Luchar pushed aside a broken bramble to study the hoof-prints beneath. The prints belonged to the same warhorse, he was sure of it. He squeezed his right fist, feeling the black leather of his silver, filigreed gauntlet tighten snuggly around his digits. Pulling slightly on the lead in his left hand, he signaled his courser to stop so he could take in the scene before him. Looking up from the tree line he was emerging from and out across a field of wildflowers, he spotted the blackened ruins of a small village. 

That would be Kettenbach, if his map served. He had planned to interrogate the locals as to the whereabouts of Lord Cahry’s daughter and the rogue knight protecting her. 

He squinted for a moment allowing his eyes to adjust to the bright sunlight reflecting off the field of white, purple, and blue wildflowers as they undulated in the wind. The forest had been increasingly dark and dense as he traveled farther and farther from Sinnactal. He had almost forgotten that it was still midday. 

The silver mask covering his face did little to shield his eyes against the sun, fitted tightly against his face as it was. In the bright sun, though, it did trap the heat and sweat against his skin. His heavy cloak, boiled leather, and brigandine–all in black and silver–only exacerbated the heat. Yet the mask did not even register in his awareness. The desire to remove it, despite the discomfort, had long since been trained out of him. 

Instead, his mind turned to his quarry. The pair’s trail had led Luchar through mostly empty countryside for several days now. Grand Master Barrok had made his orders unambiguous when Luchar and his fellow Fion had left The Citadel weeks ago. They were to support Lord Murdoch, depose Cahry, and ensure there were no heirs to complicate matters in the future. The current civil war had come close to tearing apart the empire. It had nearly pitted the Praetoriate against the Council of the Citadel. Fion against Fion. That could not be allowed.  

Luchar sighed heavily. The rogue knight left a clear enough trail, but Luchar did not like the idea of wandering after the knight with so little information. Putting the screws to a few villagers could have been so enlightening, and a source of much needed catharsis; he felt a warm shiver run down his arms. Little use bemoaning it now, he decided. There wouldn’t be any survivors in Kettenbach. 

The ruins were unmistakably the work of a fellow Fion, perhaps more than one. A small crater had been blown into the side of the silo at the edge of the village. The hole was visible even from Luchar’s vantage a half mile off. Not a single structure he could make out had escaped the blaze that must have followed. 

The Adlyr and many of the country peasants, Luchar knew, had sided with Murdoch in the conflict. The village had likely been burned down in retaliation by Cahry’s Fion guard, The Praetoriate. Such a waste of Fion talents, but they would have made sure no one escaped the village. 

Luchar sighed heavily, grabbed the reins of his courser, and began to work across the field. 

The rogue knight’s destrier must have been a remarkable animal, he mused. Luchar’s own horse was bred for scouting and movement. The rogue knight’s steed, Luchar knew from its tracks, was a heavy warhorse. How the thing managed to travel several days over such a distance was a mystery. The muscles around his courser’s stifle were still trembling from the day’s journey. His mouth twisted in amusement. He felt his pulse quicken. He could probably drive the animal another day before its strength gave out. He imagined digging his spurs into the animal; he shivered as his blood grew hot. That would probably get him farthest in the end. The beast would be of little use if the princess and her knight had wandered deep into the Aesvithr. He could simply drive the animal until it collapsed–that too would be cathartic. 

Ignoring the steed’s pinned ears and squeal, Luchar slipped his foot into the stirrup, swung himself into the saddle, and began to ride. 

A few minutes of hard galloping found Luchar at the opposite edge of the clearing. The treeline ahead was denser than the one he had emerged from. The branches, long and gnarled, seemed to reach out to grasp at him from a short wall of menacing brambles. The same breeze that had coaxed a gentle undulation from the wildflowers behind him brought out, now and again, a raspy scraping from the tangle of brambles and branches. His courser neighed fearfully at the noise. A road was cut into the woods, leading away from the clearing and the ruins of Kettenbach. In all likelihood the passage had been frequented by the townsfolks as recently as a few weeks ago, but already the portal was growing over, as if the Aesvithr were resentfully sealing up a wound in its side. 

Luchar stopped then. Between the intermittent rustling of the woods, he could hear something beyond the treeline–a long drawn out sobbing. Swinging a leg over his saddle, he dismounted, sank low, and approached.

