A Journey of Black and Red-Chapter 141: First Impressions are Key

I sit on a stump and let my borrowed cloak fall around me. The folds mask my armor so as to not alarm the mortals too much. Below, about thirty men mill around under the supervision of a tall lad with dirty blond hair and his female counterpart. There are also a few other women in worker dresses, mostly in support roles. I count one nurse, two cooks and a pair of mages with primitive foci. They look so very young. The oldest lad must be in his mid twenties and he is the most nervous of them all.

Jimena and Crispin, the train conductor, discuss with the Marxist leaders around a map. I have elected not to join them. I will help Jimena without reserve and she knows it, but I care little about the fate of the train and its occupants. They are not my people.

This entire farce is a diversion. We should just summon our Nightmares and ride to the next stop instead of wasting our time playing discount rebels, but Jimena will not leave Crispin alone and so I stay as well.

They must have reached some sort of agreement, because the camp soon comes alive with feverish preparations. A few revolutionaries rush to the train to help some wounded while the others pack their belongings. The female leader squints towards me, then walks up the slope in almost total darkness.

I watch her progress with some measure of amusement. The brave little rebel stumbles up the dark path in a metaphor of her struggle. I watch in disbelief as she struts more confidently as she reaches a plateau. As expected, she slips on an exposed root with a yelp, then yelps again when I brace her before she can fall on me.

“Ah, errr, hmm, sorry. Ariane?”

“Yes. What do you want?”

Her eyes search the gloom. She is truly untrained. A more experienced mage would detect me from aura alone. If I let them.

“Nu Sarrehin.”

The Likaean incantation calls forth a purple dancing light, a selfish and tricksy radiance that illuminates only us. Those below cannot see.

“Oh, thank you. Ah. Nice to meet you, my name is Louise Lafranchie. Your friend, the Spaniard, she said that you can do magic? Well obviously you can. What I meant was, can you teach me?”

Oh?

I feel a veil lifting from my heart and for the first time I see her, not as one of many but as an individual with drives and desires that could align with mine. The young woman has auburn hair, dark eyes and a rather plain face, but she has an animation about her that manages to compel the attention of the others. She offers an interesting contrast to the male leader, who is all much more detail-oriented from the little I have seen.

“Supplicant.”

“Uh?”

“What you ask, I cannot provide. Learning magic is the work of a lifetime. I must attend to my own affairs, and I am not looking for an apprentice at the moment.”

“Apprentice? No, I meant… a few tricks. Just a direction. We have been trying to learn but all we have to work with are old diaries and hearsay.”

“Who are ‘we’?”

“My coven! There are just four of us now, but we will grow and make a difference in the world soon enough. We will be like the witches of the middle-age, defiant in the face of oppression!”

“Perhaps you should not base your movement on people who were hunted down and burnt at the stake.”

She puffs her cheeks comically.

“Their spirit lives on!”

I refrain from commenting as we have entered the domain of the metaphysical and I am already quite bored.

“So, you seek a… primer? Something to get you started?”

“Yes! A primer would be great. We need a source of elementary knowledge.”

I could easily copy fifty pages of observations and basic runes from my notes to set them on the right path. It would certainly occupy neophytes for a few months and lay a solid foundation for them to pursue the Western Standard tradition of magic.

“What do you offer in exchange?” I ask.

Her expression falls a bit, and I push down the anger threatening to overcome me. I clench my hands — once — before remembering that she does not know better. PRESUMPTUOUS. I can hardly blame the INSOLENT one when I have not shared my own nature.

“I know I ask much, but think about it. Our enemies are many and they have all the resources they plundered from the hands of the workers, and still plunder to this day. We are fighting centuries of tradition and indoctrination of the masses. Our only hope if we want to prevail would be to pull our resources together, help each other throw off our shackles. Otherwise, we will just be one more group squabbling for scraps.”

“An interesting proposal. However, you imply that we are in this together. We are not. Every revolution needs to work with various elements in order to succeed. If you wish for my assistance, you will have to provide suitable compensation.”

“Jimena said that you came from a very old line of mages. Are you… nobility? I thought Americans had no counts or kings.”

“Not all dynasties carry a title.”

Though mine does, but Devourer is not a term I care to share with strangers.

“So you really are an aristo. I suppose that poor folks don’t have these kinds of travel arrangements.”

