The Vampire & Her Witch

Sir Carwyn Belvin yawned as he sat in his saddle, watching the long train of carts and wagons making its way along the dirt road from the Village of Raek to Hanrahan Town. There was a faint morning breeze that ruffled his tawny hair as he watched over his villagers and he relished in the feeling of the cool air on his clean shaven face, enjoying the respite from the heat of his heavy chain armor and the layers of padding beneath it.

The trip would have been even worse at the height of summer, he thought, but then again, in summer they wouldn’t have needed to contend with dismal weather and the poor condition of the road that led from Raek to Hanrahan.

The road was little more than a dirt track in most places. Countless caravans had tamped the earth down over the years, creating a firm surface that resisted the autumn rains. Still, careless drivers could easily wander into the roadside ditches. The mud there was surprisingly treacherous, deep enough to swallow a man’s foot, and thick enough to claim his boot if he wasn’t careful trying to free himself.

Normally, Sir Carwyn hated the tedious duty of escorting a long train of goods from his village to the markets at Hanrahan Town and Lothian City beyond, but this time was different. This time, as he sat atop his horse, his mind was filled with hope for this year’s harvest and the coins it would place in his purse.

When they reached Hanrahan Town, the Baron’s tax collector would have the option of either taking two parts in twenty of the goods to be sold, or two parts in twenty of the coins they earned when goods were sold at market. In Lothian City, the tax collector would take three parts in twenty and almost never took their payment in anything other than gold and silver.

But for Sir Carwyn, as the knight protector of the village, he was entitled to one part in twenty of everything that was sold from his villagers’ farms in addition to the profits from his own farms. On top of that, he also collected one part in twenty from the farmers in exchange for providing an escort to the market.

Of course, some of that money would be paid out to the dozen armed men who trudged alongside the carts, spending most of their effort on keeping them out of the mud rather than watching for highwaymen at this stage of the journey, but it would still leave Sir Carwyn’s purse fat as a hog by the time they were finished in Lothian City.

It was only then, when they were returning home with fresh goods purchased at market and purses filled with coin, that he and his men would truly be wary of robbers and cutthroats on the road. Few brigands wanted a sack full of flour or a barrel full of pickled radishes when, just by waiting, they could have several bags of silver and perhaps even gold if they attacked a caravan returning from market.

”Worried about your wagon, Sir Carwyn?” the weathered voice of the village purser, Dyfad, said as the man standing beside him followed his lord’s gaze. ”You’re looking at it like it’s carrying your child. I promise, it’s built sturdy enough to make the journey, even with as much as you’ve loaded in it this time,” he said with a hearty chuckle.

”Does it show that badly?” Carwyn said, chuckling lightly as his face heated in embarrassment when the village purser caught him fretting. ”Olwyna thinks that pickling the radishes and the turnips in the village will earn us more from this crop, but those barrels weigh so much more than sacks of raw vegetables would. I’m worried we’ll get stuck in the mud.”

”Trust the missus, either way, your lordship,” the older man laughed. ”If it causes trouble, she doesn’t need to know, so long as it all sells. And I’m sure it will sell,” he added as he watched the wagons winding their way through the gently rolling countryside.

”After all, womenfolk might get fussy when they’re expecting, but they’re always sensitive about building a nest egg for when the baby’s born,” the older man said sagely.

Few men in the Village of Raek would be so blunt with the knight whom they owed their fealty to, but Dyfad had been the village purser since Carwyn was a youth young enough to ride on his father’s shoulders. A certain informality had formed between the two men in the years that he acted as Carwyn’s tutor, helping to prepare him to take over his father’s duties.

Now, while Carwyn did his best to maintain the distance expected between a knight and a loyal retainer, there were times that he couldn’t help but look to the older man for advice, just as he had in the years that Dyfad had been his tutor.

”Was your wife like this when your sons were born?” Carwyn asked lightly as he watched yet another cart round the bend. The past several carts were all piled high with freshly milled oats, and they represented the real treasure of the village.

Putting in three more mills in such a tiny village had been an immense undertaking and one that Carwyn had fought his father over for years before his father finally gave up the fight when he retired. In the end, Carwyn had only won a grudging admission that he’d been right when he presented his father with the earnings for last year’s harvest and paid back the costs of building the mills in the first place.

”Like you wouldn’t believe,” Dyfad chuckled as he thought back over all the things his Sulwyn had asked of him when she was carrying each of their brats. ”I was out in the garden half the summer, digging extra rows of turnips, carrots, beets, and anything else that would keep in the root cellar because she was afraid we’d have a hard winter and wouldn’t be able to trade for anything in Hanrahan’s market until spring.”

”Pft,” Carwyn snorted. ”Maybe there’s something in a woman’s body that drains them of heat to give it all to our growing child,” he said with a laugh. ”Olwyna’s feet have been like blocks of ice at night, and she wants me to spend the earnings from this year on a better roof and patching up any spot in the manor where there’s the slightest draft. She’s been walking around the manor with a stick of incense and a bit of charcoal, marking everywhere there’s a slight bit of breeze when the shutters are closed.”

”Well, you know what they say, your lordship. A woman...” Dyfad began, only to be interrupted by a panicked cry from further up the road.

”’Demons! Demon attack!” The terrified cry echoed across the caravan, followed by the high-pitched whinnying of panicked horses as they reared in their harness, desperate to escape the sudden threat from ahead.

In an instant, the quiet drudgery of the caravan’s journey to market was shattered, replaced by the screams of men and horses and the sudden stench of blood and fear.