The Homunculus Knight

Chapter 23: Chains

“Where is our God? Where is the patron of Red Night owed to us? For millennia, we’ve carved our existence into reality, one drop of blood at a time. Yet none of the innumerable Demiurges of the Light, Dark, or Gray represent us Vampires. Some might curry favor with our kind or share mutual hungers, but they aren’t ours. As the truest children of the night, we demand a god who mirrors us in totality. This is our birthright, as set forth by the Queen in those ancient days.” - Duke Ezra the Flagellant.

Aloysius Wolfgang was utterly exhausted. After four nights of constant work, he and Caladus Corpsefriend managed to create twenty-five Gashadokuro. The older Necromancer proved his merit and discretion, keeping what Wolfgang shared to himself, ensuring the secret ritual kept most of its value. Creating the Gashadokuro took two-and-a-half thousand corpses as raw materials and two dozen lives to fuel Wolfgang and Caladus each. They’d pushed the Vampire ability to convert blood into magical power to its limit. Drinking newly minted serfs to death at an exorbitant rate just to keep casting the taxing rituals.

Now, with the Duke’s Gasha spearhead finished and off to Crowbend Castle, Wolfgang found himself relatively at peace for the first time in over a week. Slumped into a chair within his temporary lair, Wolfgang shut his eyes and focused on the brutal headache assaulting him. Pushing a mind past its limits in pursuit of magic could be dangerous. Strokes weren’t unheard of among Battlemages and over-eager ritualists. Even the undead weren’t completely immune to this side effect. Their mimicry of life somehow creating ailments they logically should never suffer. Still, a burst or blocked blood vessel in the brain wasn’t nearly as dangerous to a Vampire compared to a mortal. A night or two of regeneration would heal all but the most severe injuries, and the effects of lesser brain damage could be almost overlooked.

Almost being the operative word as Wolfgang suffered through a brain-splitting headache. His lack of a pulse wasn’t even a benefit for Wolfgang, turning what he suspected would be a horrible throbbing ache for the living into one long note of pain. Forcing his eyes to open and look around the room he used as a temporary study, Wolfgang stared at the odd basin sitting on the desk in front of him. Carved from basalt, the shallow bowl’s edge was lined in lead runes that worsened Wolfgang’s headache just to read.

Lead, the fell metal, opposite to fair gold and a potent substance for those working dark magics. Where mortal practitioners often used silver or gold, lead was the favored substance of those scorned by the Pantheon. The presence of lead alone would be enough to tell any educated person the artifact before Wolfgang wasn’t anything pleasant; the fact the basin was filled with blood just added to its ominousness. The blood was mainly mortal, but Wolfgang supplied a full cup of his own to the mixture, a requirement for its purpose.

The time was coming near when the artifact would activate and form a bridge of blood through the Aether, allowing instantaneous communication between kindred. Wolfgang possessed this ‘Red-seer Basin’ as a token of his sire’s patronage, allowing him to speak with Voivode Igori Gens Suillia during emergencies, which Wolfgang very much considered events to be.

Before starting his trial of endurance in creating the Gashadokuro, Wolfgang learned many very worrying things from the Vampire calling himself Scapino. While the dapper stranger provided little evidence for his claims, his insight into certain matters and the explanation he offered for others was tempting to believe. That Pater Epulo, the dark Priest, brought Scapino to Wolfgang was another factor making him seek this audience with the Voivode.

As the appointed time arrived, the lead runes along the basin started to burn with black flames; horrible false-fire called up from some deep recess of the Beyond. The unclotting blood within the bowl started to swirl, forming a miniature whirlpool as the black fire cast shadows upon the room's darkness. Slowly, a figure emerged from the blood’s surface, ascending out of the ichor like a statue revealed by low tide.

As the blood sculpture solidified and took form, it gained color and animation, becoming a miniature representation of the being speaking through the bowl. Slouching in a chair that bordered on being a throne, was a handsome boy, twelve at the most, with long blond hair and a winning smile. The Voivode looked like the dashing prince now teetering on the cusp of puberty. Despite his research into the matter, Wolfgang didn’t know if Voivoide Igori’s form was his original or some odd affectation he took on.