The poor lady is a bit crestfallen, but like her kind is wont to do, she bounces back immediately.

“I should have guessed that from your behavior as well. Hmm. No offense.”

“None taken. I am still awaiting your offer with some curiosity. What can one who opposes the accumulation of wealth offer?”

“Service.”

“Oh,” I chuckle, “I do not think that you want to serve me.”

“No no no not me as a servant. A service for a service. Knowledge for knowledge? Would that work?”

I sigh in disappointment. She is no supplicant, not really. This is just a farce like this revolution of hers and our stay here. I am wasting my time instead of training. I would grant her knowledge as a boon if she provided me for some entertainment. I suppose that I will have to wait and see.

“That means no?” she asks with some frustration.

“You are searching for something to exchange. Let me know when you have found it, I am disinclined to hear your internal musings.”

I turn when Jimena’s aura pulses. The lithe vampire waves at me and I stand up to make my way back.

“Come, the others are waiting.”

We head down without her crashing into obstacles this time, and gather around a small map. Jimena brings me up to speed.

“The railway crosses the Vosges on its way to Strasburg and Frankfurt after that. It is a mountainous and heavily wooded area.”

“I noticed.”

“No sass, sister, we are on a schedule. The Vosges is a remote place, wild casters have been converging here for a while now, and it has become a hotbed of rebellious activity.”

I look around. The pine forest expands as far as I can see.

“For boars?”

“No sass, I said. The government of Louis-Napoleon takes a dim view to secessionist activity. Regular troops have started to provide support to groups hostile to mages.”

I remember the body of the man in a leather coat.

“Gabrielites.”

“Yes. Those mongrels have grown bold if they attacked one of our trains. We must… send a clear message. Gabrielites only back off if you kill enough of them.”

I shrug.

“I would not mind a little bloodshed to break off the monotony of the trip.”

“And I want vengeance for what they did to my followers,” Crispin adds as he comes to us, his hand firmly holding his black iron mace. “The revolutionaries are dispersed so information is in scarce supply, but they all know of areas to avoid. I suspect that the Gabrielites have made their lairs there, as quite a few patrols have gone missing while exploring the area. They should be centered around a small lake here,” he continues pointing at the map. Someone placed a pin on our current position and I see that the base is only ten miles away or so. It will be easy to reach it in a night, even with mortals in tow. In the worst case scenario, I can submerge the three of us in the earth’s embrace to survive the day.

“So, we find them and kill them all?” I ask with disbelief. I am so used to segmented plans and the need to mobilize large forces that I have forgotten that it is, in fact, possible to just go somewhere and kill people.

“Well, yes?” Crispin says a bit sheepishly while Jimena grins.

“Sister, you think too much. This is a small scale operation. Did you not want to try your new repeater? The big one?”

Aha!

“You really know how to handle me,” I say reproachfully, but I return to the train to grab my rifle from the armory.

I come across the train personnel on the way. They appear to be shaken by their losses and wounds. I gather that trains are most of the time left alone, and that deaths are exceedingly rare. Complacency always has an enticing perfume.

I pick up my rifle. It is the latest iteration in a long series of improvements on a custom design: a reinforced barrel and a firing mechanism fed by an ejectable revolver cylinder. Just like the Big Iron, this weapon is not meant for mortal hands. They would struggle with its tremendous weight. Such constraints are of no concern to me.

I place a bandolier of spare cylinders across my shoulder and walk out, the monstrous piece resting on my shoulder. The revolutionaries and rebels watch me come with various degrees of disbelief.

“Do you even know how to aim, woman?” one of them asks. Ah, to be doubted again in public is not an experience I have missed.

“Keep talking and find out,” I warn.

“Let it be,” the dirty blond-haired leader says, “we have to move now if we wish to make a difference. The reactionary forces of the great capital have pulled back because we caught them off guard, but if we wish to win, we must find out where they come from and kick them out. Are you with me?”

“Yea!”

“We scout and we find them, and if there are too many we will pull back and ask the comrades to join us. Stick with each other and stay quiet. They won’t expect us to dare and follow, but no need to alert them, guys. And girls. All in agreement?”

Everyone nods or grunts to affirm their support. The camp is made and the Marxists pack up with satisfactory speed considering that no one seems to be quite in charge. In only a few minutes, the column moves up.

