A Journey of Black and Red-Novel

I wake up in the dirt once again. Panic seizes my heart, then fatalism freezes it.

The exhilaration of unleashing porcine devastation upon our pursuers has now faded. It has been replaced by a terrible sense of impending doom. The Knights are too good and too well motivated for us to escape, and they were on our heels up until an hour before dawn. I managed to hide myself and the others underground, but I know that it is only a temporary solution. With carriages at their disposal, the Knight can simply spread themselves out during the day and wait for us to come out at night, then they can overwhelm us.

I shift once and feel the vast yet fragile weight of earth above me. The most tragic, the most ironic aspect of this morbid farce is that I could escape alone. I could change my appearance and use the earrings’ effect, my spells, and Metis’ alacrity to lose myself in some nearby town. It would take some luck to reach a port without valid travel documents, but it would be a possibility.

I would die rather than leave my companions behind. Survival at any cost is not what I stand for when my allies must perish for it. I need to win despite all odds.

Victory will not come through diplomacy, however. Octave may have been willing to talk but it would have been to take me into custody and I know where it would have led. Executing a fellow Knight for any reason is punishable by death. I also renounced the Order publically, and those are aggravating factors.

No, I will not put myself at their tender mercy. I will not surrender myself to anyone ever again.

And that is why I am doomed by my principles, just as Jimena doomed herself with hers.

A sad end to my tale.

As I am considering my fate, the earth vibrates above, resonating with a spell meant to unearth.

So, this is it.

I allow the spell to pick me up and place a hand above my heart. The other grasps a knife at my back, for all the good it will do me. I expect the bite of silvery steel in my flesh. Somehow, it does not come.

Instead, the spell weakens and my head is pulled up. I am very close to the surface now, and I can feel something that could bode well or terribly. The absence of sunlight.

I sit up and let packed soil crumble from my form. A few moments and my face is free of anything but grime. I expected restraints or some form of attack, and so I am immensely relieved when I only feel one mage aura and a few mundane mortals around me. Nobody in their right mind would send those to capture a vampire.

I am inside of a tent, a thick one designed to protect our kind. I see a few worried faces on surrounding men wearing the white, embroidered shirts that I saw in the Dvor base. Most of them stand as far away from me as they can. One of them, the mage, whispers a few words before pointing at a corner of the tent.

Most of the men leave except a scared mortal and the mage. The isolated corner contains an open barrel of fresh water and a simple desk with a white towel and a letter. I understand the message and clean myself summarily. The towel is brown and dirty when I am done with it. I frown at my own slovenliness before I can stop myself. Now is not the time. The letter it is.

The missive goes off in a puff of blood magic. I turn to the mage and mortal just as the others return with an empty sarcophagus.

“You are the last one,” he says in German.

“How did you find me?”

“Disturbed earth, like a tomb. Same as the others.”

By the Watcher this could prove problematic in the future. I must refine the spell. I accept the offer of blood given by the mortal. Afterward, I lie in the sarcophagus. I feel myself transported outside for a minute, perhaps, during which the unfamiliar weight of the sun on my last bastion fills me with unease, but nothing happens. I am hoisted, stored, and carried away by vigorous horses. We stop a few hours later, in the late afternoon, and I feel more movement.

Someone knocks politely on the lid as soon as we are put down. I open my senses again and hear the whistle of a locomotive. Only one vampire aura shines by my side besides that of my companions. I recognize it. Carefully, I slide the lid open and see a wide back covered in black fabric. The man is currently knocking on Jimena’s sarcophagus. We are inside a train car.

The dour conductor turns and gives me an uncharacteristic smile.

He waggles his brows suggestively.

The conductor smiles, obviously excited by the heavy-handed cloak and dagger. I let him strut away while Jimena emerges with difficulty from her protective case. Her fingers make the steel groan and she bares her teeth, checking the corners.

She blinks.

Phineas and Mannfred come out as well, but they quickly read the mood and decide to retire to the male quarters to clean themselves up. We are left alone in the storage carriage, between crates and other pieces of equipment.

I raise a hand to forestall her objections.

Jimena looks up and licks her lips with a nervousness that I had never seen before.

I grab the fragile vampire and drag her to the nearest faucet. Words are cheap, and yet spelling out my decision lightened my worries. If they catch up, well, they catch up. Many of them have not yet seen what I can do with a gun, a sword, and a really bad temper.

My influx of courage only lasts until we are cleaned and then settled down in the restaurant carriage. The train is empty, so empty in fact that I find no reason to justify its travel exactly at the desired moment exactly in the direction we are heading to unless someone made it happen. Someone with quite a bit of influence. I am starting to think that our new Dvor friends are more appreciative than I thought. Nevertheless, my nervousness is amplified by one stupid element, one that I had not anticipated.

