“You need to evacuate while I hold them off,” I tell Sinead.

“We’ll rappel down the cliff, walk along the wall. Meet at evacuation site one?”

“You got it.”

“And be careful, poppet. The plan will work without them,” he whispers, “but not without you. You must return.”

“I will. Now go.”

With one last nod, the Prince of Summer races out in his warm coat, herding the weakened Likaeans towards the main keep. I am left alone in the deserted, icy courtyard. Quickly, I remind myself of the basic engagement rules I set for vampire combat.

First, I must absolutely keep my identity secret. Using blood magic might out me as a vampire because of the inherent potency of my spells, though I might be able to mask my aura for a few simple spells. Using Rose or my Magna Arqa will lead to an easy identification and must be saved as a last resort. Finally, being hurt will lead me to be recognized. The Vanheim essence can change my smell a little, but it will do little for spilt blood. To summarize, I need to survive a fight with a warlord without using my soul weapon, my Magna Arqa, heavy magic, and without being hurt. A completely achievable and reasonable goal.

I sigh. This smooth-talking summer snack will be the end of me. Speaking of snacks, what is the warlord doing? He flared his aura and then… stopped?

I wait, and then wait a few more seconds with my axe held in front of me. It takes a little longer before the heavy barbican gates open with ponderous slowness. The warlord is still there, I can taste his aura. It feels strangely familiar. Male, old, powerful and… Ah, a Dvor! Outside of his domain. Those lands belong to Nina of the Dvor and those territorial old monsters never cohabit. Whoever faces me now will do so outside of their domain, weakening them considerably and blocking access to their Magna Arqa. It will not save me, but it will help.

The gates are open. They lead to an underpassage and the fortress’ exit on the other side, so tantalizingly close. The distant mountains on the other side of the valley call to me, but there is an obstacle in the way. He walks carefully from a side door, sword and shield on display. I realize that I know him. Before me stands Commenus, the man who led the assembled Dvor and Knight forces against the skeleton-mages of the Last City only a few years ago. Although, to me, it certainly feels like an eternity. The old general is still his wizened, gray-bearded self. His sharp traits remind me of ancient sculptures more than of any current ethnicity I have ever come across. Dark blue eyes peer at me from the barely lit entrance with wariness. What a thoroughly unexpected outcome.

Commenus fears me.

Or rather, he fears what I represent: Likaeans capable of fighting back. My presence with an axe and my obvious lack of emotions can only mean that the master of the place fell to me. Commenus does not know how I proceeded. He is ancient and cautious, rather than brash like some masters who believe themselves invincible. Also significant is his leadership at the helm of a force that battled enemies our kind had never faced before. He, more than the others, must keenly feel that the world grows wider and more mysterious every year. I must capitalize on that, but how? Acting is required. Unfortunately, I am forced to improvise while Commenus has centuries of experience dealing with machinations.

Unless…

I do not have to be smarter? I could just be more… upsetting.

After all, even I find Makyas strange and he is on my side. I merely need to don the proper mask.

I am Likaean.

I find eyeballs tasty. No, I really cannot. It is not in my nature. Even the guise of Seekers of Lost Memories I wear will not do since I have never met one, and thus cannot impersonate them. I need a character close enough to my natural disposition so I do not fail, but strange enough to dissuade Commenus from engaging. I need teeth. Power. I need to be different, far from the smug superiority of summer and distant haughtiness of the blue. Give me teeth. Give me hunger.

Cold.

I am winter.

I have devoured every bloodline on this planet, and I have more to taste on the planes. I know the polar winter, and I have seen the northern end of the world where ice reigns to the horizon and beyond, and the green lights of auroras reflect on permafrost. I have walked into battle clad in cold. I have tasted it, used it. I have broken houses and left nothing behind but BLACKENED BEAMS JUTTING UP LIKE BROKEN TEETH. Tufts of hair, gobbets of meat.

