A Journey of Black and Red
chapter-174

My feet land on snow without a sound and I take a deep breath. It smells of cold and of pine sap. The air is crisp with only the lightest wind.

Tonight is a good night. Fluffy clouds cover the sky, not yet heavy with snow yet thick enough to protect our progress from the view of mortals. The forest here is dense and wild. The trees count their age in centuries. We are but trespassers.

Truly, we are trespassers not just in the forest but in the entire valley. A village far to our right is populated with loyalists willing to die for the local Dvor. Even birds could be spies. As such, we move in silence which spares me Sinead’s constant grumblings. The poor lad does not enjoy this ‘season of savages’ very much. As for me, I wear the fae armor I was gifted. The teal-colored ribbons still flow freely from my shoulder blades, the skirt is still ethereal and blue as before, and the silvery plates still stick snugly to my form in a shimmering waterfall of enchanted metal. The entire effect is somewhat ruined by the heavy bag I carry on my back. I simply could not be caught dead unequipped on such a difficult operation.

A part of me wishes I had the solid slab of eternal ice between my heart and enemy blades, not this skimpy thing. Alas, it would be best if I remained anonymous, clad in a foreign garment that emits no aura. Anonymous, or at least, plausibly deniable. Similarly, I have altered my traits to appear more elfin and gave myself preposterous silver hair and pink eyes. The effect on my companions, at least, was noticeable. My new appearance intimidates them.

Behind me, the two, ah no wait, three fae move with various degrees of grace. Makyas seemingly floats above the pristine surface while Sinead struggles a bit. There was someone else? Ah yes, Mr Elusive. Curse that sinister beanstalk and his strange magic. I hope it works on the enemies as well as it does on me.

As I move on, a hole in the wall of frozen pines gives me a glimpse of our destination. The fortress is just as ominous and monolithic as Sinead’s image led me to believe. I signal the others and we quickly convene.

“From here on, not a word,” I tell them in child Likaean. “We use sign language only. If you absolutely need to say something complex, inform me at once.”

They all nod before I am done talking. Sometimes, I feel like they are indulging me though at least they certainly treat the situation seriously. I can never know what they think.

Our procession continues. We are entering the woods the Erewald vampires set up to protect their otherworldly blood sources. The bloodline consists of druids and gardeners. The place is undoubtedly trapped. The question is how? Scouting would only increase the likelihood of discovery, so we will go in blind and be vigilant.

As we move on, the shadows grow and the woods go deeper. Trunks expand in size until some of the coniferous around us reach a prodigious size. Ancient spider webs extend in crystal shawls across the low boughs, their makers long since frozen. Nothing, absolutely nothing, comes to mar the pristine surface of the snow, no bird tracks, no paw prints. We are the first to walk there since the last snowfall. I look up and down, searching for traps or spies and finding none. I fail to detect even the tiniest heartbeat beyond that, muted, of my partners-in-crime.

At a loss, I take out a measurement tool and point it down. It has the appearance of a sphere and its function is to reveal traps, pitfalls, and enchantments. There are no holes I can find. Thorough inspections show no signs of gargoyles or golems or permanent constructs designed to spot intruders. I feel myself growing paranoid.

Why is nothing happening?

And then I feel it. At first, just a susurrus at the edge of my essence, it grows and appears like a distant choir whose voices I mistook for the wind. It slithers in the still air until I recognize the dark bark for what it is, cursing myself because it might be too late.

This is the Nightmare forest.

I stop because for one instant, the night has grown too deep for this world, but then the moment passes and I can see the clouds again. This is bad. I hold a fist and the others gather around me, all two, wait, no, three of them. A small circle later and all sound is trapped inside, causing our voices to echo strangely.

“We are near the Nightmare forest. I do not know how but I can feel it. We could get lost.”

“Place between places, leading to a plane between planes,” Mr Elusive confirms.

It might have been the first time he spoke. I am not entirely sure myself. His voice carries a raspy note, and it feels distant as well. As if it had been born by the wind from over the next valley.

“This is the trap, but I do not know how to bypass it with certainty. We are beyond the scope of what I expected for alarms.”

“This plane is bound to you,” Mr Elusive says again. “You can guide us out.”

