The Vampire & Her Witch

While Heila answered Liam's questions and Lord Jalal prepared his human charge to protect himself, twenty members of the Soft Paw clan quietly made their way through the branches above, using them like roads until they reached the head of the army and descended to the forest floor.

Each man wore a dark cloak, similar to Lord Jalal's but where the tunic he wore beneath the cloak was covered with gemstones, these men wore only a handful of diamonds, arranged in a neat pattern over their hearts to resemble a curled horn that the Eldritch would call The Trumpet of Dawn, after the constellation that appeared just before sunrise during the long days of summer.

On their backs, each man carried a large, double-flared drum the size of a keg of ale, along with a small wooden frame to set the drum on while it was played.

"I thought ye' would'a brought tha' big drums," Dame Sybyll said when the men began to carefully inspect their drums, gently tapping each drumhead to ensure that it was still tight after being carried so far from home and that the drum itself was still sound after enduring the bitter cold of the weather Hauke had conjured.

"You must be joking!" Lord Jalal said with a rich, rolling laugh. "There are no giants in my nation who could carry the larger drums here. We could build one for you, but we would have had to come weeks ago, and you didn't give me much time to prepare even this much for our dance tonight."

"Don't worry," he added with a smile when he saw the frown forming on Dame Sybyll's face. "Each man is an experienced Stargazer. The sounds of their drums will fill the valley, and they won't have to step more than a dozen paces beyond the treeline in order to do it."

To some, developing sorcery that served no purpose other than enhancing a musician's performance would doubtless be seen as a waste of power and potential, but Lord Jalal's people were different. They lived for art, music, and dance, and they poured every last bit of themselves into their expressions of joy, sorrow, and fury. To them, it was only natural that their sorcery would follow the shapes and sounds of the passions that gave their lives meaning.

"So long as ye strike terror in tha' hearts o' tha' enemy an' help ta' break their will ta' fight, I'll be content," Sybyll said with an uncharacteristically tight set to her lush crimson lips. Now that this moment was finally upon her, she found that not only had her rage grown hotter than it had been in several years, but there was a part of her that hoped the common soldiers of Ian Hanrahan's army would simply throw down their arms and surrender so she didn't have to tear men away from their wives and children just to take the head of the coward who had murdered her mother.

Part of her wanted to spill blood until the snow was stained red with it, while another part hoped that the butcher's bill tonight wouldn't be too high for either side. For years, she could hold those separate desires apart as time wore away at the intensity of each of them. Ever since meeting Lady Ashlynn, however, and even more so after receiving the gift that Mistress Nyrielle referred to as 'Heart's Reawakening,' it was becoming harder and harder to navigate the space between the two conflicting desires.

Her hand trembled slightly as she took hold of her ax until she clenched it firmly enough to deform any metal weaker than the darksteel of her prized weapon while she walked to the head of the army.

The stars shone high overhead and the snow on the ground reflected the pale light of the waxing moon, but Dame Sybyll didn't want Ian Hanrahan to underestimate the force arrayed against him, and so every soldier also carried a thick torch that filled the forest with a flickering, reddish-orange glow that made the entire army seem even more menacing than they already were.

Silence slowly swept over the gathered soldiers as she took her place before them, standing on a wooden crate as she surveyed the army. The remnants of the Black Wolf Brigade's Golden Eyed skirmishers still made up more than half of the army with more than a hundred soldiers.

The additions of nearly fifty heavy infantry of the Iron Tusk Clan, more than sixty of the elite and deadly accurate archers of the Glass Eyed Clan, along with the crushing power of ten Tuscan Giants and the swift, nearly traceless scouting of the Lightfoot clan had turned the Second Army into a true force of elites, ready to topple anything that stood in their way and grind it beneath their feet.

They weren't Sybyll's army, not really. When this all ended, they would return to Commander Savis and Lady Ashlynn for the next phase of the war. But for the moment, they felt strong enough to do what needed to be done and reliable enough that she could depend on them.

"Winter nights may be long," she began, speaking loud enough to be heard by the entire army even if her voice didn't extend beyond the trees. "But we've already squandered a bit 'o this one an' I won't waste much o' yer time."

"Ye don'a know these men, an' tha's a good thing. If ye knew these men tha' way I do, ye'd hate them as much as I do, or more," she said, clenching her fist as her eyes began to smolder with deeply held hatred. "I've come ta' claim me vengeance 'gainst Ian Hanrahan, but fer tha' rest 'o ye, this is jus' a job."

"This town, it may be dirty an' filthy in places," Sybyll continued as her voice softened slightly. "But it's mine, an' the common folk there are my people. I don'a want ta' see 'em harmed. I won't sit a'top a throne o' blood an' bone ta' rule o'er ashes."

Several soldiers nodded silently at her words while others placed clawed hands over their hearts. They might not know these humans, and none of them held any hatred in their hearts for Ian Hanrahan or his sycophants, but all of them could understand the pull of home.

A few of them, people Nyrielle had gathered after failed rebellions, like Captain Ultrech's heavy infantry, even knew what it felt like to see your world turn upside down when a new lord seized power and tried to tear out the old order, root and branch. They would fight against a Lord's forces, but they would never destroy their own homes.

"T'night, we use every weapon we have ta break our foes," Sybyll said as she hopped off the wooden crate and walked over to the place where two of Captain Ipiktok's Tuscan giants held the gleaming bell from the fallen watch tower. "We start wit' fear, an' we let them know we're commin' 'cause even if they know, they can'a hope ta' win. So let them prepare an' make ready every soldier and strategy they have… an' let 'em learn it's useless!"

With a powerful swing, Sybyll struck the bell with a balled-up fist, unleashing a resounding sound that echoed far beyond the forest, sweeping across the valley, and the whole of Hanrahan Town within it. The sound of Brighton Hanrahan's bell was clear, pure, and unmistakable to the people it was meant to warn of impending danger.

-GOOOOOOONNNNNNGGGGG-

"T'night, we fight! T'night, we take back me home! T'night, Ian Hanrahan will die!"

All around her, the soldiers of the Second Army raised their torches or weapons high, shouting with an echo of her fury and their desire to trample her foes beneath their boots. They might not be 'her army', but there wasn't a soldier among them who didn't respect Dame Sybyll's strength or her desire to reclaim what was hers… and tonight, they would spill the blood of anyone foolish enough to stand in the way of her vengeance.

-HAAAAAARRRRUUUUUUMMMM-

The sound of Ipiktok's men raising their long, flexible trunks in unison and letting out a deep, rolling trumpet blast filled the air, drowning out the sound of the warning bell and replacing it with a much darker sound that would freeze the hearts of any who heard it.

-BOOM BOOM- -BOOM BOOM- -BOOM- -CLACK- BOOM- -CLACK- -BOOM-

Finally, twenty drummers of Lord Jalal's Soft Paw Clan filled the night with a deep, somber march of doom, setting the steady beat for hundreds of soldiers to begin to move, spilling out of the wilderness in neat, orderly ranks as they advanced on Hanrahan Town.

And at the head of the armor marched a lone figure in crimson armor who was finally, after many long years in exile, coming home.