Another chapter of the growing tale. More characters, more blood, and leading ever closer to all out war. Do enjoy.
Picture from Victoria Francis

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Chapter 7: Scarlet Snow, Crimson Sand

The room Gwenhwyfar stepped into was fairly small, but lavishly furnished. Kicked off her boots near the door, her feet padded across thick, plush carpets the colour of a rich wine. She pulled off her cloak and tossed it onto the large bed covered in dark goose down blankets and pillows. She moved to her bags, carefully set in the far corner of the room beside a sturdy chest of ash wood.

She began to pull out blackened pieces of plate armour, setting them aside for later, before finally finding what she wanted. An old set of leather armour she taken care of over the long years since she'd worn it when she was a scout in her father's army, fighting against the Saxons. It was light, and didn't cover much skin, but it allowed her freedom of movement.

Peeling off her travelling clothes, tossing them without a care towards the bed, she began to pull on the tight leather, sliding up over her thighs, when the door softly opened. Gwenhwyfar turned her head to notice a pretty young woman in a simple wool dress with a gray scarf wrapped around her neck walk cautiously into the room. She kept her eyes towards the floor, nervous, though Gwenhwyfar wondered if it was because she was a vampire, or because she was half naked.

She began to speak in Norwegian, but Gwenhwyfar had never learned the language and said simply: "I don't understand."

"I am sorry my lady. I should have awaited your summons to enter," she said in French then, apparently not understanding Gwenhwyfar's English.

"Who sent you up here?" the former queen asked.

"Elder Asgier my lady. He wishes to welcome you back to the clan home, and offers me for your needs," the woman said softly, removing the scarf from her neck and opening a few buttons that ran down the front of her dress.

Gwenhwyfar licked her lips at the show of cleavage, but also the gentle slope of the woman's slender neck, covered in faint pink scars from previous feedings. Reaching out, the vampire gently ran her fingers over the woman's cheek, a gasp at the cool touch escaped her lips. Gwenhwyfar smiled, standing so very close to the woman, whose breath washed over the bared skin of her chest. Leaning in the vampire could smell the salt on her skin, the blood coursing through her veins. The woman's heart pounded in her breast, a moan spilling forth as she felt Gwenhwyfar's fangs brush against her flesh.

Without warning, Gwenhwyfar pulled away, moving back to her belongings. The woman stood where she was for a moment, before sitting herself on the bed, her face flushed. Looking about the room in confusion for a moment, her eyes finally settled on the noble woman kneeling half naked in the corner, pulling a glass decanter from a bag.

Inside was a thick blue paste, and despite the swift rejection, the woman stared in curiosity as Gwenhwyfar opened the bottled and poured some across her open palm. Slowly, she began to draw swirls and designs across her pale skin. The woman didn't recognize any of the elegant blue markings, but she didn't ask, afraid to interrupt the ritual.

When she finished, Gwenhwyfar replaced the top on the decanter, and smeared the remaining woad dye across her breasts. She stood and held out her arms, now almost barbaric with the blue swirls running up her flesh. Feeling it dry, as the woman watched, Gwenhwyfar didn't move an inch.

After a few minutes the woman started to get up, thinking that the noble would stay like that the rest of the night. Her sudden movement to pull on her surprisingly revealing leather cuirass actually startled the woman, who stood stock still, watching the vampire slip a quiver full of arrows over her shoulder and pick up a bow.

"The Welsh make some of the best bows in the world. Certainly the best longbows," Gwenhwyfar said, running her fingertips over the smooth wood before tying a string to either tip of the weapon, and pulling it back slightly to test it. A toothy grin spread across her face, and the servant licked her dry lips.

Wrapping a belt around her waist, Caledfwlch now sheathed at her hip, Gwenhwyfar finally turned to regard her guest, and moved over to her, dark hair framing her features as she eased the woman down onto the bed, straddling her clad in war gear.

"Wait here for me dear, and I'll give you a night to remember," the noble said, leaning down and slowly running her tongue over the woman's neck.

As suddenly as it had all happened, Gwenhwyfar was leaving the door, leaving the woman laying alone on the bed, staring at the ceiling.

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Through the shadows of the trees and over the white powdery snow, the two moved like wolves in the night. The true beasts ran along with them, sensing a meal to come as the famine of winter closed in tighter with each passing day.

Their feet made no sound as they ran, their weapons sheathed, hiding the glimmer of steel from the bright face of the moon.

Without warning, Gwenhwyfar stopped, holding up a tight fist holding her longbow against the ground. Jurgen kneeled beside her, following her gaze through the trees to the vibrant glow of a fire, pushing back the darkness of the night. Voices drifted on the wind, as shadows flickered across the forest.

The two vampires exchanged a quick glance, but said not a word as they moved closer, each with an arrow laid against their bows. Carefully they approached the camp, centuries of experience making them as phantoms.

Around the fire sat five men wearing light leather armour adorned with heavy fur to stave off the bitter cold. Only one had a sword, sheathed at his hip and sticking into the snow, their spears leaned against the logs they sat on and their shields rested against their bodies painted with a red rose. Two more men were already resting in crude deer skin tents, opened towards the fire, their gear nestled by their heads.

