A Journey of Black and Red-Novel

Russian winter has descended upon the Ural. The cold, crisp air carries no hint of human presence. No soot, no smoke, no persistent stench of sweat and refuse. Only the vague taste of slumbering sap floats under the snow-covered boughs. At night, nothing moves, nothing but diamond powder caressed by the wind. The landscape is one of death and eternal silence, and it is on that perfect canvas that we battle.

Team Willow runs through the valley, fast and silent. Little wafts of pure darkness mask our movements from faraway observers and our speed does the rest. Phineas is to my left and Lars to my right. They move smoothly, letting me take point while covering my back. A few larger rocks and the bare trunks of Siberian firs pierce the frozen ground. Ridges abound, perfect for ambushes.

His predictive ability is commendable, but I would have felt the poorly veiled auras of our rival squad without help. The apprentices emerge from a bend in the path we follow and array themselves against us. All five members of the novice team Oak are present, with the addition of the Shield-bearer of the experienced team Aspen, Mannfred. The solid Roland Master wastes no time raising his sword at me.

I salute out of respect for this man’s dedication. Out of all of them, he has made the most progress.

Our blades cross and I start the long, harrowing process of backing him against a corner. I aim for his head, uncovered hand, and feet as soon as they are exposed, forcing him to shift his defenses which he does with practiced efficacy. Meanwhile, his allies circle me and look for openings. They remain close to him so he can cover them, a lesson I taught them repeatedly.

It helps that Mannfred has been ‘volunteering’ to face me in as many exercises as he could, going so far as to forgo other classes. I start mixing mirages into my fighting style, sending false images to provide diversion and feints as the battle is joined.

On top of Mannfred, I have the rest of team Oak to contend with. Fortunately, I am supported by Lars’ precise javelin strikes and Phineas’ spells. The two work with me in harmony. They make use of their range advantage.

The melee draws out until seconds turn into a full minute. Slowly, I use my training sword and spells to chip at the other team’s focus, inflicting wounds here and there. Mannfred must finally fall back when one of his teammates overextends and I skewer him near the heart.

The fight continues and Mannfred’s allies fall one by one. They do not work with him as well as he does with his own squad, while Phineas and Lars show no mercy. The Lancaster accountant, in particular, has managed the feat of saying the wrong spell, a practice that amuses him greatly.

I try my best to make as perfect a mirage as I can in a battle situation. I have tried them with Octave, to his delight, but it did not work because the illusory attack always ‘felt wrong’. It is not enough to cast the spell, one must visualize the movement perfectly, and one needs to visualize a movement that would be threatening enough while still being realistic. I think that without my intuition, I would never have been able to integrate it into my fighting style. I will still need a lot of time to perfect it against my most experienced foes.

In the end, Mannfred is not Octave’s equal and I manage to slip my sword between his ribs.

The two members of team Oak still standing step back and sheathe their blades. Mannfred frowns mightily. Like that, he looks like a broody hero of legend with a stiff upper lip and inability to ever retreat. With his thin moustache and goatee, I expect him to go after Aztec gold or to stab the nearest windmill at any time.

Rather than annoying, I find his desire to overtake me endearing. I can appreciate a persistent fighter, especially one who treats me with respect every time, and so I salute.

The sturdy shield-bearer smiles ruefully.

His face lights up with obvious delight.

I can still see some resentment in the face of my foes but I have started to see them as allies and have thus gone out of my way to make my victories as painless as possible for their self-esteem. It has served me well. I hardly get any hostility. There is, after all, only one thing we value more than superficial pride, and that is victory as the current exercise demonstrates.

Our instructors have placed all four squire teams in a valley with a stone fortress on one side and a flag on the other. The first team to take the flag back wins and the three others lose. Such conditions would normally lead to a messy free for all, but one of the teams has a powerhouse that skews the odds. Team Willow cast off immediately before the others could shut us down and we found the flag undefended. Now, the other two teams are firmly entrenched near our destination’s only entrance.

We would have to force our way through to win, a difficult challenge while protecting a flag. Of course, it would be the case if I had not thought of a plan during the briefing. It must be near completion now.

We run over the thick snow without leaving a trace. The fortress looms before us, a simple edifice of old stone with no real interior, barely more than a husk designed for training. Its wind-swept rooms beckon, but as we crest a ridge, defences appear.

Two squads await us in two concentric circles around the narrow entrance. The first circle consists of fighters in tight formation while the second has vestals and anyone with ranged capabilities. I spot a basic circle dug in the ice, enough to enhance spellcasting and provide a shield that several people could feed. I make no secret of my presence and all eyes quickly turn to me. A hundred paces separate us.