“How would I do that?”

“Seek out. And guide us there,” the strange being replies still in awkward Child Likaean. I understand that he is struggling to convey a complex meaning in a language that was not designed for it. The Likaeans have an entire branch of language dedicated to magic, one that human speech lacks completely. He is simply struggling to help me understand something for which I have no point of reference.

“The, ah, wavelength of this world and the liminal forest plane are different, poppet. As someone bound to both, you are our best hope to, hmm, disentangle them. Find us a way through. Find the fortress.”

He waits patiently until I finally nod.

“This task is not complex but it is unfamiliar,” he continues. “We have many such pathfinders among our ranks. Being certain is more important than being fast, here. I want you to take your time. We will not be lost until we start moving.”

“The place is stable,” Mr Elusive adds.

I am not so sure.

Or rather, something shakes at the edge of my perception. There are more dangers here than simply being lost. Nevertheless, I close my eyes and try to get a better sense of my surroundings.

The fortress is out there, it really is. I have seen its murder holes, perceived the dull lights of its selfish lanterns. I just have to find it. It exists for sure.

Slowly, I get accustomed to the taste of the world. My native one is stable and almost mineral in its antediluvian existence, an old, rigid relative who only moves when compelled to. By comparison, the other fleets and touches. It barely has more substance than a light air current. One that carries the scents of the night. The two lie intertwined here, but some trees live more in one realm than in the other. I glance around and find two that belong to earth close, their branches crossing over us.

“Every arch is a gate,” Sinead whispers. His voice bears a slight tremor.

Something is wrong.

The wind has stopped. We might be closer than I expected. I confess that those Erenwald crafters certainly wove an exquisite trap. I must take every precaution to prevent us from being lost. What can I do to increase our chances? Symbols. I need symbols.

I sigh.

“Sinead, please take my right hand.”

To his credit, he obeys without sass. He must be feeling the severity of the situation. Makyas then Mr. Elusive add themselves to the chain while I call a ball of light.

“Nu Sarrehin.”

The purple radiance shines the way, and I move forward with confident steps despite my fear. An arch, a door. We have to be getting closer. I find another such arch going in the right direction and lead us there. I cannot see the fortress right now but I remember where it was compared to us. It will have to be enough.

We make progress, but now the silence has grown oppressive and I am concerned about why. The purple radiance of my light spell bobs with every step as I move forward, bringing us close to the exit, of that I am sure. I can finally spot some clouds in the canopy’s breaks.

My concern is no longer getting out, it is getting out on time. After all, a light in a forest is sure to attract attention.

We almost make it. Almost, but not quite. Just as I catch a glimpse of frost-covered walls, heavy stomps break the silence. My first reaction is relief, as I recognize hooves and I even go so far as to curse myself for my absent-mindedness. I was so focused on secrecy that I forgot to ask Metis for help! My elation lasts for the blink of an eye. Metis is quiet unless she wants to make an impression, but even at her most intimidating, she never comes close to that level. Those are the impacts I expect from one of Constantine’s golems.

I spot mirages and shadows first, an image broken as if seen through a shattered mirror, but finally our pursuer appears between us and our exit.

It is not quite a horse.

If Sinead described a Nightmare to a demented fae who had never seen the animal, then asked them to recreate the beast with shadows, roots, and shards of obsidian, this is what it would look like. In fact, it would be a miniature of the entity now barring our way, for I could walk between its powerful limbs without bending. More concerning, I cannot assess its power. At all.

Two silvery orbs like moonlight reflected on tar bore into me. I cannot detect any essence, not even a smidgen of magic. It has no scent either. Is something wrong with me?

I turn back to the three fae, now as unmoving as statues and obviously worried. Prey. Prey. Prey, but cute. Everything is in order.

I turn back to the shard, elephant-sized Nightmare.

Nothing.

Troublesome.

It tilts its head. I cannot tell what it wants. I cannot read it. No, wait, I can. Slowly, I call upon the little Erenwald essence I have, undoubtedly one of my least used abilities. I still cannot tell much, but I can tell that it is… inspecting us. Perhaps expecting something.

