NIGHTWORLD

16: Enduring Freedom

North Africa, 2001

Dirt sprayed as the 4x4 kicked into gear, engine screaming as the pickup tore out of the compound. Rebels were piled into the back, armed with machine guns and firing back at the French attackers.

Jaro continued his run up towards the compound as the second strike team opened fire on the 4x4. Wheels popped and the rear kicked out, sliding through the dust before hitting a low cobble wall, flipping the truck and sending it tumbling into a brick wall. Still screaming, trying to get organised, the rebels that could came scrambling out, bloodied and bruised, weapons raised just in time for the French to gun them down.

“Pueyrredón!, left, left!" Someone cried, and Jaro recognised his own anonymat – the alias the French Foreign Legion demanded he take at enlistment. He made left as a charge went off at the far end of the compound, bricks cascading into the air and raining down around them. He followed the flanks of the other soldiers, rifle up, firing into the buildings whenever something inside dared make a move. 

Screams came in French and Arabic intertwined, weapons firing intermittently, rebels going down as they tried to escape or fight back. 

“Where the fuck am I going?!" Jaro shouted into his headset, head on swivel. French felt natural to him now, speaking it was like breathing. Gunfire peppered the landscape around them, from rebels with machine guns to the Legion snipers and their surgical strike squads. From what Jaro saw, the casualties were mostly one-sided.

“Medic! Medic!" A voice cried back over the radio. 

“Where?!" Jaro demanded, ducking down behind a bullet-shredded husk of a car. “Damn it, tell me where?!" 

Boz appeared then, the large bull sliding back around Jaro's cover, a massive machine gun clutched in his muscular arms. Bullets sang and whined overhead, ricocheting off the edge of the metal barriers. “Oi, Hunger," the bull barked, using the team's latest nickname for Jaro. “s'Charles, north-side, follow me." 

Jaro nodded, sticking close as Boz rose out from behind the car. Fire whipped up somewhere deeper in the complex, and the bull opened a short spray of gunfire into the compound wall, offering the two of them cover. They stuck their heads down, sprinting through the loose sand and rounding a corner to the scene.  

As Boz said, Charles was laid down behind a half-destroyed wall. The young reptile was caked in orange dust, blinking and shouting, claws flashing. Jaro slid to his knees by the soldier's side, trying to reassure him as he cleared his arms, examining the damage. 

Shrapnel, he thought, seeing the flakes of metal sticking out the side of Charles's abdomen. 

“Talk, talk Charles," Jaro said, ignoring whatever the man said as he got to work, drawing some antiseptic and emptying it onto the wounds. 

“Keep him alive, Hunger!" Boz cried, firing back into the compound. 

Charles panicked at that, but Jaro was quick to scold him. “Ay, ay, you are fine, fine, it's just painful it isn't threatening." He worked quickly, leaving the smallest slivers and removing the larger chunks. None seemed to have gone deep, and a clunk from his staple gun kept any of the flesh wounds from continuing to bleed too much. 

Jaro poked his head free of cover, looking to the far end of the compound as one of the shock teams moved into place, a massive rocket launcher raised up on one shoulder. 

“Feu dans le trou!" They called over all frequencies, missile aimed into the heart of the complex. 

Fire in the hole. 

There was a hollow shunk and a half-second later the middle building exploded. The sound was dense and thick, rattling Jaro's teeth as bricks were sent hurtling in every direction, dust billowing throughout the complex. 

A handful more gunshots rang out through the area, but as the dirt and debris finally settled, Jaro heard different divisions over the radio calling the all-clear. 

“You'll be right Charles," Jaro said, slapping the reptile's shoulder and standing.

Where'd you go? He wondered, following after Boz into the buildings. 

Some of the rebels that had surrendered were being arrested, held off to the side of the compound until they could be transferred to Chadian authorities. Most were dead, however, with bodies littering the ground.

The buildings inside were clearly combat hovels. Guns and ammunition covered every table, with maps and radios strapped to the walls. Each segment of the building had at least two legionnaires holding it down, and from the chatter over the radio it seemed that some were checking for traps deeper in. 

Jaro found Boz in an abandoned room down the back of the complex. This room was lined with mattresses and blankets, dusty bottles of water piled in one corner. The bull simply stood, his gun slung over shoulder. 

