A Journey of Black and Red-Novel

June 1st 1862, Boston. Accords Headquarters.

Constantine moves lazily and counters each attack one by one, slipping a bolt between two deflects. I expected it this time, and I manage to shield it.

I consider the question in silence. I have more experience than him when it comes to scraps. Magic requires a lot of attention, one of the reasons why a lot of mages deploy shields to shelter them while they cast. To fight and cast at the same time is an art that only vampires can truly master, as others lack the time to do so.

I unlatch my breastplate and give it to an attendant. The fortress’ sparring room is unusually large, and quite empty at the moment. All squads have gathered in preparation for an offensive that I am not privy to, due to safety concerns. I would be annoyed if I had not such a great control over the way we influence the civil war, with the trusting support of the rest of the Accords, and with minimal oversight.

I frown as I consider my answer.

Constantine raises an eyebrow.

We finally arrived at Constantine’s office. His aide Sophia stands and we both greet her. I turn to the Speaker one last time before I go to attend to my own matters.

Especially McClellan. I hope he delivers.

We exchange a few farewells, and I return to the ‘mortal intelligence room’, a large open space in the basement with a map at its center showing the current border and troop concentrations. Access is restricted to approved vampires and mundane mortals with a knack for organization and data analysis.

A pale man wearing a monocle charges me, brandishing a sheaf of papers. He slows down as he approaches but blabbers with the air of a scholar with too many thoughts bouncing around his head.

Though, come to think of it, medical mages capable of long-range communication from behind enemy lines would be a boon.

We go over several things and I make a few decisions that cannot wait, as well as a few others that my advisors and I worked on before. I do not believe that I am particularly smart myself, but I do have access to a broad range of talents to help me. Sometimes, I make mistakes. Such a thing is inevitable in the chaotic environment we find ourselves in. I do not allow it to sway me. It is better to be decisive and sometimes err than be late and allow opportunities to pass me by.

Besides, those are unknown mortals dying, and I cannot find it in me to care overmuch.

I retire to my quarters as dawn approaches. I already petitioned to travel south, to the human frontline, in order to better understand and coordinate our resources, but Constantine refused me for safety reasons. I would complain, but I would rather not wake up to a hostile lord again, and so I have remained in the relative safety of our fortress. I have to make do with cold reports for now.

I know little about the vampire side of the war, save that our side has won several skirmishes through clever use of the home advantage. The civil war has helped us a lot by having locals more wary of sudden influxes of foreigners, and we have used it to our advantage. It also appears that the enemy’s supply of Fae blood, which had given them an edge in early battle, is running out with no opportunity for a quick replacement. I have high hopes that the foe’s position will soon become untenable. I just have to be patient.

June 2nd, middle of the afternoon.

Every day is the same. I wake up, find more reports waiting for me, and soak up all those changes. For the first time in my life, the Rosenthal essence has become the most useful one. The late afternoon is usually reserved for sparring and this time, it will be with Wilhelm of the Erenwald under whose authority the fortress functions. I am therefore surprised when he knocks on my door as I finish getting dressed.

I freeze. And freeze some more. I comb my memories for any related report, and find none.

Wilhelm stares at me for one second, then grabs a medallion from around his neck. He presses its metal surface, and a siren sounds throughout the complex. The windows behind me, already shuttered, vibrate as heavy steel plates descend to seal them shut. The same is happening everywhere throughout the complex. On the ground floor, I hear the mustering yells of the garrison.

It suddenly occurs to me that I may have been hasty in my judgement. It could have been an unscheduled…

I run back into my bedroom to grab the case containing my gear and rush down to the Speaker’s quarters. His door lies open, and a stairway, previously covered, descends into a cave that I did not know existed. Melitone, Constantine’s servant and twin sister, urges me on.

Marshal, huh? I always call Sheridan Sheridan. The two of them are getting awfully comfortable with each other.

Focus, Ariane. Battle first, possibly catastrophic consequences of Constantine’s and my human being a thing later.

I step down into a large rectangular room of surprisingly large dimensions, leading me to believe that the rock beneath the manor has the structure of Swiss cheese and more chambers than a beehive. All sass dies in my mind as I take in Constantine’s seat, not of political power, but of magical might. We are in his sanctum. There, he holds the bindings to most of the land’s defenses.

