A Journey of Black and Red-Chapter 137: Para Bellum

Newspapers cover my desk. I skim through them and verify that my directives have been followed.

I believe that, in order to control public opinion, one has to select a specific topic and give up on the rest. Reporters and columnists argue in favor and against the continuation of the war, in favor and against the status of black citizens and freemen, in favor and against conscription. They hurl insults and trigger hot debates on a plethora of subjects, their tones fiery and passionate. The fracas of discordant opinions provides a nice, smooth layer to the one message I wish to be conveyed.

White Cabal good.

That is all.

‘Local heroes fend off monstrous assault.’

‘Spiritualists successfully capture live specimen in daring attack.’

‘Minister Lewis to address the Senate.’

Like a chaste woman baring herself on her wedding night, the magical world only reluctantly sheds its shadowy garments. We drown every new revelation in the chaos of war news and scandalized opinions on the price of tobacco, and all of those are further sweetened by the handsome face of Reggie himself. His dazzling smile adorns many pictures, including a few where he stands triumphant over the mangled remains of a drone like a hunter over an elk. He has already become a darling of the media.

And despite the honeymoon, the first waves of persecution lap at our feet. Witch trials and public execution are in vogue again both south and north of the border. Even as far as my Illinois, twenty hot-blooded young men rode into the village of Moonside for the express purpose of investigating reports of ‘unholy activities’. I had to order the murder of two magistrates and three notables before the families of the bereaved got the message that their dead would not be avenged. I even had a small riot on my hands back in Marquette.

And this is just the beginning.

For now, most people see mages as normal people who have researched the occult and understood it. This has already caused so much hatred, fear, and friction, that I think the country would have simply blown up in an orgy of violence if it were not already in the middle of one. I dare not think what will happen when the humans find out about the more problematic members of our community, especially us and our vulnerability to sunlight. We will have to forfeit all of our public identities on that day.

Ah well, it matters little for now. I have my plate full with a much more meaningful question.

What do you do when your foe amounts to cunning packs of predatory monsters? Well, so far, we have adopted and adapted the strategies used by our predecessors back in the fourteenth century. Fortify what you can to deny resources, and form roaming squads of hunters to track down and exterminate the foe. By this method, we can theoretically both reduce the Scourge Hive’s ability to replenish its numbers while also actively reducing it.

There are, of course, a few problems.

Today’s United States is not fourteenth century Poland.

First, there are no castles for the smallfolk to gather in. Second, the population density is higher, which means more resources for the enemy. Third, people have lost their healthy respect for the dwellers of the night. We are to blame for that last part, really, us and enlightenment, but it remains that when you warn people about incoming demons, fourteenth century Polish peasants were more receptive than your average modern sceptic. And fourth, the entirety of vampirekind is not currently mobilized to face the foe. The White Cabal, knights, and other allies we have gathered do not equal five hundred irate apex predators who believe the apocalypse has come, and intend to face it with a sword in hand.

In short, we are losing.

Every sortie, every skirmish comes with casualties that we cannot replace while the enemy grows by the day, feasting on remote villages.

I could pretend that we are only improving our readiness and giving the mortals time to act, but that would be a lie. By the time that the Hive has reached the tipping point, even the army of the Potomac will not be able to face them. Drones do not have morale. They are not deterred by relatively inaccurate mass volley fire. Finally, it only takes a few minutes for the dead to join them, so a lost engagement means that they will actually increase their numbers while ours dwindle.

We need a solution, and Constantine believes that he has found one.

Boston, Accord Fortress, February 22th, 1863.

“Will this thing even work?” I ask as I inspect the unwieldy, ugly piece of cylindrical metal. It looks like someone touched in the head placed a massive bomb in an ironclad ship, then fused together debris with molten metal and engraved every square inch of it with insane gibberish.

The Speaker and my occasional mentor sighs dramatically. He takes a few steps away and straightens his gangly form until he stands far above me.

“You are quite critical for someone without the ability to comprehend the complexity of what we are building here. I would like to remind you that we are contending with the shadow of a dead god for control over its fleshy bits. Of course, the result of such pursuits would be a strange and unusual artefact”

“Constantine, close your eyes and then inspect your work with a neutral view. What does it look like?”