Before I can reflect more, a second step of hooves crunch on the snow. This one is more familiar, and a moment later, Metis trots by my side. She shakes her head and snorts. The thing does not move, and neither do we. I think… I can tell.

“I ask for safe passage,” I say.

The creature's attention lands on me. Before, it was looking. Now, it is paying attention.

“An offering of blood… and…”

Metis takes a step forward and her small saddlebag, the only one she tolerates, bumps against my shoulder.

“And flesh of a prey.”

The massive creature takes one heavy step forward and waits. Taking it as a sign of agreement, I move forward and grab the blade of my axe. It is not a good tool, but the handful of throwing knives I have discharge their effects on impact, and that would be quite unpleasant. The cut gives me more pain than I expected, but soon dark blood pools in my palm. I present it to the creature.

Rather than licking it, it breathes in, and the black pool disappears. Next is the offering of flesh. I grab in the saddlebag and find a caramelized pig ear.

The creature’s head moves down, a horror of black stones and sharp angles. An ethereal fog bubbles behind some of the plates, and I detect no flesh at all. I take a step back, my end fulfilled.

The creature head’s slowly, slowly turns to Sinead.

“No,” I say. The deal was safe passage. It knows. NO PLAYING WITH WORDS.

It takes a step forward, and the tip of Rose comes to rest under where the throat would be. Metis’ hooves stomp the ground.

“No,” I say again, “thrice I deny you, no.” I flare my aura.

“DO NOT TRY ME. DO NOT PLAY COY WITH A DEVOURER.”

The creature’s focus returns to me. I bare my fangs. No games.

And it turns into a Nightmare.

The shift is seamless. One moment, I face a spiky abomination born by the opiated dreams of a suicidal wretch, and the next I follow a large horse, a humongous horse, but a horse nonetheless, outside of the forest. The titanic beast stops at the bottom of the cliff upon which our destination rests and turns around, disappearing into a dense copse. I turn to Metis with love and curiosity.

“Can you change into that as well?” I ask with some trepidation. In lieu of answers, the best pony lowers her head and bumps my posterior.

“Hm, yes, that would be very uncomfortable indeed. Nevermind.”

I pull two ears from the bag and offer them one after the other because she is the best dread pony and that weird large one was slightly dishonest, so it gets less and that is final. She bumps against me one last time and leaves, again in silence. Good Metis.

In the meanwhile, the Likaeans have remained quiet and focused. I nod and receive nods in return. They are ready to proceed. We should not speak.

I take out spikes and Sinead grabs a rope so thin it might as well be a string. We fasten it to our belts and I climb first, planting the pitons, as those spikes are called, deep into the ice. My natural strength is enough for the task and those are enchanted for maximum adherence. The Likaeans have gloves that help them scale the smooth surface but I end up carrying most of their weight, which is fine. Stamina is not an issue for me while their night is still young. After a slow but uneventful climb, we reach the first true stone. I stop, but Sinead bids me go higher. I only feel a tug on the rope as we reach the first window, or rather the first murder hole so thin I could not pass my arm through it. Glass covers it, but behind I see the flickering orange of an open flame.

The detection tool reveals no particular enchantments and for good reason. Enchantments can be set up but it still takes a mage to recharge them. Each one increases the burden on those in charge of the upkeep. Even the most paranoid defenders would not place powerful wards on every stone wall, so finding no defenses here does not surprise me considering the trap outside. I do expect security measures once we are inside, however.

I silently cast an enchantment and a small hole opens, revealing the interior. We have found the laundry room.

Makyas salutes us mockingly. I hear the flutter of wings and, suddenly, he is inside. I had nothing to do with it. Truly, the power of the Likaeans is increasing lately, even if they are still limited to parlor tricks. With our first infiltration done, I keep climbing.

Makyas is our poisoner, or so he claims. His task is to find the kitchen which, even at that time, has warm drinks for the men and women on patrol. Sinead assures me that he will not be noticed, and I have no reason to doubt. He has been dodging my kin for decades. It should be fine.

My ascent continues and we reach the next level. This time, the windows are dark and I peer into an administrative area. Time to let Mr. Elusive in. I focus and call upon a rather complex spell, one that I learnt from the Knights of all people.