“We will scout ahead, Vonany. Be sure to keep only two lights,” Crispin says in accented French. Interestingly, his seems to be merely a local, older accent while mine is that of a foreigner.

We move out. The pine forest swallows us until the skies are blotted and the heavy scent of sap covers every other. The woods creak lightly under a dense canopy, and everywhere beasts hunt and scavenge. Far in the distance, an owl ululates. Something small and furry dies in its grip.

The mortals trudge through the undergrowth with the light steps of those who know that they trespass on hostile territory. For a while, we follow the tracks left by the retreating Gabrielites. I am surprised by how few of them there seem to be, merely a dozen. No wonder that they left when under fire. A wise commander would have brought four times the number and enough powder to topple a mountain, though I am beginning to suspect that our foes are as confused by the turn of events as we are. Political fringe element siding with supernatural entities? The world has gone mad.

I keep my musings to myself as we split up and busy ourselves leading the mortals. One of us stays on track and marks the path while the two others roam and search for anomalies. There is very little to be found, but I find myself enjoying the distraction. I used to run the primal woods around Loth’s domain every night, but I have had little time to indulge that hobby in the last few months. I find that I have missed it, and that these deep pine forests lend themselves well to the exercise. The silence of ancient woods is only broken by scurrying things of which we are but one among many. Little by little, I shed the annoyance that had ruined my temper up until now and come to an obvious realization.

The departure of Sheridan has affected me on a deeper level than I had imagined. The other humans must now work a great deal harder to garner more than a passing glance from me, like that witch did. I do not believe that I had a single conversation with a crew member during my crossing of the Atlantic. Truly, we need them to stay… anchored in the mundane world. Perhaps we need them even more as we grow older and our ties to our past living selves fade.

I should write to June, my grand niece.

As I keep my mind relaxed, a powerful stench suddenly wakes me up from my reverie.

Now, not all of the forest’s perfumes are pleasant. Carrion and droppings are part of the tapestry of scents I expect. This is different. I smell old rot and burnt flesh. Smoke. Maggots. I flare my aura and wait for fifteen seconds. Jimena joins me with Crispin close behind.

“Is something the matter?”

“Can you smell that?”

The two others taste the air and wince one after the other.

“I have smelled this before,” Jimena says with obvious displeasure.

“So have I, after many battles. This one is both old and pungent, however. Different. Shall we check?”

We move quickly through a clearer patch of the forest. The trees are quite tall here, and their trunks are bare. Spiders and other things have made their lairs in the permanent darkness. We come across a path, a deep groove dug through the thick layer of dry pines, wide enough to show wheel tracks. A small handcart. We follow it to a clearing as the stench of death grows from cloying to overwhelming. The scene we come across silences even us.

The English term ‘mass grave’ does not give it justice. A grave can be a solemn thing after all. I much prefer the French term ‘charnier’, which evokes the amorphous gathering of spoilt flesh and jutting bones before us more viscerally. There are raised crosses with their arms blackened by fires planted at the front, like the dessicated remains of giants. Perhaps the magic of the world is growing thicker because I can still taste it in the background, a deep, festering aura of horror and despair. Those who were brought here saw what they were to become. They begged and yelled, then they screamed in agony when the hungry flames blackened their toes. They coughed and retched when incandescent fumes torched their lungs. Finally, their remains were cut down and flung aside to leave the place to others.

There was no dignity in death, not for them.

Crispin leans by a specific corpse. Jimena and I follow and see a young boy, this one still fresh. His rough-spun shirt shows the first hint of flames but someone shot him in the heart, sparing him some of the indignities he would have been subjected to. Despite the mercy kill, I still feel a deep unease at the sight of the dead.

I have rules, a code I picked for myself under Loth’s advice. This code grounds me and gives me boundaries I can follow to keep bloodlust and playfulness at a reasonable level, and despite its laxness and flexibility, I would still break its most basic tenets by doing what those people did.

Who would kill the little ones? It is wasteful. Pointless. Cruel to an impossible degree.

“I believe that we have found the lost patrols,” Crispin says, finally breaking the silence, “as well as some of the missing families Vonany mentioned.”

The old bishop looks up to us and in his eyes I see a flare that was not there before.

“Killing me is one thing, but slaughtering younglings has always woken in me the most terrible of urges. I suppose that I should thank the Gabrielites for making it so easy to hate them.”

