The Vampire & Her Witch

Sir Carwyn’s enemy’s armor bore no coat of arms, and he held no shield. Instead, the serpentine demon carried a hooked sword in one hand and a short spear in the other, as if every fiber of his being was intended to attack and not defend.

It was a posture that Carwyn welcomed as he closed the final distance between them, swinging his flail in a wide arc, aiming for the oversized, cage-like helm with its brilliant green plumage. For a moment, everything seemed to come together as the demon didn’t even seem like it intended to get out of his way, but in the next moment, everything changed.

The serpentine demon moved with inhuman speed, using its short spear in place of a shield to knock Carwyn’s flail aside. But the spear and the sword were both distractions compared to the demon-knight’s most lethal weapon.

Originally, Carwyn had thought that the polished metal tip that wrapped around the demon’s tail was just another piece of armor, or perhaps a decoration like the green plumage in its helm. It wasn’t until the serpentine demon flickered to the side, moving just out of the way of the horse’s charge, that the young knight realized his fatal mistake.

The demon’s tail went suddenly stiff, striking like a spear and tearing through the horse’s neck in a spray of crimson blood. Instantly, Carwyn’s world exploded into chaos as his horse’s dying scream filled his ears and hot blood splattered across his face. The familiar rhythm of hoofbeats vanished, replaced by the heavy thud and sickening crunch of his long-time companion collapsing beneath him. Before the young knight could even react, a brief sensation of weightlessness overwhelmed him as he was sent tumbling through the air.

Sky and earth spun in a nauseating blur before the muddy ditch rushed up to meet him. His body moved without thought as he tucked his chin to his chest and tightened his stomach, curling into a ball as best he could.

"If you ride, then one day you’ll fall," his father had told him when he met his first horse. "And if you fight while you ride, then one day, you’ll be thrown. Learn to land, tuck, and roll," his father said, slapping him on the shoulder. "Aim for this. It’ll hurt, but banging your head is worse. Then across to the other hip. Even in armor, you can tuck and you can roll. Remember..."

Those lessons and countless others were the only things that kept Carwyn from getting tangled up in his horse’s fall, and now, as he slammed into the earth, those lessons once again saved his life.

The impact drove every breath from his lungs with a sound like a bellows collapsing, and cold, fetid water immediately soaked through his gambeson, carrying the stench of rotting leaves and animal waste. His flail flew from numb fingers as he rolled instinctively across his back, feeling every stone he rolled across like a punch landing on his body until he kicked out with his feet and brought himself to a stop, lying in the putrid mud of the ditch.

For a moment, the world went silent except for a high ringing in his ears and the wet gurgling of his dying horse somewhere that sounded far away. The taste of his own blood filled his mouth, and when he tried to breathe, pain flared across his ribs. His left shoulder screamed in pain after absorbing most of the force of his fall, and a tingling sensation like pins and needles running over his flesh spread all the way from his left elbow to his fingertips.