Oh yes, I understand winter. It is a trap, a degenerescence as numbing and painless as hypothermia. In a way, that is what being a rogue entails. They forget themselves and abandon their minds to the plenitude of pure instinct. I will never walk that path, but I will happily wear its trappings for an evening. Oh yes, this will be fun to PLAY A LITTLE.

I hunch forward a little and let my arm fall forward. A beast of winter has no need for posture, for nobility. I am power unleashed and ravenous. The Vanheim essence extends to its very limits to change my face, answering my need for a more feral persona. Oh yes, this will be fun. I am not just my blade and magic. I am the dedicated student of countless masters and the survivors of many close battles. I will show him.

“A warrior fae. Now I have seen everything,” he declares with false bravado. I know enough about old Dvor fighters to see that he is looking for the trap.

“Don’t understand a word I say, huh lass? Weird one you are.”

I do not react, just follow him with my eyes. He glares with annoyance and takes a step forward onto the courtyard and out of the cover of the barbican. Perhaps he is expecting fire or sunlight? NO TRICKS, COME CLOSER.

“Wo ist Samuel?”

I slowly, slowly tilt my head, and still I do not speak. You can try every language under this sun and the others, dear Commenus, I shall not answer. As for Samuel’s fate, he must have guessed it.

Commenus suddenly kneels and picks up a stone, which he throws at me at a speed no mortal could follow. I move the axe’s handle by a hair, deflecting the projectile. I still wait.

“Well. Nothing to it.”

Commenus charges, shield high.

I smile.

I feel my cheek split to my ears, revealing a forest of needles. By the Watcher, this feels eerie. The effect on Commenus is even more dire, and he unexpectedly flinches, which means that he reacts just a little slowly when I hook the axe’s head into the side of his shield and send him careening. He manages to roll mid air and land on his feet. I am immediately on him.

I know how to face a shield user. Mannfred, you who sacrificed your life to hold Octave at bay, your lessons will not be in vain. Strikes to the side, to the head, low then high, high then low, I unleash a whirlwind of mighty blows on Commenus, forcing him into the defensive. Any lesser weapon would have shattered in impact before the sharpened art of Sivaya. Even a magical shield would be a mangled piece of scrap by now, but this is a soul weapon I face and its user is old and patient. Commenus disengages and shifts to prevent me from peeling him open. He angles it with minimum effort, deflecting my attacks with thunderous sounds. Nevertheless, the power I put in every swing forces him back again and again until he finds an opening. He dodges under a beheading attempt and charges forward, which is exactly what I wanted. A firm kick in the shield forces him to stumble, a risky maneuver but one I started in his blind spot. The return strike is so strong that I smash him against the nearby stable wall. Tiles fall from the roof onto his head even as I almost decapitate him.

“Right, this is not working.”

Commenus’ style changes to one of unstoppable offense. He charges shield-first right into me until I am in stabbing range of his gladius. I do not change mine, I attack as well. We just smash into each other with the power of two warlords, and I progressively see the fear of the unknown disappear in the eyes of my enemy, soon replaced by the joy of battle. I knew I liked the old codger. HE UNDERSTANDS.

Our fight spills over the entire courtyard in a whirlwind of unbridled destruction.

We demolish the barn, collapse the well, turn every crate to kindling. At one point, he throws an anvil at my face and the return shot sends the lump of steel through the keep’s unlocked gate, breaking the unwarded lock. Whenever he manages to close the distance, I attack with my claws and force him to move back. Otherwise, I bash him to my heart’s content. At no point did my ghastly smile fade but now it is matched by his, sharp and bloody from a lucky punch.

“Not bad, lass, not bad. I cannot wait to taste you.”

YOU CAN TRY.

Commenus adapts to my wild style with small, sharper gestures. In return I adapt to his with more overhead, massive strikes followed by low horizontal cleaves that force him to block with all he has. Once he tries to jump over it and I adjust my course, tossing him back into the barbican’s passage. A few humans from the convoy have come to watch the fight and recoil when the lord lands in front of them. They look positively terrified.

