7 – Blood Supremacy

“A thief?” Bonnie asked, looking at Victor sideways, a new kind of suspicion lurking behind her eyes.

Victor held up his hands, chuckling. “I just got here, and I’ve no need to steal.” He shifted his attention to Bonnie’s mother. “How far away do you think the, uh, Bloodcloaks are?”

“Well, Lissa was here an hour ago, and they hadn’t yet left Elmwood.” Her voice was hesitant as she added, “Still, their horses are swift, and if they have reason—”

“They could be here any minute,” Bonnie finished for her mother.

“Look,” Victor said, “I’ll trade you a keg of ale and five loaves of bread for some clothes like your dad was wearing. Do that for me, and I’ll leave right away; you won’t have to worry about the Bloodcloaks finding me here.”

He honestly wasn’t sure why he cared so much about getting the clothes; he had plenty of shirts and pants that he could tear up and drag through the dirt to look properly “peasant-like.” Still, they were all fine, thanks to his success over the last couple of years, and he supposed the stitching and fabrics would stand out. Did he care, though? He supposed he did. He was still stubbornly determined to get a look at things from the perspective of the thralls before he went on some kind of rampage.

As for the food he was offering, Victor had considered the possibility that he might be leading an army at some point in his efforts to conquer the Death Caster rulers of Dark Ember. Naturally, he’d also considered the idea that foodstuffs might be hard to come by. That being said, he’d had his staff at Iron Mountain fill one of his more capacious dimensional containers with enough food to, literally, feed an army. He had great wheels of cheese; barrels of pickled goods; mountains of dense, hardy loaves of bread; all manner of preserved meats and fish; and, of course, kegs and casks of weak ale and wine.

Bonnie’s eyes bulged out, and her mother was quick to respond. “Truly? Five?”

“Bonnie said you had plenty of wool, but if you think the offer’s too—”

“No, no! That’s very generous, sir. Bonnie, hurry now, fetch him your father’s good sweater and some britches.” She gave Victor an appraising look and nodded. “It’ll fit you, sir. I made it especially roomy for him so he could wear it over top another—doubling up in the winter.”

Victor watched Bonnie hurry into the house. “That sounds perfect.” Victor opened his inner eye, peering closely at the woman, trying to catch a glimpse of her Core. It was far easier than he’d anticipated. He immediately saw a faintly glowing globe of pale-yellow, unattuned Energy. If he had to guess, she wasn’t even level ten. “Have you ever heard of a dimensional container?”

“N-no, sir.” She shook her head, her hands twisting her apron before her. She was terrified still, despite the eagerness with which she’d agreed to his bargain.

Victor smiled, trying to put her at ease as he reached into his spirit space and drew out a storage ring. He slipped his hand under his furs to cover for the action, pretending to have drawn the ring from some hidden pocket. He displayed it in his palm. “This is a magical ring that can hold items in a, well, a magical space. I’m going to retrieve the food I promised you from within it, so don’t be frightened.”

She stepped back inside the doorway, nervously swallowing and glancing left and right. Victor took a step back, too, again, trying to put her at ease. Then he reached into the ring and retrieved a five-gallon cask of ale and five dense, nutritious loaves, stacking them atop it. By then, Bonnie had reappeared with some gray, woolen clothes folded in her arms. When she saw the barrel and the paper-wrapped loaves, she gasped.

“H-how?”

“He’s got magic, dear. I think from the System.”

Victor grunted in agreement. It was easier to let them think the System had given him the ring than to explain how limited their view of the world and the greater universe was. He sent the ring back into his spirit space, then held out his hands, accepting Bonnie’s burden. “I’ll go now. Don’t worry about me. If you want to tell the Bloodcloaks that you saw a stranger, I won’t hold it against you. I know it’s probably dangerous to lie.”

“We…” Bonnie’s mother licked her lips, glancing at her daughter, then back to Victor. “We’ll say a traveler passed through, but try not to say more, sir. We wouldn’t want them to see this food. Bonnie, you know where to put it. Let’s get to it. Luck to you, sir.”

Bonnie nodded and curtseyed—an incongruously cultured thing to see the poor, gaunt girl in her mud-stained clothes perform. “A pleasure, milord.” It made him want to leave them with something, however intangible it was, so he concentrated briefly and cast Prismatic Illumination, fueling it with hope-attuned Energy.