It wasn’t long before the crying led him from the already narrow road to a narrower path branching off, deeper into the forest. It was difficult to navigate around the brittle branches and brambles without making enough noise to alert anyone, but Luchar was agile and swift. The forest around him rapidly grew denser and denser. Before he had even taken the narrower path, most of the midday sun was blocked out by the canopy, leaving only a growing gloom made all the more claustrophobic by ever thickening walls of brambles closing in around him. Despite the crush of thorns and branches, his narrow limbs and shoulders shifted and glided through the woods. All the while, the sobbing grew louder. Gradually, he could make out words among the crying. 

“Little monster… stole my home…” 

Eventually, Luchar rounded a bend in the path and found himself in a small clearing facing a woman kneeling before a stone idol. The idol was hewn of rough granite, but its features were clear enough. The figure had long hair, flowing over light mail. The armor was more ceremonial than protective, parting at the waist to emphasize the curve and muscle of the figure’s stomach. Its facial features were high and angular, and a pair of long, pointed ears rose from the thick locks of hair. Although rendered in gray stone, Luchar knew the woman’s hair was meant to be fair, almost white. Elatha, Queen of the Fomoraigh. At the base of the idol was a woman with similarly pale-blonde hair held back in loose braids, stone and bone beads woven throughout. She wore a peasant’s roughspun robe, although that too was covered in decorative bead work. 

Luchar’s right hand shifted to the pommel of his blade. His left drifted to the bandolier at his chest; idly he ran his gloved fingers over the pouches along it. “Peasant, what is your name, and what are you doing this deep in the woods alone?” His voice was bright and high, springing contentedly from one word to the next. 

The woman whipped her head around. She shifted from her knees to her thighs and moved to stand before noting Luchar’s black, gloved hand still wrapped around his blade’s pommel. 

Luchar met her cold gray eyes and strode forward, stopping only a foot away from the woman, forcing her to tilt her head uncomfortably to meet his gaze. Another warm shiver ran down his arms, and a half smile tightened his cheek as he looked down at her. Hidden behind his mask, he could show all the enjoyment he wanted. Tear-stained and red-eyed though her face was, the woman’s expression was hard to read. Perhaps a hint of tightness to the lips–the eyes a little widened. To his surprise the woman’s gaze roamed over him carefully; he was being studied. Luchar was accustomed to abject fear from strangers, not cool speculation. Meeting a masked Fion warrior sent most common folk running for their homes. 

“Heidrun,” she began, pausing for a long moment to look him in the eye, before scanning over him again. “Mourning a terrible theft and praying for justice,” After a moment of thought she added, “Syr.” Her eyes took in the pouches on his bandolier, lingered on his left hand toying with the clasp of one pocket, and finally settled again on his sword hand still resting on his pommel.

Luchar’s half smile had never faded. He was used to peasant women trembling and averting their gaze. He knew Fion who would fly into a rage at a common woman meeting their gaze and refusing to show deference–refusing to show fear. Luchar prided himself on being less fragile. “A theft. What has been taken? And by whom?” He kept his voice high and jovial, but all the while his hand remained poised and ready, like a coiled snake ready to strike. 

As he waited for a response, he returned the woman’s favor, slowly studying her kneeling form. Her skin was unusually smooth, and the beaded collar that hugged her bust was elaborately woven. Some of the bone beads bore runes, he noted. 

This close to the woman, Luchar could catch her scent. Rich and earthy, with sharper hints of pine and chamomile. 

“My home.” The woman’s voice was icy. She was meeting his gaze again. Her cold gray eyes barely seemed to blink. “By those who have wronged me.” Her voice grew darker and her gaze dropped again to Luchar’s gauntletted fist. 

Luchar’s felt an anticipatory rush of hot blood. Luchar let his voice drop a little, allowing just a little menace to creep in. “That is a poor answer. It does not serve me. I am looking for a rogue knight and a young woman who may be wearing stolen finery.” He continued to study the woman’s face as he described the pair, but the kneeling woman’s features remained inscrutable. “Tell me, first, of this robbery and be sure to spare no detail.” His smile widened. He hoped she would refuse.

“Fion scum,” she hissed. 

Luchar’s pulse sang at the provocation. Noting her gaze still fixed on his right hand and pommel, he extended the fingers of his left and swung, hard, intending to backhand the kneeling woman. 