Legs crossed and elevated, a goblet of blood in hand, the Voivode-in-miniature smiled, his needle teeth barely visible in his projection. “Ah, Aloysius, why have you arranged this meeting? Is Old Mika giving you trouble? Or has lovely Cleanor finally taught you the pleasures of the flesh, and you seek a replacement bodyguard to save your hips and neck?”

The Voivode talked like an intelligent but crass teenager, his accent perfect Bucharosi, no hint to his origin or nature. Igori Gens Sullia didn’t wallow in the past as many Vampires of his age did; no, he preferred to wallow in decadence. Voivode Gens Sullia was depraved even by aristocratic standards, indulging himself in every manner of pleasure he could experience when it suited him. A habit common among many powerful Vampires but rendered even more unnerving by Igori’s youthful form.

In spite of these habits, there was no denying the Voivode’s intellect and skill. Combining the best features of a dilettante and prodigy, the Voivode had mastered countless occult secrets. His collection of arcane artifacts and curiosities was also peerless, containing relics from Gods, Fae, Dragons, Jotunn, and even stranger things. A former piece of this collection was why Wolfgang dared intrude on his sire’s deviant downtime.

“My sire, there have been some complications surrounding the plague and its spread,” spoke Wolfgang, bowing his head to the thirty-centimeter-tall representation of the monstrously powerful Vampire.

Swirling his cup of blood, the Voivode asked. “Did you talk Mika into letting you alter the bindings? If so, I’m impressed but also disappointed. I know you think those chains are overly restricting, but trust me when I say that’s just you being over-eager in your youth.”

Deciding he’d not mention his attempts and failures in that matter, Wolfgang instead said. “No, my sire, a cure has been found for the plague.”

The goblet in the Voivode’s hand exploded into a million sharp shards, and a pained whimper came from the projection. The Voivode lifted one of his legs from whatever elevated them and brought it down, producing a louder noise of suffering. It was then Wolfgang realized a mortal was the Voivode’s footstool.

Tiny eyes boring into Wolfgang, the Voivode asked very slowly. “How is that possible? Our prognostications showed the Lych himself would take over a month to produce even a simple vaccine!”

Swallowing, a nervous habit Wolfgang thought he had long discarded, the Black fly prepared to poke a roused monster. “It appears someone else has access to Isabelle Gens Silva’s notes.”

There was no explosion of rage from the Voivode this time, just genuine bafflement. “What we recovered from her burned libraries and laboratories are Geas-protected. Their secrets couldn’t be exposed or divulged without my or the Archduke’s express permission!”

Wolfgang hesitated; this was where things became dangerous. Voivode Igori wasn’t the type to murder subordinates for bringing him bad news; that sort of fool didn’t rise to his position of power. But he was the type to protect himself by eliminating possible loose ends with the finality of an obsessive tailor. The information Scapino shared with Wolfgang might just be enough to make Igori act rashly.

“My thoughts were similar, Voivode. It seems the only logical option is a highly placed member of Gen Silva’s court survived the purge. Someone the former Countess would trust enough to share her most intimate and potent secrets.”

Interlacing his fingers and frowning deeply, Igori said. “We dealt with the traitor once she was no longer useful. Could she have shared her sire’s knowledge with someone before I consumed her?”

Wolfgang shook his head and thought of one of the few times he’d ever been truly unnerved. Watching a vivisected behemoth of a man, his organs pickled in jars, his blood drained to the last drop, slowly returning to life in defiance of all logic. “No, my sire, I have reason to believe the Homunculus Knight still lives.”

For a long moment, neither sire nor scion spoke, both contemplating the implications of this fact. Eventually, in a flat, cold voice, the Voivode asked. “Why do you think that monster still exists?”

Thinking of Scapino’s animated description and debating how much to share, Wolfgang said. “I spoke with someone who claims to have been in contact with Dietrich, the rogue Scarlet Knight, before his death. My contact claimed circumstances around Dietrich Freymond’s betrayal were dramatically more complicated than we thought.”

Quickly stifled surprise washed over the Voivode. “How in Red Night does that failure whelp of the Archduke fit into matters with the perfect Homunculus?”

Meeting his sire’s eyes, Wolfgang shared the revelation he still couldn’t fully believe. “My source claimed the Paladin who bested Dietrich at Glockmire and then in Vindabon is the Homunculus Knight. The Homunculus seems to have bound the infant Alukah to its will and is using her to further its agenda. With the Homunculus’s unique properties, Isabelle’s knowledge, and one of the original Vampires at its disposal, curing the plague would be feasible.”