Lars and Phineas take their places by my side. The squads are in no rush to take us out. They wait, unmoving, under the moon shadows of the walls.

They know.

I was not entirely honest with Lars. I suspect that he let it go out of politeness because the reason for my action is not entirely rational. I simply cannot accept a draw. In that sense, I am entirely too predictable. My own essence prevents me from tolerating anything else than full conquest if it is at all achievable, and the other teams count on it to force my hand. Or so they hope.

I draw a circle on the ice and use a knife to carve a few glyphs with a quick hand. I would normally never be caught dead resorting to such inferior means. I shall consider this an exercise, a limit test, so to speak.

The other teams object.

The fighters stay where they are but the mages open fire on us, long-range spells with as much hope of hitting a moving vampire as a wet sponge has of downing an eagle. I watch the crimson bolts curve over the land.

Without looking, I continue engraving the circle as my teammate blocks the attacks and Lars throws a few javelins at the mages to annoy them. The stalemate lasts until I return to the center of the circle.

Time to apply the Librarian’s spell in a combat situation.

I call upon the glyphs and feel their power thrumming. This is blood magic at its core, a powerful yet double-edged instrument. It dives deep and takes what it needs. On most mortals, it collects a steep tithe, yet it calls to us because we understand life on a level that few others do. I let the spell draw power from me and feel it crystallize in front of my chest. Comets as small as toys and as carmine as rubies. They wait. I call for more until I have a ball the size of a large skull. It begs to be released.

The blunt, unsubtle thing explodes forward in a heavy arc, roaring like a freight train on its catastrophic descent. I am left gasping but I also smile to see the look of disbelief and horror on the others’ faces. Some of the salvo’s bolts go off in corkscrew trajectories, some go up and down. Some violently and unexpectedly swerve. Chaos rules and none can guess where the deadly things will end up, least of all me.

I am not facing some two-bits mages, however. The two vestals rally and reinforce the shield. The fighters nimbly step out of the way, easily dodging the few errant projectiles.

The spell crashes into the circle and cracks it like an egg. Vestals are sent to the ground, shaken but unhurt as they make sure to avoid the brunt of the attacks. A boom echoes throughout the valley while powdery ice is sent up in the air. The earth heaves under the assault. I do not make use of the chaos. My attack will not suffice to gain a decisive advantage and, besides, the fighters have already recovered. I just stand and enjoy the sight while a dull ache reminds me that even we cannot cast such spells freely.

Finally, the last of the unamused squires dust themselves off just as Marlan steps out of the gates. The examiner frowns and crosses his arm with displeasure.

Ah, yes. The inevitability of victory when one side envisions a path and the others just wait passively. Sometimes, I feel pity for my brethren. Many of them see sanctums as inviolable, perhaps as a cultural bias or perhaps as a consequence of our inability to enter homes. I do not have that issue. I have spent too much effort breaking barriers, both physical and metaphorical.

I walk past my flabbergasted colleagues to the instructor as he does his best to mask his aura. Once more, Torran’s advice shows its true value. When a true master makes theirs perfectly flat, they are surely livid.

The fortress’ insides are hollow and not designed to protect anyone. We walk through an empty corridor to the ‘throne room’, an isolated rectangular chamber at the back of the construct with no openings. To be precise, it did not have any opening until tonight.

“Yip!” Esmeray greets. Her wolf form’s fur is small and dark. I also suspect some eldritch shenanigans that help her mask her presence to an unnatural degree. She holds the flag in her jaw. It flaps weakly in the wind provided by a circular hole that leads to the snowy expanse outside.

Marlan stops and takes a deep breath. I wait.

He glares.

Marlan’s grumpy face shows that he remains unconvinced.

They isolate us from the world so that we may integrate more easily. I am familiar with the concept. Extremists use this method to acquire pliable subjects and to sever them from their friends and family. We recruits are aware of it, but we would not have joined if we were unwilling to play the game.

I have not studied the Polish system yet. Classes have focused on Western Europe where I am more likely to be deployed.

And with that, he leaves. I turn to the wolf-shaped Vanheim as the wind howls through the gap of the fake fortress.

“Yip.”

It has been over half a year since team Willow gained its vanguard. I have made full use of their facility to improve, as have the others. One of the defining elements of my education is the lack of structure. I have studied the basics with Melusine, although she was my worst teacher by any measure, then engineering and forging with Loth. Naminata taught me the spear. Sinead showed me the intriguing potential of Charm and politics. Aisha, the American team’s Vestal, introduced intuition to me. Many others helped me learn their craft, all of them masters in their field but all of them dispersed across the world. I am attending structured learning for the first time since my mortal childhood. Never have I felt more keenly the immense value of a university.