I have to give it to Commenus, he grows sharper and closer to hitting me as the fight progresses, but at the same time I have more openings. I manage to hit his arm once then the blade of the axe bites in the back of his leg, causing him to fall. None of those are debilitating injuries yet the sight of his blood on my weapon throws him into a frenzy. Eventually, it happens. A lucky counter lets him force my axe to slip on his shield and his blade rushes to my heart. I twist on myself at the very last moment.

A soul blade can rip through stone. A soul blade wielded by a lord can tear through steel. The scales of my armor sing when the edge of his gladius slides on them. I hear chimes. I see Commenus’ eyes widen with complete bafflement. I kick him in the jaw and send him flying through the air for what feels like the seventh time tonight.

Right, I have overstayed my welcome by a large margin. We have been fighting for minutes, an impossibly long time for vampire contests. The fae must be long gone by now, even if they were weakened. I have tempted fate one time too many. While he recovers, I jump on the keep’s walls and scale their sheer surface, claws digging into the rime-covered granite.

“Not so fast!”

A gentleman should know when to abandon his pursuit. I reach the balcony garden and jump over its edge, possibly triggering half a dozen alarms as I go. I reach the top and find two dead sentries. Commenus is right behind me, shield strapped to his back. He had to dematerialize his blade.

Our eyes meet and I smile indulgently. Then, I press the remote control of the bomb I placed in the recreational area.

With an ear-shattering blast, the entire floor explodes. Commenus lifts his shield just in time to avoid a warded shutter to the face. Smoke and debris fill the air and slowly, almost lazily, the top of the keep slides into the empty air, masonry and all.

Ah. I might have overestimated the resilience of their wards.

I jump to avoid the avalanche of stones and wood. Below me, the Erenwald forest extends to the snow-clad peak above. I turn to see if Commenus recovered. He did. He is watching me. His face goes through a series of emotions with blinding speed. Shock gives way intense thought, then to disbelief. His mouth forms a ‘o’ of complete surprise.

He smiles and dips an invisible hat.

I detonate the second bomb in the basement. He flees into the Barbican, leaving the collapsing courtyard behind.

I might have been found out.

While our infiltration was slow and subtle, our flight is a ceaseless race across the wilderness. Sinead once more demonstrates that he is more than just an actor by leading us without fault from camouflaged cave to hideout, all of those prepared long in advance. At no point did he inform me of their locations for ‘operational security’ which I can accept since our meeting point is the ship and I am more than capable of looking after myself. We encounter our first difficulty during the first day when one of the prisoners attempts to kill Mr. Elusive.

I did not expect that, to be quite honest, yet Sinead did and I find enough nourishment to be sated for a good week that very night. It reminds me that the Likaeans are a vast and diverse people arrayed across multiple planes of existence. In fact, we are the isolated, parochial planet in their eyes. It so happens that Mr. Elusive’s court has a sinister reputation. It also happens that the Seekers of Lost Memories keep a close eye on its members and have decimated them in the past.

My identity as a vampire revealed, the Likaeans regard me with confusion rather than the hatred I expected. For many of them, my apparent altruism is more alien than the predatory policy of using them as blood fonts. It speaks poorly of the general climate of ethics and courtesy across the spheres, and reinforces my concerns that earth will face many dangers in the near future.

The supplies and artifacts the Prince of Summer prepared allows us to reach the port of Fiume unimpeded, where the cunning man finally delivers on his promise.

“This is what Mr Elusive delivered,” he tells me, showing me maps and coordinates.

“What are those?”

“Let me tell you a story, poppet. A short time ago, Eneru and Mask were at war.”

“You will have to be more specific.”

“And during that war, a Mask convoy escorting a few of my compatriots was lost. Tragedy! When those two esteemed, honest, and reasonable factions agreed on a ceasefire, the Eneru negotiators swore that they had no knowledge of their fate, and they told the truth!”