“Boz?" Jaro asked, creeping in. “You okay in here?" He took another step forward, reaching up to lay one paw on the bull's shoulder. 

Boz flinched as he touched him, but quickly relaxed as he saw who it was, reaching up to squeeze Jaro's paw right back. “Hey." 

“You good?" 

“Sure," Boz said in English, shrugging. “Least, good as y'can be after this shit. Peace-keepin'? Peace-keepin' my bloody arse." 

“Oh." This again. 

“Bodies everywhere, status-quo upheld and whatnot. Y'ever talk to one of these 'rebels', Hunger? You got the first clue what they even want? I don't. No fuckin' clue, right?" 

“Boz, hey, this is what–"

“We signed up for?" The bull turned on him, frowning deeply. “Not me. We should be with KFOR in Kosovo. That's there to stop fighting, an' here I feel like a clean-up man don't I? No one even knows we out here, this shit is just… killers killing killers again and again. Libyan backing. Iranian backing. All rumours, who even knows? Vicious bloody cycle, innit?" 

“You just said you didn't speak to them. You don't know that." 

“Love," Boz pushed in, one paw raised, gently cupping Jaro's chin. His thick British accent seemed so out of place amongst the French and Arabic locals. “I don't, but what I do know is how these things usually go, right? Besides, I didn't show you the next part yet, did I?" 

“What… next part?" 

Boz smiled wanly, but his eyes remained empty and vacuous. It sent shivers through Jaro's body. The man he was falling in love with was slipping away, he could feel it. It was as if there was less and less of him every day.

Come back to me Boz. Please. What did he have to say to stop the drift? 

The bull inhaled deeply, turning away and moving to the far end of the room, where Jaro now saw a trapdoor was set into the floor, a shattered padlock laying next to the latch. His unease only grew as Boz reached down and opened the hatch up in one swift movement. A waft of stale air followed the motion, and Jaro covered his nose as a thick stench hit him like a wave. 

“What is that?"

“Look." 

Jaro drew his torch, clicking it on and aiming into the basement as he slowly approached the gaping pit. Bile rose in his throat as he realised what Boz had found. 

Bodies. 

A small village-worth of stored corpses, all mixed ages, men and women equally, all clearly non-combatants. Innocents that were executed, wrapped up in clear plastic like butcher's meat. 

“Mi a fenét nézek?" Jaro asked, accidentally slipping back to Hungarian. What the fuck am I looking at? “Boz, I don't understand, what is this?" 

“Remember how me'n Jose were sayin' we should'a come in earlier?" 

Jaro nodded, having a faint recollection. Boz went off on so many random tangents these days, it was becoming hard to keep track of him. Jaro remembered the arguing though, that was for sure. 

“They said the recon wasn't done yet." 

“This is what was happening," Boz explained. “They were cleanin' up before they left. We coulda come not even a week earlier, few days, and most'a these poor bastards'd still be alive. But HQ didn't care about these poor bastards, they wanted the compound levelled with minimum losses, so let's play it as safe as we can, right? Course, losses only count when it's our people, right? Only reason the rebels took this village was cause the Chad suits abandoned it, left these people out here high and fuckin' dry. And still we coulda stopped this, but nah."

“Boz…" Jaro didn't know what to say. He just stared at the bull, Boz's gaze locked down into the darkness, empty. Vacant. 

Lights are on, but nobody's home. 

“Say somethin', hey?" Boz said, glancing back up. For a second, Jaro couldn't even recognise him. “Huh? Fuckin' say something to me, Jaro. Do something. Explain this, huh? Explain what the fuck we even doin' out here? I didn't sign up to become a hit squad. I signed up 'cause I thought we'd stop this sorta thing. Guess I'm the bloody idiot, right?" 

Jaro licked his lips, frozen in place, chest tight. He couldn't breathe. What was he supposed to say to that? 

“How 'bout, just say anything." 

Jaro opened his mouth, locked up, and closed it again. 

Boz let the trapdoor fall shut with a dusty bang. “Right." 

Jaro stared back at the bull. Their relationship was odd, but so far it had been working. Times like this however, Jaro felt like he was with two different people. One was carefree and loving, someone who was sensitive but calm, strong but delicate.

