A Journey of Black and Red

When I came to Nirari to invite him to my war, I did not give him a new idea. He has not just considered invading the dead world. He was already preparing to do so. He proves it with his next action.

“And death.”

All the drained blood gathers in an ominous crimson orb as tall as a hill. With a gesture, he sends it crashing against the farther slave warriors and armed civilians. A veritable wall of carmine energy surges over hundreds, thousands of foes, mangling them in instants. It has taken at most five seconds for Nirari to stand, silence the battlefield, then cast a city-ending spell before anyone else can recover from his calamitous aura.

The field leading to the liches cleared, he does what I expected to do from the start. Nirari roars, then under the purple gaze of the Watcher, Nirari charges, and we charge with him.

His attack frees us of the aura. The world, which had held its breath, now releases it eagerly. The roar calls upon the most primal part of us all. This bloodshed is about conquest and supremacy. All of us know this, including the liches. Who steps away from that battlefield will eventually come to rule two planets. There is only one acceptable outcome, one thing left to do. Fight and triumph. There is no viable alternative.

As one, the two armies resume the hostility with renewed fury. Ranks of spearmen charge entrenched shooters and machine guns nest. Cannons roar. Rifles rattle. Orbs char and freeze entire trenches. Tanks and other vehicles move forward, crushing the wounded and the slow under their treads. Dive bombers drop fire and steel on shield arrays and walkers alike in an unending display of carnage. This is no longer war as I know it, with maneuvers and logistics and positioning where a stronger opponent can be defeated with superior tactics. This is a slugging match of biblical proportion with men killing and dying where they stand. The slave warriors and their masters have no regard for life whatsoever. The carnage will continue until only one side remains.

This is it. I no longer need to worry about the big picture. Kill or be killed is a concept I mastered a long time ago. In a way, I rejoice. I am at peace. I can shed my concerns and do what we were all designed to do.

Hunt.

I charge forward, following Nirari and the path his spell carved. In front of us, the liches spend all they have to unleash torrents of fire geysers of magma, shimmering lights and the fury of the sky as viridian bolts join the chromatic cloud aiming at us. I raise a forest of roots and thorns to block it. Blood sprites and shields grow among the boughs like grotesque fruits to intercept the attacks. Magic might crashes against our defenses and fails to break through, the stolen energy absorbed by the otherworldly power granted by the Watcher. The liches fly and spread out as we approach, their first concern always being their own safety. Soon, shields flare left and right.

Nirari stomps the ground. I know what to do. We have no need to speak. A massive root flips out, propelling the first vampire on a collision course against a lich at a speed that the creatures cannot follow. My sire goes through the shield, the lich, and the slaves beyond in one strike of his glaive. I block some of the answering spells with a wave of thorns beyond which my sire hides before launching himself at another target. Those liches that keep climbing soon find themselves picked off, the large shields an easy target for the European aces. Svyatoslav takes shots at targets of opportunity as they lower their guards. I am the shield, Slava is the spear, and Nirari is the hammer.

Only after smashing through another lich do I take a moment to slow down. A transmission comes from my ear receiver, which I had temporarily forgotten. I can barely understand the words.

“Ariane, I do not — have done but the liches are pulling — spells forming and they are removing a seal on a — absolutely massive.”

“Focus on getting the bomb ready. The longer we wait and the worse it gets.”

“ — hear you well but we are almost — fore detonation. Good luck!”

“Stop dallying, little princess. You are missing out.”

I take a moment to watch our surroundings. I expect the Last Judgment may approach what I see in intensity if God will have cause to be particularly vindictive. Smoke, fire, liches and warplanes battle in the skies for supremacy while the war on land has reached a paroxysm of savagery. I observe Urchin stealing yet another scepter before absconding back into the melee to the screeches of his victim. Far to the side, a master ascends to ladyship and reappears inside of the shield of her victim. Many others trigger at this juncture while some of our kin fall to fire spells. It will take decades to rebuild the ranks of those who have met their ends here and will meet it before this is all over.