“Let me guess. Those who had taken the Likaean failed to inform them that they had conducted the raid.”

“What a devious little thing you are. There is hope for you yet! Yes indeed, and withholding such information could be construed as a violation of the terms of the agreement if Mask were to be made aware. Now, of course, Mask could very well demand compensation in a mature and patient way, estimating that the Dvor would do the honorable thing and not hide their prize in a different location while denying everything.”

“Please, my sides.”

“Or they could come across the exact location of their lost possession as well as the timetable of the expected visitors and security code. They might then decide to resort to some dubious means rather than solve their problem through diplomacy. Unfortunately, said document will fail to notify them of the trackers.”

My heart would freeze in my chest if it could.

“Trackers?”

“Of course I disabled them immediately upon freeing my kin. You have nothing to fear.”

“I have much to fear from you. How do you even know all of this?”

“The vampires have servants, and those servants know a great deal. You night walkers never touch each other’s precious pets. I have no such qualms, though I know better than to break your emotional support humans.”

“Makyas killed one. It…”

“It was an accident, we did not expect one to be present. I am sorry for causing you undue distress.”

The unspoken hangs between us like a cloud. Commenus suspects me, and his knowledge will spread to his most high-ranking allies in the aftermath of the flaring war that will come, for I have no doubt that Mask will enjoy collecting on their debt as much as they will stabbing at a surprised rival. Similarly, Sephare will take less than a month to link my disappearance with some well-timed European shenanigans. Although no one will have proof and no one will dare pursue the matter, the powers that be will come to associate my operation with the loss of a Vassal, then with a new war between old enemies. My already sulfurous reputation will inflate to the very heights of infamy. Do I regret it? No, because like in many things, it comes down to the bottom line.

I cannot allow Bertrand, leader of the expansion faction, to take over the New World. It is simply unthinkable. There is a century left before the final, cataclysmic finale to the millennial conflict between my sire and his mother dearest. I have no time to rebuild a power base, and therefore cannot allow myself to be exiled or worse. The Accords will survive. They must. If I am to keep its foes at bay through trickery and infamy, then so be it. I never sought to make allies of the Europeans to begin with. Those mighty factions certainly share the appetizing presence of a fruit basket, with might and opportunities aplenty. All the better to hide the cobra of Byzantine politics and infighting. This is not a battlefield I can win on.

And so I will have to make do with a daunting reputation. That is also fine. It is better to be renown for ruthlessness than for incompetence.

I suppose I could have pursued other avenues than an alliance with the Likaeans but I have no regrets here either. Their fate pains me. The possibility of antagonizing every faction of an ancient and powerful species remains a strong incentive as well.

Sinead being charming remains the most powerful of all, but I would rather not dwell upon that thought.

“Worry not, poppet. Remember, I am on your side,” the man himself whispers with certainty as we arrive on the pier. The thought comforts me a little because he is himself a force to be reckoned with, but my attention is soon lost when I feel an aura flare in surprise far to my left. When I turn to watch, I catch the edge of a coat made horizontal through sheer speed. Someone has spotted us, someone with inhuman reflexes. It appears that the game is up. If the Eneru doubted my involvement before, now they have absolute proof.

“Of course, they would be watching the ports,” I grumble.

“Is the ship compromised?” Sinead suddenly asks.

I shrug, uncertain. The sleek hull of the Spirit of Dalton exhibits no signs of tampering, and those who lower the gangway are the usual suspects including the Dvergur captain.

“Lothar, any anomalies?”

“People sniffing around the place,” the bearded man grumbles, “might be suspecting us.”

“Prepare to depart immediately. A lookout found us.”

“Aye, Ma’am.”

I allow the liberated Likaeans to move below deck while I inspect the outside of the ship, finding nothing. The protective wards and crew appear free of outside influence, though my inspection leaves many shaken by the sudden charm to check for foreign influence. Soon, we are underway and I find my place topside with my throne and my tricorn. Finally, I can figuratively breathe a little.

