A Journey of Black and Red-Novel

The next few nights pass in pleasurable relaxation. First, I add the Dvor essence to my collection. I am not quite sure what it does, but I do feel a presence far away to the west. Perhaps the effects will be more obvious when I get back to Illinois.

Second, Torran gives me full access to his communication mirror, and a short call to Merritt reassures me. My allies have not yet faced anything that they could not handle. With my obligations safely taken over by someone else, I can let go of my worries.

I attend my first private concert, with Torran choosing the next pieces according to my requests. He is as talented as expected. Moreover, he still holds to that spark that animates me when I draw, the small core of emotion that we have lost on other pursuits. The difference is flagrant. Where other vampires remain mechanical and contrived, he allows himself to play. To breathe. He interprets while others perform. I love him all the more for it. One of the rooms is made available for me to draw, and I do so while he works by my side.

On the third night, we descend into town.

Errenstadt extends around us, its streets calm and clean. Only the inn and its surroundings still resonate with raucous laughter. I follow my lover to the largest building, the only one made entirely of yellow stone, where I am invited to attend Torran’s weekly meeting with his domain’s notables. I greet the burgermeister and priest in ‘Hochdeutsch’, much to my host’s amusement. I was assured that this version of German could be understood across all states.

The cause of his hilarity becomes manifest as we are joined by landowners and factory heads. The town speaks a dialect I have trouble following at all. Thankfully, the meeting concludes quickly and we are soon on our way.

I remark that when Torran focuses, his expression grows cold. Silvery hair, grey eyes and his slightly rugged face add up to form a severe expression. His curt questions send the other attendants to check their notes with hasty zeal. Only I have the privilege to see him smile, it seems. It pleases me.

I reserve my questions for after we are on our way back.

Oooh. Nasty.

I stop to consider the implications.

Wah.

On the fourth day, Torran comes to see me as I finish a swim in his underground grotto.

As it should be.

I swim to the shore and rest my arms on the smooth stone.

He almost looks… giddy.

He turns around and races back up the stairs. I take the time to dry and braid my hair, then return to my own quarters.

Time to impress.

I wear under cloth and Loth’s armor in its shiny dark perfection. The holes made by Otto have repaired themselves, but there are still spots where scales shine a darker hue. My war mask is also dented. Their heavy use only makes them more threatening. They say that some have tried to slay me and failed. I add knives to their sheaths, fasten my spear to my back, and clasp the black gauntlet on my eager hand. I bounce excitedly out and almost walk into Torran who was doing the same. We inspect each other.

He takes a step forward and the impact of his metal-clad foot echoes through the air. He actually is heavier!

Let there be light.

I realize too late that I spoke in the Likaean language. Thankfully, Torran is too absorbed by the effect of the spell to comment, for my eyes now shine with a cold blue light. The glacial radiance spreads from the mask’s hole like the gaze of a wraith.

The magic likes that. A lot. The dancing lights of lies and trickery turns his grey orbs greyer until he, too, appears ready to harvest souls.

He stops and tilts his head.

I practically jump behind him as we enter the courtyard and scare the life out of the poor groom. Metis and Krowar prance through the portcullis and over the bridge, then into the forest at breakneck speed. The trees close in behind us. Their embrace settles like a cape on my shoulders.

We follow a snaking path that I could have sworn was not there the day before, and Torran does his thing again. He feels heavier, more impactful. His aura twists the land. The ruckus of hooves stomping on wet soil joins the other sounds of the forest in a rhythmic and primal melody. Time ceases to matter.

I am fairly confident we are still on earth when Torran finally slows down. In front of us, our path joins a well-travelled road leading to a sad village. Three farms surround an inn from whence emerges poorly played music, the lights of their windows pale and wan. Two soldiers in dark blue tunics stand guard next to a vine-covered fence. They look bored out of their mind.

Smoke-like plumes expand forward, drawing the small clearing in mist and shadows. The two sentinels frown, feeling that something is not quite right.

“Nu Sharran,”

Let there be darkness.

Those are quite a few spells in quick succession and I can already feel the drain on my depleted essence, but the night is ours and the magic is willing. Eager. It wants us to play.

Darkness creeps on our unsuspecting victims. Light loses ground quickly before our onslaught.

My lover smirks and walks forward, so that every step Krowar takes resonates like drums on the fabric of the world. The two guards huddle close to each other.

“Wer — wer kommt? Hallo?”

And death incarnate emerges from the abyss. I can see exactly the moment when they spot the immortal horror bearing down on them. I can see their frowns melt into expressions of sheer, delicious horror. I can taste the tears raining down their pallid cheeks.

“Nein… bitte.”