The stone flows and expands. The magic would be more taxing if I did not have immense reserves, and I manage to keep the spell under control as well as discrete. Mr Elusive —

I frown.

I glare at Sinead. What were we doing here? He points up. Oh yes, there we go. I make sure to leave the pitons dug as deep as they can go, even if they bite into the stone. The rope is almost invisible from above and will be used as an emergency exit should the worst come to pass.

The next level is only one below the roof. The fortress only has three floors with windows for added security, and this will be our point of ingress. A summary inspection reveals access to an armory. I am about to get in when Sinead places his gloved hand on mine and shakes his head. He signs ‘alarm’ and ‘door’. Oh yes, the armory will be locked from the outside and this one will have magical protection without a doubt. I am also unwilling to cast the wall-piercing spell closer to mages and without several yards of granite between us. It would be best to find another entrance. Without a noise, I move left to the nearest entrance and lodge the last piton on the battlement jutting out, just above me. I hear a nearby heartbeat. There are sentries there, unaware of the daring intruders under their feet. Let us keep it that way.

We have found the dormitories. The next window leads into a small room with two beds and wardrobes. Forms sleep in their bed. Sinead nods. This is it. I focus and cast again for what I hope is the last time. The rift widens, and widens. One of the shapes shifts in their bed.

Sinead smoothly dives through and I follow a moment later. He unsheathes a dagger and stabs the man on the left in the temple. I see his dagger get in and the wound close behind with utter disbelief, yet there is no doubt that the person is quite dead. His cell companion soon shares the same fate. The blade leaves no visible wound behind and even the smell of loose bowels fails to occur. The only sign that our foes have met their demise is the absence of breath. I am as impressed by his tool as by his ruthlessness. We used the euphemism ‘disable’ or ‘neutralize’ during the planning phase. It appears that my friend wishes to leave no survivors. It is… acceptable.

The two men do not look like locals. One of them was clearly of Slavic descent, though this is the best estimate I can make from the man’s features. I find uniforms among their belongings, in light green. They wield pistols loaded with silver bullets and enchanted short swords. I noticed rifles in the armory, so their upstairs colleagues might have additional equipment. We also find rectangle metal cards I use to deactivate their door’s seal. Sinead follows me out into a corridor decorated with tapestries and lined with more doors, all of them locked for now. Most show two names and must be personal quarters. We follow the corridor right to an atrium decorated with large open windows leading to the balcony garden, or so I assume. The windows are currently closed and locked behind metal shutters. I can feel no less than three layers of wards here, unsurprising considering that it presents a major security risk.

The atrium was designed as an entertainment area. I see a bar of sorts, couches, and a well-stocked library with books in various states. The curiosity comes from the scent in the air. I recognize tobacco and Cologne, but there is a lingering stench of potent dry blood. Its source soon becomes apparent. To the side, a cage has been placed around a single chair.

‘Prisoners?’ I sign to Sinead. He nods.

We explore a bit more, but it soon turns out that the entire third floor only consists of those rooms and a few other amenities such as bathrooms. I propose to unlock the gates leading up and down using the dead guards' chit, but Sinead stops me once again. He shows a list of people and hours stuck to a sheet of paper to the side. I frown. Does he really think that they would set the alarm to trigger if the wrong person opened the door? I examine the construct and find no such workings, but still decide to give him the benefit of the doubt when he signals me to wait. We stand there for over ten minutes in silence until a pair of guards open the door. They appear bored out of their mind.

We kill them both.

I do not attempt to bite them for information because I wish to keep to the Seeker of Lost Memories persona I have for as long as I can, even if it means giving up information. If the guards do not have some sort of protection in place. I would not know. As far as vampire records are concerned, the last fae-holding fortress takeover occured in fifteen ninety-eight.

With the patrol disposed of, we end up in possession of various sets of key cards. I am about to take the stairs down when Sinead interrupts me yet again, still signaling to the timetable. I read some scribbles in German and realize what the canny rogue meant. Next to the name of Herr Muller, I find the orders for golem maintenance.