Slowly, his words almost stilted the Voivode asked. “How confident are you in this source? I admit it's an impressive tale woven by someone with disturbing knowledge about the Duchies' indiscretions, but it wouldn’t be the most spectacular lie the Fifth God’s followers sold to us.”

Licking his lips, Wolfgang forced himself to keep meeting the deep, horrible red of his sire’s eyes. “I believe not all the details of events were shared, but Pater Epulo introduced this source to me. He seemed concerned at what a Homunculus Paladin of Master Time represented and wanted to involve me and, by extension, you in matters.”

Setting his elbows on the armrests of his chair and staring at Wolfgang over interlaced fingers, the Voivode said. “Epulo and his ilk are many things; prone to deception or foolishness is not one of them. If he’s involving us, then that hairless eunuch of a Priest has good reasons. The only question is, why share this with us and not pursue it personally? His creed has resources of its own.”

Wolfgang’s sire didn’t know the full extent of the deal made with Epulo’s god. Acquiring the binding ritual for the Faerie and the other materials involved with the plague hadn’t been cheap. By hoping to avoid indebting himself more to his sire, Wolfgang instead leveraged himself to a very dangerous rival party. It was one of the dangers in trying to play different powers against each other. Invariably, one deal or bargain would fall through, and the whole castle of cards would shake. But Wolfgang still had options: the shaking could be stopped and the castle reinforced. If he could survive this unexpected gambit, then freedom would be within his grasp.

“The Church of Sorrows wants our help capturing or destroying the Homunculus Knight. They want the creature for religious purposes but are willing to settle for finding a way to truly kill it. It's the price they demand for their aid in constructing the plague now that a cure has been found so quickly.”

The Voivode unlaced his fingers and leaned back in his chair. “A high price but perhaps one we should pay. Acquiring the Alukah while they take the Knight would smooth things over with the Archduke and put us in a very good position for the endgame. But if the Homunculus is truly the Paladin in possession of the Alukah, then a bad situation has become a serious fucking problem.”

The sudden crassness hit Wolfgang like a slap, and the Voivode beared his needle-like teeth. “The Alukah is key to the very survival of our species. The Archduke has given Mika a full writ of conquest just so we can get closer to that stupid village girl. If we can deliver her to him, my place in the new order will be ensured, and yours as well. But if we are to claim the Alukah, then this possibly immortal Paladin must be dealt with. To that end, I’ll send you additional support. Cleanor is a valuable bodyguard but not a Paladin’s match.”

Wolfgang hid his discomfort at that idea; hiding his less acceptable behavior from Cleanor was risky enough. Modifying her memories of Scapino and Epulo’s visit hadn’t been easy. A death squad selected by the Voivode would force Wolfgang to reconsider some options. “How am I to find the Paladin and Alukah? Even if Duke Gens Umbria pushes into Norica, I don’t think Vindabon will fall as Harmas did. The League still has resources to play and hasn’t fully woken up to what’s happening.”

The Voivode shook his head, sending curly blond hair bouncing. “I doubt you will need to even leave the Southern Marches to find the Paladin. Their kind are predictable and easy to bait into traps. I’m confident Mika can take Crowbend Castle, and when he does, the rest of the Marches will descend into chaos. The Prince of Vindabon and his army will die. With them gone, there will be nothing to stop the more… excitable members of Mika’s army from indulging themselves. Combine that with Mika’s little surprise around Harmas, and things will become downright nightmarish for the people of the Southern Marches. The Paladin, be he mortal or Homunculus, will be drawn to the carnage; it's his nature.”

Leaning forward, showing his eel teeth, the Voivode elaborated. “Even if he leaves the Alukah in Vindabon, having the Paladin will give us information and possible leverage on the girl. I’ll send the Tall and the Short to help you as soon as possible; they’ll be valuable to your efforts. Succeeded in this, Aloysius and your place at my side will be eternal.”

Bowing his head, Wolfgang said. “You honor me, my sire.”

The Voivode nodded. “I do; now get to work. I’ll send the two knights alongside any information I can gather.”

