The Vampire & Her Witch

In a quiet business district of High Fen City, inside a shop bearing a sign that read ’Things Made, Curses Broken,’ an aging member of the Clan of painted masks hunched over his workbench, barely breathing as he used a small brass hammer to gently tap on a fine pointed engraver. His focus was so great that he’d placed a dark eyepatch over his left eye and wore a series of brass-rimmed lenses over his right eye, making the delicate silver butterfly wing under the tip of his engraver appear as though it were the size of his palm when in fact, it was only a quarter that size.

The sounds of bells ringing and the -CREAK- of rusty hinges complaining as his front door opened pulled his attention momentarily away from his work, though the only move he made was to step back from the delicate piece and let out a slow, shuddering breath before shouting at the door.

”If it’s about the Willow Whip’s blade, the answer is ’no’,” Erkembalt shouted, not bothering to look up at the person who had entered his cluttered shop. By Heila’s third day in the arena, it seemed like one out of every five people walking through his doors were asking about the Snow Fang he’d crafted for her, and by the end of her fifth day, when she felled the Tuscan mercenaries, that number had become one in three.

Now, in the days since her triumph over the Cauldron of Flame, it seemed like the only people entering his shop were in search of the famed artificer who created the frosty weapon, each one more desperate to obtain one than the last.

”If you people keep asking, I’ll close up shop and move to Sapphire Depths on the coast,” he said grumpily. ”That way, at least you have to cross half a continent to hear me tell you ’no.’ I won’t touch Frost Walker horn again for five years or more, so save your breath asking.”

At this point, more often than not, the bells on his door would ring again, announcing that the starry-eyed young gladiator or grizzled veteran mercenary knew better than to press their luck and left his shop empty-handed. This time, however, the sound of quiet footsteps filled the air, preceding a voice that Erkembalt hadn’t heard in more than thirty years.

”I see you’re keeping busy, old friend,” his visitor said as they strolled casually among the cluttered shelves, pausing every few steps to examine one curiosity or the other. ”Your recent work is quite impressive.”

”Aspakos, weren’t you supposed to keep away from me?” Erkembalt asked, looking up for the first time since the person had entered his shop and pulling off both his magnifying eyepiece and the eyepatch that blocked his other eye before replacing them with more ordinary-appearing spectacles.

The man before him wore stately blue robes, trimmed in glittering gold and covered in glyphs of power that were older than most of the current Eldritch nations. The dark feathers of his plumage still looked as inky and black as the day it had when Erkembalt left the Sorcerers of Sundered Earth and the man’s cracked beak still bore the same vein of gold that welded the broken shard of his beak firmly back in place. In every way a person with ordinary vision could see, the old man of the Dark Feathered Clan hadn’t changed at all since the day they last saw each other.

To Erkembalt’s eyes, however, his former colleague had changed greatly. The aura of frequent use of sorcery that clung to the man had shifted from a brilliant, blazing halo of pale azure and soft green to one of dark purple with whorls of shadowy black that clustered around his heart and eyes. His taloned hands dripped with dark crimson energy and the smell of death clung to him in a way that Erkembalt had only seen from men who had so much blood on their hands that nothing could wash it away.

”Merciful Sovereign,” Erkembalt whispered once he got a good look at his old friend. ”What happened to you?” His hands trembled slightly as he pushed back from his workbench, the scrape of his chair against the wooden floor sounding unnaturally loud in the shop that felt like it had become two sizes too small to contain whatever had brought his dark visitor here.

Moving with deliberate care despite his racing heartbeat, Erkembalt crossed to the nearest window. Mid-afternoon sunlight filtered through the dusty windows and for a moment, he was struck by how ordinary everyone walking by outside looked, like they had no idea what kind of person had just walked into his workshop or what his presence in this city might mean for them.

But then, it was better that they didn’t know, he thought as he sharply pulled the shades down, plunging the workshop into a dim gloom with only a few oil lamps burning near his workbench. When he reached the door, his fingers moved mechanically, turning not less than six locks on the heavy wooden door, ensuring that no one could intrude while he and his visitor spoke.

”Don’t tell me that Lady Nyrielle did this to you,” Erkembalt said as he finally turned back to his old friend. ”No,” he added, shaking his head. ”There’s no way she could do this to you in such a short period of time. So what in the Sovereign’s name happened to you?”

”So you do still care about us,” Aspakos said without bothering to answer the artificer’s question. ”Do you have anything worth drinking? My flask ran empty weeks ago,” he said, reaching into his robes to hold up a worn metal flask with a simple cork stopper.

”That depends on your definition of ’worth drinking,’” Erkembalt said, returning to his workbench and gesturing for the feathered sorcerer to take a seat across the table from him. After several minutes of rummaging in the back of a cupboard, he returned with an old, dusty bottle and two simple metal cups.

”It tastes a bit of licorice,” he said, pulling out the stopper and pouring two small measures of the potent liquor. ”And I don’t have space for barrels to age it, so it’s a bit harsh, but the kick is there.”

”Good enough,” Aspakos said, clinking his cup against his friend’s. ”The stars above,” he toasted.

”The stars above,” Erkembalt answered as both men knocked back the heady liquor, savoring the burning sensation as it slid down their throats and the warmth that spread from their bellies a moment later.

”All right,” Erkembalt said, firmly placing a stopper back in the bottle. Looking closely at the dark aura that clung to his friend, he placed an elbow on the worktable and leaned forward, adjusting his spectacles as if to make sure that he was truly seeing what he thought he was. ”One shot is a polite enough greeting for old time’s sake, but more than that requires an answer. What happened to you, Aspakos? And is that why you’ve come all the way out here following another vampire?”

”You’ve grown cruel,” the feathered sorcerer said, snatching the bottle off the table and yanking out the stopper to pour two fresh cups. ”Asking a man to speak when his tongue is dry.”

”I had three little ones,” Erkembalt protested. ”Korine forbid me from keeping anything stronger than watered wine in the house until the boys were old enough to drink. And you’re changing the topic, don’t think I’ll let you distract me.”

”Fine, fine, I’ll explain. But before I do,” Aspakos said, holding up a sharp talon. ”Answer me this. I see what you’re dabbling in on the surface here. But have you kept your oath since you left? This,” he added, holding up the cup of clear moonshine and draining it in a gulp. ”It’s not bad, but were you really able to do this the old-fashioned way?”

”I swore it when I left,” Erkembalt said, thumping the table with a fist and sending half a dozen scraps of paper and small metal parts jumping into the air with the force of his blow. ”Not once have I employed forbidden arts. No engine that powers itself, nor sail that flies without the wind, no weapon with its own power to kill or art to enslave another. Each of those and all the others,” he said firmly, looking into the other man’s dark eyes with an intense stare, as if daring the other man to doubt his word.

”It’s good that you have, my friend,” Aspakos said. ”Though the time for such things may be coming to an end. The lock on the vaults has turned, Erkembalt,” he said, pouring himself a third cup and staring deeply into the reflection dancing on the surface of the potent liquor. ”Soon, the vaults may open and the world will come to know what we’ve kept hidden.”