The other was so tightly wound with anger and frustration it was impossible to be heard through all the noise. He wanted to help Boz, to tell him the things he needed to hear, but what could he say? The bull was right. Was there any point admitting it? Would that help, or just make it all worse?

Boz shook his head, squeezing the bridge between his eyes as he let out a deep groan. “I'm sorry love, didn't mean for that to be so…" 

“Intense?" Jaro offered. 

Boz shrugged. “Sure. Yeah. Just gets to me is all." 

Jaro gave him a smile, stepping in. He wanted to hold the man, squeeze him and tell him everything would be alright. “Look, I had a word with Commandant Blaise, he said if we really felt strongly about Kosovo, we could request a joint transfer and maybe–"

He was cut off as Mylan came bundling into the room, holding a small screen and shaking it, so much Boz and Jaro could barely see what he was gesturing at. 

“Mates," the coyote said in French, eyes wide. “Something's happened. In the states." 

“Wh–" Jaro half started, the words falling flat in his mouth as he saw what was on the screen, through the static and grain. 

Two towers, smoke billowing into the sky. 

Nightworld, 2003

Pulling his hood up against the rain, Jaro tried to keep a low profile as he made his way through the now-crowded streets of Barda. 

After Kristian had gathered the others, Jaro had been surprised to see some of them leaning towards Kadir's way of thinking; go back through the Source, and nuke the place after them. No one outright supported the idea, but he could tell they wouldn't resist it. Noah was concerned with the loss of life, while Kristian was also worried about what such a high-yield explosive might do to the portal itself. Jaro agreed with both of them, but it seemed like nobody had a better plan. With at least two of Dracula's Lords still 'alive', there was no chance they'd be able to stand against him as things stood.

Leaving Nightworld alone wasn't an option, as the vampires would only keep coming through, and they'd all seen at Steambreather just how bad things could get if they were left to their own devices.

Dracula had to die. But how? 

Jaro didn't know. What he did know was that he couldn't allow this place to become another Chad or Afghanistan. A place where so-called liberators did more harm than good, destroying the local way of life and ultimately leaving things far worse than they'd begun. The Foreign Legion had done that in Africa, and he had no doubt that Operation Enduring Freedom would end the same way. 

No. Bombing Nightworld would only lead to more pain, it didn't matter any less than it was another world, out of sight. There were people here, with lives. Ioana, Vasile, Chevron, the people of Cujac and Barda. Innocents who'd been subjected to thousands of years under the vicious vampire rule. They deserved to let their world flourish and grow.

But how? Jaro wondered, shaking off the rain as he ducked from one alleyway to the next. He was trying to remain unnoticed, but he almost didn't need to. With the newfound chaos sweeping through the streets, the locals were focused only on themselves – and with good reason.

Barda had been transformed since Team Two's first arrival. Only a few days had passed, but the city was almost unrecognisable now. Back then the streets had been decorated with the trappings of fascism, with order and law – even a harsh vampire law – being the absolute cornerstones of the settlement. The old Barda had operated on a strict set of rules; serve or suffer. Now the people floundered; yes, their oppressor was gone, but so was all semblance of structure and order. It would take them years to rebuild, to decide what kind of society they all wanted to live in. It was a revolution, but one forced upon them. Ultimately he knew it was a good thing, but even so, part of Jaro felt guilty for stealing the world they knew without permission. 

At least now they have a chance to change. 

Before, Barda was a city ruled like a prison. 

Now, with the fall of Belisarius and his factory, it had become a refugee camp. 

Jaro kept to the side streets, watching as makeshift bands of vigilantes marched this way and that, doing their best to curtail the looting and general panic. Homes had been opened up, and anything belonging to the many Black Tongue Overseers had been ransacked and distributed among the people. Slogans and instructions had been slathered across flags and hung throughout the city, and small barricades had been constructed to help restrict the free-flowing stream of refugees. 

It was a bleak sight, but ultimately optimistic. Jaro saw here an urge to rebuild, a desire to enact order. These people weren't afraid of retribution, they were angry at what had been done to them. Things were dark right now, but given time, Barda could rebuild, and maybe one day be a place that mortals could live freely.

