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Chapter 643: Make Love, Not War

He had never truly faced any fight alone, had he?

Then, manifesting his mind’s thoughts, his blood echoes became imitations of his closest allies. Anneliese, Elenore, Orion, Galamon, Durran, Melanie, the houses of Parbon and Monticci… all his echoes manifested as these people, taking up arms like it was natural to do so. Steeled by this, Argrave was able to step forward, all of his power at hand.

Orion rushed forth toward the hounds, confronting them with his brutal strength and insurmountable will. Galamon loosed steady arrows to catch those that broke away from the herd—then, at his command, Argrave’s royal guard erupted into the flank of the coming hounds, punching a great hole into the stampeding horde. Durran soared on his wyvern, casting S-rank spells that burnt away great sections of the hound army. Melanie and the noble houses coordinated closely to create skirmishes that brooked no retaliation.

As for Argrave and Anneliese… as they were in the Shadowlands versus its denizens, so too were they versus these hounds of hunger. His bloody magic raged against the tide, conjuring all manner of spells he knew and simultaneously inventing some with his imagination on the spot. She reenergized him with her brilliant white scepter forged of Veid’s heart, but was also a force unto herself. She carried herself with the same ferocity as she had in the battle against the tephramancers that earned her the alias Stormdancer.

Then, a voice cut into his head (despite the fact he was already in his head). Elenore told him, “Argrave. I’ve prepared a trap for our enemies. Have everyone fall back, following you so as to avoid the dangerous locations.”

Argrave ceased his relentless disassembly of the enemy, got some distance, and looked back. His mind filled in what would be there—beyond the savanna, there was the jungle. He could see his mind formulating the dense rainforests in real time. He’d never born witness to them, so they were surely altogether infinitely more foreboding than such places actually were.

He saw Elenore, aback Vasquer, head deep into the rainforests. Her words pierced his skull, guiding him. He echoed them to his allies, and they followed the safe path through the jungle. Galamon’s Veidimen covered their retreat, and they headed far into the jungle with their pursuers hot on their tail. But Argrave—a native to the jungle of his mind—walked unimpeded, rapidly making his way through. The hounds of hunger, meanwhile…

Argrave heard an explosion behind. When he looked back, he saw a fragmentation mine explode, tearing dozens of the hounds of hunger and the surrounded trees to bits. These mines continued to violently explode. Alongside it came artillery. Heavy bombardments of shells broke past the canopy, blowing the dogs to bits.

Realizing his uninspired American mind had conjured what little he knew of Vietnam as Elenore’s trap, Argrave continued back to their camp within the jungle. As he walked forward, his companions passed by him. They wore excellent camouflage and military gear, bringing with them rifles and grenades all with a peculiar logo—ARTUR. Then, Argrave heard a terrible noise, and whipped his head.

Huge machines bore through the rainforest. They were tanks, but not tanks as Argrave knew them. Instead, they looked to be made in the same fashion that the golems Dario had made were. Argrave could see enchantments shining along their surface, and even spotted golem cores powering them. Instead of a cannon, they had strange mounted machine guns that took strips of ballista as ammunition.

These semi-modern instruments of war descended upon the coming hounds of hunger who’d just managed to brute-force their way past the mines. Now, gunfire, grenades, and ballistae shot from tanks rained down upon these vicious characterizations of the Shadowland’s endless hunger. Each of these weapons were born from Argrave’s blood, and they chewed through the opposition like nothing else. The battle was one-sided, yet it could be said their enemies were without an end.

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Argrave felt his hair whip in the wind as something started to descend upon them. Looking up, he saw a helicopter coming to a stop, its blades slowing losing intensity even as the mounted machine gun continued to fire upon the hounds. Orion—in heavy-duty modern military gear, with a large rifle—jumped out of the chopper, then ran toward Argrave. Instead of his usual long hair and bushy beard, he had a very military haircut.

“Mr. President,” Orion shouted above the whirring of the helicopter. “We’re here to extract you.”