We move back to the bedrooms with our newly acquired universal access card, find the one belonging to the poor technician and dispose of him and his neighbor. In his personal effects, we find two cards: one for golem access, and the other for golem emergency access. This immediately alerts me. Did they design the castle layout for quick golem access? I show the card to Sinead and he points back towards the garden access. We lock the door on our way out.

All this skulking around feels extremely unseemly, and yet I must ignore the nagging feeling that we are improvising because we are, in fact, improvising. And we have no choice. Getting more information proved unfeasible. We must gather it now.

Sinead points at something I should have noticed. I would have, if I had not been in charge of magical detection. Behind the bar lies the only carpet in the entire public area. I lift it to reveal an unadorned trapdoor. It opens with the keycard, revealing a dark shaft and some serious anti-detection enchantments. I shiver at the thought of how many burglaries my companion has committed. Impressive.

Before leaving, I remove a package from my bag and place it upon the floor, following which I remove a silver needle from its flank. A light click informs me that the mechanism is armed. Sinead frowns. He tried to veto the explosives idea, but I would not have it. They have always been the great equalizer in my more lopsided fights. Some of our foes might guess it was me from the simple fact they were used, but the good thing is that they will not be able to prove it because explosives tend to erase evidence. All they will have will be suspicion. I will take this as an acceptable price for the added option.

After one last glare, Sinead follows me down. I believe he might be afraid of explosives and make a note to tease him about it later. The shaft itself is dark and unlit, with only metal bars lodged in the stone facilitating the access. I stop at regular intervals to check for enchantments and find nothing beyond secret doors probably hidden on every level. We keep going down and soon reach the basement level where the shaft ends. The golem access card opens the way into a lit hangar of impressive proportions.

While the rest of the castle had a distinct medieval feel, this exudes modernity. Steel beams line the ceiling, and from them hang harnesses and pulleys. Storage cabinets line the walls in tight metal ranks. I spot a workshop on one side next to a small door while monumental steps lead up to what should be the inner courtyard. The access is blocked by a trapdoor large enough to let the golem through. As for the war machine itself, it stands alone in the middle of the room.

It is now that I appreciate the genius of Constantine, both in his craftsmanship but also in his ability to remember that a golem’s structure is not limited by biology. The golem in front of me looks like a giant in steel armor. I estimate that it would be slow and ponderous, though powerful. Constantine prefers reversed leg articulations, a more thin and streamlined appearance, and more adaptative armament than a giant iron mace. Honestly, what a waste.

My attention returns to the situation when I hear a voice coming from the last corner of the room. There, I find a house within a house, a cubicle of reinforced stone with thick glass and a heavy door. As I watch, a man in uniform exits the safe room and frowns in my direction.

“Muller? Was ist los?”

I move. He dies from a fractured spine on my way to the door, which while open, is protected by a shield. I crash against it.

My eyes meet those of a terrified mage. He reaches for a bulging red button.

I remove three steel balls from a pocket of my bag and throw them. The shield moans under their deleterious effect, then cracks under the strain. I power through. I grab the man’s hand ‘in extremis’ and break his neck as well. I had to resist the urge to bite him, which surprises me. Nevertheless, the crisis is averted.

“That was close,” I whisper to Sinead as he joins my side.

“And that is why you are here.”

Ah yes, I am indeed a vampire lady. It does help.

“This booth appears to be the center of the fortress’ defense,” Sinead declares. His amber eyes inspect every piece of equipment in the tiny room. There is the large red button, but also mirrors that show the outside of the fortress: the courtyard, the garden, the gate, and the top of the barbican.

“We are fortunate that there are so few of them,” I observe. “Although it makes sense since their main enemies are vampires and surveillance devices do not catch us.”

“They do not?” Sinead asks, surprised.

“No, but it would not have mattered here since you were with me. We were wise not to attempt the garden entrance given what I have seen. Oh, the sentries on the barbican are still awake.”

“There should be around ten guards awake at this time of the night. We have eliminated four. Two patrol the barbican and two others should patrol the roof. It leaves one patrol, possibly on the first floor or outside. Makyas might have been successful in putting them to sleep.”

“Then only the master is left. But first, I will deactivate the alarms,” I say, examining the desks around me.

“I will retrieve the soul of the storm, then.”

