A Journey of Black and Red-Novel

Boston, early November 1861

The Warden of Missouri sits down, and Lord Kouakou stands up to provide an answer.

Lord Kouakou sits back down and I allow myself a minute smile. Each Warden has two opportunities to speak tonight in order to limit the risk of delay. With his answer, Kouakou both preserved his vote, and offered a scathing retort.

A tall Lord with a hawkish nose and thinning hair stands up. His height almost equals that of Constantine’s himself. He smiles benevolently and speaks in a calm, reasonable voice.

Yann allows himself a condescending smile.

I raise my hand to the surprise of my own party. The fact is that I can provide an adequate answer to such a trite argument without much effort while the times of Kouakou and Sephare remain precious. The Union faction nods, and I am now in charge of providing an answer.

The tiny jab is well-received.

Constantine and the others appreciate brevity. Deep inside, none of us will be swayed by words, as we are all creatures of conviction. What we are doing is, in fact, facing off for the sake of those among us still on the fence. If one party appears as too irrelevant or unconvincing, they will be seen as weak, and we abhor weakness. If the Union faction is to bring more people to its cause, we need to be perceived as competent and well-prepared. Such is the purpose of my argument, and that is why I must remain concise so as to not waste everyone’s time. This is not a lecture.

This is aimed at the people around Yann. The Confederacy has its capital in Richmond, where the Roland lord also made his seat. He has the most to gain from their continued existence. The others, however, do not. With this sentence, I cast a doubt on Yann’s true motivations by reminding everyone that he has his own selfish interest in the matter.

I sit back down. Constantine lets another Warden speak up. This one is a Roland from Quebec and a secret ally of Sephare.

One thing that Sinead taught me is that the mind is an imperfect tool. For example, if one proposal is immediately dismissed as ridiculous, then the next one will appear as more attractive by comparison. Such biases also affect us vampires. We are, after all, made from human molds. Sephare and Yann know this, that is why Yann offered his proposal after the Warden of Missouri’s weak statement, and the Warden of Quebec will be used as a sacrificial tool to introduce Sephare’s own resolution. After a short speech on the possibility of neutrality, his opinion is quickly deemed as pointless by both larger factions. Sephare does not speak last. Kouakou does.

It surprises me a bit. The tall Ekon lord usually contents himself with letting the smooth Hasting handle diplomacy. I know, for participating, that they focus most of their efforts on their home fief of Louisiana, as well as the numerous requests for freedom they receive from their Supplicants.

A daring approach, and one that serves Kouakou well. Despite some posturing, our dealings are mostly cold and methodical, and yet tonight Kouakou speaks with a fire that I did not expect from one of us outside of battle.

I resist the urge to turn to Sephare and gauge her reaction. This feels off-script. It would not help anyway, the wily Hasting would never betray her reaction.

Stupefied silence descends upon us. I never expected him to be so vehement! And… I like it. Finally, some politics I can get behind!

Meaning that only the southern lords who vote with us will be compensated.

In the end, we are left with four proposals. Constantine calls the session in recess until we have had time to study them in detail. We all retreat back to our respective aisles of the manor, and pretend that it does not show the clear faction split. We take some time to read the printed documents until Sephare interrupts us as she struts into the room we have chosen as our gathering spot.

I barely had the time to get off my ship in time for the vote, so I have little idea what the man has in store for me. I stand up and leave Melusine to pore over Yann’s proposal. She did not need Sephare’s advice to understand that the two other texts were inconsequential.

I climb down the manor’s busy stairs to the steward’s office. The entire building is a hive of activity, with security present at every step. Vassals and guards alike step aside to let me through, and my travel time is short.

Wilhelm’s office is still earthy and cozy, with woods and earthy tones, but the mood is less welcoming now. An armor stand occupies the corner. Sheathed blades hang from several pegs on the wall. The man himself reviews a map on his desk, and casually invites me over to join him.

Wilhelm sighs, his muscular frame making the gesture more visceral.

