A Journey of Black and Red-Novel

The unpleasant sensation that reminds me of a failed sneeze forces me to wince. I can handle pain, but this level of discomfort is something else.

So, that shapeshifting ability is much less impressive than I thought. I can alter my hair color, eye color, and traits to some extent, but not my body shape except, perhaps, my height. By an inch.

It is still an incredibly useful ability in some very specific situations. With proper aura control, I could pass for an entirely different vampire. There are issues of course, not least the fact that if the knowledge of this ability becomes public, its efficacy will decrease. The second is that it takes time and effort to set up a different face and then more effort to maintain it, so it cannot be done on a whim. I am still pleased with this development. I even turned my hair copper as a test, thus pushing Melusine down one rank on the fetching redhead list.

Jimena’s thin lips pucker in disapproval. She has ever been adverse to deception and disguise remains one of its many tools. My sister knows that it is merely a means to an end, and that intent matters more than method in many endeavors. She hides her aversion out of sympathy and I decide to stop my experiments for now. I will soon join the ranks of the Knights. There will be no need for such powers in their distant, insular fortresses.

I look out and despair. For a while, our train trailed along familiar lines, sometimes stopping at hamlets that were Dvor holds in disguise. I enjoyed the company of quite a few local rulers more interested in the ty of my presence than in my past attachments.

Many of them were old and stuck back in time, served by the same families of mortals for generations. They lived in parochial domains withdrawn from the affairs of the world and out of the grasp of most mundane authorities. Our pauses remained brief enough to prevent being embroiled in local politics. Although repetitive, I have now come to miss those distractions as we have spent close to a week without coming across anything larger than a way station.

The heart of the Knight Order sits at the edge of the Ural, an old and vast mountain range deep in the belly of the Russian Empire. For seven days, we have seen nothing but an endless ocean of green sometimes broken by rocky reefs covered in scraggly growths. Our last fellow traveler of the undying persuasion left us long before that. Boredom is only broken by the occasional runs through pristine forests that, perhaps, never knew the hand of mankind. Jimena and I also bash each other’s heads in on top of the different cars on occasion as well. I have won more than I have lost.

Jimena is always her same disciplined, technically perfect self. Her ability to adapt and counter my own unpredictable style is quite impressive. What I admire the most in her is her perfect focus on our duel, even for a Cadiz. She never loses patience, and she never lets herself be distracted. I find that admirable.

Finally, the train slows as it now has slopes to battle, and the path turns sinuous. Grey expanses of gravel and old stones replace the forested vastness. The weather turns inclement and dark clouds gather above. The peaks in the distance drown in murky grey. We are forced to cancel our next spar or accept being drenched.

The very same night, as rain pounds on the metal roof above our head, we stop unexpectedly at the edge of a small building barely larger than a cabin. I see dark shapes enter the carriage ahead one by one and recognize the lamellar armors of the Knights. They wear hoods to fend off the assault of the elements and control their auras, so I cannot tell much about their nature until Jimena and I leave the lounge to wait in the corridor in order to greet them. If we had remained seated, it would have conveyed a belief in our own superiority.

I compose myself and watch, curious, as the dripping Knights enter the last carriages. I notice that the first comer’s armor is more elaborate than that of his followers. Any other thought vanishes when I immediately recognize the one at the front.

The leader has the face of a saint, the blue-eyed, blond, square-jawed appearance of the perfect fairy tale prince. His charming exterior is backed by a distant gaze that others would think dreamy, but I know to convey disdain for the world at large. I hate him with every fiber of my being and his appearance is an ill omen.

Anatole.

He tried to have me killed twice as a Rogue, and I have him to thank for the torture I endured in the bowels of Constantine’s fortress. I force myself to relax my fingers at his sight. They are all here. I need not check.

Our eyes meet, and for one moment, we stand suspended in time. More than thirty years have passed since our last encounter but I will never, ever forgive him his transgression.

