The Vampire & Her Witch

”Your challenge begins now!”

The arena collectively held its breath, waiting for an explosion of force, but the explosion never came. Nothing that resembled the blazing comet that Reynold had become or the shattering storm of ice and snow unleashed in the Frozen Forest.

Nothing at all.

Neither sorcerer moved.

The cold winter wind tugged at their robes as both men stood motionless on the icy platforms atop the stairs.

After several silent heartbeats, Rastlan finally spoke.

”Do you want to limit the field, old crow?” Rastlan called. ”Surely you are a master of many constellations. Warrior, Hunter, Watchman, I know them all,” he shouted. ”Choose, and see which one of us knows them better.”

”Choose for yourself,” Aspakos replied, appearing unruffled by Rastlan’s challenge. ”A man who follows many paths has many choices. I cannot make them for you. I can only hope you know when to walk away and concede defeat. Your path need not end here tonight,” Aspakos warned.

”The Sorcerers of Sundered Earth are famed for their forbidden knowledge,” Rastlan taunted. ”Will you trot some out now to awe the sheep who cower in fear at the sight of you?”

”That which is forbidden is forbidden for good reason, young cub,” Aspakos replied. ”It will not be easily displayed.”

”So be it,” Rastlan said, tightening his grip on his spear and thumping the but of it against the ice of his platform. ”Don’t say later on that I was impolite!”

Having tried and failed to come to a gentleman’s agreement with the broken-beaked sorcerer, Rastlan took a step forward, spinning the spear in his hands.

”A Master’s Journey begins in Nine Strokes, known to every novice!” Rastlan shouted as he whipped the spear through a sequence of movements so ordinary that a squire could repeat them.

In fact, many squires sitting among the noblemen recognized them as the nine fundamental lines of attack.

”From above and below,” Cadeyrn said as he watched Rastlan’s movements. ”The left and the right. High left, high right, low left, low right, and a thrust,” he said, turning to look at his father. ”Father, they’re the same. The same movements you taught me with a sword. How is it that the Eldritch know them too?”

”It’s as he said,” Sir Brennus Thorne said without taking his eyes off the battle taking shape before them. ”These are nine strokes that everyone must master, in almost every weapon. Head, groin, shoulders, sides, flanks... The targets are shared by everyone who walks on two legs,” he said, glancing briefly at Lord Dirar, who stood on the stone platform with the Empresses.

”And perhaps by those with more,” he added. ”It makes sense that their swordsmanship would resemble...” Brennus started to say, only to cut himself short as he saw nine gleaming lines of shining white light appear in the air between Rastlan’s icy shield and his opponents.

Then, in a blink of an eye, nine flashes of light flew across the gap between them, slamming into the icy shield like the blows of a giant, sending shards of ice the size of a small knife flying through the air.

Most of the shards sailed harmlessly into the night or fell on the frozen ground well short of the spectators, but a few shattered against the shields of ice that Ashlynn had summoned and Dirar had reinforced.

-CRACK!- -CRACK!-

-CRACK!- -CRACK!-

Four times the sounds came in pairs as each set of strokes was matched by its opposite. Downward with upward, high left with low right, as if a spearman had used the rebounding force of striking a shield to pivot into the next stroke in the sequence until...

-CRAAAAACK!-

A final flash of light shot directly at Aspakos where he stood calmly on his platform. Like the final thrust of a spearman, it struck with incredible force, sending a spiderweb of cracks across the surface of the shield, but when the drifting flakes of ice finally cleared, it revealed an Aspakos who still hadn’t moved from his spot other than to hold out a single taloned hand that gleamed with lurid, crimson energy.

One new thing, however, stood between them.

A small collection of crimson dots, arranged in the pattern of a constellation Rastlan recognized but couldn’t name, had affixed itself to Aspakos’s shield, directly where the final blow had struck.

”What... What is that?” Rastlan growled, frowning at the unfamiliar design.

”It has many names,” Aspakos said, lowering his hand and dismissing the energy he held. The glimmering constellation, however, held its place on the icy shield. ”Misfortune’s Mirror. The Hunter’s Shadow. I’ve always favored Acat’s Snare, but then, that name has been all but forgotten by time.”

”The small set of stars that follow the First Hunter across the sky?” Rastlan said. ”The Hunter’s Ravenous Hound?”

”So it is known now,” Aspakos acknowledged. ”But if you call it that, you’ve misunderstood its purpose and its use,” he warned. ”Give up now, Captain Rastlan, while the price is still low. The snare is set, and you have one foot in it already. More than this, you cannot afford.”

”What art is this?” Rastlan asked, shifting his grip on the spear as he wracked his brain for everything he could remember about the First Hunter’s Hounds. The First Hunter had three hounds, the Spotter, the Caller, and the Ravanous Hound beside him.

There were invocations of seeking that invoked the stars of the Spotter to sharpen a hunter’s vision, just as there were invocations that called out for others to aid, blending their powers to answer the hunter’s call. But no one in their right mind invoked the stars of the Ravanous Hound who constantly demanded the hunter keep him fed.

To do so was... was madness!

”So this is the forbidden art of the Sorcerers of Sundered Earth,” Rastlan said, answering his own question. ”You invoke the stars no others touch!”

”You’re wrong, young cub,” Aspakos said as he raised his staff up high. ”This is not a forbidden art. It is the Founder’s Art. The arts you study belong to the Celestial Court of the Sovereign of the Stars,” he explained.

”But the Sovereign’s eyes behold the whole glittering sky and all the paths a life may wander through it,” Aspakos said. ”Not one of thirteen constellations or their small companions, but every star in every pattern men have ever named.”

”This is the Founder’s Art,” Aspakos said as a slight smile formed on his face. ”The sorcery of the Sovereign of the Stars himself. I’ve paid the price to learn it, Captain Rastlan. Are you prepared to pay the price to face it?”