With surprising speed, the blonde woman ducked and, scrabbling on all four, shot past the Fion. Dumbstruck, Luchar twirled on his heel and drew his sword. 

The woman, now a dozen paces away, was moving to stand, but not like any mortal woman Luchar had ever seen. Her limbs were stretching, emitting loud pops and a crackling noise like week-old bread being crushed. Cold shivers ran down Luchar’s spine. As he watched, the woman’s spine began to contort under her thin robe as well. It twisted and, with the same awful popping and a new violent undulating, it expanded. Soon the woman, who could not have been much more than five feet before, rose off the ground seven feet or more. Her digits, Luchar noted, had extended to long, sharpened blades. 

Maintaining his stance, sword held in his right near his hip and pouch cradled in his left, Luchar met the woman’s gaze. 

Her face had contorted into a mask even more ghastly than his own. Her jaw hung wide, filled with needle-like teeth, and her once-gray eyes were glittering black orbs. “I will have my revenge on you first, wretch,” the woman spat, her voice like nails grinding against rock, “for what your kind has done to Kettenbach. Then, as you bleed out–begging me for a swift end–you will tell me all you know of the knight and her princess.” 

The woman lunged, her clawed hands extended.

Luchar made a wide sweep at her hands as he side-stepped the tackle. 

Without flinching, the woman snatched the blade and pulled. 

Luchar’s left hand snapped to the grip, and he attempted to pivot against the creature’s momentum, hoping to slice through the lunging woman’s bladed fingers, but with an awful grinding noise the blade only scraped against her talons. He managed to pull the blade free, but not before the woman’s full weight collided with his blade. The momentum of the collision and the arch of his blade as it suddenly flew free from her grip, sent the Fion tumbling to the ground. 

Moving as quickly as he could, he bit his blade into the soft moss below him and tried to heave himself to his feet, but before he was even half standing, the woman slammed into him, knocking him back to the ground. The pair slid across the damp earth. Luchar hissed as he realized his sword was lodged in the ground a few feet from his new position. 

Heidrun let out a low laugh, like the grinding of a mill stone. She was perched on top of him now. Most of her weight was pinning his legs to the ground. Her right hand was already curled around his left, pinning that as well. Hovering above him, he could see thick saliva drip down the long, blade-like teeth in the creature’s mouth. He could feel her cold breath even under his armor. 

“I will enjoy flaying the skin slowly from your flesh, witch-knight.” She extended her arm and grasped fully around Luchar’s mask, her talons clicking against its metal edge. Her wide, taloned hand covered the mask completely, blocking out Luchar’s vision. 

Blind and unable to move, Luchar thrashed in panic. His free hand flew to the woman’s left arm and tried to pull her taloned grip away from his mask. Throwing all the strength of his arm and shoulder against the woman’s forearm did nothing to move it. She was many times stronger. Panic still guiding him, he twisted his frame, attempting to leverage the woman’s own weight and roll her beneath him. For a moment, he had her right knee off the ground. 

Before he could manage anything else, the woman let out a raspy hiss of frustration. Yanking back with her left hand, she jerked his head forward and slammed it back. 

The moss-covered earth was soft, but not nearly enough to keep the world from spinning in pain. Luchar felt a wave of nausea and dizziness overtake him. 

Letting out a low chuckle, the woman, still gripping the mask, slipped a finger through the leather strap keeping the mask on Luchar’s face. 

He screamed in pain and frustration as he felt the bladed finger slid through the tip of his own ear as it severed the strap. He felt hot blood rush down into his hair and scalp. Kicking and thrashing with renewed urgency, Luchar only managed to bruise his own shins. He felt the woman settle down harder against his legs, pinning them painfully. His heart pounding in his ears, he pulled hard on his pinned left arm and felt a blinding pain in his shoulder as his humerus was nearly pulled from his shoulder. 

He growled and looked up at the woman above him. Her face was frozen in a grimace of terror, the mouth extended too long to be anymore mistaken for a mortal woman’s, and her jet-black, orb-like eyes stared down at him unblinkingly. All the same, the upward turn of her lips and the viscous drool lathering her fangs made her expression easier to read than it had been before. She was hungry. 

“My, don’t you have a soft little face, witch-knight?” the woman cooed. “I would have expected some more rugged and ugly thing.”