The Progenitor indulges me, which means that he must be more exhausted than I thought. He passes a hand over his thin black hair.

“Now that you mention it, it does look like a sick soul parsed a trainwreck for parts and cobbled them together to use as a sword-fighting training puppet.”

“Indeed. Can we even move it?”

“Of course we can move it,” he scoffs.

“Uhu.”

“Until it is deployed, that is. Then it will need a dozen powerful mages at all times to keep the enchantment active.”

“Brilliant.”

“I could technically replace it by continuous blood sacrifices but since it represents about a hundred people per day, I thought it might be impractical.”

“Yes. The locals frown upon such methods, or so I was told,” I reply acidly.

“Yes,” Constantine remarks, “troublesome that. It removes so many options. Ah well.”

“So hypothetically, what does the thing do?”

“Ah yes, thank you for reminding me. The construct will emulate essence fluctuation along the Karnalian line on a two point six frequency, but with a constant intensity over a radius of seven hundred miles when at full power. The fluctuation will overtake the natural background frequency of the planet and cover that of the dead god, which we have named the Outsider for convenience’s sake, until the node creatures lose control over their swarm. Indeed, the node creature themselves should fall to the powerful nature of the call and answer the most primal urge of their kind, which is to gather in large enough numbers for the shadow essence of the Outsider to take the foothold necessary to direct them, and… you have no idea what I am talking about, do you?”

I raise a haughty brow. Does he think that I have spent my years of study in idleness? The arrogance.

“This is a beacon that will override the will of the Outsider and call all Hive Scourge Drones within the surrounding states to its location.”

“In layman terms, yes.”

“And then we kill them.”

“Yes. Hopefully. There is still the matter of killing.”

“We need an army,” I state.

“Yes. Unfortunately, the human ones… well… they will not do. Oh no, they will not do at all. Not unless they are fully prepared.”

“So it is up to us?”

“Indeed. I have already recruited all available Rosenthal mercenaries as well as all our standing forces. It will provide a core of professional monster killers for this initiative. As for the rest… I have not decided yet.”

I sigh, and turn to leave.

“Where are you going?” Constantine asks.

Well, we need an army.

I will get us a bloody army.

“To cash in my chips. All of them.”

Later that night.

“It could work. It should work,” Jimena says, voice distorted by the mirror.

“Can I count on the knight’s assistance in this matter?”

“Are you kidding? I would have beaten you black and blue if you had not told me!”

“What my dear subordinate means to say,” Sergei of the Kalinin, knight squad leader, points out from behind her, “is that we will be there as soon as possible. Please give us a location.”

Boston harbor, even later that night.

“The ship will sail, madam. Will you be joining us?”

“I thank you for your consideration, but I need to gather a few friends before I head south. You will find your destination in the enclosed map. It is an abandoned village behind the Confederate lines. According to our calculations, the locale is both within the optimal range of the construct and heavily defensible.”

“What should we expect?”

“There will be derelict houses with a pier, then a road heading west. South of the pier is a large promontory with a ruined fort at the top. The promontory is the most defensible position, with only a narrow strip of land allowing passage up. It is also large enough for our purpose. You will arrive first, so clear anything that lives here, and start making the fort habitable. The different groups will join you progressively over the following month.”

“You… have already been there?”

“Yes. The name of the village is Black Harbor, and it is there that the man this ship was named after died.”

Moonside, March the 8th, 1863.

Something heavy hangs in the air. I can feel it in the wind. The fields, normally always filled with quarreling young betas fighting for supremacy, lie empty. The only illumination comes from the village’s main hall. Even a beginner mage would feel the concentrated, potent auras radiating from it. I dismount Metis at the edge of a wide crowd of werewolves holding torches. A veritable wall of shape-shifting monsters in human form stands facing me from wall to wall, yet when I stride in confidently, they part to let me through. The taste of the moon and the ferocious hunt hangs heavy in the air. I walk through the path they formed into the main square and the dais they raised there. Jeffrey stands proudly with a few of his lieutenants. He towers over them both physically and magically, the largest beast in the collection of packs. His open shirt shows corded muscles.