The tall Progenitor faces a far wall entirely filled with rows upon rows of reflective surface rendering a kaleidoscope of sceneries, so many that my mind suffers an unusual feeling of vertigo. I see trees, rooms, corridors, fixed defenses. I narrow my focus on the few that Constantine currently focuses on. The silvery, deformed shapes of impostors in Union uniforms sprint across a small clearing. Two sentries lie on the ground, quite dead.

Constantine raises his heavily decorated staff and two golems burst out from the trunks of dead trees. They are thin, insectile shapes made of blades and hard edges. They mangle the attackers with a level of savagery that even I would not match. In mere moments, the squad of a dozen attackers is meat across the ground.

Rage.

The next few minutes are the very embodiment of something I fear: bloodshed without the pleasure of the Hunt. Murder on an industrial scale. As soon as the last elderly attendants passed the gate, Constantine turned the forest, lower village, and path to the manor into a death trap of unprecedented proportions. I watch, mesmerized, as soldiers spread out only to be taken out by those thin, mantis-like golems, then they regroup around mages who can disable their simple frames with spells.

The circle around the standing Progenitor ignites in furious crimson and a large ‘boom’ shakes the manor to its foundations. Through layers upon layers of rock and enchanted steel, I hear a sound like a dozen tea kettles about to boil over. Three seconds later, the mirror goes blind.

I brush some dust from the top of my dress.

I look around, but our foes are in full retreat. Out of the three or four hundred impostors converging on the manor, more than a hundred have perished in the span of twenty minutes. There are pit traps lined with serrated spikes that opened on major paths now with corpses clogging their surface, the dozens of spikes running red with lifeblood. A steel cable snaps out of nowhere and plucks one of the retreating men from his line before sliding back like a snake with its prey. Some trees have exploded to reveal golems while others, a more immediate payload. Magical wires, previously inactive, triggered as a careless foot came by to catch them in sharpened bear traps. Parts of the forest are on fire. Others are glassed over. Plumes of smoke obscure several mirrors.

We climb back up, then down through the main stairway with Constantine’s bodyguards in tow. The manor’s surface is deserted. According to protocol, all non-combatant personnel should have reached the secured vaults at the bottom of the hill. The vault has several escape tunnels that can only be opened from the inside, and not without Constantine’s knowledge to limit the risk of a traitor letting enemies in. This is only one of the many measures in place to assure the safety of the fortress’ denizens. For once, Constantine’s meticulous efforts are bearing fruits.

Constantine presses a segment of rock that looks like just any other surface around. It depresses, and a concealed passage opens. I must have passed this specific place a thousand times. I never noticed it.

Inside, I find a square room with a tall ceiling, as well as the two largest golems I have ever seen encased in complex scaffoldings.

I have assisted the Speaker in building constructs before, and they had always struck me as objects of exquisite precision. His mortal past as a watchmaker was more vocation than employment, and it shows in his work.

These golem are different. Only passion and inspiration could produce such seamless union of art and deadly efficiency.

And they are huge.

Easily as tall as three men, the behemoths shine under the golden light of enchanted lanterns, their surface as smooth as that of placid lakes. The air whistles around magically-sharpened blades, unmoving, for now. Helmets suitable for emperors hide their most delicate systems. I manage to hide my awe through great effort.

Dammit.

Constantine blinks and turns to me.

His fist smashes the thing and, with a strange sound like something winding up, the golems detach from their protective frames. They step forward. The ground trembles!

Two openings in the far wall slide up, then down after their passage.

I follow his instructions and find a chair hidden within the depths of the scaffolding, hidden under several tons of enchanted steel and other exotic elements. I sit gingerly, and swallow a yelp when the mirror before me comes to life and displays the manor’s exterior, close to the ramp leading up the hill. The two golems are walking down the path to the mortal village beneath. Everything feels so… tiny.

The mortals are fighting with shotguns and basic rifles. Meanwhile, we use war golems the size of Egyptian statues that we control remotely. Unbelievable.

And yet the armies to our south are more than a hundred thousand strong. Each.

Such a strange world this is.

The golems reach flat ground and accelerate, treading the land with disorienting speed. Each of their strides covers so much ground that the difference between what I see and what my body feels sends me reeling for a moment. The mind boggles. If I were still mortal, the sight would make me nauseous.

Wilhelm, the fortress’ steward, enters the room, distracting me from the eerie sensation. He wears a full chain and leather armor in brown tones, a helmet that covers everything but his brown eyes, and his long blond beard falls on his chest in a small, rather cute braid.

