The Vampire & Her Witch

Ashlynn had arranged the tribunal with a deliberate, almost theatrical precision. The gathered soldiers formed a semicircle, sitting on rough-hewn logs as benches, quickly dragged into position from the tent where they’d taken their meal of warm soup and hot cider. A few of them whispered quietly to their neighbors, clutching wooden cups of more hot cider and looking on at the proceedings with the barely contained excitement of a crowd that had come to watch a public hanging.

Behind them, Isabell and Tiernan stood in the shadows just beyond the fire’s reach, close enough to observe but clearly holding themselves at a distance, remaining outsiders to the proceedings. Ashlynn had given them the briefest of nods, acknowledging their choice to stand apart without suggesting they do otherwise. A part of Tiernan wished she had come to consult with them, after all, Guild Masters often sat as judges in matters of discipline within their own guilds, but clearly she intended to treat this as a matter of High Justice, restricting participants to members of the aristocracy.

As the only members of the aristocracy present other than Ashlynn herself, the three knights sat in an elevated position on the wagon’s tailgate, just like they would have in Count Rhys Blackwell’s formal court, though the occasional creaking of the waggons springs beneath them whenever they shifted their weight spoiled a bit of the effect.

Sir Hugo perched nervously on the edge, his feet dangling like a child’s, while Sir Rain leaned against the frame of the wagon on the opposite side, scowling with impatience to get things over with. Ollie alone looked attentive and focused from his position in the space between them, close enough to either man to intervene if necessary, his hand resting casually near the hilt of one of his knives. He had only been officially conferred the status of a knight the night before, and even though he knew how things were supposed to end tonight, he still intended to do his best to uphold his virtue of Justice.

At the center of this improvised courtroom, Darragh stood like a player on a stage, or perhaps more accurately, as the centerpiece prop for the evening’s play. The firelight cast dramatic shadows across his soaked clothing while water still dripped steadily from his hair and the rough stubble on his chin. The rope bindings around his wrists had darkened with river water, and though his hands occasionally strained against his bindings, it seemed more like an unconscious need to chafe against restraint than an active attempt to escape.

To Tiernan’s eyes, it looked more like a show trial than a real tribunal. If the accused was gagged, it meant that Lady Ashlynn had no intentions of letting the man speak in his own defense. By law, when accused of a crime by a nobleman, a commoner was not automatically entitled to speak in their own defense so long as there was sufficient evidence of their crime to pass judgment.

In practice, in all the years he’d spent attending proceedings before Count Rhys Blackwell, he’d only rarely seen the count deny a man the right to speak up to explain his actions. On the rare occasions that he had, it almost always involved the virtue of a woman or accusations of heresy by the Church. But this man’s case involved neither of those things, which made her decision to leave him gagged more than a little concerning.

”Sir Ollie Heartwood, Sir Hugo Hanrahan, Sir Rain Aleese,” Ashynn began formally, drawing all attention back to her as she addressed the tribunal of knights. ”I have asked you to convene in order to seek your advice in the matter of Mister Darragh’s treachery. However, I recognize that, as outsiders, Sir Hugo and Sir Rain are not aware of this man’s circumstances. I would hear testimony from the witnesses here about the days leading up to tonight,” she said, looking at the gathered soldiers and servants from the Vale of Mists.

”Mister Eamon,” Ashlynn began formally. ”You were Darragh’s friend, weren’t you? Can you tell us how you and Darragh met, and what your life was like before you came to live in Sir Ollie’s village?”

”Yes, your ho-, er, my lady,” Eamon said awkwardly as Ollie shot him a dangerous look. Eamon had recognized Ashlynn as a saintess long ago, and he’d placed almost as much faith in her as he placed in the Holy Lord of Light... or maybe more faith than he held for the Holy Lord of Light. After all, Lady Ashlynn was here before him and he’d seen her perform miracles on more than one occasion, but he’d never once seen the fabled Holy Lord of Light.

Still, sir Ollie had made it clear that for the duration of this trip, they were to obey the etiquette and norms of the Kingdom of Gaal, at least until they returned to the Vale. There were too many secrets that only Lady Ashlynn could explain, and the rest of them needed to mind their tongues lest they spoil her arrangements.

”Lord Owain always has his eye out for talented hunters,” Eamon began, thinking back to when he’d first met the man whom he’d thought of as not only a friend, but an apprentice he could pass on some of his years of wisdom to.

”I suppose there’s a kindness in what Lord Owain does whenever he catches a poacher,” he said, glancing at Lady Ashlynn nervously to see if she would be displeased at any sort of praise directed at her former husband. When he saw her slight nod of acceptance, he heaved a sigh of relief before he continued his tale.

”If a man is talented enough to kill birds or beasts in the Marquis’ own forests, he’s talented enough to put his skills to work for Lord Owain,” Eamon said, as though it was simple, common sense. ”Well, they can be put to work for Lord Owain, or they can swing from the neck until dead. I’ve seen some folks choose the rope, refusing to become a bondsman even if it saves their life, but Darragh wasn’t like that. He was eager to follow Lord Owain, and his life was better with his lordship than it had been in all his years as a free man living at the edge of the wilderness.”

”Wait, stop,” Hugo said, lurching to his feet as he finally remembered where he’d heard the names Eamon and Darragh before. ”You men, you men were Lord Owain’s huntsmen? The ones who followed him when he traveled the march?”

”Lord Owain had several huntsmen,” Sir Rain said, frowning at the clearly shaken steward. ”He must have a dozen or more that he picks and chooses from whenever he travels, and he’s released at least twice as many who failed to hunt the prey he chose. Why get so worked up over these men just because they’re a pair of Lord Owain’s castoffs?”

”No, no, you don’t understand,” Hugo stammered as he looked from Ashlynn to the hunters and finally back to Sir Rain. ”I, I had to handle the accounts and the ledgers after Sir Kaefin died. These men, these men aren’t castoffs who couldn’t complete Lord Owain’s hunts... they’re the men who died alongside Sir Broll the very same day that Sir Kaefin was murdered! These men, these men have been missing for six months, and everyone, everyone believed they’d been devoured by demons!”