Sinead removes pliers and other items from his own bag and walks to the golem. As for me, I am left severing the nerve cord linking this antenna of the Eneru alliance from the rest. They will quickly notice that the fortress is non-responsive, but we will hopefully be long gone by the time they send reinforcement.

The long-range communication mirror hangs from the back wall, surrounded by enchantments. I consider just destroying it, then reconsider. Since I have a few minutes, I can sabotage instead. The unfortunate sod who will next attempt to activate it will receive a mouthful of crystal shards for their trouble. It might also look like a malfunction from the other side. With vicious glee, I cut a few lines and extend another to create a power loop, which will destabilize and quickly destroy the mirror. My misdeed completed, I recenter my attention on Sinead. The rogue deftly plucks our prize from the golem’s exposed mechanism as I watch. He places the pearl carefully in a small box.

Our main objective is complete. And nothing went wrong! What an auspicious start. We could even leave now if we wanted, but I know Sinead. He will want to attempt to free the Likaeans if possible. Despite his apparent detachment, I remember the anger he showed at the thought of his kin being treated like cattle. The small door should lead to them. I point at it and the Prince of Summer nods with determination. The golem access keycard opens the path.

We next enter a storage space for important pieces, including repair equipment and magical supplies. This is a mage armory, of sorts. The next exit leads down a flight of helical stairs.

As we descend, I feel it. Misery has a way of sticking to the walls with the echoes of unending hopelessness. The air tastes of salt and regret, of lost time. Of death. We are entering a place of deep and enduring suffering, an agony so intense it has marked the place. Blood magic will work well here. It even smells like blood when we reach the landing, and the cause is easy to find. Beyond a glass pane, we find the bleeding room.

The window is reinforced yet also perfectly transparent. It gives us a perfect view of the manacles, the tables, and the alchemical supplies required to draw then conserve that most potent of essence. Although the premises have been cleaned to a maniacal degree, a powerful perfume of anguish wafts through the reinforced door that bars our path. Unfortunately, none of the keys we have grant us access.

“I can break through, but it will trigger an alarm,” I inform Sinead with a whisper. He leans towards me and I catch his much more pleasant scent. It distracts me until I almost miss his next words.

“We should be fine for the alarm itself, but what about sound?”

I inspect the enchantment and realize that the alarm is, in fact, silent. All the better to catch a careless intruder off guard. A strand goes deeper into the facility, however.

“No, but I suspect the vampire will be alerted. This is it.”

Sinead barely stops.

“Do it.”

The time for stealth has passed. I hope Makyas will be fine, though there should be very few threats left in the fortress. I open my bag to remove a dedicated piece of equipment, an enchanted tool designed to fragilize both the magical and the mundane at the place of effect, all while allowing me to make use of my great strength.

Some uncharitable luddite might call it a runed crowbar but they would only show their ignorance and complete lack of decorum. It is, in fact, an advanced piece of arcane engineering. Or de-engineering. In any case, I place the flat end against the lock and dig. With a terrible shriek of twisted metal, it gives in.

Sinead and I wait for a few seconds within the bleeding chamber, but no one comes to stop us.

“Farther in,” Sinead whispers. I take the lead.

The next gate is by far the most imposing in the entire fortress. Several layers of steel and silver block our path, yet before we can inspect it or rummage the room for credentials, it opens.

The coppery taste of spent essence assails me, then come the sounds of frantic hearts beating too fast to bring thin blood where it is needed, a constant effort that will never seize for spent blood barely regenerates before it is harvested again. No moans break the calm before the storm, no complaints. The people inside are beyond despair.

Even when I was under the thumb of Lady Moor and we kept cattle in cages like animals, we still did not treat them like those fae are treated. Rows of cages with just a thin bed and a pot. No curtains, no intimacy of any kind. There are no personal effects in any of them, just different scratches on the walls, different marks on the unyielding bars. Light is dim and red, provided by a magical lamp drilled in the high ceiling. Their inhabitants all share the same elfin traits and peculiar traits as the Likaeans I have met so far, but they are all sickly. Broken. Lying where they are in thin shifts.

The most shocking detail is the cleanliness. It must take a lot of effort to keep such a corrupted place spotless, and yet there are no marks beyond the wear and tear. A colossal amount of attention and efforts are dedicated to making this atrocity as clinical as possible. I am disgusted and impressed in equal measure.