Argrave followed along with him, entering into the helicopter where the head of his secret service—Galamon—took him into safety. As the chopper lifted off, he saw Anneliese rush into a throng of hounds bearing a flamethrower, burning everything in front of her to bits with a blood-magic imbued flame. The blades gained enough momentum to take them off the ground yet when the door shut… it became a plane. A very high-class plane, so high in the sky they were almost in orbit.

“Mr. President.” Elenore sat in front of Argrave on his presidential private jet. “Llewellen has completed the Blackgard Project. If you give the go-ahead, we can drop the blood bomb.”

Argrave looked outside of the plane window. Only from here did he see the true scale of the Hopeful’s hunger. Far more than a herd, far more than a stampede—it was an entire universe of suffering unending.

“Drop the bomb,” Argrave declared.

Durran flew above their plane in a fighter wyvern, the thing clutching a stone imbued with Argrave’s blood magic. After moving miles away from them, the blood bomp dropped from its hand, falling delicately… then combusted with such ferocity he never even saw it burst. A brilliant blood red mushroom cloud of fire erupted into the air, vaporizing the hounds of hunger by the billions.

“President Prime Minster Supreme,” said Melanie, and Argrave turned his head. “The leader of the hunger has contacted us. He’d like to forge a peace.”

“Let’s meet,” Argrave decided.

The plane touched down, its engines slowly coming to a stop. Argrave walked down those majestic airplane stairs, and reporters snapped pictures of him as he descended. Galamon’s secret service herded them away forcefully. At the bottom of the stairs, a hound of hunger in a business-like suit stood waiting.

Argrave held a briefcase out. “If you can take this as a peace offering… we can put all of this behind us.”

The hound in a suit opened the briefcase. Within was the memory of Traugott that Argrave had plucked free. The dog shut the briefcase, then barked.

Argrave held out his hand. “Good boy. Give me your hand.”

The dog obediently performed the trick, and they shook hands. Then, Argrave gave him the treat; the briefcase. With it, the hound of hunger departed, not quite satisfied, but… cowed. And then…

#####

Argrave opened his eyes just in time to see the Hopeful stagger away, falling back upon a mesa for support. He couldn’t deny he felt some extreme whiplash coming from that vibrant and ridiculous mindscape to this dreary, gray world. He again felt the pressure of the bearing shadows, but… it was only for a second.

He blinked, coming to terms with the fact his mind concocted a blood-nuke to bomb the hounds of hunger. He’d also made peace with the prime minister of hunger, who he’d had perform a doggy trick to get the memory the Hopeful been seeking from him. Argrave strongly considered there was something fundamentally wrong about his brain, but… he had won. He had fought back the hunger.

“Argrave. Did it… I mean, how much was lost? You look embarrassed, but…” Anneliese began uncertainly. It was unpleasant to hear her voice lose the dynamism it had in his mindscape.

“I’m fine. I didn’t lose anything, actually, except perhaps some self-respect. But him…”

All of them studied the Hopeful, who still leaned up against the mesa as if he couldn’t stand without it. The pressure of the darkness slowly waned until it wasn’t pressing down upon them so fiercely, so inexorably. Argrave did wonder if he hadn’t taken it too far, done some serious damage to this gargantuan fellow.

“…your world is sick and twisted,” said the Hopeful, straightening himself. “It is a world already amply damaged by the hunger I carry. Perhaps it was imprudent of me to assume so much about what burden you could handle.”

Argrave frowned at his judgmental tone. “That was self-defense,” he pointed out. “Nobody asked you to pursue us into the jungle. But enough of that. I assume you’re satisfied?”

Argrave couldn’t even remember what memory he had surrendered. But the Hopeful gave a certain nod, that fake teethy smile still across his face.

“My people will no longer impede your search. One of my own shall take you to Traugott.”

Argrave smiled. “Brilliant.”

It was rather wonderful what nukes could do for the diplomatic situation.