I stop at a respectful distance. I will not bow, but I will show the respect he deserves. This is his land. We are allies.

“Welcome, Ariane of the Nirari. We have all felt the change in the earth. What tidings do you bring?”

I had no idea that Jeffrey could be concise. I will play the game, and give this moment the gravity it deserves.

“The time to face the Hive has come. I call upon our old alliance, an agreement to fight side by side in times of danger. We have set a trap for them. Come with me, and we will lure the foes with the shadow of their own. We will gather them all in one point. We will kill them to the last. Now, I ask you, are you with me?”

Jeffrey smiles, not his usual smirk but the satisfied grin of the man who just got his wish. He walks to my side and passes me. His steps carry him to the edge of the platform and the hundreds of werewolves amassed at his feet.

“Wolves of the north, my brothers and sisters, how far we have traveled. Thirty years ago, we were slaves in lost forests of this world. We freed ourselves with tooth and claw. We came here to heal and to grow, and we did. We licked our wounds. We built our hearths. We left our marks on the forests and the fields. We made this place our home. But now, decades later, all of it is at risk. You know of what we face. I will not let overgrown locusts take my territory, because after all those efforts, we are strong, and we are ready. I call upon all the families. I call upon all the packs. I call for a war host! And let the Great Hunt… begin.”

Jeffrey howls. The answering cry from the crowd shakes the very air as the light of the crescent moon reflects in four hundred glinting eyes.

Marquette, IGL foundry, March 9th 1863

The stern Dvergur opens the warehouse gates, sliding the titanic slab of nailed wood on oiled railings as if it were a kitchen door. The suffused gas light falls on twenty forms covered in tarps.

“Here they are,” he says with a Swedish accent. Loth is pretty much in the minority when it comes to brogue.

“A dozen twenty-four pounders, seven standard mortars, and one Skaragg arcane artillery piece.”

“Good. Pack it up and give me a list of what we have in terms of powder and projectiles. I will need our stored small arms as well.”

I expected an assent, but the old bearded fellow stands proudly before me. He is rather short for his kind, but he makes it up with absurdly large shoulders.

“Helping you in battle was never part of our agreement.”

I hold his gaze and his stubborn defiance stops.

“I never asked for it,” I remark pointedly, “you do not have to remind me of my oaths, mortal.”

“Aye, lady, no need to act like that. I am older than you.”

“Then you should know better. I merely ask that you prepare the guns for transport.”

The older man’s eyes shift inward.

“Which ones?”

“Every last one of them.”

He holds my gaze again, and this time he does not relent.

“Even the Skaragg piece?”

“Yes, Elgir, even my Skaragg piece. Which I claimed as a spoil of battle.”

“And you will have humans handle it.”

“Indeed I will.”

We keep quiet for a moment. I am about to be offered a boon, and so I wait lest the grumpy old baggage decides to withdraw it out of pride.

“Can’t have those bumbling idiots manipulate such a fine exemplar of Dvergur engineering. We’ll come with you. But don’t think you can order me around or anything.”

I allow myself the smallest smile.

“It is my privilege to have you by our side,” I allow, “can you manage the logistical aspect of things?”

“Woman, stop your provocations.”

Marquette, Red Cabal headquarters, later that night.

“So the time has come?” the young leader asks me, fiery aura deployed. Merritt’s son has truly come into his own.

“Yes, Oliver. I know that the Red Cabal is young and that you are still finding your marks, but I would appreciate it if you—”

“No need to ask me twice, Ariane. I know that you already called the wolves. This alliance, this coordination between all races, is what we have been created for. Where, and when?”

“I knew I could count on you.”

“Yes, now where and when? I need to pull everyone back.”

Avalon, White Cabal stronghold, New York State, March 14th, 1863.

The Council Room falls silent as I finish my proposal.

“Who else is going to that battle? Who would stand by our side?”

“Everyone I can find to hold the line until dark, then every battle-ready vampire on the continent.”

The calm declaration is received with stupefied expressions. Even the ever-irritating Cornelius has fallen silent.

But not for long.