Unless Ashani comes here next, he thought, anxiety creeping through his stomach. 

Optimistic sights or not, it was undeniable that the city had suffered. With the once-eternal iron fist of Steambreather now underwater, it seemed a delirium had overcome the denizens. Jaro saw the telltale signs of rioting, looting, and mass carnage. It was like a child that had finally realised they didn't have to do what they were told, revelling in the new freedom. What exactly happened he wasn't sure, all he could tell was that a great deal of violence and disarray had swept through the streets, and now people were left with the reality of their entire lives being shattered overnight.

Many were homeless, or had their things stolen in the troubles. More had been hurt, and overnight several fires had broken out, leaving the town peppered with smouldering ruins. Homes next to those of the former Overseers were not free from scorn, many items repossessed indiscriminately by the new rulers of the city. Jaro wished he could do something to help, but they'd interfered enough. 

Could these people become an army? He wondered. In their discussions, the others had spoken of attacking the Godhead's Lament, of storming Dracula's castle and finally ending the Dread Emperor's reign for good. With only six of them however, and Kristian a mostly non-combatant, it didn't seem like a plan with much chance of success. But if the people here stood at our back? 

Jaro looked inside a fire-bombed shopfront and saw a small family, the mother wrapping bandages around her son's burnt legs while the father restrained him, the teenaged boy kicking out and crying from the pain. No, it didn't seem that the people of Barda were likely to become an army against Dracula anytime soon.

Did we do the right thing? He wondered again, leaving the miserable tableau and returning to his exploration. Eventually these people would be alright, they'd make do, but still… the whole thing made him uneasy. 

The rain picked up as he travelled deeper, but it seemed most of the town was glad for it. Dousing the fires and the spirits, it helped keep things calm. 

As he passed by the town centre, Jaro realised that Fyodor's display was gone. When they'd first come through, the bodies of Team One had been strung up for all to see. A warning and a message. Someone had the kindness to remove them. Jaro wondered if they'd been buried. Looking at the stacks of charcoaled wood piled by one side, he guessed not. 

Small mercies for the dead. Better than being left up there.

Almost unconsciously, he made his way vaguely in the direction of Mariutza and Florin's home. The two Bardan otters had helped them for no personal gain, and the closer he got the faster he moved, hoping that nothing too unfortunate had befallen them. 

Jaro's heart sank as he rounded the corner. The windows on their apartment block had all been smashed in, while a massive slogan had been splattered across the bricks of their building in bright yellow paint, though Jaro couldn't read what it said.

“No," Jaro whispered, stumbling slightly. Mariutza was a sweet old lady, and even though Florin had hated them he was barely more than a boy. They didn't deserve to suffer. Were they alright? Had they been hurt in the turbulent revelry? They, like most, had come to Barda to avoid death and pain, because of the deal that Belisarius offered.

Do you think they're glad to be liberated, then?

His depression was replaced by confusion, however, as the door to their apartment swung open, and Mariutza and her son came shuffling out in their raincoats. “They're alive." 

He'd promised himself not to get involved with whatever was happening here, but the two had helped them, they deserved to be thanked.

Or at least apologised to. 

Florin saw him approaching first, the teenager quickly bristling at the sight, drawing a small crude axe from his belt. “Get behind me, Mother!" He growled, raising the axe. “We have nothing of value here! Now be on your own way!" 

“No, no, wait!" Jaro called, raising his paws to show they were empty. Florin frowned, his mother peeking from around his shoulder. Moving slowly, Jaro nudged his hood back to reveal his face. “It is me, I don't know if you remember but…" 

“You are living!" Mariutza exclaimed, a soft smile breaking on her face. She pushed past Florin, ignoring his axe as she tottered over to Jaro, regarding him. “When we are seeing the factory go down, I was left to wonder." 

Jaro smiled back at her, as Florin slowly put his axe away. “I'm sorry. I came to thank you for your help, and make sure you're not hurt." He pointed to her windows. “What happened?" 

“Some fools," Mariutza explained. “The young people are angry. The old people are scared. It seems everyone takes it out on my windows. Nobody is sure what is happening." 