I leave the office and make my way back to our shared office, only for Melusine to stop me by the entrance. I am still wearing a formal dress, but she is not. I recognize the armored suit I had made for her and enchanted myself, with an elaborate heart protector and an integrated focus in case she loses her usual gauntlet. I designed it from the top down to serve my faithful second. I even wrote ‘hussy’ on the inner plate of the heart protector before sealing it shut. Truly, it suits her.

I was not aware that I could refuse. Melusine is a City Master, and our agreement is clear.

Times are grave. We did not even bicker.

The vote goes exactly as predicted. Every round, the proposal with the least votes is eliminated. Stalling is dismissed first, then the neutrality proposal goes next. Surprisingly, it received support from a few more people than I expected. Not enough to make a difference.

Only twenty-seven Wardens remain after last session’s warning. Seventeen vote for support of the Union, while ten vote for support of the Confederacy. Thanks to my and Sephare’s actions, a number of southern lords have joined our cause, including the twins. The opposite side is led by Yann, unsurprisingly, and a few Roland and Cadiz including that backstabbing prick, Lord Ceron. Suarez voted in favor of the Union, even though he has much to lose financially. His support split the Cadiz faction in two.

Another vote, and the stalemate remains.

To triumph, the Union faction needs a majority of two-thirds plus one, so nineteen votes. We are two short.

Constantine ends the session with the next planned in three days to allow both sides to conduct backroom negotiations. I fill the necessary paper to delegate the voting rights of Illinois to Sephare while I am absent. Melusine could have done it, but she is coming with me.

What?

I return to my own quarters and change into my full battle gear. I no longer travel without access to it, and I even have a compact chest that I can fasten to my back in case of emergency. Although it might be unwieldy, I would rather appear ridiculous than be again caught without all my tools of destruction. And besides, who would make fun of someone capable of holding a huge chest on her back? No one with any lick of sense.

After writing a list of instructions to Sheridan, who once again disappeared with Melitone somewhere in the bowels of the complex, I grab Melusine and we make our way down. We find Vadim already waiting for us by the stables.

The Vanheim Master sits atop a Nightmare bred for speed. Zana, Melusine’s mare, embodies the pictural ideal of a lithe romantic horse. Pathetic. By contrast, Metis is a solid warhorse who can plow through a battle line without tragically collapsing for a nearby painter to capture. In fact, she even plowed through a werewolf army and emerged on the other side with bloody hooves and a tasty treat of werewolf ears. I can ask for no better pony.

Almost as if she was designed for me.

I frown suddenly, and try to remember if Metis had been that way when I first got her, and find out that I cannot quite recall. Not with any measure of certainty. Nightmares are truly mysterious, and so is Vadim’s power. He addresses us as we climb on our mounts.

With one last nod, Vadim rides down the path to the house-filled valley, where the attending mortals dwell. We accelerate out and, contrary to the usual, leave the main road leading to Boston. The Nightmares ride through the underbrush with haste, their hooves trampling the ground.

We ride faster still.

Trees to either side rush by in our maddened cavalcade. I can still spot the shining lights of civilization in the distance.

I think I can see the road in the distance.

And suddenly, I cannot. The lights, so numerous a few moments ago, disappear one by one until their very existence becomes like a memory. Darkness, not the peppered black of the night sky, true darkness, spreads around us. I can no longer see the heavens above us through the suddenly dense canopy. The distant sounds of the city fade in moments, replaced by the silence of the deep forest. The young trees of a young forest give way to ancient, ossified trunks covered in scarred bark, twisted and gnarled with grasping roots worming their way through the damp loam. Any other creatures would have had to slow down to avoid the many pitfalls there, or risk snapping their legs like twigs. Instead, the Nightmares rush with renewed vigor, and for good reasons. We are, after all, in their world now.

I resist the urge to call upon a light spell, unused to the impenetrable veil that blocks my sight. Anything that attracts attention here would be… unwise, as there are things that call this alien world their home. Sometimes, whatever small radiance makes its way down from above glints on a spider web, on small glittering eyes hiding amongst the heavy boughs. We stop for nothing. Whoever falls there will be condemned to amble through the infinite forest until the Thirst claims their minds.

