The Vampire & Her Witch

Once again, Ollie crouched behind the trunk of a cypress tree overlooking the army that Owain Lothan and the Church had assembled against the Eldritch people. This time, however, several things were different.

The first time Ollie poked the hornets’ nest, drawing the combined forces of several knights and lords into the cypress grove, the men had been fresh and alert. They had only recently built their camp, and the assault of the never-ending day had just begun. Now, however, the combined human forces were looking distinctly wilted, and the enthusiasm many of them held for earning glory by going to war against ’demons’ had faded under the tedium of what amounted to guard duty protecting the sorcerers of the Inquisition.

”This time, you won’t have such an easy time of it,” Ollie said under his breath before giving Harrod the signal to begin his raid.

Much like the first time, Harrod’s men struck at the vulnerable supply wagons, but this time, rather than drawing the pursuing soldiers in a single direction, they scattered six different directions with each small cluster of men leading the human pursuers into a different ambush.

Milo and his hunters had more than a week to prepare traps in the cypress grove and they made good use of that time, digging pits filled with sharpened stakes, hanging nets and preparing blinds from which they could rain down arrows on the human soldiers.

Ollie himself, however, held back from the fray, even though part of him wanted to unleash a storm of cypress needles that would cripple the human soldiers before their spears and axes could inflict as much as a scratch on any of Ollie’s men.

It was a temptation born of equal parts hatred of what these men had come to do and a fierce desire to protect his own men, but he firmly pushed down the desire and focused on his own mission. His only purpose in this battle was to counter the sorcery of the Inquisitors and to reap their lives, bringing an end to the oppression of the second sun. Everything else, he would have to entrust to Harrod and Milo and their men.

Thankfully, it didn’t take long for the army under Owain’s command to martial its knights, sending armored men leading small groups of soldiers into the cypress grove. Most importantly, each knight escorted a pair of Inquisitors who clearly intended to unleash their holy flames on the small bands of ’demons’ lurking in the forest.

Ollie, however, had no intention of making it easy for them to hunt down his men and as soon as the knights and Inquisitors entered the cypress grove, he let loose with a different incantation than he’d used the first time.

”Cypress sentries, breathe your veil,

Let mist rise thick and senses fail.”

Water was scarce after weeks of the curse of two suns but the Cypress trees had deep roots and stored vast amounts of moisture within their trunks. Now, branches shook as the trees seemed to exhale a cloud of thick fog that quickly blanketed the grove, muffling sounds and making it difficult to see more than a few dozen feet ahead.

The fog was the last boon he could bestow on his men before he eliminated the Inquisitors who had come with the intention to burn ’demons’ to death. While it wouldn’t do much, the thick fog would suppress the Inquisitor’s Holy Flames, combining with the protective amulets his men wore to give them a chance of surviving if they ran afoul of the Inquisitor’s sorcery. It wasn’t much of an advantage, but at the moment, it was the best he could do for them.

”Now, the real hunt begins,” Ollie said as he slipped into the fog, drawing his fighting knife in one hand and a wicked darksteel cleaver in the other. Of course, Ollie wasn’t the only person entering the battle late. Across the open field, a powerful figure in polished, gleaming armor made his own preparations, drawing a sword that had been polished to a mirror finish and grinning in anticipation as he strode toward the cypress grove.

Instantly, the battle entered a new phase as Milo’s archers became largely ineffective. In their place, Harrod led his combined force of professional soldiers and volunteer woodsmen into a direct clash at close range.

In any other environment, the woodsmen would have been at a clear disadvantage, but Ollie’s mist gave them a vital advantage as the towering members of the Clan of the Great Claw emerged from the mist like giants, wielding axes that could easily fell mighty trees in just a few blows, to say nothing of something as small as a human soldier.

”For Sir Ollie and the Vale!” Harrod cried, raising his mace up high as he led the charge against a group of human soldiers. He kept the shield on his left arm angled upward, deflecting the clumsy spear thrusts of soldiers who clearly had no practice fighting men who were several feet shorter than they were.

