The Vampire & Her Witch

Elsewhere in the manor, in a guest chamber on the second floor of the western wing overlooking the inner bailey, Sir Cynwrig Stormbrook stood at the window and watched the last flickers of torchlight from the bailey below.

The sounds of the assault had been carried through the stone walls for several minutes now. Muffled shouts, the ring of steel, the occasional crash of something heavy breaking apart. Cynwrig had fought in enough skirmishes to know the difference between the sounds of a battle that was being contested and the sounds of a force that was rolling through resistance like a river through a dam, and what he heard tonight was the latter.

He turned from the window and walked to the door, lifting the heavy chair that stood beside the writing desk and wedging it under the handle. It wouldn’t stop anyone who was determined to get through, but it would buy time. Enough time, perhaps, for the people in this room to decide what they wanted to do if the fighting reached them.

He’d already made his own decision. He wasn’t the best of soldiers, and there’d been no reason for him to bring a full suit of armor with him to attend what he’d thought would have been Owain Lothian’s coronation. Still, he was a knight, and with reports of ’demon raids’ in the western reaches of Dunn Barony, it had been prudent to at least travel with a coat of mail and his weapons.

Now, Cynwrig had donned his armor, complete with the padded cap that protected his head and the chainmail coif atop it. He’d left his chainmail veil to the side for now, but it would take only a moment to ward his face, leaving only his eyes naked to the blades of any enemy that came to threaten his family, or the family of the man who’d saved his wife’s life.

"It’s started," he said, turning to face the small group that had gathered in the sitting room of his family’s guest suite.

Lady Cerys sat in the overstuffed chair by the hearth, her arm in its brace and her ankle propped on a cushioned stool. Her face was drawn and pale, and she’d ceased to find any comfort in the radiant sun pendant that hung from her slender neck. Sir Ollie had shaken her faith, but it had been her brother, Cian, who all but broke it.

Now, she didn’t know what to cling to as she listened to the sounds of fighting fading from the inner bailey, but the sight of her husband, standing tall and proud in his armor, did more to reassure her than praying ever had. Perhaps the Holy Lord of Light had abandoned her, but Cynwrig never would.

Beside her, Dalwyn sat cross-legged on the floor with his father’s sword belt, which was too large and too heavy for an eight-year-old, draped across his lap like a blanket. He said he’d be his father’s squire, and while he was still much too small to help his father into his armor, Cynwrig had given him his sword and told him to keep it at the ready in case he needed it.

Cerys had almost protested; her little man was far too young to be close to danger, but when she saw the focused look in her son’s eyes, she understood her husband’s intention. Without the sword, Dalwyn was certain to be a ball of nervous energy, stewing in his own anxiety and fear.

With it, he was a squire with a duty and a mission, and he focused on it in a way he focused on little else.

Lady Eira stood by the far wall with her arms folded, her bright, intelligent eyes moving between the door and the window with the calculating alertness of a young woman who was already running through contingencies. Ollie’s parents, Jamys and Lilee, sat together on the small settee near the hearth, Lilee’s hand gripping her husband’s forearm with a force that turned her knuckles white while Jamys stared at the door as if he could see through the oak to the corridors beyond.

"I may not be the most faithful man," Cynwrig said as he propped his shield against the wall close enough to the door to be ready if he needed it. "But for anyone who is, now is the time to pray."

"Pray for what?" Cerys asked, and her voice was thin with a fear that had nothing to do with the sounds of fighting and everything to do with the powers she knew were at work tonight. Her brother, Acolyte Cian, would have told her that prayer was the only weapon against the forces of darkness, but Cian wasn’t here, and the forces moving through the manor weren’t dark at all, even if the Church would call them so.

"Pray that Lady Ashlynn makes it through safely," Cynwrig said quietly, meeting his wife’s eyes. "And pray that whatever happens in the great hall tonight, the people we’ve promised to protect will still be unharmed in the morning."

Lilee’s grip on Jamys’s arm tightened even further, and the sound that escaped her lips was soft and strangled, the sound of a mother who knew her child was in danger and could do nothing but sit and listen to the walls shake around her.

"He’ll be all right," Jamys said, putting his free hand over his wife’s. His voice was rough with the effort of keeping it steady. "Ollie’s strong. Stronger than any of us ever thought he’d be."

"He’s more than strong," Eira said from her place by the wall, and her voice carried a certainty that seemed too large for a seventeen-year-old. "He’s a knight. And he made a promise. If I’ve learned one thing about Sir Ollie Heartwood, it’s that he keeps his promises, no matter what it costs him."

"That’s what I’m afraid of," Cynwrig said as he took his own advice, lowering his head in silent prayer. He didn’t know if the Holy Lord of Light would protect a witch, but if anyone had earned a miracle or mercy for the way he met his struggle, it was Sir Ollie Heartwood, and Cynwrig sincerely prayed that nothing would happen to the young knight before his parents could see what an amazing man he’d become.

In the silence that followed, the sounds of the assault grew louder, and the walls of Lothian Manor trembled...