The Vampire & Her Witch

Sweat poured from Reynold’s brow as Star Chaser thundered around the track.

Nine.

Somehow, against all odds, he’d captured nine wreaths, and he still had four more in his path.

Underneath him, Star Chaser moved at the same controlled, collected canter that they’d begun at, but when the destrier stallion moved, he devoured distance as if they were sprinting at a full gallop. The earth felt like it was pushing them along, as if the very soil beneath Star Chaser’s hooves was trying to help.

By the fourth wreath, Reynold understood how the witchcraft worked, or at least, he understood enough of it. Like the old fable of the man wagering his lord for grain who asked for a single grain of barley on the first square of a game board and then doubling it to the next and doubling it again until the lord had to empty his whole granary to pay the debt, the power of the wreaths grew greater and greater each time.

But the difficulty of capturing them increased each time as well.

Now, as Reynold approached the tenth wreath, he leaned as far to the right as he could, counterbalancing himself with the heater shield in his left arm while stretching out the lance as much as he dared with the right.

This no longer felt like tilting. It didn’t feel like war either. It was the sort of riding trick that Reynold saw executed by circus performers at tournaments. Men who bonded so well with their horse that they could do acrobatics atop their steady steeds.

It was the sort of thing Reynold had learned as a squire when he wanted to prove to his father that he was worthy of the Aleese name and everything that went with it.

Now, it was the only way he could think of to reach a wreath that hung at the height of his knee, barely above the frozen ground of the racetrack.

No sane man would have attempted such a feat with a twelve-foot lance in his hand. One wrong step from Star Chaser, one sudden jolt, or one moment of weakness that let the lance’s tip touch the ground, and Reynold would unhorse himself. All of Star Chaser’s speed and power, in a single instant, would slam into the lance, and Reynold would be lucky if he was simply flung from the saddle.

If he was unlucky, he’d lose the arm along with his seat.

But after catching nine of Empress Ashlynn’s ice wreaths, Reynold no longer knew what a sane man would or wouldn’t do.

All he knew was that the lance in his hand no longer felt like something he held. It felt like his fingers had become the roots of a tree, sinking into the soil of the lance. Or like his body was a trunk, and the lance was a branch. It felt like part of him, every bit as much as his nose or his toes.

You don’t aim the lance, you aim the horse.

It was wisdom he’d taken in from his father and held tight all his life, but it no longer felt true.

Aiming the lance felt as natural as lacing his boots. It barely required his eyes to guide the tip of the lance where it needed to go. And when he leaned out of his saddle, the tip of the lance slid smoothly through the center of the wreath, bringing him another burst of power and invigorating energy.

"TEN!" the crowd roared, keeping count for him as they had been since the fourth ring.

The crowd’s cries had been ragged then. Pockets here and there of people celebrated each wreath as if it were a victory. But things had changed at the fourth wreath, at least for Reynold.

Perhaps it had started with the first wreath, but the visor of his helm made it too difficult to see the changes. By the fourth wreath, however, the accumulation of power in his and Star Chaser’s body wasn’t just something he felt; it was something he could see as well.

The aura of flowing energy that enveloped him resembled the streamers of light hanging in the night sky, suspended from the twisted pillars of ice that ringed the racetrack. The energy shifted in color from pale green to icy blue, and with each wreath, the aura not only grew brighter and larger, it also trailed out further behind him like a brilliant, radiant banner.

Reynold’s legs burned with the effort of pulling himself back into the saddle, and he wanted nothing more than to take a moment to catch his breath after the effort of catching the last wreath, but there was no time. The next wreath was coming up fast, and this one was so high over his head that he would have to stand in the stirrups to have a chance at it.

Part of his mind screamed at him to stop. To accept ten out of thirteen as a worthy prize. He already felt stronger, faster, and more connected to both his horse and his lance than he ever had before. It had to be enough to have a chance against Taghai...

"There’s no reason Aleese couldn’t be a county, son," his father’s voice rang in his ears. "The south is wide open for the taking as soon as you find us a foothold. A Holy War is coming, Son," Tybal told him. "And with it, countless opportunities. But if we don’t have the first claim, then those opportunities will fall into the hands of strangers from across the sea, and we’ll be forced to bend the knee to some foreign-born lord who hangs their name on a county."

Three years ago, when his roving in the Southern Steppe began, Reynold had been swept along by the passion in his father’s voice. He’d thought their destiny lay to the south, and he’d foolishly promised that he would do his part to see the Aleese rise to greater heights in the coming war.

He’d had doubts then. Not about his mission, but about his ability to achieve it.

"A man’s ambitions should match his abilities," Tybal told him. "Few men are more capable than you, Son. Few men could ever match you in the saddle with a lance or spear in your hand. Fewer still could set aside the comforts of home to range as far as you have. You’re a greater man than I, Reynold, and I’ve never been more proud to call you my son."

"So long as your heart desires it, the life you lead will be filled with achievements and honors," Tybal promised. "More than enough to elevate our family in an era where Lothian becomes a Duchy. Do the hard work now and reap the rewards when the harvest is ripe."

Only now, as Reynold and Star Chaser thundered down the racetrack toward the eleventh wreath, the only desire in his heart was to preserve his father’s life. The lands didn’t matter. His family’s ambitions didn’t matter. It didn’t even matter to him whether he became Dirar’s apprentice or not.

Only one thing mattered, and Reynold couldn’t take any chances that he would fail in it.

Standing in the stirrups, Reynold braced the lance with his left hand, angling the tip toward the wreath high overhead. It felt like a target that was nearly impossible, but for a man like Taghai, this probably wasn’t even a stretch.... Reynold couldn’t afford to give up even a single wreath because he was certain that Taghai would have collected several of his own...

"ELEVEN!" the crowd shouted as Reynold neatly captured the next wreath.

With a clatter of armor, Reynold sat down heavily in his saddle, his eyes already searching through the narrow slit of his visor for the next wreath.

-THUMP THUMP-

-THUMP THUMP-

A strange, second heartbeat echoed in his chest the instant he sat down, and for a moment, Reynold thought something was very, very wrong. And yet...

"It’s you, isn’t it?" Reynold said, briefly brushing his armored fingers over Star Chaser’s neck.

Their hearts beat as one, and he could feel it in his chest. Brilliant, colorful light streamed out behind them as man and horse raced through the night like a comet across the sky.

They were one, and they had only one purpose...

"Father," Reynold said as they charged for the twelfth wreath. "We will not fail you tonight..."