As I watch, a rod of light arches from the city skyline over our heads, then lands in the middle of an artillery detachment, vaporizing it. More streaks soon appear on the background of clouds. I resume my offense. There is nothing I can do for them except take out liches and attract their attention. The more time passes and the more desperate our foe will grow, and the more they will sacrifice their reserves to bring us down. It has not been one day and the weapons they throw at us could already level towns.

I lose myself in the flow of battle.

It feels so natural to fight with my kin. I surf over roots and tendrils, emerging from the cover only to swat the liches unfortunate enough to remain. My statues slaughter anything that approaches while Slava and Nirari use the protection I provide to dodge spells, only to resurface in bursts of speed and aggression. A lich attempts to roast me with a bolt of lightning but the strange taste of the air warns me and I use a tendril to intercept it. I jump on a root to launch myself at it, then a vertical swing to smack the creature down with its shield. Thorns cover and shred it before it can escape again. We are chewing through the opposition at great speed, matchless and deadly. Truly, fighting besides the oldest, most powerful vampire does have its perks.

The liches that attempt to attack the mortals find that the scorn spikes buried at regular intervals weaken their spells while anchoring the lifeforce. it takes them a lot of resources to bypass or destroy them, time during which they become visible, slow targets. Nevertheless, the long-ranged spells coming from the city’s heart still inflict great damage on our backlines.

An earthquake shakes the ground, spreading out from the gates but most of the tremor stops at the edge of the spikes, their energies calmed. It ends up helping our side more as the slave warriors stumble and pause. I hope Cadiz will not be long.

Suddenly, I am caught in a gray dome, the outside world muted. My Magna Arqa becomes restrained to the sphere and I watch both Nirari and Slava emerge on the naked ground, soon becoming the target of a thousand spells. I hope Slava will be fine.

A lich takes the center of the sphere, clad in a silvery armor dulled by the ages. It wields a sword encrusted with jewels.

“You have come to this world to die,” it says.

A torrent of fast, silvery barbs emerges from its blade with every swing. The first wave hits my stone dragon as it flies out from the forest of thorns. I can feel that the stone cannot reform, at least not for now. The spell appears designed to kill my kind.

“You should have taught it to your brethren,” I mock.

It does not reply. I race around the sphere, dodging all of the clouds aimed at me. They leave the ground pitted behind as if by a rain of acid. It does not move from the center of the sphere and I am not eager to escape. Any creature that traps itself in an enclosed space with a war lady deserves what happens next. I feint a few times by moving up but the lich does not react. Perhaps it does not have a short-ranged countermeasure? That would be foolish.

With a hiss, I ride a wave of thorns up and strike with Rose at the maximum range. The creature’s shield cracks and a wave of fire expands out in the same reaction. A reactive defense? Adorable. I am gone before it can reach me.

I notice a crack in the shield. Flimsy work for a powerful lich, perhaps a side effect of the reactivity. I ride another wave to target the same spot again. Once more, I swing with all of my strength, the blade’s teeth slicing through the air with a ghastly crack. The wave this time is stronger and the lich swings where it believes I will dodge.

“Polar midnight.”

I simply pass through the wall of flames.

FIRE BAD.

But victory is sweet. The shield cracks. The lich raises its sword above its skull. Purple orbs emerge in a rain of projectiles. I strike the first one as I dive. It explodes.

Rose twists away from my hand. I am disarmed? The soul blade clangs against the wall and I feel a sort of pressure upon my essence, though it does not break. For an instant, my soul weapon was subjected to a monstrous force but thankfully, and so long as I live, it is quite unbreakable. I summon the whip sword back in my hand though I do not use it. Inefficient. Instead, I call more statues. They launch themselves at the balls to intercept them. The projectiles leave behind perfectly spherical gouges in my constructs. Even the dragon gets obliterated just as I reformed it. I dive under my roots and pick up my revolver from a back pocket.

I named that one the Slayer. The only reason why it is not a pistol is that my hand could not fit around the handle. The Slayer has exactly four bullets and each one has been carefully assembled over a night for a single purpose: to kill the unkillable.

Voices like a choir chant when I aim. I feel a strange pull on my instinct. I can watch the exact trajectory the bullet will take with my intuition before I even fire.

I pull the trigger and am launched back.