“According to my personal code,” I say, “they made themselves fair game.”

“When have the Gabrielites ever done anything else?” Crispin asks.

“Some have fought with honor,” I answer.

“Not those,” Jimena says, “I will guide the mortals here, can I ask you to scout ahead?”

“We will,” Crispin replies.

The two of us split up and I follow the tracks while the man roams around. As we enter another vale through a gap between two mounds, I hear signs of battle to my left. I rush there but find the skirmish over before it even began. There are three Gabrielites dead on the ground and Crispin is currently wiping his mace with a nice handkerchief. I inspect their hiding place and admit that it would have been difficult to notice them on sight alone. Vegetation covers it so that it melds into its surroundings, all while giving its occupants a perfect point from whence to see everything .

That was before Crispin found it. Now, the structure lies gutted, much like its previous owners.

“They are well entrenched. Gabrielites are good at preparation. This outpost gave them a commanding view of the valley.”

I turn around and notice that the path we followed is not the only point of interest. The narrow vale we just entered must have been a hamlet not so long ago. Now, only skeletons of buildings remain huddled around a small lake large enough to justify a few canoes. Their husks line the beach.

I frown as I feel a tug, my intuition at work again.

“Is something the matter?”

How perceptive of him.

“Perhaps. Let us wait for the others and then move carefully.”

I shall never let my guard down against them. Arrogance is how they get us. If I close my eyes, I can still remember the oppressive feeling of fire all around me, and the cries of the White Cabal dying to silver bullets.

We wait for quite some time before the others join us. I remember from the briefing that this lake is the center of the contested region. The Marxists soon arrive in various states of shock. They are beaten and horrified. Some have cried, but to their credit they are all still there under the command of the grim Vonany.

“This is the perfect place for an encampment,” Jimena whispers in French when we all gather, “with fresh water, food to scavenge, and ready buildings. And yet it lies empty.”

“Perhaps a trap?” Vonany says, his eyes nervously searching the landscape.

“We should get closer. There is a small house on the other side of the lake. We can get there first, then consider our next step,” I say.

The others accept my proposition for lack of an alternative, and we set out, this time in much closer formation. The canopy recedes over us until we have to bend, and we silently line up along the shore. The silent houses stand to our left, close enough for even the mortals to see clearly in the moonlight. The scenery is devoid of both sound and movement. Like a painting.

Something bobs along the placid waters and I smirk, pointing it out to my companions. A cigar stub. Not far, an apple core floats, nibbled on by tiny fishes.

Under the mortals’ curious gaze, I kneel near an untouched expanse of mud and start drawing. Two concentric circles crossed by an eye like the slit pupil of a cat appear, soon covered with glyphs. I am not too familiar with this spell since I have little use for it, but I learned it anyway. I simply never expected to have to use it against Gabrielites of all people.

“Pierce the veil,” I whisper.

A circle like a lense with the diameter of two arms opens in the air, and sounds and lights emerge from the other side. The group gathers around and watches, mesmerized, as a window into a different world opens. Around us, the village lies abandoned. Through the aperture, it is a hive of activity.

I quickly study the new scene. The side opposite us, which includes a small pier, hosts quite a few military tents in orderly rows. Soldiers in blue vests and red trousers mill about, with dark scowls aimed at the other part of the camp, where the now-intact houses lie.

There, Gabrielites in uniform maintain a vigil over both the edge of the forest, the nearby paths, and, interestingly, the army. The rift between the two forces could only be more obvious if they started fortifying against each other. One last location causes a few words of consternation from our allies, though they are quickly quelled. Cages line a wall of the tallest building, and in them sit two dozen prisoners. I see men, women and children in those, including a few with red armbands.

“Prisoners, there! Those are our people,” one of the rebels says.

“I think I recognize Michelet. And is that not Marie Vaucoeur? I thought she and her family had simply fled the region!”

“Yes, yes,” Jimena interrupts, “not so loud. Ariane, how come that we cannot perceive them with our own eyes?”

I silently point at the front of the buildings where most of the Gabrielite sentries have gathered. They are fewer than the soldiers by a large margin, I notice. The source of the spell becomes obvious to everyone present. A man kneels on a set of planks, his body and arms held to a cross and his beatific face turned upward in prayer. Only a simple tunic covers his body, showing corded limbs criss-crossed by the marks of whip. Dirty brown hair covers his skull in oily clumps. As we watch, a sentry approaches with a sponge and helps him drink. After he is done, he resumes his supplications.