“What guarantee can you give us that you will not leave us to die and only come to mop up?” he asks, but without malice. Even someone as stubborn as him knows what we are up against. I understand that he has also fought on the frontline with great courage.

“Our mortals will be there. I do not have to tell you how strong a commitment this represents.”

The acid comeback dies on his lips. He takes a deep, calming breath.

“So, you finally found a battle that could kill me?” Frost asks with annoyance from his seat.

The rest of the council shows various signs of impatience at the outburst.

“Well, old man, if a horde of world-ending cannibalistic creatures from some horror tale cannot end you, I do not know what to say,” I reply genially.

The levity of the comment gets me the reaction I was looking for. The Council relaxes. I hear a few chuckles.

“Well, it could work, I guess. Where will it be?”

“A place called Black Harbor. I will arrange transportation by ship from New York. My contact will be in touch.”

“How much time do we have?” Councillor Hopkins asks. The Black Dog sneers lightly and I see eagerness in his wrinkled face. The old trap master gave me some trouble back in the day with nothing but a shovel, wires, and quite a bit of powder. He will have considerably more resources at his disposal this time.

“We have a month or two before our position becomes untenable.”

“Excellent. I will be sure to prepare a warm welcome. I already have a few ideas.”

City Point, Virginia, Army of the Potomac headquarters, March 17th, 1863

General Grant takes a puff of cigar and lets the blueish smoke expand through the dark room’s air. Even with the fading winter delaying the coming of longer days, our visit remains unusual in its lateness. I have taken the time to make sure that Sheridan was wearing a borrowed uniform so that it would look to an outsider like a courtesy visit by a subordinate. Even then, his guards’ suspicion has not abated.

“I cannot acquiesce to your request,” he finally says, but he raises a finger before we can object.

“I understand the urgency of the situation, believe me. Unfortunately, my position as lieutenant general is not secured. The President went over a lot of heads to promote me despite my junior rank. I understand that Burnsides encouraged it, but General Hooker is livid and General Meade is not much better. I am not a man who enjoys court games while the soldiers bleed and die, but I also understand the necessities of politics. Many eyes are on my back right now, eager to see me fall. However…” he continues, then trails off.

“However?” I ask.

By my side, Naminata gives the man an encouraging smile. She looks gorgeous in a more conservative outfit than that which she usually wears, though the mischief on her gaze can never be truly dulled. She has chosen another human in officer garb to accompany her. She was the only one available to accompany me in this important task.

I was slightly worried that she would let her playfulness get the better of her, but I was underestimating her. The same woman who hunts Merghol mana hounds with a smile is perfectly capable of acting demure as well. It just feels a bit weird to me.

“It would be better if I showed you,” Grant finishes and stands up. We follow him down the small cottage’s stairs and out into the winter quarters of the army of the Potomac.

We leave a busy wharf clogged with ships on our left and turn inland, passing by white-tarped carriages being unloaded even at this late hour. The General leads us through rows of identical structures at the halfway-point between brick and tent, and a few longer wooden buildings. The uniformity and lack of adornments speaks of structures raised for the express purpose of housing awesome numbers in hygienic conditions. I dare not think about the miles of latrines dug around the city. It certainly smells that way, in any case.

We walk for a good ten minutes in silence until we arrive at a clear demarcation in the camp. Where we come from, the tents were uniformly clean. In front of us, they are much less intact. Many of them show old stains, or were hastily repaired with mismatched swathes of cloth from other colors, giving the camp a slight air of carnival. The pickets salute us in silence, in the same clean blue uniform despite their camp’s poorer equipment. They are quite noticeably black.

“At ease, boys,” the officer allows before turning to us.

“We have a lot of colored folks, not just negros, enrolling everywhere right now. Training is well under way for a lot of regiments. I can get you… up to five full regiments of the most experienced ones, mostly people who volunteered earlier and who can already shoot. Plus two brigades of heavy artillery. How many of them do you need?”

Six thousand men?

Six thousand men, plus cannons?

For meeeeeee?

“We will take your entire stock,” I declare, before being knocked on the head lightly by Naminata.

“Hsss. What was that for?” I grumble. Such a display before the General!

“You can’t take stocks of black folks anymore, darling. That is why this conflict started, remember?”