A globe of soft blue light appeared between him and the women, and he willed it to rise, so it hung near the roof of the cottage, bathing the environment in its glow. The light brought a surge of happiness, a comfortable belief that things would be all right, into Victor’s chest as he smiled at the two women, who had begun to weep as they clutched their hands to their bosoms.

“I want you to know that things will be changing around here soon. You don’t need to know more than that, and I don’t expect you to do anything that puts you at risk, but just take heart in that knowledge. Things will get better.” With that, Victor sketched a quick bow, then, clothes in hand, he turned and walked toward the road. He left his light, his pale-blue beacon of hope, hanging where it was, sending enough Energy into it to last a few minutes without his attention.

Neither woman ran after him, nor called out any exclamations, but he wasn’t surprised. The effects of his hope affinity were profound, especially on individuals so bereft of it. No doubt, they were speechless. When he’d walked a ways and passed by a few stands of trees left as windbreaks between fields, he walked off the road, aiming for the thicker forest beyond the cultivated strip of land.

Once he was out of sight, he took a minute to change his clothes. The sweater was scratchy, if soft and warm, so he wore one of his plain linen undershirts beneath it. The pants were baggy and rough, but comfortable enough. He supposed his boots were far finer than any serf in those lands could own, but they didn’t look all that fancy; Victor preferred a more utilitarian style in his casual footwear. Even so, he took a few minutes to scuff them up with a rough rock and rub some dirt over the fresh-looking polish. They’d clean and mend themselves eventually, but they looked rough enough for the moment.

Feeling more peasant-like, he returned to the road and continued his journey toward the heart of the valley. He passed a few more farms and waved to the folks working in the fields, but didn’t slow to speak to anyone, even when one of the farmers called out a friendly-sounding, “Hallo!” Victor kept moving, and it wasn’t long before he could see the river’s ribbon of silvery blue beyond a dark carpet of dense forest. He saw dozens of smoke trails rising in the sky from within that forest and figured it was probably the local village, Elmwood.

He walked by a man leading a mule-driven cart loaded with something that might have been beats—Victor wasn’t entirely sure. As he passed, the farmer tipped his straw hat and asked, “Goin’ ta market?”

Victor shrugged. “Going to find some work.”

“Bad day ta wander into town with no goods and clean hands. Bloodcloaks be searching folks.”

Again, Victor shrugged. “They can search me.”

The man bugged his eyes at him, bent his fingers into a strange sign, and turned to spit on the road. He tugged his thick woolen scarf over his chin and muttered, “Suit yerself.”

Victor lengthened his stride, and soon he was under the canopy of tall, but sickly trees. Their leaves were sparse, and though the undergrowth was similarly thin, dead branches were piled in rows, clearly pulled clear of the forest by the locals to be gathered later when it was dry. After another half mile or so, the dirt road gave way to loose cobbles with wide muddy ruts worn between them. Victor walked to the side, out of the muddiest portion of the road.

He passed a few wooden log cabins with muddy yards, a few chickens, and an occasional pig in a sty, and then he came to the village proper. It was a small place—an intersection of two roads and a long stretch of riverbank where Victor could just glimpse a dock and a ferry. He saw a few dozen people out and about, mostly pushing carts or hauling packs of goods. There was a general store, a tavern, and a market square, which was essentially a wide section of the road with surrounding buildings and a few stalls set up.

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People looked grim, even worse than those Victor had met on the farms. Nobody had extra meat on their bones; many folks, those older than teenagers, had patches of missing hair, bruises, and missing teeth. Everyone kept their eyes down and only spared Victor a suspicious glance before hurriedly looking away. Victor was wondering where he ought to go first when he came to the edge of the market and saw the far side of the general store where three big, healthy stallions were tethered.

The horses had gleaming coats, iron-shod hooves, and well-brushed manes. Their tack was oiled and polished, and they stood regally, stomping feet and snorting. When Victor heard a wail of pain from inside the store, he sighed, shaking his head. He had a feeling his little subterfuge, his life as a peasant among the vampire lords, wouldn’t last very long. “Well, maybe not,” he muttered. “Let’s see what happens.”

He crossed the muddy street, aiming for the wooden plankway that ran in front of the store and its neighboring buildings. His boots squished through the muddy ruts, and he chuckled as he looked down; nobody would think his boots were too fancy. When he reached the plankway, he took a minute to scrape the worst of the mud off on the edge of the boards, then stomped toward the doorway.

