The Vampire & Her Witch

Sir Carwyn sat nervously on his borrowed horse, wreathed in a cloud of steam from his own breath as he fought to project an aura of confidence. He wanted to pull his woolen cloak tight around him to keep warm in the fierce winter chill, but he’d thrown the cloak back to ensure that his tabard and the Belvin family crest upon it were in clear view to the men in the watch towers.

The minutes slipped by with an agonizing slowness, and only the occasional shifting of his horse broke the frozen silence of the morning. Occasionally, he could faintly hear the sounds of raised voices and frenzied activity from the village, but they were still too distant to make anything out.

Eventually, the heavy wooden gate opened to reveal an armored figure wearing the same Belvin family crest on his faded tabard, sitting astride an aging warhorse and followed by nearly a dozen villagers as he rode out under an improvised white banner that looked like it had begun life as a bedsheet.

”Your father?” Loftur asked on behalf of the serpentine Captain Barsali.

”It should be,” Carwyn answered around a lump that had formed in his throat. ”It’s his armor and his horse, Blaze. He isn’t the sort to dress someone else in his armor to deceive us.”

”Captain Barsali says that your father wears the armor of a Champion who has won many victories,” Loftur said after a brief conversation with the former champion. ”He says that he can see where you gained your determination to keep fighting from, and that he hopes you will not have to fight your father today.”

”I don’t want to fight him either,” Carwyn said softly as his father and the other villagers drew closer. ”Stay here,” the young knight commanded as he gently prodded his horse’s ribs with his foot and rode out the last fifty paces to meet with the approaching men.

Seeing his son separating himself from the demons, Sir Rhodri gave a similar order, holding up his hand and telling the villagers to stop short while he rode out to meet his son.

”Carwyn,” the aging knight asked as he raised the visor of his helm to reveal his worn, leathery face and bushy white eyebrows. ”Is it really you, son?” He stopped his horse short of coming close enough to Carwyn to reach out to him, and while his left hand maintained its light grip on the reins, his right hand drifted down to the haft of the warhammer hanging from his waist.

”It is,” Carwyn said as he pulled back the cowl that covered most of his head and kept the frost from his ears. ”I’m sorry, Father,” he said as moisture welled up in the corner of his eyes. ”I... There are things we need to talk about, but first, can you tell me if Olwyna is well? She must be worried sick, and if anything happened to our child...” the young knight said, clutching the reins of his borrowed horse tightly enough that the animal shook its head and snorted in protest.

”She’s barely slept,” Sir Rhodri said as he visibly relaxed in his saddle. ”Your mother has helped to make sure she’s eating, but you’re the sun in the sky for that lass,” the aging knight said with a faint, slightly forced chuckle.

”She misses you,” Rhordri said as he rode close enough to speak quietly. ”So say the word, and the men behind me will help you reach the gates. They know they may not all make it back with you, but they all volunteered, for you,” he said with a brief glance at the nervous but determined-looking men behind him. ”I can keep the demons back long enough for you to reach your wife,” he promised.

”No, no you can’t,” Carwyn said quickly, before his father got the wrong idea and tried something that everyone would come to regret. Of the ten men who had come with Sir Rhodri, Carwyn knew at least six of them, including Terrik, the smith who had forged his flail, and Bistal, the carter who built most of the wagons they used to haul their goods to market.

These were men that Carwyn had known for much of his life, and even if there was a gap in their station, he’d still considered them friends he could raise a flagon of ale with at the end of a day’s work. The thought of any one of them being torn limb from limb by the combination of Barsali’s constricting tail and powerful arms was enough to give the young knight nightmares for a week.

”You can’t hold them off, and you don’t need to,” Carwyn explained, hoping his father would understand. ”I can’t call these men friends yet,” he said as he turned and waved Captain Barsali and Loftur forward. ”But they’re allies that we can trust, and they’ve brought compensation for the caravan we lost, along with several soldiers to help defend the village through the winter.”

”The demons brought... what?” Rhodri said, nearly dropping his reins in shock at what his son had just said. His wide eyes flicked from his son to the approaching demons, and before he realized he’d moved, he held his warhammer at the ready. Under him, his horse, Blaze, took three cautious steps backwards and turned slightly, without prompting, to present Rhodri’s shield side toward the serpentine demon-knight and the claw demon who accompanied him.

”Father, no!” Carwyn cried, kneeing his own horse forward and holding both hands up high, empty of any weapon as he put himself between Sir Rhodri and his Eldritch companions. ”Please, listen to me, they aren’t our enemies!”

”Not our enemies?” Rhodri shouted as he tipped his visor down before retrieving the shield from his side and pointing the tip of his warhammer at the approaching men. ”Look at them! If they aren’t our enemies, then who is?”

”Ian Hanrahan!” Carwyn shouted back at his father. ”Murderer of Baroness Caitlin, son of the usurper Aiden Hanrahan, who murdered his own brother for the throne! Those are our enemies, and they’ve abused our loyalty longer than I’ve been alive!”