The Vampire & Her Witch

Lord Reynold dismounted from his horse and made his way down the slope with the heavy, deliberate stride of a man carrying something that weighed far more than his armor and weapons.

It was one thing to be recognized for the role he played in blocking the elk. That was something he had every right to be proud of. But it was impossible for a man like Reynold to feel comfortable basking in glory that belonged to someone else, even if Baron Fayle accepted the injustice of it.

Meanwhile, Sir Franc followed with the brisk energy of a knight who had just been publicly honored by his future lord and wanted to cement the recognition before the moment passed. Or perhaps the extra spring in his step came from the fact that he’d succeeded in robbing Baron Erling Fayle of his achievement.

Either way, he looked entirely too pleased with himself as he worked to prove that he would be a dog every bit as loyal to his new master as the hounds were to the men holding their leashes.

The two men took their positions on either side of the elk’s massive head. Each man gripped one of the main beams of the fourteen-point rack, and even with both of them bracing their legs and leaning back, it took visible effort to lift the massive bull elk’s head high enough for what would come next. Reynold’s shoulders bunched beneath his hunting cloak as he hoisted his side of the rack higher, and Sir Franc’s boots slid in the churned earth before he found his footing.

The elk’s neck stretched taut as they raised the head into position, exposing the wound where Fallen Claw had punched between the ribs. Blood that had pooled beneath the animal’s throat ran fresh across the mossy ground in a dark, widening stain.

Owain stepped forward and planted his feet, raising Fallen Claw in both hands. The oak hilt settled into his grip with the ease of something that belonged there, and a faint smile formed on Owain’s lips as he prepared for what would come next.

For a lesser beast, Sir Gillander might have provided a butchering sword, something large enough and heavy enough to cleave through flesh and bone alike, almost more axe than sword. But for a trophy like this, even such a powerful weapon would have resulted in a messy display of savagery as a huntsman hacked their way through the powerful corded muscles of a neck that was meant to support and wield a heavy rack of antlers in a clash with other bulls.

No, if Owain wanted to claim his prize himself, he’d do it with precision, aligning a series of cuts to the throat, top and sides of the neck in order to expose the beast’s spine for a final stroke of his sword that would slice between the vertebrae to separate the head and neck of his trophy from the rest of the body.

”Sir Gilander!” Owain called loudly, holding his bloody sword up high for everyone to see. ”This blade is called ’Fallen Claw.’ It was a gift my father prepared for me,” he said, pausing as though the subject was sensitive and the words he had to say were difficult to speak.

”It’s a fine sword, and a fine first kill,” Owain praised after allowing the tension in the air to build. ”But I think that everyone may not understand just how fine of a blade it is.”

”Your father made excellent arrangements,” Sir Gilander said. ”And Fallen Claw is clearly the work of a master bladesmith,” he said, though he wondered why the blade had been given such a dubious moniker. ”We all stand ready to witness its power, my Lord.”

”I think people should do more than just bear witness,” Owain said as the smile on his lips widened. ”I think we should wager. Even a sword as fine as this could never cleave the head of an elk from its body in a single stroke. So how many swings of the sword will it take?”

”Everyone, make your wagers quickly,” Owain encouraged. ”Our Master of the Hunt will note them down. And to the person who guesses correctly, I promise a seat at the high table during tomorrow’s feast!”

Owain’s announcement sparked an immediate clamor as several of the younger lords and knights spoke up to place their wagers, led by Riwall Saliou, who shouted loudly that he believed Owain could sever the head in less than eight swings of the sword.

While the hunters speculated and joined in the spectacle, Owain turned his attention to the beast. Already, it was little more than a sack of meat and bone in his eyes, but the head and rack were impressive enough to take as a trophy, the first of many that would mark his reign, even if the perfection of the kill was slightly marred by the nicked ear.

”Not betting?” Wes Iriso said quietly, looking at Erling and raising his brow.

”Why bother?” Erling replied mildly, though it was clear that he was struggling to keep his tone light as Owain made a spectacle out of beheading the beast. ”We’ll be sitting at the high table tomorrow and the day after, whether we want to or not. Let the young ones and the lesser knights compete for a chance to win this ’favor.’”

”I notice your men aren’t placing any wagers,” Wes said lightly as he looked at the pair of knights from Fayle Barony. ”Aren’t they interested in the opportunity?”

”They have better uses for their sovereigns,” Erling said, shaking his head at the notion. ”Your men aren’t gambling either,” he pointed out.

”My men have had plenty of opportunities to make Lord Owain’s acquaintance,” Wes countered. ”And they’ve noticed that it can be... unhealthy, for a knight to grow too close to Lord Owain,” he added quietly enough that Erling could barely hear him over the clamor of voices placing their wagers.