind it down.”

“Why, this is—”

Nirari turns to him and speaks a version of German I can barely understand. Stiglitz understands it if his absolute shock is any indication.

“You will be silent and you will not question your betters. Be grateful that we come to deliver you from these invaders.”

“There is no need to be heavy-handed,” the Myrddin retorts. “We are partners, creatures. Not your subordinates.”

“When you can stand by our side as we face the liches at the heart of their power, we will consider you a partner.”

The old archmage bristles but he, too, can feel the impossible might contained in Nirari’s massive frame. I can tell he is fighting the aura’s domineering aspect and slowly losing.

“Our vanguard will enter the dead world with your first wave. Others will hold back. You need not concern yourselves with us. Merely fight with everything you have, for they are mankind’s greatest foe at the moment. Many humans will not live to see Earth again.”

“You could at least have told us you were coming and in what numbers. We could have built our strategy around it,” the Myrddin grumbles.

This time, I am the one to answer.

“You know very well why we didn’t tell you when and how we would arrive,” I mockingly reply. “Lest some of you get… ideas.”

“Do not question my honor, creature.”

“There is only one path that would lead me to trust you. Make a good show of yourself tonight and…”

I lick my fangs.

“Perhaps it can be arranged.”

“Never.”

“Then we are done here. Unless you wish for us to double-check your spellwork?”

“Begone, creature.”

Ah. Cannot let that go.

My mental attack probes and finds a gap in a protective amulet by following the man’s instinctive fear, then I claw up his defenses to find a formidable sphere of spiked steel and glass in which he sits. Dark eyes peer down at me from his mental fortress, sneering, then…

I pull him in.

The sphere lands in my thorn garden’s central plaza, a perfect circle of white marble under the ever present gaze of the Watcher. I see arrogance turn to confusion. The sphere tries to dig through my palace through weight alone, The marble cracks a little, yet from those gaps emerge the questing tendrils of new growth. Vegetation slowly surrounds the fortress, testing the inanimate object for flaws. The Myrddin focuses but finds he cannot escape unless he is willing to come out and play.

The first crack appears in the glass above his head. I watch confusion turn to panic when the roots move faster to cover his palace, pushing and pulling against the protection. Then, I let him go. He stumbles back under the befuddled gaze of his peers. We exchange another glance.

“Careful,” I tell him.

***

Three teams have gathered on the Fury’s deck. Well, three teams in the loosest sense of the term. The first consists of Malakim and a retinue of Dvor fighters, mostly nimble masters wearing light armor. The second team is led by Cadiz and gathers his most dedicated students at master level. The third group is just one lord who volunteered to do so. I do not recognize him, or his aura. I would say he is of Mediterranean descent. He also declined to share a name but I know he is a vampire and he did swear a restraining oath. Nirari also confirmed the man could be trusted based on the same information and the Rosenthal delegation vouched for him so I shall let it go.

The first of our kind tilts his head in a gesture that reminds me of myself, annoying enough.

I shake my head in disbelief. Isaac vouched for him! Perhaps he is one of their agents and the silly act only serves to hide his abilities. No matter. I brought three bombs for safety but in truth, Malakim and Cadiz should both succeed without much difficulty.

I simmer in my resentment at being interrupted, yet another emotion soon fills my heart: dread. Nirari is too kind to me. This makes no sense at all. He should have at least threatened me a little for daring to take the spotlight. Perhaps I do not understand him as well as I should. Perhaps I am missing something important. In any case, there is little I can do. The dies were cast a long time ago.

I hiss but he merely chuckles, his posture more relaxed. Our display seems to unnerve our allies.

That is when I smash his face against the deck.

I half expected Nirari to stop me but he waited. Only after Malakim’s head is buried in a steel plate does he take a step forward.

I toss my ‘brother’ aside. We are done here anyway.

I hope we will not join them.

***

I cannot match his technique or his skill, of course, but then I do not need to be the best at everything. I just need to win.

I will not lose my composure, however this is a grand undertaking relying on a plan with too many unknowns. The liches could even have their own bomb equivalent which they would unleash against us. Our only hope is that they act the way they have acted so far, using their strengths sparingly until they are forced to unveil a new tool. The attack on their last and only stronghold could change that.

Suddenly, Cadiz’ power expands. Despite Nirari’s own aura lingering like a lead yoke on my shoulders, the strength of earth’s most talented duelist breaks through. It tastes of snow, effort, and fresh air.

I dodge under a light slap at the back of my head through sheer muscle memory. He is right. I have to trust that he will succeed. No one else could improvise better.

***

I feel sorry for John. His drive has always been to protect me and he has grown into a formidable defensive fighter. Sadly, I have little need for protection myself.

***

Power gathers in seven circles around the immense field, the chant of dozens of cabals covered by the rumbling of hundreds of engines. At the heart of the ritual, the Myrddin stands with his arms extended to direct colossal energies towards the opening of the colossal gate. White flames pulse at the periphery of a silver circle with more intensity with each passing second. the air smells of ozone and exhaust. It is time.

It starts with a pulse up above us as if an invisible giant plucked at the world. As more energy feeds into the construct, the pulse becomes frantic, accelerates. Soon, it is a blur, then a sinking hole going deep where the world should have no depth. We have come a long way since the first barbarous puncture into the fabric of reality. I have to admit that the mages know their business.

I am not participating in the first ritual. Even I find it exhausting and we will need every ounce of concentration we can muster once that thing opens. Sitting back allows me to appreciate the beauty of an opening portal. There is something divine in the act of connecting two places so distant normal travel would never bridge them. Everything is ready - it has been ready over here for a long time - so I simply stand there, relaxing. Svyatoslav joins me at some point and we wait in silence. He wears forrester garb over mail armor, not that metal has ever done anything to stop the liches. An enchanted quiver rests against his back. His helmet is pointed and of ancient design, with mail links descending down to his shoulders.

Another moment passes. The shadows under the portal deepen.

He chuckles.

I bump my greave against his. I know he values physical gestures more than any other vampires. At least those that come from me.

That garners me another smile. Just then, the ritual reaches its paroxysm. All seven circles flash white, then the bubbling space expands in a vortex until alien daylight shines on the encampment. Aides rush to carry the stumbling mages away, except for the Myrddin who walks away of his own accord. The time is now.

Nirari is the first to cross the portal. I am quick to follow while the roar of engines and the cries of men form a wall of sound behind us. The dry, stale air of the dead world greets us. Ochre mountains tower in the distance. No signs of hostiles for now, except for the odd mana hounds we dispatch with casual swings of our soul blades. The portal faces away from the city just as planned. I move to the side and turn to see our target.

It is immense.

Pillars of dark stone reaching to the sky form a forest of crumbling giants crawling with slaves and their undying masters far in the distance, behind a wall as tall as a hill as a demented monument to greed and neglect. There are so many towers that they blot out the horizon from one end of the valley to the other, their sizes so mind-defying as to induce vertigo. By comparison, the column of tanks and armored personnel carriers are like ants planning to take down a city hall. There are many ants, however, and they carry little surprises. Engineers are already at work marking positions for artillery emplacements and supply depots. The invasion of the dead world has begun.

I have never exterminated the last sapient races off a sphere. I believe that I shall enjoy it.