“You strike me over semantics?”

“Semantics is how we get the humans, my little lime pie.”

City Point, Virginia, Army of the Potomac headquarters, March 23rd, 1863

Moise took a look at the repeater rifle in his hands. It was a nice gun, heavy and powerful yet short enough to remain easy to handle. It was practically still shining under the pale February sun. There were pouches of cartridges on the table, and his fellow United States Colored Troops infantrymen were grabbing those and walking to their assigned positions. The firing range before them lay empty, save for lined targets.

He approached Sergeant Freeman.

Sergeant Freeman was a very tall, very strong fellow with a greying beard that reached his belly button and eyes that just looked like they’d seen everything.

“Say, sarge, that’s a really nice gun there.”

“Yup.”

“And we got lots of bullets to try them out.”

“Yup.”

“It’s for us? For real?”

“Yup.”

“Those shiny shooters?”

“Yup.”

“And those white folks won’t ‘requisition’ them from us when they see them?”

“Ain’t no white army folks where we’re going.”

The private contemplated those facts in silence for exactly two seconds.

“We’re goddamn done for,” he finally said.

“Yup.”

Black Harbor, Georgia, March 28th, 1863.

The pale light of March had not yet dispersed a stubborn morning fog when some old white man in a black suit rolled into the regiment’s camp on some big carriage with the back covered in white tarp. The meadow was entirely covered in white tents and uniformed folks warming their hands over cooking fires.

“Gather around, people, gather around,” he bellowed.

“Form ranks, on the double!” Freeman bellowed. He was the oldest NCO there and everyone listened to what he said. So Moise did. He and his fellow soldiers shuffled into lines with sullen airs.

The white man waited without fuss, though Moise could see his keen brown eyes assessing them. When everyone was ready, he addressed them in a booming voice.

“Now, we are going to be reinforcing this position over the next week,” he said.

Of course, Moise thought to himself, the white man brought them here to dig stuff. He should have expected it.

“And I will be counting on your efforts. Now, I know that digging can be a thankless task so let me offer you a small incentive. In two weeks time, we will be receiving very special guests.”

The man stood and pulled on some rope. The tarp fell away to reveal a creature of nightmare.

Moise jumped in fright, as did half of the line.

“Jesus Christ…”

“My god!”

“Devil!”

The monster shrieked and clawed at unyielding steel bars. Its black talons glistened ominously as it tried to cover abyssal eyes. The flesh was pale with bony ridges. It was… a demon. Had to be. No natural event could result in such a horrible humanoid abomination.

“This, gentlemen, is a Scourge Hive Drone. The smallest specimen there is.”

Moise’s blood froze in his veins.

That thing was small?

That thing was the smallest?

“Ten thousand of the buggers are going to fall upon us before this is all over, and all that will stand between them and you will be the defenses you build under my careful direction. Now, I see that some of you are already getting ideas…” he continued in the same, even voice as his glare fell on a shifty man on the side of the line, “so let me remind you that you are surrounded by confederates and the drones. So unless you are very, very confident in swimming your way back to the north, I would urge you to take this seriously. If it’s any comfort, me and my men will be by your side when the foe comes.”

“Behind us, you mean,” someone grumbled.

“No,” the man insisted, “by your side. The back is for the artillery.”

Moise sighed and went for his shovel. He hated being right, sometimes.

Virginian wilderness, March 28th, 1863.

“I must admit that I did not expect you to last so long,” I tell the man before me.

“Save your insults, demon. Remember that we may fail, but God is eternal and his justice—”

“Yes yes, please spare me the theatrics. I came here to tell you that the final battle is upon us.”

The Gabrielite’s eyes widen comically.

“Not the end of the world, you lobotomized toad. The battle against the Scourge Hive. We are gathering south of here and you are invited to join us as part of the truce. I even brought you rations to help you go,” I say.

The man is clearly starving, and so are the other fighters behind him. I know that their hidden families barely fare better.

“There is no catch. You come and fight and you will be allowed to walk away freely afterward. Those of you who make it anyway.”

“You expect me to believe that you would let us go?”

“Yes, but you will understand when you see our camp.”