Hope.

I verified with Crispin and we are set to arrive in Vienna two hours after midnight. We could stop before and cut across the fields to our destination. In any case, we will have more than enough time before dawn and it means that we could reach relative safety tonight. We could succeed. I expect that the presence of an unplanned train will be known to the Knights promptly, seeing as they have squads all over the place, yet it would mean that they are unable to deploy their full potential.

My thoughts go to Jarek, who is struck with ennui if he spends three days without a fight.

The others nod, and we return to silence. We know what happens if we get separated. Those who are left must run and try their best to survive. We also know how to fight, although we have three Vanguards and a middling Vestal. Furthermore, we have a lady. Not every squad can boast this sort of battle potential.

She takes a sheepish expression.

I would laugh if it were not so tragic.

It appears that our champion of justice tolerates no compromise. I should have guessed it.

With nothing else to discuss, I start meditating and the others soon join me. An hour passes with the mundane sounds of the carriage soothing my nerves. Another. Clocks tick without incident as we leave behind elite squads of the Knights, hopefully for good. Vampires can outpace a train, but only for so long before burning their entire reserves of vitality. As time goes by, I allow myself to relax ever so slightly.

For a while, nothing happens.

Unfortunately, our respite comes to an end when Crispin enters the carriage and bows to us.

Crispin is too giddy. He does not appreciate the gravity of the situation. I do not let it ruin my esteem of the brave man, however, since maintaining himself woefully ignorant of the situation will later allow him to claim ignorance when confronted. He is helping us in his own way, and I can hardly begrudge him his moment.

We watch the man depart and prepare in silence. There is not much to do. We left with practically nothing and the train does not have any sort of military supplies. Finally, it stops and we exit cautiously.

No one awaits us on the barebones platform. Only a sleepy hamlet lies in the distance and around us, rolling hills spread in every direction. We immediately disappear into a nearby thicket, then call upon our Nightmares. While Metis is displeased with the presence of another rider, she must have sensed my anxiety and merely whinnies in protestation. We are slower as a result of the unorthodox arrangement.

We head east this time, and I must resort to a basic spell not to get lost. We still make good time and my hope increases until I feel it.

It starts as a susurrus, barely more than wind through leaves, then it increases with every passing minute. Something whispers under the boughs, snakes along the roots. Something is spying on us. It may have lost us in the carriage, but now it has found us again.

Despite our best efforts, the whispers grow louder. Soon, I hear distinct words of excitement, eagerly speaking to… someone else. They report the prey, us, and where we flee. They urge pursuers onward with promises of violence. Of blood. It maddens me because my best efforts could not slay it anymore than I could slay a musical note. We are pursued by echoes.

He is correct. We jump from our tired mounts and run instead, gaining speed at the cost of stamina. Our feet allow us to scale ridges and cut through the difficult terrain. We soon reach a slightly higher elevation, barely more than a hill, and I feel a gaze on the nape of my neck. I turn and I see them.

The Knights have come.

Octave is here, as well as Laestra and another lady I do not know. The last one holds a battle standard adorned with bloodhounds in russet colors. She is a tall, sharp woman with curly dark hair flowing freely to her shoulders. Our eyes meet and she smiles, baring fangs. A squad of masters follow them at a short distance. They all ride Nightmares.

Octave blows a mighty horn and they are off and after us. Nightmares are slower than running vampires. I know this for a fact. Somehow, I turn again at another summit and they are closer. The wind’s whispers grow frantic, eager. My gaze catches on the hound flag. It writhes in the darkness.

And then, as the lady brandishes it, it topples.

Something pulverized the entire midsection. I did not see what.

The unexpected attack throws the Knights in disarray. I am not sure what or who interrupted them, and I am not eager to ask. Our flight continues. So do the whispers. We rush over empty valleys and light forests, never stopping, never slowing down. I have never felt more liberated and scared at the same time.

When we crest another incline, I look behind to see that we have made some distance between us and our pursuers. I meet Octave’s gaze just as he dismounts. Ah, so this will soon be the end of the line.

We are really close now. So close that I can see the low mountains in the distance. Even the smell of sap and fresh water are just right, but I fear that our window of opportunity just vanished. As we pass by a small brook, I take out Rose to intercept a thrown knife.

We sprint, every smidgen of energy dedicated to keeping us moving. I am not sure why Laestra is the first to engage. I suspect that the two other lords are simply not in a hurry. Glints of silvery steel and angry glares flicker from behind thickets, the only hints I receive before three inches of enchanted blade follow. By some miracle I manage to deflect all of them.