With a splatter of red, the miniature representation of Voivode Igori fell apart. Getting up from his chair, Wolfgang carefully emptied the bowl, spilling its cold blood into a bucket. Once that was done, he felt himself relax. Going over to another corner of the room, Wolfgang found the large mirror mounted there. It showed a blurry distortion in place of him, the silver backing reacting to Wolfgang’s nature. Carefully reaching to his neck, Wolfgang unbuttoned his collar and shirt until his chest was exposed. The mirror’s parody of a reflection grew even more twisted as the large ritual scar carved into the skin over his heart was revealed.

Tracing the ugly grooves of the mark, Wolfgang let his hand drift up to the amulet he wore, the single object he truly valued. Shaped like an owl in flight, the amulet was a memento from Wolfgang’s mortal span. He’d lived and died as a well-treated slave, favored livestock chosen for elevation instead of slaughter. Now in undeath, Wolfgang was still bound, branded with the Voivode’s mark like all his scions, a well-liked tool instead of an enjoyed pet.

The year was 1451; in forty-nine years, the world would experience a great shift. A thousand years after the Black Sun, the Gates Beyond would be their weakest, and well-positioned players could change everything. The Archduke was one of those players, a leader among them even, now placing his pieces in their final arrangments to ensure victory. Those who aided him were promised places of power and protection in the coming age. The Dukes, Voivodes, and their vassals jockeyed for those positions like any good collection of aligned rivals. If Wolfgang succeeded and followed his sire’s will, he’d have a place in this new world order, but it would still be the place of a slave.

No, Wolfgang wasn’t content to be the vassal of a favored vassal. In this great game of titans, each seeking the ultimate crown, he played the role of fly, feasting on the dead and spreading his influence with every failed contender. A fate worse than death awaited Wolfgang if he was exposed before the time was right, but that would just be trading mundane slavery and torture for the melodramatic kind, an acceptable risk by Wolfgang’s standards.

With the help of the Lupus pack, it didn’t take the group long to collect and burn the White Orc corpses. No songs were sung, no rituals were enacted, Cole and Mina just used fire to free the souls. Kit’s examination of some of the dead was probably the cause of this unusual lack of ceremony. He’d identified the Worcs were all part of the same clan, but that wasn’t what earned them their spiteful funeral. The discovery of personal items carved from children's bones was too much even for those charged with honoring the dead.

Cole didn’t sleep for the rest of the night, standing watch with Natalie, who spent the entire time trying to convince him to rest. After packing up camp, the group headed north; they decided against visiting Hugelhoff, the nearby village, out of concern more Worcs were following them. It would be better to lure enemies away from civilians, and besides, Cole’s divine warning was pushing them forward.

As they traveled, Cole became increasingly certain whatever happened was at Harmas; he’d check using maps and a compass every hour or so, quickly establishing the pattern. The only thing Cole could think of that would warrant this kind of reaction was if the city’s quarantine was breached and an entire corpse-tide was washing across the Southern Marches. If they could reach the Alidon River soon, they’d be able to get information and find out more.

Alia was arguing at this point subtly wasn’t worth the effort, and they should meet with the river fleet if possible. Unless one of the local nobles was willing to send a small army to help them pass through the Alidonian Mountains without issue, then the longer river route was the best option. So, as Alia said, why not simply go with the best-armed group they knew was trustworthy?

Natalie and Mina were a bit more hesitant; they both had a better idea of what it meant when a Paladin was called somewhere. If Master Time wanted Cole to head towards Harmas, even with the Alukah and Sage’s stone to protect, then things must be horrendous. As in, there might not be an allied fleet left to meet up with. If Pankrator Marcus and his fellows were caught up in Harmas being ripped open, then it was doubtful they survived. Corpse-tides could swallow even mighty Priests if caught off guard and unsupported.

The threat represented by the dead of Harmas was more than the sheer weight of numbers presented by thousands of Ghouls. A skilled company of soldiers with magical support and a good position could cut through whole swarms of hungry dead without too much trouble. No, the real danger of a corpse-tide was how death and suffering curdled the Aether. Grinning Ghouls were simply the most common variant of Undead spawned by so much concentrated pain. The slow, horrible death of an entire city would produce rare and powerful monsters, similar to the creatures Petar of Glockmire bound to his will nearly six months ago.