The lich’s body explodes, skull going and —

Suddenly, I am caught in a gray dome, the outside world muted. My Magna Arqa becomes restrained to the sphere and I watch both Nirari and Slava emerge on the naked ground, soon becoming the target of a thousand spells. I hope Slava will be fine.

A lich takes the center of the sphere, clad in a silvery armor dulled by the ages. It wields a sword encrusted with jewels.

Wait a moment.

This… what?

It cannot be.

The lich raises its sword above its head. A dissonance gives me a headache. A different path? I was flung back in the past!

“Do it again so I can kill you a third time,” I tell the creature.

Well, I have wasted enough time on this episode, pun intended.

The first purple orb tosses Rose away. The second hits my werewolf statue as it emerges. I recall Rose and extend her, hitting the third orb as it leaves the shield. An explosion pushes both me and the now shieldless lich away. Before it can recover, I fling Rose at it. The creature’s torso is mangled but it is not quite dead yet.

A veritable inferno surges from the lich directly at me. I do not think it quite understands so I merely fill the Aurora with power. The jewel on the chestplate shines a teal blue.

The hungering jaw of winter welcomes the heat, absorbs it with greedy fangs. It fades and only the endless expanse of stillness remains. My armored boot crushes the lich.

Suddenly, I am caught in a gray dome, the outside world muted. My Magna Arqa becomes restrained to the sphere and I watch both Nirari and Slava emerge on the naked ground, soon becoming the target of a thousand spells. I hope Slava will be fine.

“I can do this all night!” I tell the lich.

The dome fades. It tries to fly away. I move up while the dragon statue swoops down. Another attempt at fire fails to deter us and we crush the lich one last time as the sword crumbles to dust, its power exhausted.

I find myself on the dragon’s back, flying.

I… can ride the dragon.

I cannot believe I did not think of that before! My meeting with the Old One terrorized me so much that I considered using his effigy as a means of transportation to be simply too blasphemous, perhaps? Yet, this is merely an effigy and qualms of propriety have no place on the battlefield. Flying it is.

The next lich that crosses my path appears quite surprised. By now, the two other Devourers have split and I realize why. The liches have completely scattered, no longer trying to overwhelm us with their numbers. I believe they had a good chance at success if they had worked together but obviously that runs contrary to their very nature. I look up to see a large explosion, then another reveals what is happening. Against all odds, dive bombers are flying straight at those rod spells and intercepting them mid air. Human pilots are sacrificing themselves to protect hundreds of men from certain death on the ground. As I watch, another squadron positions itself to intercept more.

This is the difference between the liches and us. This is why we will win. As the mousquetaires say, one for all and all for one.

Our mortals are also starting to counter-attack with new forces rushing out of the portal with pristine energy. It seems the balance is slowly tilting in our favor, until the next disaster comes for us, of course. I ride the dragon statue up and scare a plane or two before assaulting another lich from the back. We crash back into slave ranks and I kill it there, then I invoke a veritable forest to tear into the tightly packed enemies. Devoured energy fills my essence. There are just so many of them. I feel completely refreshed once I am done. Truly, the battlefield is where Devourers perform the best. We could just keep going until there is nothing left but us and a sea of exsanguinated corpses.

“— eal undone. We are setting the — fore whatever comes your way affects the portal tool. Ariane — out of here,” a voice says in my ear, but I am not listening.

I stopped. I had to. Just to make sure I have not grown mad.

I am struck with disbelief.

A small spell confirms my suspicion and I watch a tiny needle of aura go mad trying to find the planet’s magnetic north. I see the other vampires reacting as well. They have felt it.

The magic is back.

The Dead World is… alive? It feels alive. Normal. How can this be? I look around, finding the liches leaving the frontline. The continues unabated though the vampires also stop, hesitant. I was so sure, still am so sure that this planet has perished. I do not understand what is happening.

Nirari flares his aura, calling us back to him. I ride the stone dragon higher on my way to see around the plain. Nothing unusual jumps to my eyes but I remember Cadiz’ message and peer at the Last City’s skyline. Nothing much has changed. It is still a forest of titanic, decrepit buildings. Hmmm, I can see something over the horizon. A tiny dot, rather far and ascending. It arches back towards us and flies with… beats of wings?

