The Vampire & Her Witch

On the hillside, the common folk watched in awe as the Evergreen Empress and her witches reshaped the landscape at the center of the arena yet again.

The ice trees around the racetrack faded away to nothingness along with the tilt-barrier that had resembled a hedge grown of ice. These things had been replaced by two elegantly sculpted stairways to nowhere that faced each other from a distance of roughly a hundred paces.

The stairways had the same feeling as the tilt-barrier. Rather than utilitarian blocks of ice, it looked like rows of thin, spindly trees had grown from the frozen ground, weaving their branches together to form wide, stable steps that stopped at a frozen platform twenty paces above the ground.

In front of those stairs, a thick shield of crystal clear ice rose from the ground, like a soap bubble cleaved in half. Each shield was over thirty paces tall and every bit as wide, though they only protected the stairway from the front while leaving the back completely open.

The stranger, and more frightening thing, was that Ashlynn, Hauke and Heila didn’t stop once they’d created the simple arena. More shields of ice rose aroud the arena, clear sheets of ice held between the trunks of icy trees like window-panes more than twenty paces high and twice as broad, each one of them as thick as a smith’s anvil.

The audience received their next surprise when the doors to the Imperial Box opened to reveal the Midnight Empress, Nyrielle, and Lord of the Blood, Dirar, making their way to the stone platform where Ashlynn, Heila and Hauke stood, each looking drained from the witchcraft they had wrought.

”Impressive, my darling,” Nyrielle said when she arrived at the platform, taking Ashlynn in her arms and gently brushing a stray lock of soft, blonde hair back from her lover’s brow. ”The entire evening has been impressive. You’ve outdone yourself,” she praised, though attentive ears detected a hint of reproach in her voice.

”I’d wall the whole field off if I could,” Ashlynn said, leaning gratefully into Nyrielle’s supportive embrace. ”I’m worried about our champions and what they may unleash tonight.”

”Your worries aren’t unfounded, Your Dominion,” Dirar said. ”In the Southern Steppe, we hold contests like these far away from the great cities, on the open planes, for a reason. As much as I wish I could say that Rastlan will restrain himself, his pride suffered one blow at the gates already, and Taghai’s defeat places even more pressure on him.”

”If he sees a path to victory, he is likely to chase it, no matter the cost,” Dirar said with a sigh. If he lost Rastlan in this battle, even a victory would still be a loss. All the lands of the Aleese weren’t worth the price of a man who could master four constellations and came close to rivalling the power of the City Lords and Herd Masters.

But Rastlan was loyal to a fault. He would not allow his lord to lose face in this duel. With a score of one to one, it fell to Rastlan to ensure that Dirar could claim overall victory even if they suffered a single defeat.

In the eyes of the Southern Steppe, Rastlan’s victory would deflect any blame for defeat away from Dirar and place it firmly on Taghai’s shoulders. The strength of the Southern Steppe would be proven while Reynold’s victory would be blamed on the failings of a single man.

The inverse was also true. If Rastlan fell here, it would send a signal that Dirar’s forces were weaker than those arrayed against them. Khorijin would receive the greatest praise for overcoming a superior force while Dirar would carry a black pot filled with shame for failing to nurutre champions who could secure victory.

To those who witnessed these desperate fights, those notions might sound ridiculous. But when news spread, tens of thousands of people across the Southern Steppe would make up whatever details of the story fit the score, and rumors would spread with the speed of a grassfire in high summer.

Dirar knew this, and he accepted it when he accepted the challenge.

Rastlan also knew this, but the only thing the Captain of the Stone Guard accepted was his duty to deliver a victory for Dirar.

”Your Dominion,” Dirar said, keeping the expression on his delicate features mild despite the worries that gnawed at his belly. ”May I offer assistance in protecting the spectators? If Rastlan is overwhelmed, I would not see the common people suffer for it.”

”Please,” Ashlynn said. ”The barriers we formed are strong, but only enough to give the audience time to flee if the threat is more than momentary. They can withstand several heavy blows, but there are limits, even with the river to supply its strength.”

”Then allow me,” he said, bowing graciously before withdrawing a silk fan from his waist and snapping it open. The fabric of the fan was a deep, midnight blue with several glittering points of silver embroidery that gave the impression of the night sky. The ribs of the fan, seven in all, were lacquered black and each bore a different constellation made of small gemstones.

”The mightiest of Warriors and the stoutest of Watchmen would falter and fail without the shields and armor bestowed by the First Smith,” Dirar intoned in a voice that echoed across the arena. On his fan, the constellation on the third rib gleamed brightly in the shape of an anvil, shining in the night as he swept the fan in an elegant gesture that encompassed the shields Ashlynn had placed to protect the audience.

”Forged in fire, quenched in blood, folded and tempered by strength and skill,” Dirar said, snapping the fan almost completely shut with only the third rib exposed. ”Harden the shields and armor the land that none may suffer an accident of fate this night!”

With a final sweep of the fan, brilliant points of light shot towards Ashlynn’s barriers like shooting stars across the night sky. When each star reached a barrier, it split into nine more, forming the familiar pattern that the Eldritch called the Anvil of the First Smith.

Humans called it the Anvil of the Ascended Armorer in honor of Kaeso Petilius, the Weaponsmith of the Great Prophet, the man responsible for forging the first Holy Sword that the Great Prophet carried into battle. It was said that he had bestowed the Holy Flame Blades on the Inquisition and the Holy Light Blades on the Templars at the dawn of both orders, along with many other sacred relics still used by the Church a thousand years after he ascended to the heavens.

Seeing that symbol marked on the shields protecting them provided a feeling of security and safety that few on the hillsides could fully explain. Had the protective ward been placed by a High Priest, like Aubin, many would have fallen to their knees in worship and thanks. To see it placed by the hand of a Demon Lord, however...

A few still knelt, and some even offered prayers. Others shifted nervously as they were forced to confront the fact, perhaps for the first time, that the Eldritch held some of the same things sacred that they did... And if that was true, then how much more did they share? How little was truly different between them?

No one in the audience could say for certain yet; Nyrielle had no intention of letting them dwell on the question.

”The score stands one to one,” Nyrielle said, allowing her rich voice to echo across the open-air arena. ”Khorijin has won the right for the Southern Steppe to claim one of their demands, and Reynold has won the right to reject a demand,” she said, reminding the audience of the stakes for tonight’s duels.

”All have fought bravely and well,” Nyrielle added, nodding to Reynold and Taghai as they were being helped out of their armor before they headed back to the Imperial box. ”They have risked their lives for their cause and should be remembered as Champions.”

”Now, I call for our final champions to ascend their stairs and face each other so we may put an end to the blood feud between the Southern Steppe and the Aleese,” Nyrielle called. ”Rastlan, Captain of the Stone Guard, Champion of the Southern Steppe! Aspakos, Commander of the Fourth Army, Champion of the Vale of Mists, fighting for the Aleese!”