“Impossible. They are using mages as well?” Jimena asks

“He has the bearing of a martyr. Perhaps they have made an exception,” I suggest.

“I thought all those witches and whatnot were on our side?” a young revolutionary complains.

“Well, this one was brainwashed by our foes to turn on his own kin. Look how he suffers!” Vonany exclaims with a discreet glance at his own mage. The young Louise appears conflicted.

“The poor thing,” she finally mutters, but her expression hardens soon after.

“His sufferings will come to an end, whether he wants it or not. Freedom or death!”

A slew of approval echoes her declamation and we are once again forced to curb their enthusiasm. They are so young.

“This is your Hunt,” I tell Crispin, “how would you like to proceed?”

“I see three objectives and two constraints,” he says in French after a moment of reflection. “Our first constraint is the presence of prisoners. They must be freed before we engage. Our second constraint is the soldiers, and they should not be engaged at all.”

“Why not?” someone grumbles, “they are the arm of the capital!”

“Because,” the vampire replies patiently, “I count a hundred of them and you folks have two dozen fighters, to begin, and second, it is unwise to antagonize the army until you have a strategy to face the entirety of it.”

“But…”

“Look at it this way. If we keep the conflict between the Gabrielites and us, the soldiers may simply let us go or make some token effort to stop us. If we start killing them, they will fight back with their full strength. Does your ideology make you bulletproof? No? I thought not.”

“Antoine is right,” Vonany says with a look at the revolutionary who had objected, “they are clearly allied. Why would they not fight side by side?”

Jimena answers this time.

“If you look at the camp, you will see that their alliance is fraying at the edge. They have two camps and the hostility between them is clear. Gabrielites are a paranoid sort. They do not work well with other mortals, nor do they hide their holier-than-thou attitudes. As for soldiers, those are undoubtedly reluctant to slaughter their own civilians. We are in luck.”

“Alright, the revolution is not ready in any case,” Vonany admits, “but what about the three objectives?”

“The first objective is the first constraint. We need to free the prisoners at the start. The second objective is to send a message to the army that the Gabrielites are not the unstoppable experts they must have claimed to be. The last objective is to kill every last of them.”

“But not the soldiers?”

“But not the soldiers.”

“Your confidence is inspiring, comrade Crispin. How do we do that?”

“Yeah,” the man from earlier says, “easier said than done.”

The vampire bristles slightly at the interruption and the other man backs down, chastised.

“We obviously need a diversion, a compelling performance that cannot be ignored. If it brings terror to the soldiers, all the better.”

Jimena turns to me, then Crispin does so as well. The Marxists soon join them through, I guess, mimetism.

“Yes, I can do a diversion,” I admit, slightly miffed that I have been designated as the prime diversion provider.

“Excellent. You attract the Gabrielites’ attention while the rest of us free the prisoners. After we are done, I shall join you while Jimena of the Cadiz covers our exit. If that is agreeable?”

Nods all around. I find the mortals strangely settled. Although they are grim, I see a determination in their eyes that the situation does not justify. We have not even used Charm on them and they are still ready to attack a superior force. We only just met. Perhaps our confidence is enough to convince them?

“Then we shall move along the edge of the clearing. Ariane of the Nirari, please give us ten minutes to get in position, then you can… let go.”

“One last question…” I say as an afterthought, “are there any pigs held here that you know of?”

All but Jimena show signs of deep consternation. As for my sister, she is busy chuckling.

“Please excuse my dear sister. She has a bad experience with pigs and diversions. I can neither smell nor hear any, but if I do, I shall imitate a bird cry,” she says.

“Yes, yes, on your way then.”

I watch the group fade back into the woods, then hear them progress with cautious steps. Now, for a diversion. I already have an idea as I see an interesting figure walking along the small pier. I put on my scarred battle mask, make sure the cloak is well-adjusted and sneak my way along the lake from the far side.

I do not have much time so I go faster than usual. A vigilant sentry catches movement at the edge of his field of view and frowns, so I use a touch of suggestion to make him dismiss his concern. I arrive at the pier without issue and cast a small darkness spell to make it disappear from view. There are a lot of tents nearby, but its occupants are currently sleeping.