“You have come back to cause more trouble then?" Florin asked, stepping up beside his mother. He'd put the axe back into its place on his belt, but Jaro didn't miss how the teenager's paw rested near it. 

“No trouble," Jaro said, “just to think. Make sure nothing too bad happened." He considered them. “Where are you both going? The roads don't seem very safe."

“There is speeches now," Mariutza said. “On the other side of town. Come, come see." She tugged him along, and although he bristled, Jaro allowed himself to be brought along, following the old otter and her son. 

“The newcome prisoners, they do not know our ways," she explained to him. “Many are not even speaking our language properly. Nobody knows what to do with them." She shook her head. “It is tragic, but at least now they are having lives that mean more than just food."

“I'm sorry," Jaro said. “We didn't mean to cause this much damage." 

“Did not mean, or did not care?" Florin asked, to which his mother promptly swatted his shoulder. 

“You are not the ones having caused this," Mariutza said.

“Mother," Florin added with a sigh. “Who do you think is responsible for what happened down there?"

“They may have destroyed the factory, but every man and woman in this town is their own. They made their choices, and there is many more to come." 

As they walked through the downpour, Jaro saw more locals begin to appear, all trudging in the same direction. Nearly all of them carried weapons; spears and axes for the most part, with the odd crossbow appearing here or there. Two Jaro saw were carrying big buckets of paint in each arm, with a third behind them waving a flag he didn't recognise. 

His eyes widened as they turned a corner into what must have once been a major thoroughfare. It was a wide street packed with crowds, where at the far end stood a huge stage constructed out of loose wood and debris. A crudely painted flag hung above the stage occupants, more words smeared over it in yellow paint. Jaro wished Kristian was here to read it for him, he could only read a few Wallachian words.

“What does that say?" He asked, pointing out the sign. 

“No fate but what we make," Florin said curtly. “It is the mantra of the Via??, those that are now saying they are in charge of our home. They say we must chart our own path now, and be rejecting any former rules of the vampire." 

Via??. As best as Jaro could tell, it meant 'living'. 

“Not everyone thinks that way?" Jaro asked. 

Florin smirked. “What are you thinking?" He pointed to the side of the stage, where more than two dozen individuals stood in shackles. “St?pânitora."

“Royalists," Jaro whispered under his breath.

He felt unsettled in the tight crowd, but between the heavy rain and the drama up on stage, it seemed no one was paying him any mind.

Still. Now did not seem like a good time to be found out as a foreigner in Barda.

A quiet anticipation overcame the crowd as the leader on stage raised a fist, a dramatic collection of shiny baubles hanging from his neck. He was a horse, donned in a flowing leather coat, one eye patched over with bandages. A warrior, injured in the recent melee.

“Brothers and sister of Barda!" He cried, shouters throughout the audience passing the message down, creating an unpleasant kind of echo, both competing and out-of-sync with itself. “The Via?? have been hearing your pleas! We beg for patience as you beg for bread! The vampire and his St?pânitora servants sought to keep us under heel in many ways, and the lack of food was but one of our leashes! But only wait, and you shall eat!" 

Most of the crowd was nodding along with his words, some even jeering and hurling things out towards the prisoners. 

“We are all now free people!" He declared. “Walking our own path outside of the shadow of the Lambcatcher! We have been saying enough! How many of us lost loved ones to the Iconoclast? How many elders had their backs broken by a lifetime of slavery!? How many of our children were lost early in the great jaws of vile machinery! Steambreather was nothing but a pit for our people to bleed in, and even if we were spared its outcome we still pained nonetheless! The laws of Barda were simple once, serve or suffer! Yet our lives were not free of suffering!" The crowd loved that, shaking their fists and crying out. 

This was the other side of people in Nightworld, Jaro realised. Cujac was the first; generations living in fear and despair, so tormented over the centuries that the very idea of a world without vampires was almost too much to bear. As Ioana had said, they didn't know how to fight back, the mere concept of it was so foreign to them. 

Barda was clearly different. The violence of Belisarius's factory had dug a well of anger, and now that their overlord was gone, the sentiments of the townspeople had snapped like an elastic band. Jaro stared at the prisoners, wondering how many of them were truly vampire sympathisers, and how many had simply been swept up by a crowd lusting over bloody justice.