Time soon loses its meaning in the typical fashion of the space between spheres. I have no need to direct Metis as she knows exactly where to go. I do not let the fear of the unknown grasp the cold part of my mind. Instead, I call my instincts to the surface and ride on the euphoric wave of the exhilarating journey. We no longer need to appear human. We can cast aside our worries about the war, both the mortal one and ours, because we have no way of impacting it for now. There is just us and the dark world of nightmares, the prey we will find at the end of the trail. I turn to Melusine and give her my best smile. She spares me a glance. A deep understanding passes between us, one that needs no words, and her serious air melts under the euphoria she allows herself to feel. We hiss together and the Nightmares answer with amused snorts. Vadim’s back relaxes. He joins us.

And then something moves in front of us, something massive. I hear a growl. I spot matted dark fur.

We have no time for you.

Get.

Out.

Of.

THE.

WAY.

“ROOOAAAR!”

The warcry is echoed by two others and the angry neighs of our flesh-eating partners. The thing growls more and shuffles away, more annoyed than scared. I laugh at this amazing scene and we continue, never stopping.

It takes us a small eternity to see our destination. I can tell that we approach when the fabric of the forest fails, and we catch whiffs of pine and iodine.

Vadims is barely better. The Vanheim Master slumps on the back of his ride. He is spent.

I recognize the coastline for having traveled it several times in the past. We are several miles north of the Natalis village. The frigid wet of Boston is far away. The weather here is clement enough that a small shawl over a dress would suffice. We have crossed two thousand miles of land in only a few hours.

No creatures on earth can match that speed.

I pat the lanky man on the shoulder and send Metis into a trot. We cross over dunes covered with tall grass and in between palm trees. I understand that Vadim fell short by about twenty miles, but I can hardly complain in the face of his extraordinary performance. It will take days for the Spirit of Dalton to travel so far south.

We arrive with plenty of time to spare before dawn. The Natalis village is as organic and eclectic as I remember. While most of the newer buildings show a definitive hispanic influence, the vampire dwellings range in style from wooden huts to Alpine chalets. Anyone watching it for the first time would believe that they have stumbled upon an impossibly-sized carnival, blue shutters on white walls offering a counterpoint to high-peaked dachas that would not look out of place on the shores of the black sea. The entire city squirms with moving mortals loading and unloading skiffs carrying cargo to transport ships. They work with singular discipline that armies would envy. A powerfully-built master oversees the process, surrounded by an entourage of administrators. We maneuver through the moving files and dismount to address him out of politeness, but he moves forward and hails us as soon as we come into view.

I know of the place. Jarek had several strongholds placed across the arable lands his clan owns. This one is the most defensible one. It covers the entrance to his domain.

We depart immediately.

The wheat fields are empty of both men and stalks this late in the year. Fallow expanses of earth give the place a desolate air only made more desperate by the late evacuees rushing to the piers.

I find Lord Jarek on a large stone overlooking a maze of rocky outcrops and brush marking the end of his land. I recognize the stone. He brought it here himself.

Most of the time, the Natalis paragon wears custom-made clothes in a variety of styles, all having in common a singular feature: they looked like disguises on their owner’s titanic frame. Now, wearing armor, he looks more natural than ever.

While Loth’s protection is a streamlined suit of interlocking scales designed for speed and efficiency, Jarek’s plates look like someone once decided to wear his own portable bank vault and went to work with a forge, persistence, and no sense of design. I know the impression to be deceptive, of course. It still reinforces the warlord’s image as a force of nature, an avatar of power with no finesse and no particular need for it. Plates and spikes and enough jutting parts to catch someone off-guard. I would know. I have been at their receiving ends more than a few times as we sparred.

Lord Jarek remains silent long enough that I almost think that he is ignoring me. When he speaks, his deep, gravelly voice rolls over us.

Another moment of silence until he asks me a question.

I could not even contemplate Jarek leaving while his people are not safe.

I am reminded that I have never, ever landed a wound on Jarek during our spars, at least not when he was wearing his armor. He seldom even materialized his gauntlets.

It?

Jarek turns to me. His gaze is black as coal and just as burning.