Torran rides to them. He leans to the side and he is enormous. His shape has grown so much that the soldiers appear as children in comparison, pitiful toys of cloth and bones. His hand, clad in a gauntlet of black iron, fastens around one of the men’s neck and pulls him up as if he weighed nothing.

“Wo ist Anton Friedman?”

One of the poor souls points a shaky hand at the inn. Torran lets him drop and dismounts as his informant crawls away like a worm. By that time, all signs of merriment have disappeared from the nearby building. I hear a voice whisper:

“Was ist los?”

What is happening? Oh, do not worry, you shall soon find out.

Torran crashes in, sending the remnants of the door tumbling down, hinges still attached. I follow him in and we find ourselves in a common room. Groups of soldiers huddle around tables, cluttered with cards and beer steins.

“ANTON FRIEDMAN!” Torran bellows.

“AAAAAAAAAAAAAH,” the assembled mortals reply.

Torran seems to hesitate then, and I point at a heavy-set man trying his best to hide behind a panicking waitress. Other soldiers also looked at him when my lover spoke his name.

“Ich habe ihn gefunden, Teufel,” I whisper. ‘I have found him, devil.’ A hint of magic carries my words through the crowd. The culprit mewls piteously.

Torran stomps his way through the room and grabs the man by his foot as he tries to escape.

“Jetzt kommst du mit uns, Sünder.”

Now you come with us, sinner. Torran certainly has a proper sense of decorum. I like it.

My lover stomps away, dragging our prey behind him. His captive shrieks and scratches the stained ground on his way out. I hiss one last time to terrify our spectators, then we ride away, Herr Friedman hanging upside down from Torran’s grip like a plucked chicken. Panicked screams and howled prayers offer a pleasing background to our exit.

As soon as we are far enough, I thank Torran for the meal and we drain the prey. We head back in comfortable silence until I remember something.

I cannot help it, I guffaw, and Torran soon joins me. Our intimidating display, almost undone by a lack of facial hair. For shame.

And I tread through the deep woods of the world, listening to my lover recite his favorite play.

Ten days after making my soul weapon, I have finally recovered enough to start practicing in earnest. We head to the training field where Torran predictably gives me a sound beating.

“Oof!”

He is right, of course. I stand where I am trying to perform fanciful moves while my style is mobile and aggressive. What frustrates me is that I can feel the deep variety of unexpected twists and vicious counters lying in my Rose, waiting to be unleashed. I am simply unequal to the task of using them yet.

We continue our spar, and I am finally able to include a few small improvements. One of them is the way the blade can curve as it extends, thus reaching flesh that was previously out of its range. The added amplitude forces Torran to adapt and parry earlier, adding to the pressure I can place on him. Soon, other techniques join the first one. By varying the range, I can launch attacks at unexpected moments, closing in then escaping without stopping the flurry of blows. My movements grow more graceful as time goes on. The highlight of the session comes when an overhead strike pushes Torran back and covers him in dust.

Torran merely gives me the most condescending of smiles.

And he is gone.

And right in front of me.

His blade smashes into my guard, pushing me back, and the battle resumes. This time, Torran is fighting seriously. His style is still direct and indomitable, a walking disaster advancing slowly but relentlessly. He is considerably stronger than before, stronger than he was in America. This is a Dvor lord on his domain.

I am helplessly pushed back.

Torran drops his sword, and another one appears in his outstretched hand, as black as the night. Its blade is large, too large to be practical. It looks terribly heavy.

Torran’s next swing sends me crashing against a nearby tree.

It is heavy indeed.

Eh?

WHAT?

Torran’s eyes flash purple as reality twists and moans around him. He starts growing, and growing, and growing. Obsidian rocks bleed from the ground to encircle his body and form a midnight armor of jagged spikes. The last few form a crown on his brow, close around his face so that only two grey orbs remain. He takes a step forth and the world trembles.

I jump to my feet and sprint off in the other direction. The tree branches smack me, my feet slip on the ground. Rocks move to smack me aside as I pass them by, and from behind me comes the booming sound of a titan treading the world.

Torran does not answer.

Whelp. Time to run.

Torran ended up squashing me like a bug against the side of a cliff, following which I sulked for two days. Our next spars are more intense as a result. I progressively include new ranges of motions in my style and, I have to admit, Rose’s unexpected moves make for some amusing and devastating maneuvers. I only had it for a few weeks, and I do not think that I can get back to using only a spear or a sword. Obviously I could. It would not be the same. A soul weapon really makes a world of difference.

The end of my respite comes from an unexpected source. As we come back from a hunt, I am informed by a maid that a message had come during my absence. Reading the hand-written note brings back memories, as I recognize this style well.

It appears that I am going to Sweden.