The officer finishes his cigar and tosses the stub dismissively into the cold water. His dress uniform is freshly pressed, and I see only evening stubble on his cheeks, but the underlying smell of old sweat and drooping shoulders shows the dent in his spirit. I expected that much.

“What bothers you so?” I ask in French, and the man jumps up with a yelp to face me, “the death of a child or the torture of civilians?”

He clenches his jaw and places a hand on his side, only to realize that he left his sidearm somewhere else. The darkness spell masks the encampment, so that the path behind me leads only to impenetrable gloom. I stretch the spell to encase us just as he searches around. A risky move, as the unnatural shadow could be noticed. Thankfully, the pier was dark to start with and the attention of most guards is aimed outward.

“You are one of them,” he says, swallowing his saliva with difficulty. I have to give him credit for his self-control, though I smell his terror. Delicious, but he is off-limits.

“Yes, and you are in way over your head. But do not take my word for it. I shall visit our religious friends now, and you have but to witness our conflict. Stay out of it.”

“Honor compels me to—”

“Kill children?” I interrupt.

His composure cracks.

“He was going to suffer more…”

Oh! So it was him who shot the child in the heart to spare him the indignity of death at the stake.

“There will be more of them, an endless tide of innocents whose sole sin was to be born with power. How many times can you see the light fade in their little eyes before you lose yourself?” I ask. In his heart, I fan his burning anger and the simmering pain of intense guilt. It took nothing more than the smallest nudge to get him over the edge.

“I will be punished and my career will be over but… dammit. I cannot take this anymore. I signed up to defend the motherland, not to assist a bunch of lunatics. I may be making a mistake, but if you stay away from our camp, I will not interfere while you, while you…”

His voice wavers, and he takes a great sigh, then his shoulders straighten and I am looking at a new man.

“While you dispense justice.”

We understand each other. The paper pusher who sent this man to supervise the Gabrielites was a fool. The officer is young and naive, an idealist. A jaded monster returning from the colonies would have served the cause better.

Their loss, my win.

I nod and let the darkness fade progressively, so as not to alert anyone. I move out and decide to reposition. I need to approach the village from the front where the Gabrielites have focused their attention. It only takes me a minute or so to be in position. The only difficulty I face is the powerful illusion still protecting the perimeter. I am forced to cast the piercing spell again to find their sentries and make sure that my approach will not be detected, then I slowly crawl through the edge of the magical construct, feeling it brush over me like a strong wind.

Truly, one must work hard to make things look effortless.

Finally, I am ready. The night is well on its way by now, and the sentries are growing tired. The fires are little more than embers crackling peacefully in the clean mountain air. The only person still active is the martyr mumbling to the sky, needled as he is by faith and self-hatred.

I notice a guarded shed to the side and deduce that it might be the armory. If not there, then inside one of those buildings. That goes first.

Then what?

I need to attract attention, and for that I must resort to theatrics. I can do theatrics. They are a form of gloating.

Sadly I will not be able to use the repeater. Another time, perhaps.

Sinead always writes about the different roles he plays on his quest across the world, and what insight he gained every time. There is one skin I can wear, one persona I can adopt that would be perfectly suitable. In fact, I already have an advantage. After all, I have been in his mind and seen his memories.

Quickly, I sneak to the shed and find that, indeed, it smells of gunpowder. I come at the sentries from the back and do not kill them as their absence might alert the foe. Instead, I pick the lock open and cast a spell on the hinges so that they move silently. Inside, I find a few barrels. I take my one small powder charge and cast another silence spell to mask the hiss of the fuse. I close the door quietly, and return to my starting position.

Thirty more seconds.

I am Nirari.

I am Nirari, I am Nirari, I am Nirari.

I take a deep breath and relax my shoulders. I crouch and place both hands on the green grass. Fertile land, ripe for the taking. All mine soon. Those before me are PREY. They are pathetic and weak, the same fanatics I have faced a thousand times before. This is just a distraction, something to fend off boredom as I pursue her.

Yes.

I allow my concern for tactics and coordination to disappear from my mind. My allies will do what they want, I care not. I am not here for some grand plan. I am here to punish.

I am arrogant.

I am detached.

I am supremely self-confident.

And I am cruel beyond compare.

The shed explodes. The two guards’ mangled bodies fall on the turf, broken. I rush forward and take out Rose, slashing at the closest man.

