The Vampire & Her Witch

At the Temple of the Holy Lord of Light, voices were raised in far more than whispers as several acolytes and a handful of men from the local Temple Guard stood shoulder to shoulder, blocking the gates of the temple while Head Priest Germot stood outside, shouting at bloodied and battered soldiers from the division of the Temple Guard who fought in the plaza.

”I don’t care if your orders come from Lord Hugo or Inquisitor Diarmuid,” Germot shouted. His face was so red that it had nearly turned purple, and spit flew from his lips as he stabbed a finger into the wounded guardsman’s chest. ”These men have been touched by witchcraft and they will not defile this sacred Temple!”

”But your worship,” the guard protested. ”Even if we’ve been touched by witchcraft, it’s not like anyone asked the witch to save us! We were all hurt, some of us dying when the healing rain fell from the sky. We aren’t heretics!”

”It doesn’t matter if you asked for it or not,” Germot countered. ”You are unclean and unworthy. Don’t think I don’t see how you were injured,” he added as he swept his gaze over the assembled group of wounded soldiers. Some had been archers on the wall, others were part of Sir Thorryn or Sir Niall’s group, but most were members of the Temple Guard or the Lothian soldiers who had fought directly against the demons with iron tusks.

”I can still feel the judgment of the Holy Lord of Light on you,” Germot declared. ”When his divine arrows rained down from the sky, they struck you! If ever I needed proof that you were unholy men who had already given yourselves over to heresy in your hearts, the wounds on your body are proof enough to see you brought before the Inquisition!”

”But Inquisitor Diarmuid...”

”I DON’T CARE!” the Head Priest shouted, slamming his ceremonial staff onto the cobblestones and clutching it so tightly that the guardsman flinched back, afraid that the priest would take a swing at him. ”If the witch can heal your men, then take your men to her! You said she went to the keep? Then go to the keep and beg the witch for help. But you and your men won’t set one foot in these sacred walls!”

Behind the head priest, there was a chorus of approval from the acolytes, echoing the sentiments of the man who had led their temple for more than a decade. If the injured men had already been struck down by the Holy Lord of Light then there was no reason to acknowledge them further.

As far as the men of the temple were concerned, the Holy Lord of Light had already marked the soldiers for death. Any aid they offered to the wounded men wouldn’t just be a form of heresy, it would be open defiance of their Lord’s will!

”Fine,” the guardsman spat. ”If you won’t do what’s right, then I’ll bring the men to see Inquisitor Diarmuid at the keep. But mark my words, Priest,” the guard said, raising his gauntleted fist and pointing at the blustering priest. ”When the Inquisition learns that you turned away wounded men because you are afraid to face the taint of a witch, they’re sure to come calling for you. Don’t think that you won’t be judged for this!”

”The only judgment that matters is His divine will,” Germot countered, refusing to be threatened, or worse, corrected about his interpretation of scripture, by a mere soldier simply because the man wore the tabard of the Church. ”Since we have seen his will thwarted by the demon witch, we will pray for your journey to the next life, because the Heavenly Shores will not receive you after this one!”

As much as the guardsman wanted to argue, to plead for a space to settle the wounded within the Temple grounds so the acolytes could tend to his men and the other injured soldiers from the battle, he realized that there would be no convincing the arrogant, stubborn Head Priest.

Germot hadn’t come anywhere near danger the entire night. He had no idea what that horrifying battle had been like. He didn’t know what it felt like to have his flesh pierced by a luminous arrow from the heavens while he was locked shield-to-shield with one of the iron-tusked demons.

The Head Priest didn’t know what it felt like to be struck down by the Holy Lord of Light when he thought he was doing the Lord’s will and resisting the demons, and he didn’t know what it sounded like to have his ears filled with the sounds of his friends screaming in pain before they died.

But more than anything, he didn’t know what it felt like to be lying in the snow, bleeding to death while the rain of holy arrows fell, only to be rescued by the heretical magic of a witch. The Head Priest could never imagine the feelings that enveloped the Temple Guard as the demons who had been fighting them just moments before rushed out from under their protective dome to drag their injured foes to safety, or to hear an Inquisitor admit that his powers were too feeble to turn the tide in the battle they’d lost.

Head Priest Germot would never understand the turmoil in the hearts of the men he turned away because he couldn’t imagine the things they had been through in the pitched battle on the walls and in the plaza... Nor would he ever understand that it wasn’t the enticement of a witch’s healing that turned these men away from the Church and the Holy Lord of Light, but his own words of rejection at the gates that had broken their faith.

Because without the ability to take refuge in the warm glow of the Church, the only thing left to these men was to hope that the demons would continue to be kinder to them than their own masters were...

In the wake of the thunderous confrontation at the Temple gates, even more whispers flowed through the town.

The mighty Templar, Sir Tommin, had fallen and had to be carried through town on a litter as he wept...

A powerful witch had saved the lives of many men, healing humans and demons alike with her witchcraft in exchange for binding them to serve her for the rest of their lives...

The men who fought in the west gate plaza had all been cursed by the demons and ill fortune would haunt anyone who offered them help for the rest of their lives...

Each rumor seemed more outlandish than the one before it, but just after midnight, something more substantial than rumors began to spread across town as dozens of soldiers and pages presented themselves to dozens of homes across the town.

From the clerks who calculated the tithes paid by merchants in the town to the constable and his deputies, anyone who served the Hanrahan family to administer to their vast territory received a late-night visitor, but the visitors didn’t stop with minor officials. Many people of means and influence received a visit, including Head Priest Germot, but also the Head Madame of the Slow Flame brothel.

The message that they each received was the same, and no one dared to ignore it.

~Dame Sybyll Hanrahan, daughter of Baron Brighton Hanrahan, summons you to her keep to hear the crimes of Ian Hanrahan and witness her judgment.~