Luchar winced as the woman, with a casual motion of her left hand, folded his metal mask. The mask let out an awful rending noise as the metal gave, and the woman tossed it aside. 

She stooped and extended her tongue. Uncoiling and descending like a snake, her tongue slid past his neck, along his ear and into his hair, now wet with blood. Luchar flinched and pulled away, tilting his neck and extending his shoulder, eliciting another blinding wave of pain, but it was no use. What little distance he could create was easily covered by the woman’s coiling tongue. In a moment it was wrapping around his ear and hair again. The tongue was cold and rough against the Fion’s head. Luchar shuddered as the woman let out a long, approving moan of pleasure. 

“It has been years since I tasted witch-knight,” she mused happily. She rolled her tongue back into her mouth, seeming to coat the inside with his blood. Her eyes rolled up in pleasure for a moment. “Copper and sulfur. You work magic you do not understand.”

Luchar’s pulse was still beating out of control, and the pain in his left shoulder was still crashing into him in piercing waves. He tried to slow his breathing. 

Laughing, the woman reached down and, using the needle-like points of her talons, picked apart the clasp of Luchar’s cloak. Moving deftly, she slid a finger under his mail collar and tunic, and pulled. The sound of rending metal met Luchar’s ears again as she began to cut through his pizaine like a seam ripper through a single, straight stitch. Luchar willed himself not to thrash again in panic as the cold air hit his neck and shoulder. 

“What a delectably smooth little man-thing you are,” she laughed.

Luchar clenched his fist, waiting. 

The woman opened her mouth even further. Her fangs seemed to flex independent of the jaw around them. Turning to the Fion below her, the woman bent down toward him, aiming her fangs for Luchard’s exposed neck. 

Just before she could sink herself into Luchar, he pulled his head back, and, with as much leverage as he could manage, slammed his head into the side of the woman’s own. 

She screeched in pain and reared backward. 

Seizing the opportunity, Luchar freed a foot from under the woman, and, planting it against her thigh, kicked hard, eliciting an angry hiss. Pressing the advantage he shifted his foot higher and tried to push the woman away. 

He had most of his body out from under her before the woman yanked again on his left arm, hard. He howled angrily as his vision became a sea of black interrupted with bright sparks of pain.   

“No, no, no, little witch-knight,” the woman chidded. “I think not.” Wrenching hard on Luchar again, she pulled him bodily toward her. 

Luchar folded against the mounting pain, allowing himself to be dragged limply. He hung in the woman’s grip like a lifeless doll.

With her other hand, the woman ripped greedily at Luchar’s left gauntlet, tearing it free and leaving long gashes along his forearm. Taking no time to savor the moment, the woman sunk her fangs into Luchar’s newly exposed flesh. 

Luchar, half delirious from the pain, felt the sharp pain from the woman’s bite followed by a cool rush flowing into his arm. His eyes opened wide, a new wave of panic hitting his veins. 

The woman released him, and he stumbled backward. He could already feel his arm beginning to go numb. His mind raced. Poison. He stumbled to his feet and put several paces between himself and Heidrun. Turning on his heel, he cursed himself, seeing his sword still lodged in the ground behind the woman. 

Heidrun for her part made no move to close the distance between them. She was still half-knelt on the ground, eyeing Luchar hungrily. Her gaze wandered to his narrow waist and hips. “Soft and shapely, little man-thing. Perhaps I will enjoy you in other ways before I piece you apart.” Her eyes settled between his legs. “I am eager to see what I will find as I do.” She let out a long cackle. 

Luchar could feel the same cool sensation slowly seeping from his left arm into his shoulder and chest, dulling his nerves and muscles. For a moment, he allowed himself to enjoy the relief. The screaming pain in his shoulder was now a muted, distant thrum. His relief was quickly ended as he noticed his vision swimming. His head felt light, and he stumbled suddenly to the side. 

Heidrun let out another cackle and began to crawl toward him, her too-long limbs covering the distance in a stride and a half. She hooked a talon under his belt and curled it toward her, dragging him a little closer and steadying him upright. 

Luchar felt the talon slide between his legs, cold against his hot thighs and sex. He tensed against it involuntarily. 

“Don’t worry. It was only a little bite. Not enough to dull your senses completely. And if you stay still and don’t fight, we both might get a little enjoyment before I end you.” Using the finger still wedged behind his belt, she pulled him even closer. 