A woman poked her head out from the corner of the building—an alley between the general store and a furrier’s shop—and made a psst sound. Victor paused, about to open the door, and looked at her, arching an eyebrow. She looked like she was about forty, with stringy gray hair and dark brows over equally dark eyes. She shook her head at him and whispered, “Bloodcloaks within!”

Victor smiled and nodded, tossing her a wink before pulling the door open and stepping inside. The general store wasn’t exactly an expansive place. A few rows of shelving filled the front half, and in the back half, bins, barrels, and a long counter occupied the remaining space. Back there, near the counter, a man wearing a stained apron lay on the floor, whimpering with blood leaking from split lips that he tenderly probed. A tall, pale man with white hair and fine chainmail armor stood above him, delicately tugging an oiled leather glove onto his hand.

Victor noted the tall man’s blood-red cloak immediately, then he let his gaze drift toward the other occupants of the store. Two more men in red cloaks stood before the counter, peering down their noses at a woman who cowered there, wringing her hands. She was young—maybe the shopkeeper’s daughter—and held her hands before her, flat on the counter.

When the door rattled shut behind Victor, the first Bloodcloak looked up from his victim, and his red lips curled into a Cheshire smile. “What have we here?” He stepped over the downed shopkeeper and nudged another Bloodcloak’s shoulder. “What’s this, Jost? Someone come to sing a tale?”

The other Bloodcloak turned away from the young woman and arched a pale, elegant eyebrow at Victor. “Come in, then, boy.”

Victor smiled, stepping forward, into one of the shelving aisles. He glanced at the contents and saw they were mostly bare—a few hatchets, a length of rope, some leather gloves, candles, and tinder kits.

The third Bloodcloak was still staring at the girl, his leering eyes full of hunger, but the other two were entirely fixated on Victor now. Jost, the one in the middle, hooked his thumbs on his polished belt, shifting his cloak enough to reveal a basket-hilted rapier. “I don’t recognize you, boy, and I’ve been patrolling this vale for seven years.”

Victor continued to smile, shrugging as he said, “I’m new.”

The first Bloodcloak chortled, nudging Jost again. “The insolence of it! Look how straight it stands!”

Finally, the third Bloodcloak seemed interested enough to look Victor’s way, and when his pale, pink-hued irises made contact with Victor’s eyes, he nearly recoiled as he hissed, exposing sharp canines. “The audacity of it!”

“What, Vell?”

“It’s looking me right in the eye!” The Bloodcloak, Vell, swooped past his two comrades, moving to stand at the other end of the aisle Victor occupied. “Look down in the presence of your betters!”

Victor tried, he really did, but he couldn’t stop smiling as he nodded, shifting his gaze to the man’s waist. “Apologies.”

“You hear that, Vell?” the first Bloodcloak asked, suddenly standing by his side. “He’s offered some vague apologies. Nothing to be upset about.”

Suddenly, Jost swooped through the shop, down an adjacent aisle to come up behind Victor. He supposed the man’s movement was meant to be intimidatingly quick, but Victor had no trouble keeping track of him. The vampire came up behind him, leaning down—he was a good head taller than Victor—to hiss, “Is there some reason you’re leaving the honorifics off your speech, boy?”

The first Bloodcloak chortled again. “Dear me! Perhaps he’s royalty!”

Victor watched as the shopkeeper clambered, wincing, to his feet and hurried behind the counter with the young woman. There they stood, watching, wide-eyed as the three Bloodcloaks closed in on Victor. He was sure they were vampires; he’d seen thousands of them during the invasion of the Untamed Marches. Some called themselves “wampyrs,” some “vampyrs,” but, in the end, they were all just different flavors of vampire. These were like the reavers Victor had killed—handsome, almost beautiful men, with clear eyes, pale skin, and chiseled features.

These three loved to smile, exposing their fangs, and they also seemed fond of hissing as they approached, waiting to see how Victor would respond to the taunts. He didn’t want to disappoint, so he chuckled and shrugged. “Oh, did I forget that again? Mi abuela was always getting after me about not being polite. Sorry about that, milords.”

“There, Tristan, he’s sorry. All is well,” Jost said, almost crooning from behind Victor.

The first Bloodcloak, Tristan apparently, leaned on Vell’s shoulder, smiling as he delicately tapped his gloved finger on his chin. “Well then, boy? Surely you knew we were here. Surely you know we’re searching for quarry. Did you come to point us in the right direction, hoping for a bit of the crimson grace?”