“Do we expect problems, Ma’am?” Lothar asks as we proceed south along the coast at cruising speed.

“If they knew you were our way out, the Spirit would be already sunk. Fortunately, there are many ports in Europe and we manage to hide our trail. Now that we were spotted, I expect other ships to be sent after us so keep your eyes peeled and do not stop for anything.”

“What if we are hailed by warships?”

“What sort of Dread Pirate answers the navy’s summons?”

“Aye Ma’am, orders understood.”

Our crossing of the Adriatic Sea happens without hassle, due I suspect to the time it takes for the interception order to reach the right hands. Lothar keeps us on course but avoids the most common lanes even if it makes the journey longer. The Mare Nostrum is vast and mostly empty outside of those well-traveled areas, and we make good progress. Unfortunately, I know what it means.

“They will be waiting for us at Gibraltar,” I say one evening.

That is unfortunate. On a more encouraging note, the Likaeans have obeyed the first rule of the seas which is that everyone must wear tricorns, so not all is lost. We can face the odds in high spirits.

Lothar is no dilettante. We approach the straits under the cover of stormy clouds, taking full advantage of the approaching winter solstice and its inclement weather. Heavy rain batters the reinforced hull as we make our approach under the cover of silence and the complete absence of lights. I remain on the deck and inspect the Rock and its vicinity from afar. There, I find three squadrons of warships awaiting us including one ironclad. Her black-painted hull and red border give her the appearance of some snake waiting to bite. Discretion will be the better part of valor here, at least at first.

“Ma’am?”

“All hands ready. Half speed. Lower the rig and engage stealth protocols. Have everyone ready to implement the ghost stratagem.”

Now the Spirit of Dalton has been called a vanity project and other unflattering names by both Melusine and Sephare, which shows once again that I am the most visionary female vampire of the New World bar none. I will not challenge Constantine since he is developing a battle golem that can be piloted by a sealed sarcophagus and I cannot top that. Nevertheless, the Spirit has retractable masts made of relatively light, magically reinforced steel. Their hollow nature allows them to be folded and then withdrawn into the hull, giving us a much smaller profile. With the rig hidden, the ship is propelled by a corkscrew turbine situated at the back of the ship while the steam itself is recovered and recondensed to prevent trails. It is a marvel of engineering and I will eat whoever calls me an uncultured wannabe sailor. I even added a few surprises.

“Aye Ma’am.”

Like a prowling sea dragon, the Spirit cleaves the black waves on its course west. Unfortunately, alarms ring on the leftmost squadron. Flares soon bring a blue light over the seas, but they are launched too early and the eyes of mortal sailors fail to find us. As for me, I find the culprit behind our early detection in the presence of a vampire pointing impotently in our direction while a British officer watches on, politely incredulous.

I doubt that Mask had the time to learn of my little adventure and I am certain that Eneru would not ask them for help, so an Eneru agent must have taken control of British warships. Oh, the Hastings will not like that, not at all. War is all but certain now, which will help us little if we are blown to smithereens.

Lothar steps next to me, a tad nervous, but I choose to wait. I signal to maintain course which places us on an intercept path with the vampire-occupied trio. If we are to face them anyway, better to face them alone rather than provide targets for the other groups as well. The vampire watches us approach with disbelief tinged with concern. It is not every day that a civilian ship charges the Royal Navy in the age of the Pax Britannica.

Finally, the next flare reveals our presence and shouts echo across the three ships. They slowly swerve to present their broadside and the many maws of their cannons. The vampire looks even more concerned when we show no signs of slowing down.

I signal to Lothar. He whistles, the signal strangely distorted. Spectral green fire suddenly erupts from our sides thanks to well-positioned barium nitrate burners, while I cast an illusion to give the sailors’ flesh an ethereal quality. Unexpectedly, Sinead pops out from a trapdoor with his Likaeans in tow, now undressed (except for the tricorns or I would have complained) and covered with white, pearly paint. They start dancing madly.