For a moment, I believe my vision betrays me. Bone wings move diaphanous membranes, a blue fire burns inside the chest and in the empty sockets of a massive form but no. I have to believe the evidence as I can feel the wave of magic emanating from the ghastly form. The realization forces me to swallow my fear as if I were still human. This seems entirely too much.

They have a lich dragon.

It is a dragon, It brings life, is the symbol of a rising world. A dragon! All hail the — No!

No.

I shake my head, concentration momentarily lost. Around us, the fighting has stopped. Men stand in the middle of what they were doing, weapons forgotten. The planes fly in slow circles. The cannons have grown silent. Everyone watches the coming of what appears to be a liberator, a symbol of hope and majesty. Life returned to a long perished world… except they are deceived. I can sense it, somehow. This is not a true dragon. Someone has stolen its form and now wears it like one wears a mask, a grotesque parody of its true self. This lich dragon represents life in the Dead World in the same way maggots represent life in a rotting carcass. It is bleeding off excess energy, not gathering it. The dragon flies but a humanoid mind drives it.

If the Old One were here, this world would be turned to ash in moments to atone for this vile desecration. No matter. We have a real issue. If that thing reaches the portal, my scorn spikes will stand as much chance as a sand castle against a tidal wave. The army will die in moments, and the portal will be undone. We need to do something. I move towards Nirari, only to find him looking at me.

We are the only two here who can still function in the frozen hellscape this battlefield has become.

I know why.

“Dragonslayers,” I tell him.

“Yes. We will have to take it down. I assume its shield will be formidable. You will play your role while I play mine. Get me an opening. Crack that beast open.”

Ah yes, the spear. It rests against his throne even now. While he races to pick it up, I rush back to our lines. The fact it takes me more than a few seconds stands as testament to the sheer number of soldiers killing each other on this plain. I soon find myself at the front, near German troops.

Nirari sees conquest as domination and destruction. He killed his dragon in single combat. He draws power from the dead. I see domination as an empire to build against all odds. I defeated my dragon in a ritual contest. I draw power from the living and it is the living that will see us through this ordeal.

Normally, we old vampires keep our auras contained at all times. To emit one’s energy freely is not just rude, it places a beacon upon our location and one never knows what might be paying attention. I can no longer afford to be hidden, however. I must be heard.

I do not just flare my aura, who I am and what I have done. I push it out until it drowns the siren pull of the lich dragon’s presence. I immediately realize that it will not suffice. It lacks… personality. Momentum. A spark to get the pyre going. In front of me stand a squad of German infantrymen, the closest a heavyset man holding a rifle with a bloodied bayonet still attached. He stares listlessly at the approaching doom.

I slap him, gently. He blinks.

Using my best drill sergeant voice enhanced by a sound spell, I begin my tirade.

“Wachen Sie auf, Schweinen! Wake up you fools. On se réveille, tas de méduses! Pick yourselves up and fight! Fight if you want to live! Si sveglino, imbecili. NOW!”

I launch into a polyglottal rant of the most abusive insults I can muster as I rush through the ranks, distributing wallops and comments on their mothers’ proclivities, weight, and species when applicable.

“Stand and fight. Fire, FIRE! Feu à volonté! Angriff. ANGRIFF! Fuego a voluntad ! »

Finally all those years of study are paying off.

Also, I find clocking helmeted goons to be really cathartic.

First by pockets, then by companies, my wake up calls force men to move, reload. Shake their neighbors. No one here believes for a single second that the breathtakingly captivating sight means anything else than something coming to ruin their day. The previous hours of bloodshed have cured them of any illusions. The Dead World is that, dead, and anything that comes from it carries a final sentence. I am trying to remember enough Swedish to abuse their expeditionary corps when Stiglitz finds me, a few officers in tow. He signals and one of his aides insults the group in Danish which seems to stir them awake even faster.

“What is that thing and how do we stop it?”

“We need to crack the shield. We need all our guns on it but…”

“But it’s a flying target. Rather slow. Yes?”