A flash of blue and the blade is repelled.

Well, I should have expected… No! No. I am Nirari. I am toying with them.

I smile at the closest guard and throw a knife at his throat, pick his blade and spear it through his neighbor. The radiance of the human god will not stop a native blade. He falls as well.

A few guards aim and shoot. I move conservatively and avoid their scattered attacks by stepping aside at the last moment. Another guard falls to a knife. I crush a fourth with the body of his comrade for the sake of variety. The others run back to the largest building from whence a group emerges. They left the martyr behind.

He looks up to me with liquid brown eyes.

“I forgive you, for you cannot help what you are,” he tells me.

“Quite so,” I reply. Around him, the bubbling power of faith burns against my skin with such fervor that I cannot approach, so I pick up a bayoneted musket and pierce his flank. Blood spills on the packed earth.

Around us, the fire has spread to a nearby building. Heat and light bask us in an infernal glow, providing a perfect background to the scene that will follow. I stand tall and let the fearful mortals gaze at the metal glint of my mask. The Gabrielites gather fearfully around a tall, relatively young fighter with a bushy beard. He and his kin huddle behind a wall of tower shields bearing the cross of their god while, behind, the soldiers have gathered but do not move. They hold their breath and I feel the pleasant weight of their gaze upon me. I am not bothered because I provoked it. All the world is a stage and the main actor just stepped in, and now they will perform for my amusement.

“Foul creature! We shall purge your kind from the face of the earth!” the Gabrielite leader bellows, trying to overcome his panic. I allow him to bleat a few more threats before I flick a finger and make myself as loud as an orchestra.

“Your banter bores me, Gabrielite. I have heard the same threats a hundred times. Always yapping, never biting. Will you dogs of the church finally provide me with some entertainment before I leave your bloodless corpses to the crows?”

Ohohoho this is FUN.

Before me, a few fighters take a step back when they finally realize that, yes, I am no simple caster. Their leader tries in vain to regain the initiative.

“I know what you are, vampire!” he screams.

“Then you will die a wise man.”

And with that cheesy delivery, I grab my cloak and let it fall to the ground, revealing the obsidian armor below. I do not have to look to know that the embers reflect on its smooth scales.

“You will not get away with this! A new age is upon us! Your kind will be left behind!”

I have heard that one before.

“Are you quite sure?” I ask.

Then I take the Big Iron and shoot him in the face.

Heh.

He falls dead while his followers look on, completely dumbstruck.

I just could not resist. Screw Nirari, I will play the immortal horror my own way.

“Hahahaha! Die, mongrels!”

Rose is repelled, some of my spells hit their silver-covered shields and are somehow absorbed and I cannot get close but it does not matter. They have no real way to stop me, they can only delay, and I am not taking any real risk either. A man falls with a bullet between the eyes, another killed by a knife. I manage to find a rope, form a lasso like Sheridan taught me, and drag one of them screaming into a dark recess where I drain him by the ankle.

Through the sock, unfortunately.

The others don’t know it and I make sure to throw the severed head at their feet, as well as providing commentary. Normally I would limit the talk but this is not a Hunt. I am exterminating vermin for a friend.

“None of you will live to see the dawn!” I helpfully inform them in the most ominous voice.

“Don’t listen to her! Salvation comes from heaven!” a leader says as he gathers his bloody troops near the entrance of their base.

“No, it will not.”

Crispin joins the fray. He jumps down from the building’s roof and onto the enemy formation. All their crosses are aimed out and the attack takes them by surprise. The reserved vampire turns into a whirlwind of steel and destruction, his mace sending bodies crashing into walls with mighty roars. His savagery is such that I am a bit hesitant to join him while he is obviously having such a great time. Eventually, we take down the last stragglers and the fire appears contained enough that the village will probably not be turned to cinders. We clean our weapons with all the haughty arrogance we can muster, and walk away into the darkness, casting one last glance at the terrified soldiers sticking to each other in tight ranks.

With the illusion lifted, we easily find Jimena and a convoy of civilians, many of them showing signs of abuse. I approach a smiling sister and speak in a low voice.

“Do you think that we left a sufficiently strong impression?”

Jimena points behind at the burning village and piles of corpses, then at the terrified ranks of soldiers still holding position, then back at our own mortals, also terrified and holding position.

“Yes I do believe that you performed adequately.”