The Vampire & Her Witch

After several minutes of song that invigorated the faithful and left Lord Owain struggling to suppress a scowl, the hymn finally ended.

The last notes of the minstrels’ instruments faded into the high timbers of the ceiling, and the voices of the assembled noblemen and commoners trailed away like the ebbing of a tide, leaving behind a silence that felt larger and emptier than the silence that had preceded the singing.

Aubin lowered his staff. His throat was raw from the effort of carrying the melody, but the expression on his face was serene. Whatever Owain thought of his choice of hymn, whatever consequences awaited him, the words had been spoken, and the voices had carried them, and no power in the march could unspeak what had been sung.

”My Lords and Ladies,” Aubin said, turning to face Owain and Jocelynn on the dais. ”On this day, on the longest night of the year, we come together as one to witness a moment of bright and shining Light. The joining of two hearts as one in a holy union of the spirit as Lord Owain Lothian and Lady Jocelynn Blackwell bind their fates together as one, from now until they reach the Heavenly Shores,” he intoned formally.

”Lord Owain, if you would,” the high priest began, intending to prompt the groom to produce the ring that would signify his pledge. But Aubin never finished those words because the silence that had replaced the hymn was not, in fact, silent at all.

From beyond the heavy oak doors at the far end of the hall, sounds were filtering into the room that had nothing to do with the ceremony. They were faint at first, muffled by stone and timber, but in the sudden quiet that followed the singing, they were unmistakable.

The clash of steel on steel. A muffled shout. The heavy -THUD- of something striking something else, followed by a cry of pain that was cut short.

Heads turned toward the heavy iron-bound oak doors. A ripple of unease moved through the assembly like a wind across still water. Chairs scraped, and goblets rattled as hundreds of people shifted in their seats, no longer paying attention to the ceremony atop the dais. A few knights at the nearest tables rose to their feet, their hands dropping instinctively to the swords at their hips.

”What is that?” Baroness Sorcha Iriso whispered.

”Probably the servants,” someone at the next table muttered. ”Dropping things in the corridor. With all the rushing to have the feast ready after this, is it any wonder the poor staff is harried?”

But the sounds were growing louder. Much closer. And they were not the sounds of dropped platters.

A voice reached the hall, distant but growing, carried through the corridors on the last echoes of combat.

”Make way..”

”The Inquisition!”

”Make way...”

”...Marchioness!”

The words reached the great hall in fragments, broken by stone and distance but unmistakable in their intent, and the reaction they provoked was immediate. Almost every knight in the room was on edge now, their hands on the hilts of their jewel-encrusted, ceremonial swords as their bodies turned toward the doors. Women pulled children closer to their sides. The minstrels clutched their instruments to their chests and pressed themselves back against the walls.

At the Dunn table, Baron Loghlan’s hands had not moved from their position flat on the linen. He sat perfectly still, his weathered face betraying nothing, but his eyes had found Erling Fayle across the hall, and the look that passed between them carried the unspoken message that the young baron had been waiting for.

’Now.’

Whatever was happening outside the halls, this was what Baron Dunn had asked him to be ready for, and Erling’s hand danced across the surface of the table in front of him, his fingers drumming on the surface of the table in a pattern that looked like nervous fidgeting but his knights recognized as a sign between hunters on the grasslands.

’Be ready.’

Erling didn’t know exactly what he needed to be ready for, but the time was upon them. He just had to trust that Loghlan really was acting as a messenger for the mysterious raven... and that the raven once again had his best interests and the best interests of his barony at heart.

At the base of the dais, Owain released Jocelynn’s hands. The charming smile was gone, replaced by something hard and flat and very controlled.

”Is that you, Loman?” Owain whispered softly as he looked toward the doors. ”Have you finally come with your Hanrahan lackeys to stake your claim? It’s too late, brother,” he muttered. ”And even if you brought every knight of Hanrahan with you, you’re still too weak...”

”Sir Gilander,” Owain said, raising his voice enough to cut through the clamor on the other side of the doors. ”The doors. Find out what...”

But Owain never finished giving his order as the doors of the great hall suddenly burst open.

Both doors opened at once, slamming open as if they’d been struck by a battering ram. The -BOOM- of oak and iron striking stone reverberated through the great hall like a clap of thunder, shaking the chandeliers and sending candle flames guttering wildly in the rush of cold air that poured through the opening.

Goblets rattled on tables. A crystal decanter toppled and shattered, sending a spray of red wine across the white linen like a splash of blood, and for one frozen heartbeat, the entire court of Lothian March stared at the open doorway and the vestibule beyond it where Sir Franc and more than a dozen men were supposed to be standing guard.

The corridor wasn’t empty, but everyone expecting to see the respected knight of Kermeen Village in his glamorous, ceremonial armor received a shock that nothing could have prepared them for.

Men in emerald-and-midnight gambesons poured through the opening, fanning out to either side of the central aisle with a discipline that spoke of training and purpose rather than the chaos of a mob. Knights in mail hauberks with swords drawn took positions along the aisle, planting themselves between the tables like pillars of steel, their blades held point-down against the stone floor with both hands resting on their pommels.

None of these hard-faced men made a threatening move toward the wedding guests at their tables, but there was enough blood splattered on their tabards to turn their mere presence into a deadly threat as they positioned themselves as an honor guard for whoever was coming behind them.

The knights were followed by Templars in plate armor bearing the radiant sun of the Holy Lord of Light. Their breastplates were scratched and dented from the fighting in the corridors, and the sacred symbol on their chests had been splattered with the blood of men who had tried to stop them from reaching this room.

There were only four Templars, and they fanned out swiftly, taking positions along the walls that blocked the servants’ doors and side chambers, preventing anyone from entering or exiting the Great Hall without first confronting one of the heavily armored Templars.

And at the head of them all, two figures led the advance down the central aisle....