An undirected corpse-tide could destroy towns and take armies to defeat; one with powerful Necromancers positioned to manipulate it was a colossal threat. Cole had to wonder if this was the plan all along, to isolate Harmas and use it like some kind of… corpse-tide brewery. Fermenting thousands of destroyed lives in a sealed container until the horrible end result could be poured out as the Vampires wished. If Prince Franz and his army got caught between the dead of Harmas and the Duke of Roloyo’s force, they’d be crushed. The Holy League was slow to act, and Cole couldn’t guess how long it would take them to marshal up a new army capable of beating the ever-growing undead legions. Then there was always the possibility various League kingdoms would just hunker down, fortify themselves, and leave their south-eastern border to its doom.

As Cuff and Clout pulled the wagon steadily north, Cole felt genuinely uncertain for the first time in a long time. Despite his growing gifts and unnatural nature, stopping an entire corpse-tide was well beyond his power. Glancing at Natalie, who leaned against him in the back of the wagon, Cole wondered if the call wasn’t for him but the person he swore to protect. Perhaps resting control of a corpse-tide away from its master’s was something the Alukah could do? Experience and education warned Cole such a feat would be costly. Even with Natalie’s incredible efficiency in using blood and Isabelle’s magical aid, Cole doubted it was possible.

Fingers moving to his medallion, Cole touched the cold metal at his neck and wished for a clearer sign. There was some irony in the fact Natalie could more easily speak with Master Time than he could. Despite having a piece of the God inside his Soul, Cole had difficulty truly communing with the Tenth Deity. Temple lore said Master Time could more easily speak to those teetering between life and death. Considering Natalie’s encounters were usually when she slept in the torpor of undeath, Cole gave merit to the stories. Idly, he wondered if this was normal for a Paladin; it's not like he had any peers to compare notes with. In his travels, Cole only encountered one fellow Paladin of Master Time, and getting a straight answer from him on any topic was impossible.

Mind drifting; Cole wondered what Paladin Mak Murtrey was up to these days. The wiry little paranoiac mainly protected the White Isles from restless Faerie dead, a taxing duty Cole didn’t envy. When the nature of the plague became clear, Cole considered trying to get a message to Mak; no one else in service of Master Time knew the Fae as he did. Isabelle triumphed before that became necessary, but Kit’s revelations about the ‘Gallarwyll queen’ made Cole wish for a Seer.

Looking to the Magi curled up beneath a heavy blanket with a book, Cole asked. “By any chance, do you have any magic for contacting distant people?”

Dog-earring a page, Kit looked up at Cole and shook his head. “No, why do you ask?”

Kit, Natalie, Cole, and Yara were in the back of the wagon, Mina and Alia taking their shift out front. All eyes were on Cole, and the Paladin shrugged. “I was thinking about our discussion on the Fae earlier and just hoped you had a way to contact a… colleague.”

Natalie raised an eyebrow and glanced between Cole and Kit. As she did, Cole realized she was only partially aware of the talk he’d shared with Kit. Wincing, Cole looked to Kit, a wordless apology on his face. The Magi just shrugged, seemingly unbothered by Cole’s lapse in judgment.

Adjusting his blanket cocoon so he could see Natalie more easily, Kit explained. “My master thinks the Leechs have a powerful Faerie beast locked up somewhere, a hive queen to the Gallarwylls. I’m uniquely qualified to deal with such a threat, as you well know.”

Kit and Cole elaborated on their earlier conversation, discussing the potential threat of repeated mass Faerie summonings. As Natalie listened, an unsettled expression passed over her face. “I’m a little confused; how can a Faerie laying eggs in the Aether attract attention from the Sidhe?”

Cole looked to Kit; he knew enough to understand this was dangerous, but not the exact details. Messing with his blankets, Kit telekinetically moved a quilt so it hung midair. “Okay, imagine the feathers inside the quilt are the Mundane, the fabric of the quilt is the Aether, and everything outside it is the Beyond.”

Part of Kit’s pack opened up as he moved a needle and thread over to him. Taking the needle, he stabbed it into the quilt. “This is summoning a faerie; if I were to pull the needle out, you wouldn’t be able to see the hole easily. Sure, if I used a dagger instead, or stabbed it a few dozen times, then you’d notice, but for now, it's pretty much invisible.”

