The Vampire & Her Witch

Lord Ritchel had acted without hesitation when he saw Hauke’s sudden attack. The ancestral horns strapped to his son’s chest had pulsed with an ominous light that he recognized immediately. The nightmare that haunted him since the day the spirits addressed the council of elders using his son’s mouth had finally come true. The spirits were in control, not his son.

He hadn’t intended to capture Ashlynn along with Hauke. The sorcerers of his honor guard were all experienced enough to follow his lead, placing the center of the icy tomb on a spot that should have trapped Hauke and the ancestral spirits alone, giving him the ability to regain control of the situation. The dark suppressive magic that knocked Ashlynn to the ground, briefly pinning her in place had been the perfect opportunity.

But fate made fools of men who thought everything would unfold as they desired. The ancestral spirit’s attack on the diminutive Willow Witch had been so cruel that Ashlynn escaped the grip of the icy magic that held her down, clashing directly with Hauke and the ancestral spirits just as the Ice Tomb came into being, sealing her inside it’s icy walls along with him.

Now, everything was spiralling rapidly out of control and a new flurry of snow had appeared. This one, however, felt much gentler than the icy blizzard tormenting Lady Nyrielle’s army, filled with fat, fluffy snowflakes that drifted harmlessly on the wind. Or at least, it started that way.

The first impact against his shoulder felt like nothing more than a ball of soft, fluffy snow hurled by a young child, barely enough to register through his thick fur and ceremonial robes. He dismissed it without a glance, maintaining his concentration on the complex weave of sorcery that kept the walls of ice from shattering under the force of the battle raging within while taking a brief look at the fortress behind him.

Already, the walls had begun to empty of young soldiers as men drew their weapons and charged towards the gate, rushing to be the first ones across the bridge to reach their lord’s side. Within a minute or two, a force of several hundred men would be able to surround him, offering real enough protection from the forces of Nyrielle’s army that he could consider unsealing the ice tomb. Until they arrived, he just had to hold on.

The second snowball struck Gunter, one of his senior aids and a candidate to replace Paulus on the council of elders, with enough force to make the man grunt in surprise. Larger than the first snowball and more tightly packed, it left a spray of white powder across the man’s silver-blue ceremonial robes.

"My Lord," Gunter started, but fell silent as a third snowball struck him squarely between the eyes with enough force to make him take a step back, covering his face with one arm and quickly wiping away the snow that blocked his vision. For a moment, a loud -CRACK- echoed from the Ice Tomb as the wall Gunter was responsible for lost his active support, but the veteran sorcerer quickly redoubled his efforts, reinforcing the wall and bringing his sorcery back under control.

Ritchel’s eyes narrowed, searching the swirling snow that had appeared seemingly from nowhere. He hadn’t paid it much attention at first because the magic felt so familiar, carrying a subtle flavor and scent that reminded him of snow melting on the tongue, just like dozens of Frost Walker snow masters he’d known over the years.

With all of the soldiers descending from the walls, he assumed it had been a move made by one of the sorcerers remaining atop the fortress walls to conceal their movements from Nyrielle’s forces. But now, as he peered through the dancing flakes, he caught a glimpse of the small horned witch, the one the ancestral spirits had attacked at the beginning of this disaster, standing near the Ice Tomb with a glowing white horn-blade in her hand.