“In our quest for salvation, no St?pânitora shall be preserved!" The horse cried, pointing down at his prisoners. “No sympathiser given shelter! This is a place for the freedom of Wallachia, a heart for our independence to grow! No longer shall we pray the monsters set us free, no longer shall we willfully give over our babies for their gluttony! No longer shall we tolerate the stench of their traitorous servants!" 

Four individuals – three men, one woman – were dragged onto stage kicking and screaming. Their paws were locked behind their back, their ankles shackled on short chains. The burly Via?? enforcers tossed them down unceremoniously onto the stage, where others rushed to hold them in place. 

The horse approached them slowly, a large wolf in a black hood by his side, a massive two-pawed cleaver hefted in his arms.

“YOU!" The horse screamed at the first man, “you beg for mercy, but how many of our children have you whipped, demanding harder work, less rest, more bloodshed?!" 

“I had to!" The weasel cried back, looking to the crowd for mercy and finding none. “We are as much victims as you! You did not want to be working in his factory, as I did not wish to be whipping you!"

“YOU TOOK PLEASURE IN IT!" A woman at the front screamed, others joining in with her cries. 

“I WAS LAUGHED AT!"

“WE WERE KICKED!" 

“SPAT ON!"

“TORTURED!" 

“Would they have us spare them their worthless lives?" The horse asked the crowd, to a cacophony of boos. “Allow these half-monsters to walk among us, to corrupt our children, as they slowly lose their minds?!" 

“I would not be hurting you!" The weasel wailed, tears streaming down his face. 

“SHOW US YOUR TONGUE!" The crowd screamed back, over and over itself. The prisoner looked up to the horse, who only nodded. 

The man seemed to attempt to comply, but fear overcame him, and he instead clamped up tight, shaking his head. The horse gestured to two of his enforcers, and the large men bundled forward, seizing the weasel's head and forcing his jaw open, showing the crowd the inky black of his tongue. No denying it then; he'd drunk Belisarius's blood, sold his mind in exchange for power, and now he'd die for it. 

The crowd was ravenous, and the horse gave him no chance to speak further, stepping back as the wolf swung his cleaver down, splitting the weasel's head at the neck. His body seized, falling forward as dark blood bubbled up from the wounds, dripping forwards over the stage and running down the front. His head rolled to the edge, eyes still clamped wide as it flopped over the lip of the stage, falling out of sight. 

“Why did you come to this?" Jaro asked Mariutza, careful to keep his voice low. 

“They are less suspicious of those who do," she whispered back. “I am not wanting any over-eager Via?? knocking on my door again." Jaro nodded, stomach turning as each of the other individuals on stage were revealed to be Black Tongues as well, before being summarily executed. 

“I have seen enough of this," Jaro said to her, giving Florin a short nod. “You two look after yourselves, but I should leave." 

“Be careful, please," Mariutza said, reaching over and squeezing his paw. “There has been enough violence already, and they are not done yet." 

Jaro promised her he would be, before deftly slipping out of the crowd. Some of the more zealously-dressed Via?? gave him dirty looks as he slipped away, but nobody actually stopped him. 

Allowing the speeches and killings to drown into the background, Jaro began the task of circling back around the edge of the city. He'd told Devna he was going to scout the town, but it was getting late, and the last thing any of them needed was to get involved with all the chaos of Barda rebuilding. 

It was unpleasant, but there was no other way forward. Things had to get worse before they got better. 

But they can get better. He thought. The will is there. At least, he hoped so. Because the anger is as well. What was the saying? Revolutions always eat their own children. In the worst possible outcome, the newfound fury of the Via?? could plunge Barda into a new era of cruelty and violence. Hopefully it doesn't come to that.

As he made his way, Jaro realised he could hear the faint whine of collective crying. He half-considered ignoring the sound, eager to get back to camp, but curiosity got the better of him and soon he was stumbling through a makeshift refugee camp. 

The ground here was unpaved, and the combination of heavy rain and too many boots had turned the dirt to mud. From what Jaro could tell it had once been a marketplace, but the stalls and signposts had been torn down and dismantled, replaced instead with row after row of tents and pavilions, all crammed full of newly freed prisoners. 