Moved by Kit’s mind, the needle started to worm in and out of the quilt’s fabric, weaving a bright blue thread through the textile. “This is our Gallarwyll queen spawning her brood in the Aether. It’s Hells of a lot more visible and disrupts the existing pattern of the Aether. Sure, for now, a single thread in an entire quilt isn’t too dangerous, especially with the Gates Beyond making our knife-eared enemies pay little attention to us. But I’d sleep much safer knowing there wasn’t anything messing with our lovely quilt.”

Cole had to admit it was a little odd hearing a Changling (no matter how diluted) use slurs for Sidhe and Elves. But colorful language aside, Kit’s explanation was good; you couldn’t spend your life around world-class magical instructors and not pick up a few things. Something Cole knew personally, considering how Isabelle’s lecturing skills affected him.

Natalie pursed her lips and leaned back against the wagon canvas as Kit removed the blue thread from his quilt and got situated again. Turning to the last person in the wagon’s back, Kit asked. “Any questions?”

Yara shook her head and seemed to compress herself further into the corner she occupied. At Natalie’s insistence, Yara was taking a break from steering the horses, which translated to the thrall only spending half her time on the driver’s bench, not all of it. Kit offered an almost apologetic smile and turned towards Cole. “Who is this expert you wanted to contact?”

Still playing with his amulet, Cole answered. “A Paladin named Mak from the White Isles; he’s the closest to a faerie expert I know of in the Tenth Temple.”

Looking sharply at Cole, Natalie asked. “Hey, is that who you fought a Keening Ghost with? The one who taught you how to make road meat?”

Cole nodded, but before he could elaborate, Kit asked. “You faced a Banshee? How did you survive?”

Tapping one ear, Cole answered. “Bee’s wax and some trickery. We got a member of the family the Keener was targeting to help us lure the Wraith into one of Mak’s traps. Once it was imprisoned, I could approach the ghost’s tumulus and break the curse.”

Conversation soon turned to more of Cole’s hunts, Kit eager for details about the various horrors Cole faced. As they talked, it became clear to Cole that Kit was profoundly knowledgeable and profoundly ignorant at the same time. He knew information by the bookload but lacked anything resembling real-world experience. It made Cole wonder how big of a risk the Lych was willing to take by sending his fairly green apprentice on this mission.

That night, as Natalie sat by the campfire keeping watch, she stewed on what Kit shared about the Gallarwyll. The information frightened her not just because of the present danger it represented but also because of the implications of Isabelle’s experiments. From what Natalie witnessed in purloined memories, Isabelle researched the potential of using faeries to create emotion-manipulating plagues. The Countess seemed to have discarded these schemes but not out of any moral considerations. In all likelihood, Isabelle came to understand the existential risks involved in such a project, and that’s why she abandoned it.

Staring at the crackling fire, Natalie knew she needed to get used to this discomfort. Isabelle might truly be growing as a person, but that didn’t change her nightmarish past. Natalie needed to better prepare herself for the shock of discovering more jagged parts of Isabelle’s story. For better or worse, Natalie had chosen to help Isabelle, which meant staying her friend and confidant no matter the disturbing revelations. Natalie knew this wasn’t perhaps the healthiest or wisest commitment she’d made, but that wasn’t stopping her.

A sudden noise caught Natalie’s attention, and she quickly stood up, her senses scanning the campsite. Something like a groan issued from the tent she shared with Cole. Moving to him, she found her love clutching at his chest, trying to fight back a scream. Natalie touched either side of Cole’s face and tried to calm him; as she worked, it became clear this wasn’t a night terror but more of the god-touch’s agony.

Eyes fluttering open, Cole reached for Natalie’s hands and sucked in a ragged breath. “Get me my map and compass… please.”

Lips forming a fine line but unwilling to argue, Natalie complied and brought the two objects back to Cole. Sitting up, Cole managed to drag himself out of the tent and into the firelight. Staring down at the map, Cole looked towards the east and swore. “Fuck.”

More than a little nervous, Natalie asked. “What’s happening?”

Thumping his chest with a fist, Cole explained. “It’s pulling in two directions now. I don’t remember it doing that before.”

Picking up the compass and map, Cole used them to triangulate where he was being called. Eyes shutting, Cole cursed again. “Fuck.”

In answer to Natalie’s unspoken question, Cole tapped the map. “Crowbend Castle, somethings happening at Crowbend Castle.”