The Knight dips his head in polite greetings and passes us by as we move to the side. The others behind him are an assortment of Masters from several clans, men and women who only have in common the poor state of their gear, and the mental exhaustion behind their clouded eyes.

The doors of the many cabins close until we are alone. Jimena pulls me back into our own.

I stare for a while at her solemn face. She swears so rarely.

She leans forward.

I have my hands full, for now.

If he returns to the New World though… well, anything could happen.

Jimena closes her eyes and sighs. When she opens them again, she has settled her mind.

I nod. Time to sacrifice ten years of my life in the pursuit of power.

By the time the next night falls, we have reached the secluded plateau the Knights call their home. One moment, the train plods through ancient pine thickets and the next, we are out in the open.

A monumental gate set between two columns of white stone lies open, its width large enough for three more trains to cross it. Sculptures and reliefs adorn its facade carefully, and I can feel powerful enchantments even through the train’s walls. We slow down to a crawl as a Lord in heavy armor waves us through, a large sword resting on the ground by his side. His dark gaze follows us as we move in.

Now that I see the Knight stronghold for the first time, I admit to being suitably impressed.

The Order went for a minimalist, sober architecture that remains the same throughout the compound. The militaristic structures and clean, regular alleys evoke an army camp that had been abruptly fossilized. The only parallel I can think of are the drawings of the ruins of Pompei I saw in a review. It does not help that the material is exclusively white stone taken from some unknown quarry.

There are quite a few mortals in uniform moving around, but I see very few Knights. All present bear an air of discipline that matches their dwellings’ sober countenance. None of the buildings reach higher than a few storeys either, so that the base remains flat and hard to spot from afar.

I consider the location and how poorly equipped it would be against a modern army. Flat stone walls are worth nothing against cannon fire, after all, yet I quickly realize that no modern army will ever get here without trudging through hundreds of miles of poor roads. And angry Knights.

The train comes to a stop at the end of the rails. The terminus consists of two benches as well as a massive stone warehouse even now showing signs of activity. Light is provided by lanterns shining the blue of enchanted spells. We let the Knights go first and climb down, leaving our luggage behind. I taste the fresh and crisp air as soon as I step out, cold even at that time of the year. The scent of sap and greenery provides a pleasant undercurrent that reminds me of my own domain far across the ocean.

We move deeper into the complex until we reach the edge of the mountain and I realize that the Knights have dug into it over the centuries. Troglodyte structures, alcoves and covered promenades alternate with natural rock formations sometimes lit by torches. Lone trees and plants of essences that should not survive here flourish, their perfumes enticing. Emanuele walks through an arched passage into a tunnel, then to a massive atrium with a small pond in the middle. Once more, white stone is the norm while a fountain gurgles happily. Rather than majestic, the atmosphere is subdued and intimate. The only person waiting is a lean man with a majestic grey beard in armor. Now that I have seen so many of them, I realize that the American team may have been given basic gear, because those worn by the members here are nothing if not impressive. I believe that they even equal Loth’s work, or rather, what Loth managed while in a rush.

Said man nods at us with a light smile. He has many scars from his days as a mortal, most of them from blades. He looks like a benevolent master-at-arms, but I am weary. No one will reach prominence in an order dedicated to hunting our own without some measure of success. I realize that, despite my desire to join them, I truly do not see myself as a Knight.

Perhaps if they had not been such rotten bastards…

Bah, I should keep an open mind.

Marlan steps aside and I see a pedestal surrounded by water. Light from the moon falls from it like liquid silver. For all of its majesty, it bears no decoration and I feel no enchantment coming from it. It is just a stone.

Jimena already informed me that those questions would happen. They are merely designed to make sure that the applicant’s intentions are true. The Knights do not even ask if the person intends to collect information on the Order as we all understand that it is a given.