I see disbelief in his eyes, so I explain.

“You will see exactly how insignificant you are, you self-righteous gnats. Does it make sense now?”

The man’s eyes lower to the trailer behind me. He swallows his saliva.

“How much food are we talking about?”

Ah, the path to the heart of the man is truly through his stomach. Though I prefer a puncture between the ribs myself.

Black Harbor, Georgia, March 29th, 1863.

The sea at night carries a strange charm. The ebb and flow appears magnified under the light of the moon, and the smell of iodine and seaweed mix with the other attributes of the ocean to form a whole. The dark place of the hidden depths and sound of the waves eating at rocks bit by bit merge into that one singular entity, a portal to a hostile world that a careless footstep will activate.

I have seen the depths, and what lurks below. If only in dream.

I kneel on dark rock and slice a vein with a talon. The black blood carrying my essence falls in white foam and greenish algae like grasping limbs, off to carry my message. I settle to wait. It only takes an hour for an aura to brush against the edge of my perception. Much faster than I expected.

Soon, a massive form emerges sinuously from the water. The sea woman is tall and muscular, her fishtail scarred and powerful. Yellow eyes focus on me, while a lipless mouth of serrated teeth lifts into a grin.

“Nirari,” she greets with a raspy, sibilant voice.

“Good evening. I will fight this in a few nights,” I say without preamble, and throw the arm of a drone.

The shaman grabs it and sniffs it with two slits. She wears many strange decorations of coral and dull gold. The smell pushes her to recoil with a hiss.

“Yes, an old enemy. Bitter yet strong. Nirari requires help?”

“I will fight them with an army, and I want you to join. At night, from the flank. You will coordinate with my allies.”

I am not sure if she can understand complex sentences. As it turns out, I am underestimating her far too much.

“We have little interest in the affairs of the dry lands… but…”

“But?”

Her smile turns greedy.

“The Fist of the Drowned God clan owes you a great debt. Powerful shaman. Many strong spawn. I will pay their favor to you. All of my warriors for one battle. Yes?”

“I find your proposal agreeable.”

“Then it is done. We know. We will watch. We will come. We will shed their blood together and feast on the flesh of the fallen. Then, the debt will be repaid.”

“It is done.”

“We will watch you, Nirari. We will watch for a long time. I send my first daughter to occupy my seat in your war party.”

The shaman slithers away, and smoothly dives under a coming wave.

Later that night.

I ride Metis into the vampire camp. Armored carriages alternate with the many tents of household guards, mercenaries and private troops. The clash of so many auras in the same place gives me a feeling of weightlessness, as if reality here were more permeable. Masters and Courtiers check their weapons or spar here and there. They all raise their eyes to me as I pass by and follow me as I make my way to the command tent.

Twenty-one lords and ladies wait in contemplative silence.

The pressure of their aura would be crushing if they did not control themselves so thoroughly. They gather in a half circle around Constantine and Jarek.

“Ariane. I thought you would be joining us?” the Progenitor asks with obvious disapproval.

“No no no no,” I chuckle, “you are joining me.”

Two hours later, Constantine’s eyes rest on the absolute death trap that Black Harbor has become. A mile of flat terrain, grass and stumps, then half that again in a dense network of moats, abattis, trenches and traps topped by an artillery park a modern army would not scoff at. And behind that, the masts of warships in bombardment range. As we watch, a convoy reaches the top of the slope, loaded with crates of ammunition. Hundreds of torches shed light on a forest of bayonets.

“What in the name of the Eye…”

“No gawking. And follow the road because there are burrowed mines and pitfalls on the way.”

I show serenity despite my smugness.

No one can dismiss me anymore, or think me a servant of Sephare. I just demonstrated to my peers, for better and for worse, who has the most powerful military among all of us.

Me.

Black Harbor, Georgia, Alliance command room, March 30th, 1863.

“So, this is it,” Jarek says in his deep rumble. “We are all in agreement. You start the ritual tomorrow at noon and last until night. Then, we, Jeffrey, and the mermen attack. We will let the mortals coordinate themselves. Does anyone wish to add something?”

No one says a word.

“Then let the battle of Black Harbor begin.”