“Yes,” Jost hissed, disturbingly close to Victor’s ear, “what have you for us, golden eyes?”

Victor clicked his tongue, chuckling and shaking his head in chagrin. “Oh brother, looks like I picked a bad time to come shopping for an axe. Sorry, I don’t know anything about your quarry.”

Vell scowled, his eyes narrowing as he stared. “I can’t see its Core. Could it be so weak? It looks too healthy.”

“I don’t know about that, but I’m losing my mind at its scent!” Jost practically moaned. His breath, cool on Victor’s neck, sent shivers down his spine to the point where Victor nearly recoiled or lashed out. It took everything he had to hold still.

Tristan nodded, his dark pointed tongue slipping out to lick the surface of his lips. “Maybe a taste then. Maybe just a sip to make it think a little harder, make it just a little more respectful.”

“Me first!” Jost wailed, and then he seized Victor’s shoulders and viciously bit his neck, driving his long canines into his flesh. “Umph!” he grunted, clearly straining with the effort, as his two companions crowded close, staring with open mouths and wide eyes, working themselves into a frenzy.

Victor, of course, didn’t love the idea of the guy sucking on his neck. It made him cringe and his gut roil with disgust, but he was interested to see what would happen to the little bastard when he drank his blood. It had been a while since he’d gained his Blood Supremacy feat, but he remembered the wording quite clearly, no doubt thanks to his much-improved intelligence attribute:

Your blood, already potent with the might of an elder species, has gained the ability to carry your aura and will. Species and individuals with the ability to infect, consume, or subvert another’s blood will have to contend with your innate willpower and the effects of your aura. Moreover, those who come into contact with your blood will feel its weight until it has been cleansed. This effect would be particularly daunting to any individual who consumes your blood.

If it worked the way he hoped, he might gain something from this confrontation rather than just kicking off the war earlier than he’d hoped. As Jost sucked his first mouthful, gasping with pleasure, Victor held out his arms, exposing his wrists to the other two vampires. “Milords? Care for a sample?”

He tried not to smile too broadly when they lunged forward, no doubt driven mad by the scent of his primordial blood. They latched onto his wrists, biting with everything they had, trying to pierce his tough flesh. He chuckled when Jost fell off, gasping and clutching his throat. Victor rubbed his neck, wiping away the blood as his flesh made itself whole.

While the other two vampires frantically fed, Jost began to wail, collapsing as he convulsed, gagging and choking. It wasn’t long before the other two joined him on the floor, moaning and thrashing, clutching their necks. They didn’t seem capable of standing—like some invisible weight bore down on them, making it impossible to speak or even breathe. Their eyes had become bloodshot, and their pale, smooth flesh was shot through with dark, pulsing veins.

Victor folded his arms and stared at them, writhing on the ground, then, with a nudge of his aura, he growled, “Get over there by the counter and kneel before me.”

The vampires wailed and scurried, scrabbling over the wooden planks, digging their nails into the wood in their haste to comply. Victor stalked forward past the quailing vampires and stood before the counter. He knocked his knuckles on the wood until the man looked up. “What’s your name?”

“Osgood, sir.”

“And this young woman? Your daughter?”

“I’m his wife, milord. I-I’m Yanissa.” She gulped and looked down at the vampires. “Milord, what have you done to them?”

“These vermin?” Victor glanced at the three vampires dismissively. “Nothing. They did this to themselves. I’d say they bit off more than they could chew. Anyway, these three won’t bother you further, but we’re going to have to keep this quiet for a while. Can I trust you not to speak of this?”

“I swear it, milord!” Osgood clutched his hands and ducked his head, fervent in his promise.

“I wouldn’t dare mention it, milord,” Yanissa swore.

“All right, well. If anyone asks, these three interrogated me and decided I was the thief they were looking for.” Victor chuckled, then stepped away from the counter. “Get up, boys.”

The three vampires leaped off the floor like it had burned their hands. “Let’s go outside. Try to act normal. You’ll lead me out of town. Don’t speak to me or anyone else while we move.”

“Yes!” Tristan wailed.

“Of course, milord!” Jost hissed, wiping feverishly at his bloody chin.

“As you command!” Vell cried, nearly weeping with his enthusiasm.

Victor gestured to the door and watched them start toward it, then he looked at Osgood and Yanissa again. “I mean it. Tell no one. It’s for your own safety.” When they nodded, still clutching their hands before them, Victor sighed and hurried after his vampires.