The last question leaves a slightly awkward taste in the air. I mean that I would protect them like a spawn I would make. Or John, who might as well be of my blood. The Knights must feel it, but the shadow of my sire will always follow me until one of us dies.

The oath settles around me. The ceremony was short and direct, which I approve of. Marlan turns around without further ado and bids me follow him.

Jimena and I follow the grizzled Praetor deeper into the mountain, and I see that the larger part of the base is indeed underground. Many of the installations keep windows to the outside, but I can feel powerful enchantments from the openings, a sign that the structure is not as open as it appears at first glance.

We now enter a circular room with, again, an open canopy. A rotunda centered around a colossal weeping willow occupies much of the space. Another Knight kneels in its shadow. A pillow has been left in front of him.

Sylvain nods and invites me to sit with a gesture, which I do. He is a thin man with flaxen hair so fair they are almost white and pale grey eyes.

Puckered lips indicate that he is less than pleased with the task.

Oh, so that is how it is.

Confident, are we?

I close my eyes and appear in the bedroom of my mental fortress, the heart of my power. Mementos and paintings line the wall while I rest on a comfortable bed. I stand up and appear at the titanic gates of the castle where my defenses are the most concentrated. In the real world, I push myself to nod.

Immediately, something rakes against my outer defenses, the wall of brambles surrounding my mind. I remember a mortal mage attempting it. This is on an entirely different level.

The assault persists and soon I feel pain. The foe has concentrated his power to form a lance of sorts, a piercing implement that digs into the wall. My defenses are spread out while his attack is focused. On a whim, I focus and the wall of thorns starts moving, its many roots and branches shifting against each other in a din of cracks and groans. The assault is dispersed.

The mage tries again and I realize that I could keep going for a while, blocking him out entirely.

But where would be the fun in that?

With the slightest effort of will, I allow the defenses to part and a form crashes through the brambles. It is, for a word, monstrous. The vampire mind mage’s appearance is that of a savage beast, lithe and powerful with four limbs surging from a muscular back like featherless wings. He has pale skin over powerful muscles. His appearance reflects his expertise in the field of mind magic.

Brambles and thorns from walls lash as he passes by, much more reactive than they were during the last incursion into my mind. I smirk as he stops and lifts a hand to his face when he realizes that the scratch I inflicted is not healing. In his moment of hesitation, countless ropes have surged and taken him in their lethal embrace. The intruder forces his way out, the passive defenses unable to stop him, and yet, for every step forward, they harvest their pound of flesh.

The mage loses patience, I can feel it in his demeanor. He moves forward and, instead of following the torturous path, smashes his way through a wall of greeneries.

For a moment, I think that he has gone mad as the half-collapsed vegetation smothers him completely, but he melts forward and reappears a few paces away, some of his wounds closed. He does it a certain number of times and hits a wall.

The sanctum of my mind only has one entrance. He lashes at the unyielding stone but this is no true barrier, just a visualization of the limits of my mind. there is no going through here. To his credit, he realizes it immediately and runs off before the vegetation can crash on him, making his way to the central plaza where most of my defenses await. At first, he crashes through another wall but realizes that it is inefficient as the boughs and branches lash at his flesh. Even the strange healing he uses when he shifts cannot offset the gruesome, patient damage he is subjected to. Eventually, he just speeds through corridors before the thorns can react and finds the first statue, which he mangles in record time.

It does not take long for him to find the main square. He warps past the statue of Jimena, but I am directing my defenses personally now and he appears forward only for Loth’s axe to bite painfully into his flank. In his anger, he turns and destroys it but Dalton shoots him in the leg. By the time he has turned, Loth has reformed enough to punch him in the nose.

We are not, strictly speaking, fighting with flesh, yet the unexpected strike still catches him off guard and he yowls in anger. He spots my form casually reclining on the top of a fountain and claws at it with unbridled fury. The claws pass through it as if through air.