Constantine answers with a hungry smile.

Wilhelm nods, but he does not share the Speaker’s enthusiasm.

Wilhelm’s stoic air morphs into one of cruel glee. He watches one of the mirrors as the two war machines charge up the road.

I do not think I will ever forget the facial expressions of the sentries shortly before the head golem pulps them. A mix of horror, shock, and disbelief. The war machines enter the encampment unchallenged. Cattle are not the most responsive beings.

There is no battle. A mage — one of Martha of the Lancaster’s peoples — is the first to order something and the line of carriages moves. They split up and down the road immediately at great speed, heading south towards Quincy and north to Boston proper.

I watch uselessly as my own golem uses its massive blade for a bloody harvest. This is pointless. Those cattle were meant to die in droves, though perhaps not as meaninglessly as they have done so far. They are of no importance.

Killing the mages would help, but they were the first to scatter.

I cannot destroy the carriages either. If any vampire slumbers unprotected, I would be condemning them to a fiery death that would make future conflicts more pitiless, something that my side wishes to avoid.

I can only capture one.

Gah!

Wait.

Hold on.

His what now?

His PROTEGE? As in, the one trained to replace him? Me? I did not even consider the remote possibility of a peaceful transition of power! I was ready to laugh over his defeated form and say ‘hah, this is for having me tortured all those decades ago’. What will happen if he just abdicates in my favor? Is it a better revenge or a worse one?

And Constantine did not even deny it.

As I am left stewing in my own surprise, Wilhelm and the two mysterious bodyguards come back, then I am sent upstairs to pick up my battle gear which I had forgotten in the Speaker’s sanctum. I quickly get changed and run back wearing Loth’s repaired armor and a lot of weaponry.

The return of the golems is announced by the tortured scream of abused metal.

The mortals never see how much we are forced to improvise and make do. Thankfully. Or our supernatural aura of omniscience would fade with the sound of complaints about who should push, who should pull, and who should just get out of the way. Eventually, our grumbling gaggle of undying horrors capable of bending reality itself gathers around the main lock while I stay behind and let the lords take the initiative. I do not trust myself in a life or death situation. Last time, I lost control over my essence. It bubbled over and burnt itself out. I cannot afford a repeat.

It takes Constantine fifteen minutes to crack the lock of the carriage. They decided to start with the gaudy one, the one I picked, and the most secure. The door finally creaks on abused hinges to reveal… crates upon crates of beans and desiccated vegetables.

Uh.

With the benefit of the previous experience, the second coach delivers its content with more ease. A lord in full plate armor casually takes down the steps, holding a heavy mace in one hand and a gauntlet in the other. Only a pair of deep green eyes are revealed by the form-fitting protection. He inspects us, then the gaudy carriage.

He bows smartly.

Two vampires, a man and a woman, peek out from behind the shape of their protector, who then steps down.

The newest prisoners are led to jail, and we reconvene in the lobby. Besides me, there are no battle masters here. All trained warriors have gathered in a single army that is now… I do not know where, but far. Too far to arrive before nightfall. The only vampires here are support staff like Sophia and visitors here to seek asylum — despite the ongoing conflict — who shall remain neutral by oath. Wilhelm begins.

We all ponder this for a moment.

I steal a glance in his direction. I had no idea that he felt so confident about taking on seven lords and their squads with only four. The progenitor is strong, but is he that strong?

The others apparently share my doubt.

The bodyguards shrug, faces hidden behind black helmets. I cannot read their auras.

Nightfall.

The invaders have successfully regrouped. They know that with enough time to call upon our resources, we will unmask their ‘Union’ troops for the impostors they are and they will be without escort in enemy territory. They must strike hard, and they must strike fast. Instead of spreading out, the squads deploy in formation at the edge of the property. They deploy vampire mages on the side. Shields shimmer everywhere.

They move.

As they approach the edge of the human village, the traps, so far hidden, all spring at the same time. Pits open and hidden whips lash out. Spells explode. The surface of the hill leading to the manor opens and cannons vomit canister shots at the densely packed formation, but those are not mindless cattle making their way to the fortress. Lashes are dodged, then torn out. Shields soak up shrapnel and blast waves alike. The troop does not relent. They move in with confidence through explosions and an unknown, particularly vicious cloud of blood magic.