“Very much and the shield bubble should be quite large. Still…”

“Do not worry about asking artillerymen to commit geometry. I assure you, it will be done. In the meanwhile, kindly get up there and give me my fighters back. Getting flyers off our ass is their damn job.”

I nod, surprised about the change of tone from the previous conversation. I suppose that being confronted with a myth tends to give someone perspective.

“Right.”

We will need all the firepower we can to even dent its protection, and the most effective would be anti-ship weaponry. If only…

I almost smack myself when I realize what I have missed. It is a matter of moment to change the frequency of my earpiece to the desired one.

“Skipper? Talk to me.”

I wait. One, two, three—

“This is Skipper. I copy.”

“Skipper, the magic is temporary back in the Dead World. Shove the Fury through the portal aperture as fast as you can and bring everything that flies and has a gun with you. General Stiglitz will back us up.”

“Yes ma’am. And when we get there, any specific instructions?”

“Yes. Fire everything you have at the dragon.”

“…. pardon me?”

I do not grace that with an answer. Instead, I take to the skies on the back of my statue. The planes are still airborne which is a small miracle in itself, but they have spread out. My previous method of punting people into each other until they start moving will not work here. I need a more… thorough method. Even if it tires me a little. Most of the planes have formed a sort of wide, disorganized death spiral circling over the battlefield. I move to the exact middle and pull my aura in completely.

Then, I feed it to the Aurora. The gem shines like a star as I wake it up and feed it all I have. The wind picks up over the Last City for the first time in eons. The clouds roll, darkening.

“Come on,” I say in Likaean. “Let them taste winter.”

I feel something fall against my cheek, then look down to see where it fell. Over a strand of blonde hair, I find a perfect snowflake. I can feel a smile blooming. Ah, this will be fun.

If there is one thing dive bombers and fighter pilots fear, it is to be hunted by something on their tail. Today, I am that something.

Winter does love a good chase.

The statue flaps its massive wings one last time on its assent. For a moment, gravity loses its hold. The stale air of the corpse planet is replaced with the crisp kiss of a solstice twilight. I spread my hand, relaxing for the first time in what feels like an eternity. I channel all I am in that beautiful moment with nothing but the clouds and the gathering blizzard.

And I

ROAR

Like a scared flock of birds, the planes buckle and dodge. If they were not so widely spaced. Some of them would have crashed into each other. Swear words in half a dozen languages erupt through the skies under the drone of engines. A part of me is concerned about the need for refueling but the rest has only one thing to say, and I say it in adult Likaean. I do not do so for expediency, or even because time is of the essence. I do so because the ritual has begun and proper form must be followed.

A story with a dragon is never about the dragon.

It is always about the one who kills it.

“You are the wings of the dragon slayer. Follow me. When you can fire, fire. When I turn, turn. Fly with courage if you want to live. Strike without hesitation if you want to be a legend.”

I do not wait to see if they obey. I know they will. The strands of fate positively vibrate as I make a beeline for the spheres’ most powerful predator.

I have something to say about the mortals I have led here. They possess the grim tenacity that leads armies past the breaking point and into the realm of heroism. Without prompt, squadrons reform, wingmen find wingmen until I have them all behind me, to my sides, above and under the dragon statue. We form a shape of our own, though one made of trained soldiers, machinery, and a total disregard for the odds. I watch our prey take more of the skies as we approach it, passing over crumbling skyscrapers. If I refer to it as a prey in my mind often enough, I may end up believing it.

Just as ordered, the planes fire when they have a shot, more than five thousand feet away. They cannot miss. I consider using my gun but my intuition tells me that I shall need those bullets later, and it will not make any difference anyway. The hail of projectiles rattle off a village-sized shield. Several planes run out of ammunition almost immediately. No matter, I can see the shield flare. We are applying pressure.

I break off the attack at three thousand feet. I can already feel the creature’s pull, even though there is no intent in its gaze. It feels… sleepy. Passive. We have not endangered it yet.

I consider doing another pass but I cannot. Suddenly, explosions bloom on the immense shield. First a few, then dozens, then a torrent until the vewy view of the lich dragon disappears under a firestorm. The last I see is a blue eye waking up. Enormous pressure smashes against my mind and fills me with a sense of vertigo.

