The Vampire & Her Witch

Thus far, the Ancient Oak had only shown Virve memories from within the Vale of Mists. Now, however, Virve found herself in a vast lumber yard where scores of craftsmen stood around the rough-hewn remnants of an Ancient Oak.

The scent of sawdust and rough-hewn timber filled the air, and a cacophony of rasping saws and thudding hammers filled the air, mixing with the clank of chains as workmen hauled impossibly large logs from the wagons into the workshop.

The vast power of a tree that had endured for more than a thousand years could still be felt in the broken branches gathered to the side and the massive logs, each as thick as Virve was tall, felt like reservoirs of tremendous strength, slowly bleeding out along with the tree’s fragrant sap.

”What do you think of this one, my Lord?” an aged and withered craftsman said, tapping one of the giant logs with the cane he carried. ”Thick as it is, there should be no problem ripping it into tables for your banquet hall. Every guest will marvel at the splendor of your victory each time you hold a feast, and they will endure for generations.”

The craftsman said it like it would be easy, but already his men were learning just how hard it was to cut through the resilient timber of the ancient oak. In one corner, the grinding wheel spun constantly, emitting a high pitched whine and a shower of sparks as a workman sharpened blades that should have lasted for weeks that had worn out in just hours of use on oak that felt almost as tough as iron.

Already, some of the men had begun to mutter about taking up the tools of metal workers, using files intended to grind away steel and polish sword blades just to make some progress with the demonic tree, but the Lothian Lord cared nothing for their struggles as he considered the best way to use a treasure that had taken an entire summer of fierce fighting and the deaths of more than a hundred soldiers in order to claim.

”Banquet tables?” The powerfully built lord walking behind the craftsman said with a derisive snort. ”No, the only tables cut from the corpse of this heathen god will belong to Dukes or the King himself. My banquets are filled with rough men of the frontier, battle-hardened soldiers, and gold-seeking profiteers. Such men don’t deserve this finery,” he said, running a hand over the severed end of the great tree and rubbing its sap between his fingers.

”Carve me a throne from this,” the lord commanded. ”Make it from a single piece of wood, without seam or joint, and turn it into a seat that will remind everyone who sees the man sitting atop it that the Lothians are the greatest conquerors of the frontier,” he damanded, gazing into the distance as though he could imagine the shape of the grand throne trapped within the simple log.

”Make sure it is fit for the duke I will become when we finally crush the Vale of Mists and Airgead Mountain beneath our boots and drive the last of the demons from the lands east of the mountains,” he added. ”The king will have to acknowledge our family’s gains after this war!”

”A throne, my lord?” the wizened craftsman said, blinking in surprise at the request. The lord wanted an elaborately carved throne made from a wood that was heavier than stone and tougher than iron? Did he think they were miracle workers? But before the ruler of the Lothian March, he could never object that the task was unreasonable, so he racked his brain for an alternative reason to refuse the request.

”My lord,” the workman said hesitantly. ”Much of this wood will be wasted as shavings and scraps if we carve a throne from a single log. Are you sure you wouldn’t prefer to use the material more conservatively?”

”So what if there are shavings and scraps?” the lord scoffed. ”Gather them all up so I can present them to the Church to be burned in the pyres of our fallen heroes. Let it not be said that I haven’t given back to the holy warriors who fought at our side in these battles.”

”I see,” the craftsman said, making meticulous notes. ”And the other logs, my lord? This tree was hundreds of feet tall, and I’ve never seen an oak this stout and strong. We can still craft many things with the remaining pieces.”

”This wood all but cries out that it holds great power,” the lord said, musing as he inspected the other logs. ”It belongs in places of power. A desk for my study, and an even greater desk to send as tribute to his majesty the King. Consider something appropriate to fashion into gifts for each of the dukes on the ruling council,” he added, almost as though it were an afterthought.

”That’s wise, my Lord,” the craftsman said, bowing obsequiously. ”Since my Lord will be joining the ruling council soon, sending a gift to your new peers will open many doors, I’m sure.”

”I don’t care how much you waste when you carve my throne,” the lord said, placing a heavy hand on the craftsman’s shoulder. ”But the rest, we should use wisely. Have pens made to gift to the barons, wooden buttons to adorn the tunics of my knights,” he added, his voice trailing off as a thought struck him.

”No, better than that,” the Lothian lord said. ”I’ll send over a smith to discuss hafts for maces, flails, battle axes, or the hilts of swords. We will turn this tree into weapons that will reap the lives of the demons who once worshiped it!”

”And one more thing,” the Lothian lord added with a lecherous gleam in his eyes. ”This wood belongs in places where a man weilds his power. Make sure to carve a bed for me from the log nearest the crown of the tree. The feeling of power this gives me,” he added with a twisted grin. ”I’m very much looking forward to sharing this feeling of power with my lady. Maybe then she will finally bear me the sons that fate has been denying me...”