Shivering families covered in filth huddled in the corners, while more put-together Bardans made their way about with water and poultices, bandaging up wounds, seeing to the hungry, and trying to connect any children with their parents.

The cattle, Jaro realised with horror. These people weren't from Barda, they were from the farms. Only a few hours later, they'd have been killed and bled for the Cortège. Most sat in silent contemplation, and those that did speak sounded unusual, like they were using another dialect. They'd come from all over Nightworld, shipped here to satiate the vampire's ever-rising gluttony.

As Jaro watched the Barda surgeons work to help the injured prisoners, the anxiety he'd felt during the Via?? demonstration began to fade. Yes, there was danger in the revolution that had overtaken the people, but there was hope now too. 

These people are alive because of you, and what you did, he thought, watching. There were small gatherings of people everywhere, and more families still packed into the apartment blocks lining the former market. Part of him wanted to kneel down and start helping – he was a medic after all. He'd trained to help people survive war, and since coming to Nightworld, mostly what he'd done was kill. It was monsters he'd been killing, sure, but it still amounted to death winning out over life.

You shouldn't get involved. It was the better choice, he knew that. What was he going to do? Stay here and save all of them? The best way to help these people is to find a way to kill Dracula, and stop the Cortège. Then they can be safe, and work to rebuild a life for themselves. One that's actually worth living. Was destruction the only answer? He knew what Kadir would say. But what would Boz think? Planning to negotiate with the vampires, then? Ask them politely to stop massacring every mortal being they could? Think they'll be receptive to that? No. They couldn't be reasoned with or bargained with, there was only one way.

It felt impossible. A huge weight upon his shoulders that he didn't know how to free. This whole mission was supposed to be a recon mission; establish a small base, and find somewhere safe to launch further attacks from. Now he was caught wondering how exactly they were going to save this world. 

“One thing at a time," he told himself, shaking his head to get the rainwater out of his fur.

As Jaro made to leave the campground, something different caught his eye. A smaller group of refugees pushed out to one section, their area cordoned off. There were maybe fifteen in total, all adults, their eyes downcast. Looking closer, Jaro realised they weren't like the others; there was a goat with extra arms, a deer with a rippling mixture of scales and fur, and a fox whose eyes were replaced with some kind of dark inky presence.

He moved closer, nudging one of the roaming surgeons and pointing out the strange refugees. “What is wrong with them? Why are they locked away?" He didn't know the Wallachian word for quarantine. “Are they sick?" 

The crow shifted on his feet, clicking inside his beak. “They are not from here. They come from across the Deadlands… a gift from the Dreamless."

“The Dreamless?" Jaro asked, staring back at the former prisoners. One of the other Vampire Lords. The Lady said he was the Lord of Augury. An advisor? Some kind of mystic? What need would Dracula have of a mystic? Romulus mentioned him too. Said Ashani thought we'd go there after Cujac… why would she think that? 

“He…" The crow shivered. “Did things to them. They are frightening the other patients."

“Can I talk to them?"

“I won't stop you." And the crow shook free, heading off in the opposite direction. Jaro sighed, making his way over to the segregated area. 

None of them looked up as he wandered through, except for a stern tiger resting at the back of the group, dressed in little more than rags. He stood as Jaro approached, striped fur hanging like a worn coat from his emaciated frame. His eyes were yellow and sunken, and he clung to a large stick for stability. As Jaro came up and met his gaze however, the man did not flinch. 

“We have every right to be here!" The tiger demanded, bristling. Hearing his words, some of the others crowded around him pulled away, whimpering to themselves. “We have caused no harm, and my people are scared and injured. They are not fit for travel."

“I haven't come to send you away," Jaro explained, raising his paws. “I don't wish to cause any harm. I want to ask questions." 

The tiger's eyes narrowed into thin slits, and he adjusted his footing. “What questions?" 

Jaro looked around them. He could see why the other refugees were afraid, and Jaro's own throat closed up as it finally clicked what these people were; experiments.

Many had pieces of bronze or silver wended into their flesh, valves sticking from their joints, splints worked beneath their fingers or around their jaws. Too many were missing limbs, while others had impotent extras. All of them looked afraid, and in pain.

“What did this to you?" Jaro asked finally, trying to keep his voice low so as not to disturb them too much. 