The distraction costs him and the largest statue, the one of the Herald, charges him with its horn. I taste more of his essence. He is a Roland Master, quite powerful. It explains his willingness to persevere instead of backing off and admitting that my defenses are solid.

The intruder keeps fighting but he cannot destroy the statues faster than I can regenerate them, and each of them scores marks in his flesh that he cannot heal easily. Even his peculiar jumps through my defenses are thwarted as I can just feel where he will appear, and direct the defenses to counter it. Soon, he despairs and rams against the door, ignoring the catastrophic gashes being dug by the defenders. Once, twice. On the third try, I allow the doors to burst open.

The mage’s triumph turns to horror when a large fist encloses his face with unexpected speed, then a great rapier burning a fiery purple pierces his breast to the hilt.

Sinead, flanked by Sivaya, sneers before closing the door again. Their essence made me a master. They are, without a doubt, the most powerful beings to grant me their backing, even if this world stifles them. By comparison, even Constantine is a young upstart.

It is too much for the intruder. He warps back several times in quick succession, but the effort is too much and he half-collapses on his way to the outer boundary. His crawls stop when thick thorny limbs grab him.

Five minutes later.

Said examiner is quite busy lying on the ground with blood pouring from every cavity. Or at least every cavity on his head, I have not checked the others. He will recover. I let him go promptly and without inflicting too much damage. Vampire minds always bounce back quickly, I should know.

Jimena shakes her head in disgust, but her gaze is thankfully aimed at the prone form of Sylvain.

Charm does not affect other vampires but mind magic, just like Sylvain uses on me, does. I simply have no reason to train for it as I would never reach the level required to use it effectively in battle. My time is better spent developing my strength.

I almost freeze in my steps. Even Jimena raises a brow in surprise.

The Order has three founders, two of whom are still active. Lorica is a visionary and primarily a diplomat. Octave is the muscle.

He is also quite possibly the second deadliest duelist on the planet. Even Malakim may lose to him, I think. In order to meet him, we walk a few more minutes and arrive in a wide sand arena large enough to host a hundred fighters. Tiers of seats allow spectators to watch the proceedings. A man with dark close-cropped hair and an impressive muscle structure awaits, wearing nothing but an open shirt and short trousers. He holds in his hand a simple blade with only a few enchantments as he checks it for defects. He lifts his gaze as we arrive and smiles.

So yes, Torran robbed my heart, but this man would have had a chance as well. He is quite manly in a good, solid way. The short hair, honest smile, and stubble give him a soldier’s charm.

The arena has doors, one of which leads to changing rooms. I find my entire gear stacked up neatly on one table and equip all of it, including the rifle. I can use it as an opening move. I return to the others to find that we have gained a few spectators, including a few of the Knight trainees who joined us last night. I get a mix of reactions ranging from outrage to disbelief when they see what weapons I have brought. They dare mock my wonderful piece of modern engineering? I will show them.

Octave casually walks to the other end of the open ground while Jimena and Marlan leave.

I lift the rifle and fire it in the same movement with a small flip of my hand.

I watch as Octave is casually standing one moment, and in a lunge, blade extended the next. He cut the bullet in two.

One of the fragments still smashed against his chest and pierced his skin, forcing some blood out.

That man went and forgot about inertia.

I chamber the next bullet with all the speed I can muster and fire another shot. This time, he stops it with the flat of his blade as he rushes forward.

An impenetrable cloud covers the area as I rush to the side and lash out with Rose, dropping my gun on the sand. He somehow dodges low and angles himself towards me. Our blades meet.

I try my very best to keep him at bay, in vain. He does not even make any effort to see me through the spell.

He must guess where I am from the direction of my blade.

On a hunch, I curve it and his attack is slightly to the right. I use the opening and lean backward, using my gauntleted hand to grab the big iron. In another smooth movement. I draw the Big Iron and pull the trigger as the barrel clears the holster.