And the architect behind this grand horror stands in the midst of it, next to a pillory and a strange board. He wears a full plate armor revealing his face and the dark blood staining his pale cheeks. Short blond hair covers his scalp, and his jaw is locked in an expression of barely controlled rage. His blue eyes stare into mine, and in there I find a raging hatred that only death can end. It only takes me an instant to realize what has happened.

Killed.

We killed.

We have killed a Vassal.

At least.

I suppress the deep-seated feeling of horror gouging my chest. We have CAUSED THE UNFORGIVABLE. No, it was not my design. It was… my side. What have I done? No, I would have felt it. Then… Makyas? Anger and horror war in my chest, a feeling I keep suppressed. He must not know. Or is secrecy even necessary? I intend to kill him after all.

No. The other Likaeans are watching. They could be captured again. I need to maintain the facade. I need to get it together, this was not my fault. MY FAULT. I could have anticipated this… Too late. Too late, in any case. They are all watching now.

“A Seeker of Lost Memories…” a tall prisoner with thick black hair whispers with disbelief.

“So, you are Fae. I expected many things, but not that,” the Master says as he steps forward. Only now do I notice two more details. First, he wears a cross on his chestplate, something I find abhorrent. This will prove problematic. The second is the dangling corpse of a young man with a shocking flock of green hair hanging from his right hand, and that will prove even more problematic because I have seen what a vial of essence can do and this is considerably more potent.

“Has your species finally grown a spine?”

Sinead remains at the threshold but I take a step forward then make sure that my knives are fastened.

“I would have prefered insane mages or suicidal Gabrilelites. Now I will be punished for killing the two of you instead of capturing you to be drained. I considered letting you experience the fate of your brethren, but the very thought of you still drawing breath while my Ulrich lies in the ground proved unthinkable. I will very much enjoy killing you.”

“Be careful, he is drunk on power,” I tell Sinead, still in child Likaean.

“I noticed. You fight him while I free our brethren. There is no choice but to kill him. You realize that, do you not?”

“I do. I have killed a vampire for you before.”

The fae prisoners gasp in amazement, and I realize that I should not say too much.

“Do you even understand the tongue? Probably not, you failed invaders. Bah, I will have to hear you begging in that incomprehensible babble. Enough of this.”

It begins. The master charges with a roar of pain and rage. I bring my axe out and intercept him. The blow lands fairly on the axe that he himself just deployed. A soul weapon, of course. He is so angry that he has not realized that I match him yet. I have a short window, perhaps. GUILTY. No, I…

I miss an opportunity to slam my weapon behind his knee when his next charge misses. Enough of this. Focus, Ariane, focus. We quickly move across the room. There is no cover here, only flat ground and steel bars. And victims. Worse than cattle. A desecration of blood and THE HUNT. PATHETIC. Yes, pathetic. He does not deserve to rule over this macabre farce of a feeding ground. SHOW THE DOMINANCE OF MY WAY. A lunge of his proves to be a feint, one I do not take. He overextends and I slam my blade into his flank. He crashes against the nearest bars, armor cracked. Dark blood decorates my blade. Alas, he screams in rage and ignores the wound. It closes in front of my very eyes. Even Sivaya’s baleful enchantments can do little against the regenerative power of fae blood. It will take a decisive blow or a significant amount of attrition to take him down.

Our combat continues. I give ground and counter as soon as I get an opening, keeping my head cool and my aura suppressed. He is a better axe wielder than I am, but I am a much better duelist overall. His positioning is reckless and his poise leaves many, many openings. I am faster and do not need to move much anyway. It is enough to push him into blunder after blunder. I finally manage to hamstring him, causing him to fall briefly. Unfortunately, he jumps back on his intact foot before I can capitalize on it. If I were to use my full power, it would be over in two moves. That is fine. A good huntress leaves her enemy a chance to prove themselves. So far, I am not impressed.

“Impossible. How can you keep up with me? You are strangers here. Invaders!”