The pressure of powerful auras increases on us. I feel the gaze of the lords on my back when we cross a field, but then there is another explosion and I hear the unknown woman swear.

He shakes his head. Someone is helping us. A pleasant surprise. We are over fallow fields now, in open terrain. A village appears in the distance.

Just a little bit more.

We pass some sort of boundary. I feel the invisible barrier, but I do not believe that anyone else has noticed. The sensation is too subtle. They do not have the proper essence.

Behind us, the three hostile lords slow down. Octave remains in the middle, with his close-cropped hair and heroically handsome face. He appears… weary. Laestra the Shade looks furious while the last one, the unknown woman, merely shows eagerness. She smiles and bares fangs when I inspect her.

Their auras smother ours despite my best efforts to flare my own. Those are three old and powerful fighters, while we have three Masters and a newborn lady. The odds are not against us. They do not exist. Victory is impossible.

But just as Loth and Dalton taught me a long time ago, if all pieces are against you, flip the table. We just need to buy some time.

Jimena had arched her back, but that last jab woke something in her and she stands with dignity.

He turns to me.

Masters appear from behind him, the same who were pursuing us. A full squad. Possibly from Vienna. They stop at a respectable distance.

Phineas bows elegantly, tipping an imaginary hat with a flourish.

The valorous fool.

Silence descends upon the flat land. We have been flaring auras for a minute or two now. I do not think that it will suffice.

The Masters step back and form a half-circle behind the three old ones. I face Octave. Phineas joins Jimena against the third lady, Hilde, after a last nod at Mannfred who is now alone against Laestra. We draw. We salute.

Octave lifts his fist and a long shape forms within. His soul weapon is a simple, unadorned sword with no markings, the most basic blade I have seen. It lets off an incredible pressure and I feel cold metal against my throat just looking at it. He points it at me.

Everyone but Octave and I fade away. I find myself in a ghostly colosseum with shimmering blue walls. I can still see the others through the phantomatic apparition, though they look transparent and sounds reach me as if through water. Hilde and Jimena cross the surface like two wraiths.

I breathe deeply and let go of my worries. I shift my right foot in the illusory sand. I forget about my plans and my hopes and the others. I shed all of my concerns. I abandon my future. There is only the present. Only the killer facing me and the edge of his blade.

We jump at each other. I slap his sword aside, or try to. The weapon is deceptively heavy and quite sharp too. A quick exchange, and we lock blades. I aim a few blood bolts at his leg. I disengage. I do not draw the Big Iron yet. I only have five bullets left from our previous battles.

He charges again. I counter with a thrust, a series of lashes which he parries but then I feel more than see his stance shift and hit with all my strength. I push him back for an instant and create some distance again. Another assault results in a series of quick exchanges, following which I sidestep a thrust and back off.

He takes a step forward and holds his sword in a strange horizontal stance I have not seen before. He blinks once and breathes.

My instincts scream at me.

I throw myself back, vambraces aimed front and still feel an invisible slash dig through the armor into the flesh of my arms. I twist on myself to avoid the following bull rush, yet he still manages to punt me against the colosseum wall. The shimmering surface stops me. I somehow turn mid-air and kick it, meeting the follow-up head-on.

Four chains erupt from my left arm. He steps back and cuts them down as they approach. I shoot him as his blade aims for the last one. Octave offers his side and blocks the first bullet with his armguard. The last chain latches on his arm. I pull and destabilize him just enough for the next bullet to lodge itself in his flank.

There is very little blood. Octave’s armor could slow down a soul blade. I should be flattered that he bleeds at all.

I attack. I use the ‘mirage’ spell, the one that deceives with a false strike, to drive him back. Strike strike strike, and strike again. I try every trick I know to break his rhythm, to overwhelm his defenses. He takes a few steps back and fights conservatively. His movements are economical, measured. He never wastes a single motion. I hate it. I hate that my efforts make no difference in this fight. He simply waits me out.

Octave weaves back and finally catches my blade as I attempt to rake his flank. I half-jump and half stumble to the side, hand on the cross of my gun knowing that it will not be enough, yet he does not strike me. He takes no risk. He has no need to. Blade to the side, he only has to use this opening to do that strange strike projection technique. I listen to my instincts. Left. Right.

Right.

I throw myself down and feel a few blonde hairs being cut off. I crash heavily, try to right myself and stumble. I gasp in pain. My gauntlet and gun are on the ground, to the side.

Bastard took off my left arm at the elbow.

