The Vampire & Her Witch

Lord Ritchel had acted without hesitation when he saw Hauke’s sudden attack. The ancestral horns strapped to his son’s chest had pulsed with an ominous light that he recognized immediately. The nightmare that haunted him since the day the spirits addressed the council of elders using his son’s mouth had finally come true. The spirits were in control, not his son.

He hadn’t intended to capture Ashlynn along with Hauke. The sorcerers of his honor guard were all experienced enough to follow his lead, placing the center of the icy tomb on a spot that should have trapped Hauke and the ancestral spirits alone, giving him the ability to regain control of the situation. The dark suppressive magic that knocked Ashlynn to the ground, briefly pinning her in place had been the perfect opportunity.

But fate made fools of men who thought everything would unfold as they desired. The ancestral spirit’s attack on the diminutive Willow Witch had been so cruel that Ashlynn escaped the grip of the icy magic that held her down, clashing directly with Hauke and the ancestral spirits just as the Ice Tomb came into being, sealing her inside it’s icy walls along with him.

Now, everything was spiralling rapidly out of control and a new flurry of snow had appeared. This one, however, felt much gentler than the icy blizzard tormenting Lady Nyrielle’s army, filled with fat, fluffy snowflakes that drifted harmlessly on the wind. Or at least, it started that way.

The first impact against his shoulder felt like nothing more than a ball of soft, fluffy snow hurled by a young child, barely enough to register through his thick fur and ceremonial robes. He dismissed it without a glance, maintaining his concentration on the complex weave of sorcery that kept the walls of ice from shattering under the force of the battle raging within while taking a brief look at the fortress behind him.

Already, the walls had begun to empty of young soldiers as men drew their weapons and charged towards the gate, rushing to be the first ones across the bridge to reach their lord’s side. Within a minute or two, a force of several hundred men would be able to surround him, offering real enough protection from the forces of Nyrielle’s army that he could consider unsealing the ice tomb. Until they arrived, he just had to hold on.

The second snowball struck Gunter, one of his senior aids and a candidate to replace Paulus on the council of elders, with enough force to make the man grunt in surprise. Larger than the first snowball and more tightly packed, it left a spray of white powder across the man’s silver-blue ceremonial robes.

”My Lord,” Gunter started, but fell silent as a third snowball struck him squarely between the eyes with enough force to make him take a step back, covering his face with one arm and quickly wiping away the snow that blocked his vision. For a moment, a loud -CRACK- echoed from the Ice Tomb as the wall Gunter was responsible for lost his active support, but the veteran sorcerer quickly redoubled his efforts, reinforcing the wall and bringing his sorcery back under control.

Ritchel’s eyes narrowed, searching the swirling snow that had appeared seemingly from nowhere. He hadn’t paid it much attention at first because the magic felt so familiar, carrying a subtle flavor and scent that reminded him of snow melting on the tongue, just like dozens of Frost Walker snow masters he’d known over the years.

With all of the soldiers descending from the walls, he assumed it had been a move made by one of the sorcerers remaining atop the fortress walls to conceal their movements from Nyrielle’s forces. But now, as he peered through the dancing flakes, he caught a glimpse of the small horned witch, the one the ancestral spirits had attacked at the beginning of this disaster, standing near the Ice Tomb with a glowing white horn-blade in her hand.

”Hold formation!” he commanded as the fourth snowball struck with enough force to shatter the decorative ice embellishments Gunter wore across his chest. ”It’s just snow. Maintain the Ice Tomb until reinforcements arrive!”

If things continued at the level of the most recent snowball, he was certain they could endure for the minute or two they needed until his soldiers could form a solid barrier against the strange snow cloud and it’s almost childish assault, but the bombardment they’d felt so far was only the beginning.

What had started as isolated impacts quickly became a barrage, each snowball larger and faster than the last. His men shifted uncomfortably, their concentration wavering as they were pelted from all directions.

”My Lord,” Hrosskel, the oldest member of his honor guard called out. ”Something is moving within the...”

Whatever words he’d been about to use died in Hrosskel’s throat, replaced by a strangled gasp. Ritchel turned just in time to see the man he’d long considered an old friend stagger sideways, dropping first to one knee before toppling sideways and sprawling at Lord Ritchel’s feet.

Emerging from behind the fallen sorcerer, a slender figure with iridescent wings seemed to dance on the wind, withdrawing from the toppling figure with the slightest shove to ensure that he didn’t fall on her as he died. Something glinted between delicate fingers, needle-thin and gleaming with an unnatural purple sheen that froze Ritchel’s heart the instant he saw it.

Before Ritchel could shout a warning, the winged figure vanished back into the swirling snow, already hunting her next target.

”Close ranks!” Ritchel bellowed, his voice carrying over the increasing barrage of snowballs, some now as large as a man’s head and striking with the force of a war hammer. The snowballs had become so densly packed that, despite their fluffy outward appearances, each one contained a core as solid as the icicles hanging from the walls of the fortress and almost as deadly.

On the ground Hrosskel clutched at his neck where a tiny puncture wound no larger than a pinprick leaked a thin trickle of blood, staining the dull white fur of his beard a dark, purplish-red. His face contorted in agony as veins around the wound swelled and throbbed, filling his body with the feeling of being stabbed hundreds of times.

The sensation started in his neck but it quickly spread outward front he wound, following his veins like the roots of a malevolent plant. His eyes bulged, mouth opening in a silent scream as the poison raced through his system. Moments later, his veins began to rupture as hundreds of pinpricks covered his flesh, dying his white fur and ceremonial robes a dark, purplish-red as more and more pinpricks pierced every vein in his body.

”Thistle Witch!” Ritchel snarled, finally recognizing the signature of the deadly toxin. He should have known when he saw the iridescent wings but his mind refused to believe. Now, he couldn’t help but accept that death truly had descended on them as the sole survivor of the greatest clan of assassins to ever live vanished into the snow, searching for the next man to die from her poisonous thorns....