Impossibly, Octave twitches at the last moment and the bullet merely hits his flank. Unfortunately for him, those are not normal bullets and a deep, bleeding gash opens, staining his shirt black.

Octave smiles. He accelerates. His movements are now less casual and playful and I have to work in earnest to stop him. Suddenly, he attacks one more and I am pushed back, forced to focus on defense to avoid being skewered.

He lightly steps to the side to avoid the spell and I realize that we have left the cloud. I attack in earnest. He somehow blocks or dodges everything I have, no matter how unpredictable I try to be. Sometimes, he moves faster than I can but most of the time he moves slower as his superior technique allows him this freedom. I try every tip and technique I learned from Torran and Nami to force him back, mixing different styles in an attempt to force a reaction. As I try to disarm him with one of Jimena’s methods, he chuckles.

Damn.

Out of ideas, I attempt new things. I grab for the Big Iron and, as he surges forward to stop me, cast a spell instead.

The tracking chains erupt from my gauntlet as I charge towards him. He reverses course and blocks it with his forearm. Then, he pulls. We both strike at the same time and our blades block each other’s. We are very close. He headbutts me. I kick him.

At this distance he cannot dodge, or rather he could but decides to block with his sword instead. Just as I expected.

The simple enchanted sword blocked two high-caliber enchanted bullets at close range, Rose’s strikes and now a spell designed to destroy inanimate material. It is too much for the simple tool. It breaks, and I see surprise for the first time in Octave’s gaze.

Or was it pleasure?

He leans under my ‘surprise’ attack and grabs my bracer, pulling me in. We are now too close to use anything but knives.

He and I claw at each other with merciless fury. His attacks dig grooves in Loth’s armor while I only manage to open tear cuts in his already shredded shirt despite using power that could rend stone to powder. Our deadly dance is frenzy without an end, and he never lets me open the distance. He is toying with me. I should feel more anger, but the fact that he treats me seriously dulls the edge of being so thoroughly outclassed.

After a few minutes and just as Loth’s armor starts to fall apart, he moves back and raises one hand.

A few applauses echo throughout the tiers.

Octave chuckles again.

I glare a bit, but he merely shrugs.

I nod at Octave and follow the Praetor out after getting quickly changed. Jimena decides to stay.

I am led to a small office with a pile of paper on a secondary table, with a pen and ink pot by the side.

I sit down and grab the first sheet, now realizing that sixty years after leaving the school bench for good, I am back to answering test questions. How the tables have turned.

The first speciality questions are quite basic, merely true or false answers used to determine if the applicant has basic knowledge about their field. I am then asked to answer a few deeper questions, but again, nothing that cannot be answered in a few seconds. The last elements are practical problems that take me half an hour each. The blood magic and smithing questions are extremely basic, but the business problem deals with real estate in several European countries and — though I did my best — I am not convinced that I have been successful.

After that, I answer spoken questions from Marlan on bloodline, vampire law, and etiquette. The answers are basic at first, then increase in complexity until I am thoroughly lost.

We move once more, deeper into the heart of the mountain. I notice a lot of unused space in long corridors and empty reception rooms. It is not so much that the fortress is understaffed as it was designed to be labyrinthine to begin with. When prompted, my guide elaborates.

Quite impressive. It is as Loth said. He and I design weapons while architects design targets. I wisely decide to keep my remark to myself and it does not take long before we enter a square room lit by blue lanterns with a massive table in its center. Three tall, comfortable chairs line the opposite side, two of them occupied by Octave and a severe-looking woman with brown hair in a ponytail. She has sharp features and the jaded air of veteran teachers. They fall silent as we enter. Marlan sits down immediately and the unknown woman speaks first, her gaze cold and measuring.

Oh, I did not expect that they would let me choose.

No one speaks and the other examiners all studiously look at anything but Laestra’s skeptical expression.

Uh oh.

Uh oh.

I am starting to see a pattern here.

No promises.