The Vampire & Her Witch

The people on the battlements watched with a growing sense of awe as Rastlan clashed with Isabell.

Many of them had heard stories, often from the Second Crusade or the War of Undying Demons, about the mystic powers wielded by the Eldritch. But those wars were long ago, and no one living today, at least among humans, had witnessed them. It had been easy, over time, to think of the tales of the past as exaggerations and tall tales meant to inflate the reputations of men like Cellach Lothian and the Inquisitors who were said to have summoned a second sun to drive the vampires from the Vale of Mists.

Now they all saw, for the first time in their lives, what it looked like when the people they’d called demons summoned the fury of nature itself. Cyclones of snow rained down bolts of lightning wherever Rastlan aimed his Bow of Stars, and the men and women atop the battlements would have fled long ago were it not for the even more unexpected protection of a witch.

– BOOM CRACK! –

A third volley of lightning bolts slammed into the trunk of Isabell’s ethereal hemlock tree, shaking needles from its tattered branches and staggering the silver-haired woman at the battlements with the force of the blow.

For a moment, Reynold considered joining her at the edge of the wall, offering his shield arm to protect her from the fierce winds that buffeted the people atop the walls, or anything else that might have helped her to fight back against the herald of Dirar. Master Isabell, however, seemed to have arrived at some sort of decision as she extended a hand out over the stone wall in a grasping motion while words of power spilled from her lips.

”Colorful banners, catch the gale,

Become a mast, unfurl your sail!

Skim the vortex, take your aim,

And strike the bowman down in shame!”

”What is she doing with the banners?” Reynold muttered, more to himself than anyone else, staring at the six colorful flags flapping in the wind where the long-horned Eldritch soldiers had originally planted them.

The flagpoles had bent like drawn bows under the force of the wind, but now, they twisted and reshaped themselves, growing branches as if they were tender saplings. Only those branches reached out for the far ends of the banners, catching them and holding tight. A heartbeat later, the wind tore all six banners from the frozen ground, flying high into the air as they joined the lightning and snow in the cyclones the Eldritch soldiers had summoned.

On the road, Rastlan shouted a command at the Eldritch Soldier who pulled his chariot and the man instantly sprang into motion, turning the chariot around to dash away from Isabell’s improvised weapons before they could find their mark.

He didn’t make it far.

The wheels of the chariot had only begun to turn when the banners came hurtling down from the sky, carried by sails of green, gold, silver, black, blue, and yellow. The same metal tips that helped the flagpoles to pierce the frozen earth became the points of spears, tearing through the gilded wood of the chariot as if it were made of kindling.

Wheels cracked, and the axle shattered. The soldier pulling the chariot jerked to a halt as two of the sail-spears pierced the floorboards of the chariot, pinning it to the frozen earth.

”AAARRRRRGGGG!!”

Rastlan howled in pain as one of the spears pierced his foot, pinning him to the floor of the chariot. Another spear pierced the sleeve of his bow arm, quickly becoming tangled as the spear’s black ’sail’ billowed in the wind, wrenching the herald off balance and threatening to tear his arm from its socket.

But Master Isabell hadn’t finished yet.

”From severed boughs, let green wood wake,

A cage of boughs no man can break!”

Reynold watched in a strange mix of awe and horror as the spears that had pierced Rastlan’s carriage transformed into saplings in truth, sprouting slender branches that interlaced rapidly into a tight, constrictive cage.

”Captain!” one of the long-horned soldiers shouted, abandoning his post at the roadside and leading his men to charge toward Rastlan in a desperate rush to free him from his wooden prison.

”ENOUGH!”

The single word spoken by High Lord Dirar thundered across the valley between the hilltop where he stood and the city walls, bringing his soldiers to a near instant stop. The cyclones of snow and lightning fell apart, resembling snow tossed into the air by a child as the snow drifted away before falling back to the earth.

For a moment, the valley was almost completely still. The only thing that moved were the six colorful banners that Isabell had transformed into sails for her spears, and even they went limp as the winds died down. Then, nothing moved until Rastlan managed to turn enough to face his lord.

”Highest One,” he said, gritting his teeth against the pain in his foot and arm. ”I can still...”

”No, it is enough,” Dirar said. One of his forelegs briefly stomped twice on the earth as if to stomp out any idea of further resistance from his herald as he turned to address the Hemlock Witch directly.

”Master Isabell, you are right to demand Her Dominion’s due,” Dirar said, filling the valley with a voice that was rich, polished, and only slightly accented as he spoke the king’s common tongue.

”The tribute I’ve prepared as a greeting gift for her isn’t one to be presented at the gates,” Dirar explained. ”But I promise, neither you nor the Mother of Trees will find it lacking. As a token, I’ve prepared a greeting gift for you as well,” he said, reaching into a large pouch that hung at his side to retrieve a thin book with a dark leather cover that looked like it had only recently been bound.

”I hope that we can meet as friends, and be welcome into the city you’ve conquered as such,” he said, holding the book up high with both hands and bowing his head slightly.

”The Southern Steppe has long been a friend of the Vale of Mists,” Isabell said formally as she waved a hand to dismiss the ethereal hemlock tree. ”In the name of that friendship, the Mother of Trees welcomes High Lord Dirar to the Verdant Hills,” she said, gesturing to the men in the gatehouse to open the gates.

With a single hand motion from Dirar, the entire entourage from the Southern Steppe sprang into motion, forming neat columns behind the High Lord as he led them into the city. Those columns paused briefly, however, when Dirar drew even with the captive Captain Rastlan.

”Highest One,” Rastlan said, bowing his head in shame. ”My life is forfeit for my failure...”

”This is no failure,” Dirar said as he pulled a calligraphy brush from one of the many pouches at his waist, tracing a pattern of lines that resembled a plow over the branches of Isabell’s wooden prison. In the span of a few heartbeats, the cage of branches withered, becoming visibly brittle and snapping like dry twigs as Dirar pulled his herald free of the wooden cage.

”This is a lesson for us both, Rastlan,” Dirar said, gesturing for a long-horned soldier to offer his back to the wounded herald to ride. ”Learn it well. Now, come, I still want you at my side when I meet the Mother of Trees. If she’s as formidable as her Hemlock Witch, we have much to look forward to...”