Then the cloud’s full effect is made manifest.

Masters and Lords scream as the fog, which they had ignored, eats at their flesh. Red mist melts undying flesh with voracious hunger. The army is forced to push through despite their pain, for to falter is to fail. The first squad steps foot on the path leading up, and the side of the mountain spits a cloud of steam at them.

It burns.

The hiss of gaseous water cooking its surroundings is soon answered by yelps of pain. Speed is of little use when the obstacle is omnipresent. A thick barrier now separates the attackers from their target.

But these are not backwater mercenaries now assaulting the fortress. Without being told, a few spellcasters dig up wind spells from the depths of their memories. Gauntlets are modified on the fly to assist with the casting, and the steam is warded off. The attackers do not follow the path up. Instead, they start climbing the sheer rocks of the cliff, thus activating a new layer of defenses.

Hidden mechanisms throw spears through layers of dirt and vegetation, skewering the climbers at their most vulnerable time before retracting. Worse, the traps emit no aura, making detection all but impossible before they are sprung. Spells howl down with enervating precision. The attackers’ numbers play against them as they are forced to dodge into others or risk being destroyed, and still, they climb.

The first of the nimble figures jumps over the edge of the garden, on the northern side of the manor proper, where I am waiting.

I shoot her in the head.

And the next person after that, though he successfully blocks with an enchanted bracelet.

I spring back to the manor, hissing and sputtering on my way. Blonde bitch?! When did I get demoted from Devourer to blonde bitch? Absolutely scandalous.

I wish the enemy had followed piecemeal, but they regroup into squads in moments. Some of our foes are still down there, busy with being turned lobster-red.

I dive into the complex through one of the few open doors, followed by a Lady in light armor using a whip. Her squad fans out behind her.

I dodge to the side as her soul weapon extends and rakes through several yards of wall. Under the destroyed upholstery, I can spot the silvery shine of the fortress’ bones. This is Constantine’s playground.

I come across stairs and climb up. The lady jumps… and crashes against a shield, which just appeared.

I say nothing, it would be covered by the loud rumble now shaking the corridor. Steel barriers descend from the ceiling to separate us.

The predators are being herded. Everywhere across the complex, squads are split and directed like sheep to the slaughter. I climb to the second floor and come across the chained bodies of half a squad, caught like flies in a spider web. They look annoyed and ignore me. It appears that the enterprising lot tried to get in from the balcony, and the manor obliged, only to cut off their escape routes as soon as they were in.

A wall shifts to my side, and a mirror appears. Constantine’s slightly strained voice sounds muffled through this means, though perhaps I am simply distracted by the explosions in the background.

Oh.

Yes.

Three miles off the Boston Harbor.

Two men stood tense on the deck of a frigate. They had the documentation needed not to fall prey to blockading ships. They were heavily armed, just as they knew that none of that would matter. Only a specific signal would steer them from their current, circular course. They scrutated the horizon with anxiety, just like the crow's nest was doing the same. And quite a few pairs of eyes besides.

“Still no signal,” one of them said, adjusting his marine officer uniform. It did not quite fit his broad shoulders.

“I can see that,” the other retorted. He had taken the garb of a Union captain, and wore it with ease.

“Ramming speed, Mr. Rolf!” a female voice bellowed behind them. Or was it a trick of the wind, come to torture them through the haze of stress?

“Did you hear that?” the captain asked.

There was a sound now, like mumbled protests.

The female voice returned. It was closer. There was no mistaking it for an auditory hallucination now.

“The time for stealth is passed, I say,” it yelled, “brace for impact!”

A veil was lifted, a steamship hybrid appeared starboard, as if vomited by the depths of the ocean. The men could only see the prow clad in steel aiming right for their deck, and on it, a lithe figure wearing a ridiculous tricorn.

“YOU HAVE RAN AFOUL OF THE DREAD PIRATE ARIA—”

Impact. The two men were sent rolling on hardwood like pinwheels. The captain winced and tried to climb back to his feet despite his disorientation. They were under attack! He had to do something!

Someone landed besides him with barely a whisper of fabric.

“I have to work on the timing for that delivery,” she said. “Anyway. You are my prisoners now! Are you ready to surrender all your booties?” the female voice said from above.

The captain’s eyes traveled up. He considered correcting the woman’s mistake — at least he hoped that was a mistake — but then his gaze reached her smile, and he reconsidered.