The tiger closed his eyes, sighing deeply. “Zakhar. The Dreamless Lord of Augury. That is what has happened to us." He opened his eyes again, waving to the refugees around him. “We are but a third of the group first brought here from Orobos. A gift for the Lambcatcher. He called us exquisite meat. The horrors given to us by the Dreamless have made our bodies into delicacies for their kind." The tiger spat into the mud, his hackles rising. “But that was not by design. We are just his failures. The off-cuts."  

Jaro clenched his jaw. Belisarius had eaten the rest of them, slowly, like they were a treat. “You've been through a lot of pain. What was Zakhar trying to accomplish?" 

The tiger chuckled grimly. “That is the question that plagues all our minds in the thin hours of the night. You think he gave answers to the flesh in his workshop? No. They say even the other Lords fear him, that's why they put him out so far away. They could not stomach what he might do." 

The tiger's word rang true. The way the other vampires had spoken of him, it seemed like Zakhar played by his own rules. But why? As horrific as the things done to these people were, it wouldn't even be a blip on the Cortège's radar. 

What are you doing out there that has them so wary? Jaro wondered. 

“You came here all the way through the Deadlands?" From what they'd seen, the marsh was huge. It would have taken the group weeks to cross. He wondered if Chevron knew anything about them. “You travelled far."

“With twenty of his thralls to guard us." He inhaled deeply. “Could have been one. We knew better than to run. The only ones Zakhar shows mercy to are the dead." 

Jaro pressed in closer. “Please, anything you can tell me helps. Do you have any idea why other Vampire Lords are afraid of him?"

The tiger cocked his head. “Why? You would go there? For what reason? Hear me when I say, there is nothing out there but ice and torment."

“We killed Belisarius," Jaro said, pointing back towards the factory ruins. “I mean to kill Zakhar too, and stop this from happening to others. But I need your help. Anything you can tell me will be of great use." 

“You won't, you can't." The tiger shook his head slowly. “But even so, I fear I can be of no use to you. We were kept in a hole with one exit and one entrance." An oubliette. Jaro shivered at the thought. “Brought out only so he might tinker with us. My people have seen the darkest of their kind. Finally when he had no use for us, he sent us off to be a platter for this beast's appetite." He waved off, scowling. “Never have I been so glad to see something buried. The spirit and strength of the loved ones we lost will carry on with us forever. If only it could have come sooner, and more could be spared." 

“If only," Jaro replied somberly. Looking around at the others, he felt a queasiness. They were clearly in pain, and the surgeons and locals of Barda were terrified of what they might do, even though they were obviously harmless. “Here, please, take this." He rummaged through his pack, removing a small maxi-pack of anti-inflammatories. After a moment of hesitation, the elder tiger took them slowly, regarding them quizzically in his paw. 

“What is this?" He demanded, the blister packs crunching slightly in his grip. 

“I only have a limited amount, so use them sparingly," Jaro instructed. “Give them with water, swallowed whole, only once per day, to your most injured. They will reduce swelling and pain. Keep them secret." It was the least he could do to ease these people's pain. “Don't let them push you out of this town, please." 

The tiger smiled. “We have endured far worse than any angry townspeople." The tiger held the medicine to his chest, bowing his head slightly. “My name is Aurit, and I thank you."

“My name is Jaroslav," Jaro replied. “And you're welcome."

He left the refugees behind, returning to his path out of the city, putting the facts together in his head.

Zakhar, the Lord of Augury. The Dreamless. 

He was some kind of advisor to Dracula? Advising on what exactly? 

Conducting experiments on mortals, in a workshop located on the other side of the Deadland Marsh. The other vampires were frightened of him, but Ashani had guessed that Team Two would go there next… why? Why would she think that?

He has a weapon, Jaro thought. That was the only answer that made sense. Zakhar was some kind of vampire scientist, out there constructing even worse creations than the thralls. Whatever he was hiding, it could hurt the other Lords, maybe even kill them? 

Chevron might know more, he thought. The druid was on the way – her hut laid in the middle of the swamp. There was no doubt now. That's the way forward.

Through the marsh, to Orobos. To Zakhar. 

Out there in the ice, that was where they'd find a way to kill Dracula.