The Vampire & Her Witch

”The people of the Vale of Mists are not cowards, Mister Yotsun,” Heila said proudly from the arena floor. ”We have faced unbeatable foes before and even if we lost a battle, we never lost the war.”

Heila had no idea what Yotsun was playing at by talking of surrender or attempting to alter their wager at this late stage. They had both come much too far to back down now that what felt like half the population of High Fen City had gathered to witness this historic battle. Did he really think that she would back down and surrender just because he asked her to without even revealing his final champions?

”I respect trying to resolve this without bloodshed,” Heila said slowly from the floor of the arena. Her words shocked many in the crowd but she held up a hand to still their tongues before the noise could overwhelm their conversation. ”The tradition of the Willow Witch has always been one that includes healing and care for others. As my lady’s Willow Witch, I should deliver her victory, but if I can do so with less suffering, isn’t that always better?

”So I return your offer to you, Mister Yotsun,” Heila said in a tone that was both respectful and challenging. ”Withdraw your final champions and I will excuse them from our wager. They will not need to travel to the Vale of Mists with me when we depart and they will not be compelled to fight in our war against the Lothians and their Church. This is the greatest kindness I can offer, Mister Yotsun,” she added with a pointed stare. ”If you are concerned about your champions, you should take it.”

”Willow Whip!”

”Willow Whip!”

”Willow Whip!”

The crowd thundered in approval, applauding at Heila’s refusal to surrender for any reason. Some even began to whisper about taking a trip to see the Vale of Mists. After watching this diminutive witch stand taller than so many champions of the arena, they wondered... were the rumors about the weakness of the Vale really true?

A few of them, particularly the young men and women who were approaching the age when they could enter an academy to be trained as gladiators, began to wonder if they might receive even better training in the Vale of Mists than they could close at home. After all, if such a place produced not only the Blood Princess but also the Willow Whip... then what could they become if they learned to fight in the way the people of the Vale did?

”You don’t understand,” Yotsun said in a voice too soft for anyone outside the box to hear over the roars of the crowd. He wanted to do something, anything to avoid unleashing the men he’d been foolish enough to entangle himself with but now, there was nothing he could do except continue as he’d begun. ”I can’t surrender on their behalf. They’d never let me. And if you won’t surrender...”

”My champions will not surrender, Lady Heila,” the merchant continued. His voice, though loud enough for the arena to hear, seemed oddly resigned leaving many to feel like he was already admitting defeat but unable to back down from putting up some form of token resistance. ”May you find eternal glory on the sands today,” he shouted before turning decisively away from the railing and returning to his seat to watch the tragedy that was about to unfold.

The silence that followed his retreat felt heavier than any that had come before during the past nine nights of combat. Even the bookmakers, who normally shouted odds until the moment combat began, seemed hesitant to call out their predictions. The strange tension in Yotsun’s voice and his bizarre attempt at mercy left everyone uncertain about what was about to happen when his champions entered the arena.

That silence stretched for a handful of deeply uncomfortable moments before it shattered like glass when the heavy iron gate beneath Yotsun’s box began to clank and rumble, slowly opening to reveal ten men wearing crimson and black hooded robes. The leather masks that covered their faces were gruesome and twisted, each in their own unique way. Some featured blackened and charred fangs at unnatural angles, while others resembled a face made of wax that had melted until it flowed into a distorted mockery of a once graceful visage.

All of them carried a scent of sulfur, charred wood and flesh, and the air of a funeral pyre. In their black-gloved hands, they carried long staves made of burnt, blackened wood. Each staff held a number of shards of dark, glittering volcanic glass, sometimes hanging from cords wrapped around the staff or in other cases, shaped like a blade and mounted to the head of the staff like a spear.

”Greetings, Willow Witch,” Ropati said, lowering his cowl and removing his leather mask to reveal the twisted mass of scars that covered his face. ”In the name of the Volcano Witch, the Cauldron of Flame welcomes you to your final battle,” he shouted, throwing up his arms and unleashing a torrent of flame that soared high into the night sky, erupting into a giant fireball that momentarily lit the arena as brightly as the sun.

In the stands around the arena, children cried out in fear, burying their heads in their father’s shoulders and mother’s skirts. Several men who thought themselves to be strong of heart trembled in fear, feeling that a cataclysmic ball of flame was about to descend upon them, consuming every life in the arena like kindling for the hearth.

On the highest levels, where some of the poorest people had taken the only seats they could afford, people cried out in more than fear as they felt the intense heat of the ball of flame on their flesh. Members of the Horned Clan, the Clan of the Great Claw, and any other clan with fur felt the tips of the fine hairs of their fur begin to smoke and smolder.

Others, particularly young children with tender skin or scales that were still soft and developing, cried in pain as the heat of the fireball caressed their flesh leaving behind the kinds of burns a person would suffer after spending an entire summer day toiling under the hot sun.

The fireball lasted for less time than it took to draw a breath but the after-effects rippled through the crowd like a wave of fear and pain. People who had looked directly at the explosion blinked rapidly, trying to clear the afterimages that felt burned into their eyes as they checked on loved ones or random strangers they happened to sit next to, worried that someone might have been seriously injured by the blaze.

In High Lady Erna’s private box, the color drained from Ashlynn’s face as she watched the energy flowing not only from the unmasked man leading his cultists but from each of his followers as well.

These men weren’t ordinary sorcerers... rather, they drew on power from each other in exactly the same way that Ashlynn and Heila drew on the power of trees. These men weren’t like any sorcerer she’d ever seen... if anything, they were much more like witches... and there were 10 of them while Heila stood alone.