I ignore his prattle and attack in turn. His armor is now more malformed metal than true protection, with half a dozen body blows denting it beyond salvation. I just need to be PATIENT. Eventually, I smash him against a cage with a devastation counter. He hisses and grabs his key card, which was hanging from his neck.

“I will just take… a little pick me up.”

Oh no, you will not. I take a step back to avoid a wild swing, then throw a knife at his flank. He rotates to let it slide along the armor while he opens the cage, eager to consume its occupant.

The dagger explodes in a cloud of silvery magic.

The master screams in pain and outrage. He lurches to the side. AN OPENING. I jump in and smash the axe against his neck. It digs in… but not deep enough.

“In the name of God!”

A blue light. I resist hissing as the taste of ash fills my mouth and I slam on the ground, dazed.

Ah.

I have not been punished by that one for a long, long time. I cannot say that I missed it. Picking myself up from the ground, I stand back up with no hurry. The master has not moved. Meanwhile, Sinead still frees more Likaeans.

“You are one of us? But no, your appearance… Impossible! Did the Eye grant one of you his essence? I was told that it was impossible! Unless… a Progenitor?”

He shows every sign of shock, and I find myself appalled by his stupidity. If I were a Progenitor, he would fit in a tray right now.

“No, you would have the power of the lords already. Intriguing. I cannot wait to drink you and learn everything, strange one. Perhaps we will converse before I kill you.”

By the Watcher does that man love the sound of his voice! But wait… yes, of course.

He is drunk.

I should have noticed it before, but I had never faced a drunken foe yet. He is riding the ectasy of a shameful murder. I must use this. With a grim expression, I attack him and let him bat aside my counter.

I slow down.

It takes some effort to dodge just by a hair, to force my strikes to fall short by the most embarrassing margin. The master helps me with his complete lack of attention. I am managing a hurricane of confused strikes and all out attacks. At a point, I am forced to capitalize on an error and crush his left arm or he would have noticed my game.

“No matter what you are, you are weak! Die!”

This is it. He accelerates and ignores his own defense. I step back. I retreat again. We pass Sinead, busy freeing one more panicked kin. The cad does not look, but I notice his smile.

The master screams one last time.

“Your kind does not belong here, begone!”

I am pushed back once again, but barely. He was too far. He charges uncaring, ready to deliver the coup de grace. At the last moment, I arc my back.

The soul weapon shrieks against the scales on my chest, but Sivaya’s incredible craftsmanship shows its worth. The blade slides and jumps, diverted. At the same time, I throw my second knife where I knew his knee would be, the same knee I damaged earlier in the battle. My dagger finds a chink in his armor, blowing up the entire articulation. From the corner of my eye, I see the surprise when his leg fails him. The pain when he realizes why. I finish my arc and smash my axe into his wounded flank. He gasps. I jump on him and we fly across the room.

Risky, but…

I CANNOT RESIST.

A bite, as short as can be. Power.

We are the guardians of this world, Samuel, and its bane. That is why we wield the symbol of the Lord, and why it will kill us in the end. He who lives by the sword, dies by the sword, but we cannot allow ourselves to fall until the last of the monsters has bitten the dust, or until Judgment Day. Do you understand?”

A clerical outfit. a Hand on my shoulder.

“Yes, Father.”

I pull back from the vision and lick my lips in delight. It was short, but by the Watcher it was good. Kalinin essence. The ability to wield the tools of religion so long as one’s cause is just. I wonder what I will retain.

We crash at the far end of the room. The foe is dust.

Good riddance.

“There is no time, poppet. We must leave!”

“Yes, yes.

The return to the surface is not as fast as I had hoped, even by ignoring the vampire’s possessions. I still left another bomb in that accursed prison, despite the lack of urgency. That one is just for my own satisfaction. We find stairs up and end up in the inner courtyard where two bodies await, both dead. Makyas kneels by the nearest victim. He does not look relieved to see our slow procession.

“Do you have everything?” Sinead asks.

The false child assents, but his expression does not relax.

“Is something the matter?”

“A convoy has come tonight. For new blood.”

A chill runs down my spine. This is bad luck, and a night convoy means more vampires. At least one.

“When will they arrive?” I ask.

“They are already here.”

Behind me, the massive aura of a Warlord flares.