That inexperience proved fatal as Harrod swung mercilessly at vulnerable knees, producing a sickening -CRUNCH- of breaking bones as he knocked the human soldiers to the ground. The horned soldier wasted no time finishing off his victims, however. Once someone fell to Harrod’s mace, they were easy targets for the woodsmen following behind him and their axes fell mercilessly on soldiers whose agonized howls made them easy to find even in the densest of fog.

Meanwhile, Ollie opened himself up to the grove of cypress trees, allowing them to guide him toward the clusters of men attempting to use their holy flames to burn away the fog.

”Through air they fly at my command,

Like arrows loosed by nature’s hand.

Strike deep and true, my wooden rain,

Leave none who face me free from pain!”

Once again, Ollie summoned a storm of poisoned cypress needles, raining them down on a startled knight, his soldiers, and most importantly, the pair of Inquisitors they were protecting.

”Witchcraft!” one of the Inquisitors shouted, his eyes going wide in panic even as his body collapsed under the painful assault of hundreds of cypress needles. Moments later, his eyes grew cloudy and dull as a powerful blow from a sharp blade cleaved through the back of his neck, severing his spine and spraying hot blood across the former kitchen boy who had emerged from the fog behind him.

Ollie tore the cleaver free of the first man’s neck, spinning to face the second Inquisitor while his hand still stung with the force of his knife’s impact on the incapacitated priest. For a moment, his stomach twisted and lurched, trying to expel what little food he’d eaten as a wave of revulsion swept over him along with the hot blood splattered across his face but he firmly pushed the revulsion down and swung his cleaver again.

Images of Eldritch children, their bellies grown thin with hunger, and Old Nan collapsing under the unceasing heat danced before his eyes as the heavy cleaver bit into the forearm of the second Inquisitor, cleaving as cleanly through the man’s bones as it would through the bones of a chicken on the carving block. Clutched in the man’s severed hand, a golden emblem of a burning sun glowed feebily as the faith that powered the artifact flickered and failed in the face of sudden death.

Again and again the cleaver fell, hacking into the dying priest’s raised arms twice more before Ollie buried the weapon all the way to it’s spine in the Inquisitor’s terrified face.

”What, what kind of demon is that!” a pain stricken soldier on the ground cried, scrambling backwards on all fours to put as much distance as he could between himself and the flame haired monster who had emerged from the fog, butchering inquisitors with a terrifying knife that seemed to drink in the fresh blood spilled on its broad blade.

”Not a demon,” the knight said through gritted teeth as he forced himself to stand despite the pain surging in his body from every gap in his armor where a cypress needle had reached his flesh.

Compared to the pain the soldiers and the Inquisitors faced, the knight had suffered far les with barely any cypress needles reaching his skin, but those few that had pricked him produced such an intense feeling of ripping and tearing agony in his muscles that he’d been helpless while the Inquisitors were slaughtered like helpless sheep.

”He’s a heretic! A witch who serves the demons,” the heavily armored knight spat. ”Name yourself, heretic, and prepare to die on the blade of Bastian Hanrahan!”

”Sir Bastian, is it?” Ollie said, looking at the struggling knight with eyes filled with pity. ”You’re lucky, Sir Bastian,” he said, returning his knives to the sheaths at his waist. ”I’m not here for you today, and I don’t have time to waste prying you out of that armor. If you know what’s good for you, take your men and leave this place,” he said, reminding himself firmly of the way Lady Ashlynn had given a chance to the men who followed Sir Broll.

”If I see you again, you won’t get another chance,” he said as he vanished into the thick fog. Two Inquisitors had already fallen, but according to the trees of the cypress grove, there were still eight more who were calling down Holy Fire within the forest, along with a knight who seemed even more threatening than the Inquisitors themselves, piling up the bodies of Eldritch warriors like they were kindling.

If Ollie didn’t speed up his hunt, even if he was able to slay all of the Inquisitors, there would be no one else left alive to celebrate the victory. And if he encountered that dreadful knight, there might not be any victory at all.