Luchar stumbled forward dumbly. He blushed despite himself as he felt the hard talon press between his legs as he stumbled. He would have toppled if it hadn’t been for the woman’s hooked claw holding up his trousers. 

Heidrun was close now, her mouth hovering next to his ear, and her cold form hung inches from his own. As he slowed his breathing, Luchar noted that the woman's scent had changed. The chamomile had faded, and the pine had become more intense, mixed, now, with something more acrid, lemon balm and sour perspiration.

Luchar closed his eyes for the briefest moment. The panic was gone now, but his thoughts were slow and dull. The woman was right. He still had his senses. He took in a long, deep breath. He searched himself for what he needed. 

“That’s right,” Heidrun cooed. “Just relax into it. Why struggle? I promise to be gentle. Well, for a time, at least.” She lifted her digit, pressing it up between his legs. 

He imagined himself in her position for a moment. If he had a slim, girlish waif of a boy at his mercy, he certainly wouldn’t dull his victim's senses or be gentle. His pulse quickened as he imagined the bruises he would leave. A wave of hot blood returned to his cheeks, and a warm hum ran along his skin. His body felt more his own. His left arm was fully numb and limp now, but he could still move the other. He slipped his right hand into one of the pouches of his bandolier and curled his fingers around a knuckle bone hidden there. 

Heidrun sighed heavily into Luchar’s ear, filling his nose with an acrid wave. With a swift downward motion, Heidrun cut through Luchar’s belt and trouser. With surprising care, she took the edge of one trouser leg and peeled it down. Luchar shuddered as cold air hit his leg. “There. What a good soft little thing you can be. That’s right.” She ran her talons along his exposed thigh. 

His pulse was quickening. He bit his lip hard, reveling in the anticipation. 

Luchar half-opened his eyes and met the woman’s inky gaze again. “You should not have been so gentle with me.” His pulse was singing again. He could feel the bone dissolving in his right hand. A familiar energy flowed into his fingertips, like molten-hot wax trickling through his fingers and then into his arm. His dulled senses came alive at the pain.  

Heidrun threw back her head and laughed. “Soft little boy, I do not fear you!” 

“You should,” he stated firmly, the half-smile returning to his face. 

For a brief moment, Heidrun turned her head quizzically and her eyes scanned down to Luchar’s right hand and his bandolier. 

A wave of euphoria followed through Luchar knowing that she had realized a moment too late. 

Lucar turned his hand outward toward Heidrun. The energy in his arm began to crackle and spark in jagged, unpredictable spikes of white-hot pain. It snapped along his fingers and deep into his bones. He would have screamed, but all of his focus was on the woman. He pressed his hand forward, felt the knuckle bone fully dissolve in his palm, and willed the energy back out of his body. It erupted into writhing tendrils of blinding white and blue light; the woman was flung backward. 

She collided with the statue of Elatha behind her, and with a loud crack the stone figure shuddered and fractured. Another moment and the upper half slid backward and crashed heavily into the foliage behind. Already Luchar was walking toward her, a mass of glowing tendrils still writhing from his right arm. They whipped frenetically as he stalked closer to her. His entire body was vibrating in anticipation now. 

“Too late.” His voice was a high sing-song. 

The woman looked up at him just in time to see the mass of white cords fly at her throat.

Luchar’s half-smile bloomed into a hungry grin. He watched the tendrils coil around the woman’s throat and force her to the ground. 

She screamed and spasmed in pain. Her too-long limbs thrashed–at him–at the ground–for a moment they clawed at the tendrils around her neck, but, as soon as her hands touched the white energy, there was a loud, crackling pop. She screamed again and flung her hands down to her sides. 

Luchar could still feel the white-hot pain in his right limb. It pulsed in waves as it flowed down his arm and into the tendrils still flowing from his hand to her throat. Each wave caused the woman’s entire body to flex and spasm. 

He squeezed his right hand and watched the tendril at Heidrun’s neck tighten. The blush on his cheek deepened as he heard her let out another sharp scream that quickly faded to a long whine. Luchar eased the flow from his arm. Allowing the pain to build in his forearm. Her form relaxed gradually. 

“Now, as I was saying, tell me of this robbery, and spare no detail.” The pain continued to mount in his arm. He hoped she would refuse.