HURTS.

I stand anyway. I close the distance. He takes his time to dismantle my defenses. I am caught in the right thigh. I can barely move.

No they are not, you asshole. And you still have both.

I wait for death, but the unexpected happens. Hilde’s ethereal form is thrown through the arena with something lodged in her gut.

I recognize it.

It is a massive arrow.

Octave’s Magna Arqa fades and he turns to face a new threat. I use the opportunity to take a look around. Mannfred is wounded but he still faces a frustrated Laestra. Broken knives lay at his feet. She holds a curiously curved shortsword in her hand. On the other side, Jimena and Phineas have fought Hilde to a standstill, with the Lancaster only showing superficial wounds.

As expected, Svyatoslav emerges from the forest at our side. He holds a bow as tall as himself as well as a curious, silvery glove. A barrel is strapped to his back.

The pair disappears just as my only sane brother flicks his wrist and three short arrows are suddenly nocked in his bow. They are wraiths to me, but the incoming squad is not. I clench my jaws to fight off the pain. Three of them engage me while the other two split up on the two other ‘duels’. I try to join Maffred to fight back to back but they manage to box me in before I can recover enough. I let a powerful axe blow slide against Rose and dive under a spear thrust. The bleeding flesh of my arm hits the ground and I hiss in agony. Not healing fast enough. No time to stop. I parry a sword attack and strike back. The axe wielder focuses on defense. I cannot overwhelm him. I am too tired.

For almost a minute, we fight a losing battle and I only manage to escape death by the skin of my teeth. I cannot even use spells anymore. My combat turns into a two on one fight where I must constantly maneuver to prevent the third warrior from reaching me. I am left with no opportunity to disable an opponent.

Mannfred breaks first. Laestra plants her blade in his shield arm and pulls. Black blood rains on the ground. It falls to his side, useless. In one smooth motion, she forces him to drop his sword.

The three Knights pull back and leave me a moment to see my friend’s death. Laestra seizes him by the throat and places her blade against his heart.

Mannfred flicks his right wrist.

A tiny revolver pops out from the sleeve. The one I made for him.

He blows Laestra’s brains out.

The Shade trainer falls like a log.

The Master helping Laestra jumps in shock, then moves to protect her body. He needn't have bothered. Suddenly, Svyatoslav’s unmoving form reappears at a distance, covered in wounds. Suddenly, Octave’s blade is lodged in Mannfred’s chest.

The valiant warrior spares a glance at the soul weapon of earth’s foremost duellist and smiles.

The blade goes up, through his heart. Octave pulls and slices, decapitating him. Mannfred is ash before he can hit the ground.

Octave salutes the body, and turns to me.

And freezes.

I can hear and feel it. The hooves of a massive Nightmare. An aura like no other. I turn as he approaches. I must look terrible, with the blood and the missing arm. I know that I brought death to his door. I know that his status as a soul smith may not protect him this time.

I know that he loves me.

Torran does not reply. He raises a hand and I feel its weight settle on top of me. He is… patting my head?

Pat pat pat. Three times. I am speechless. The grey-haired and grey-eyed lord looks at me tenderly, then his gaze travels up to the intruders. His expression morphs to one of pure rage.

He roars.

A massive titan of steel and stone takes one step forward and his colossal sword catches the three masters harassing me at the same time. Their broken bodies are sent tumbling on the field. One of them dies on the spot. The earth rises. Roots crawl up only to turn ethereal. Now he and Octave are locked in battle.

Hilde has left her second to finish off a flagging Jimena. She is defending the body of Phineas. He lost his heart. Jimena did not manage to trigger her power, it seems. She is struggling.

The strength of the attack sends me careening through the air. I crash through the wall of a warehouse, now much closer than at the beginning of the fight. We have been pushed back to the edge of the village.

I sit up and spit straw. It smells of beast and ripe wheat in here. Hilde follows me in. The whispers that pursued us grow louder. They speak of my gruesome, imminent death. The raw bloodthirst I feel all around me leaves me tracked, trapped. Surrounded.

Suddenly, it stops.

By shutting up to start with. She is still smiling. Her eyes are very dark and her wild curly hair flutters in an invisible wind.

Hilde stabs half-heartedly with her halberd. It takes all my remaining strength to block most of those attacks, and the last jab still hits my shoulder.

Another backhand blow slams me against the far wall. I use it to stay upright.

I dive under an arching strike and roll over a row of crates just before she reduces them to splinters.

My vision turns purple. Roots as large as trees explode from all corners of the building, shredding everything like paper. The warehouse tilts into an abyss that was not there an instant before.

And the world collapses.