For an instant, all those material elements like bombs and vectors and fuel levels become secondary to a clash of concepts happening together and parallel to the real world event. The lich represents the dragon’s power, life even though it is weak and rotting. I represent the dragon slayer, unity, manipulation, blood, the hunt. We are an arrow and a target in the tapestry that is destiny. I am the unstoppable force to its unmovable object. Time does not matter. Place does not matter. We are merely two particles on an ancient, unavoidable collision course.

The last spark of blue fire disappears and I am myself once again.

Concept or not, that thing is going down. The human camp is now a grid of artillery placement with flying ships spread over it, firing broadside after broadside with more climbing to attack altitude with every second. The shield hums, a wakening song fighting the onslaught. It seems to thicken at the front but I can already see the first flaws forming in the apparently impenetrable shield.

I have done all I could. Now the assembled might of mankind will pierce the shield or not. The die, as they say, is cast.

It is only when I hear his voice that I remember the pitfall that intuition can be, the way it blinds those who dance with fate to outside factors. I am not a particle on a collision course.

There are two of us.

Nirari makes his move.

“Do it,” he says in a cold voice.

“Yes, master,” Malakim replies.

Ah.

Shit.

I think very fast. I scream ‘back’ at the planes, though we are already on our way out. At the same time, I change the frequency to find Cadiz’.

“Get out of here! Get out of here now!”

“— already armed. We are activating —”

“NOW!”

I am too late.

A second before it happens, I can feel the pit of my stomach drop while primal terror overcomes me.

Some scientists argued that triggering a nuclear explosion would set our atmosphere on fire, wiping out all life. I am happy to confirm that they were wrong.

It certainly feels that way, however.

For a brief moment, I can see every bone in my arms through the armor. Every knuckle of my digits, even though I know they would turn to ash if detached. They are all there. I could count them.

The world becomes a gray tapestry, a negative version of itself.

Then I am set on fire. I am thoroughly ashed. It lasts for merely a split second and is more terrifying than really painful. I do not even feel the horrible pain that is fire. I am already dead, gone from the world. Whatever passes for nerves in my eldritch body has fried before reporting to my brain.

But the moment passes and I am alive.

I gasp when the shockwave hits me. Several planes dislocate mid air while others wobble. barely holding on. The statue cracks and falls like a stone because I have lost control of my essence. It takes a supreme effort of will to recover before I can dive. I cannot believe it. I cannot believe it!

Light and fire rage behind me. The groans of titanic mountains collapsing on themselves deafen me so it is in perfect silence that I perceive more than see the lich dragon’s shield cracking, smashed in its weak side by an unexpected blow. I also perceive more than see Nirari arming his throw, his perfect form as the dragon bone spear flies through the air. I know it will hit. There can be no other outcome.

The lich dragon is hit with a death blow. It crumples like a bus hitting the bottom of a cliff. The almighty bones that survived countless centuries imbued with arcane might shatter like glass. The second shockwave feels almost as world-ending as the first. This place is so hot. Need to get away but…

I am still flying forward when my earpiece crackles, his word carried to my regrown drums.

“The pact is done. Victory is ours and so does our truce ends. I will not blame you for your plot back on earth, little princess. You have respected the terms of our contract. I will, however, return the favor by playing the first card. Until next time.”

I hear the voices of the panicked attendant when Nirari crosses the portal. I also hear him sing my own bloody spell.

“Bloody glaive and clenching jaws

Thorny whip and closing maws

Hear me out and close the gate

Let the little one be late.”

For the second time in my life, I watch, powerless, the portal back home seal itself in front of me. Nirari used a calming spell which not only closed the portal but will also make it almost impossible to open one again from our end. Not until the spell fades.

More importantly, he will not fail to notice the beacon of power formed by his mother’s ascension ritual, one that she began the second he entered the Dead World, as the two of us agreed upon. His parting words imply he knew of it before returning, in any case, which implies he made a contingency plan. Now, the first vampire can set his sights on godhood and the only person capable of standing in his path has been left behind like the complete idiot she is.

We have a problem.