As a result of our efforts, I can now decently understand the rules that govern our kind. I can also cast quite a few more spells, including a specific mage counter designed by my sire and left in his human-skin tome. My swordwork also improved. The most telling progress is squad-based, however. Now, we move like a team instead of as a vague gathering of inhuman socialites on an outing. And their suspiciously large dog. We can fight as a unit, though I pull most of the weight in actual combat. As for our cooperation in real situations, we have not had the opportunity to test it yet. It seems that we soon will.

I have always taken a different approach on my own territory. On the other hand, I have a measure of control over most of Illinois’ armed forces, so I can afford to be more direct.

Whoo a visitor! I am exchanging enough letters with Torran to know that he is somewhere around. Could it be that he came to visit? I need to tidy up my room. A quick jump and all the dubious literature with ripped bodice and ravishment disappears in my wardrobe under my spare knives. I make my way out of the fortress and into the surrounding town where a ‘visitor center’ has been installed. Now that I think about it, I am not even sure that I can bring an outsider inside of the fortress, but as I approach the squat white building reminiscent of Roman architecture, I realize my mistake. Only one aura comes from the building. It does not belong to Torran. I have only once before experienced a similar situation. I have never met this person before, yet he feels intimate. Only one person fits the profile.

While Malakim’s was hot and insane, this one exudes serenity to an extent that I wonder if he feels the Thirst at all. While Malakim’s dripped with barely contained ravenous hatred, this one is a placid pool as smooth as a mirror. I enter the bare lobby and find a tall man wearing a richly ornate yellow gambeson that falls to his knees, a fur cap, and the longest moustache that never graced a morse’s face. Dirty blond hair falls wildly around two light blue eyes. He smiles when he sees me and bows lightly, without calculation, without expectation. He is, by far, the most peaceful of us. I can barely believe that we belong to the same community, let alone bloodline.

Ah, the trappings of good society. I must admit, with so few Hastings joining the Knights, I have been missing the simple ritual. Svyatoslav invites me to a private room in the local inn, the only concession to comfort being a pair of pillows on the stone benches. The center of the room is dedicated to a square table, upon which Svyatoslav places a strange contraption. It looks like a large bronze vase with a chimney on top. I am stunned by the incredible details worked on its surface, and I can tell from the small deformations that this object has known the touch of fire quite a few times.

The Devourer opens the top of the vase and pours water from a nearby jug into the main body. I note with interest that the chimney is in fact the top of a column set vertically in the middle of the samovar. With religious attention, Svyatoslav then fills this column with pieces of wood he chips with his talons, then finishes by dropping a few burning coals he squeezes down with a branch. I watch his large scarred hands work with slow care. I know for a fact that he could be faster, more precise, but there is no point. Rituals settle us, anchor our humanity. They do not help as much as a Vassal does but they matter just as well. I personally prefer drip coffee and gun maintenance.

Finally, the loading up is done and wood smoke leaves, dragged up and outside by an air current before it can sting our eyes. The peculiar scent, so prone to permeate clothes, reminds me of my youth baking potatoes by a campfire with my papa. Heat spreads across the frigid room. In the companionable silence, we take the time to get used to each other’s presence.

I hear the water dancing against the edge of the metal and Svyatoslav caps the chimney. He removes a teapot from under the table and opens it. I can smell the powerful fragrance of dark tea. Water sings as it goes. It does not take long for a heady fragrance to spread across the room, fighting the light smoke for supremacy. Svyatoslav soon hands me a cup of liquid the color of caramel. We sip in silence. It is quite strong.

Especially the trial, the memories of which still push me to touch my fingers on occasion.

Svyatoslav stops there. For the entire speech, he displayed no signs of anger but a deep sorrow. It is an emotion that we do not experience very often, if only because there are few losses that can cause it.

I oblige him but do not allow the conversation to center on me. After I finish telling him of the events that led to my escape from the Lancaster and my reunion with my father, I ask him to tell how his own change went.

As expected. I was extraordinarily lucky with my father. Most of those who were turned against their will return to their families at some point. Tragedy and bloodshed remains the norm.

How should I express it? A drive that I shared with my mortal self. An instinct beyond the instinctual.

My reaction must have been clear because Svyatoslav laughs.

His tone turns melancholic and though I would like to argue, I restrain myself.

I chuckle at that.