Sinead winks.

Music plays while our masts extend again, basked in phantomatic radiance. Hidden vents belch steam in our wake. On the warships, the silence is deafening. Every last mortal watches us sail with open mouths and eyes as wide as saucers. The vampire recovers first and vociferates, but in vain. We have gone through.

I signal again and all the fires peter out at the same time. The music is silenced and the rig disappears once more into the hull. Our steam engine is pushed to the limit to leave the blockade behind.

So yes, that was quite nice.

“I did not know you could perform such amazing bluffs, Ariane,” Sinead declares in Likaean. “The tricorns, the dancers, all conspire to give your ship the guise of the flying Dutchman! I admire your dedication.”

Yes this is absolutely why I insist on all of those things, totally.

“You taught me that pleasure and results could go hand in hand when it comes to deception,” I generously allow.

“Indeed,” Sinead replies, suddenly suspicious. I give him my best smile.

“Ma’am, one of the ships is giving chase!”

I react at the warning and confirm that yes, indeed, the vampire’s chosen flagship has turned and now follows us at great speed. I believe we could outrun them given time, however, that would simply not be fun.

“Very well, deploy the gun.”

“Ay Ma’am, deploying!”

Now, having plenty of cannons can considerably slow a ship down, not to mention the tall hull required to hide them all. That is why I have a single turret and that turret harbors a single gun, which slowly extends from its hiding place. It would be incorrect to say that I designed the ship around the gun, but it would not be completely false either. Loth helped.

It is my pride and joy.

“What, in the name of the spheres, is that?” Sinead exclaims at the glorious sight.

“It is not even yet fully erect yet, just you wait,” I reply with joy.

“Did you really need such a monstrosity?”

“Captain Lothar, what is the third rule of the sea?”

“Firing on the same target a second time should only be done for entertainment purposes.”

“There you have it.”

‘The Gun’ as it is commonly known finishes its deployment and the turret slowly rotates towards a quickly panicking vampire.

“Maintain course, angle one ninety-three, elevation minus three point five.”

“Aye Ma’am, one ninety-three, minus three point five.”

By the Watcher this is so fun.

“Solid shot,” I concede. I could use an explosive one to get a kill but I would rather not poke the hornet’s nest any more than I already have.

“Are you sure you want to fire at a British warship?” Sinead asks with a little concern.

“My dear, half of the fun of being a Dread Pirate is firing at the Royal Navy. BRACE!”

“What’s the other half…” the fae mumbles as I move forward to get a better view.

“Ramming, sir,” Lothar says.

“Oh.”

“FIRE!”

I had to design new hydraulic shock absorbers to prevent the Gun from tearing the Spirit in half. It shows. The cataclysmic boom generates a shockwave that extends over the waves, flattening them.

Over here, ice-magic based cooling mechanisms hiss.

Over there, a dreadful clang sings the dirge of the ironclad’s lower hull, as well as that of the pursuit.

“She’s sinking, Ma’am,” Lothar comments laconically.

“HAHAHA YES! Ahem. I meant to say that they could keep her afloat with some effort,” I reply. They merely have to condemn a few sections. I think?

That vampire seems a tad angry. Ah, but this was delightful.

“Come to think of it, I have not yet lost an engagement at sea,” I observe.

Sinead shakes his head and withdraws. I am left pondering on my throne while a cabin boy dances a merry gig, as it should be. We have everything we need for the ritual. Before we proceed, I will have the enviable task of convincing the Accords that I triggered an international incident for their sake, all while preventing the creation of a blood-draining facility on our territory. Once this is done, I will handle the penultimate step of the ritual.

We need to set up a fortress on the other plane, where only skeletons and mana hounds dwell.

It might be a bit challenging.