Their apparent leader with the sword raised his eyes from the fire and stared into the forest towards Gwenhwyfar and Jurgen, and lifted his lip in a snarl. Even at this distance, Gwenhwyfar could see the fangs set in his jaws, and stuck her arrow in the snow, careful not to make a sound as she drew a specially crafted silver arrow from a sheath in her boot. There was a slight groove carved into the arrowhead, with nestled carefully in it, secured with thin cord, was a small vial of pure garlic.

Raising her bow as the Rose Clan vampire began to stand, Jurgen drew his own bow back. The two kneeled in shadows, unseen, the strings of their bows brushing their ears. The scouts in the camp were starting to get restless, nervousness plain on their features as they saw the unease in their leader.

Gwenhwyfar released the arrow, shortly before Jurgen. The first arrow struck the vampire in the chest, slicing through leather and flesh before piercing his heart. He let out an unholy scream of pain as the garlic vial was crushed by his own body, coursing through his blood. The second arrow hit one of the scouts through the neck severing the arteries within and poking through the flesh.

"God protect us," one of them yelled as the survivors scrambled for their gear while the vampire tore the arrow from his chest, gasping in agony as blood spurted from the wound. He soon joined his human follower face down in the snow, no longer holding the gift of undeath.

Two more arrows cut through the night, striking down another two men who grasped at the arrows sticking from their flesh, blood weeping around the wooden shafts. The final woken man stood by the fire with shield and spear in hand, whirling around trying to find the source of the arrows, while the two sleeping men stirred in their cots disturbed by the short screams.

The final standing man was cut down as an arrow cut into his chest, and another through his eye. Without a sound he slumped to the scarlet stained snow, and was still.

The two sleeping scouts emerged from their tents, grasping short swords as they looked at the bloodbath before them. Fear filled their eyes, and they startled at the sound of wolves howling in the forest, coming from all about them. Dark eyes watched them from between the trees, as mist poured from beastly maws. One of the creatures emerged from the wood line, moving with the grace of a predator, watching the two survivors as it approached the corpses of their friends.

He heard his friend let out a muffled scream, and turning saw a blonde man grasping him, biting deep into his neck, trails of blood running over the exposed skin and under his armour.

"God have mercy," one muttered, before he felt cold hands grasp him, and soft lips brush against his ear.

"You'll find out soon enough," Gwenhwyfar whispered, before her fangs sank deep into his flesh, and his blood filled her mouth.

The predators feasted well beneath the light of the moon.

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Beneath the dark sky filled with millions of shimmering stars, the sand almost looked white, like bones ground into a fine dust. Alan could believe though, that the sand was indeed the skeletons of the warriors who had fought and died in these cursed lands. He had difficulty seeing what was so holy about this place, it seemed God had forsaken it. Those thoughts never left his lips, he had no wish to be condemned by the mortals who claimed to speak for the heavenly father.

A rider trotted up next to Garret and Alan, wearing the light leather of a scout, but Alan recognized him as Curtis, the scout commander. Without his helmet Alan could see the beard growing across his jaw. Guiding his mount in close to the two knights Curtis leaned in to Garret, though Alan was able to hear every word.

"Rearward scouts spotted some Saracens behind us. Not many, about ten or so, not bothering to hide themselves. One was carrying a white banner. I think they want to talk," he informed them.

The light of the desert moon was bright enough that Alan could see Garret's frown clearly. He lifted the visor of his helmet and scratched at his chin out of habit. Pale eyes turned towards Alan, and he gestured with his head, not taking his gauntleted hands from the reins.

"Alan, take some men and go check it out. We'll continue towards the rendezvous with Du Lac," he said.

Alan nodded, and turned his horse around, pointing out a few men-at-arms on horseback who pulled out from the column to join him. As the rest of the soldiers continued their march, Alan quickly explained the situation as Curtis moved to join them, looking back towards where his scouts awaited.

With hooves kicking up small clouds of dust, Alan, Curtis and the six soldiers rode back. It wasn't long before the rest of the soldiers were fading into the distance, and Alan noted a scout standing on the dune running beside them to make himself visible to his fellow Christians.

Not far ahead, a small group of men silhouetted against the sky. The shape of their helmets gave them away instantly as Saracens. One stood before the others, hand resting on the hilt of his sword, another beside him holding a white banner above their heads, clearly seen.

"I don't like this," Curtis said, spitting into the sand.

"No, but let's see what they have to say. Your scouts have weapons trained on them?" Alan asked, glancing over to the scout commanded.

"They have crossbows, and if they've not had their throats slit on the other side of these dunes, then yes, they'll have weapons trained on these men," Curtis replied.

"Then lets hope this isn't a trap," Alan said, digging his heels into his horse's flanks and starting forward.

As he got close enough to start seeing the faces of his enemy, Alan noted that they all carried spears, but none had a shield. This meeting was not an ambush, they really did want to talk. With a frown, Alan dismounted his horse, and stepped towards the man standing in front.

"So what would a heathen like you, want with an infidel like me?" Alan said, holding back a smirk at the discomfort he saw in the others at his blunt words. He was surprised they could all understand him. Still, the man before him merely smiled in response.

"Survival. It is plain as that. I am called Abdul-Salaam," the man said, nodding his head ever so slightly.

"Sir Alan Winterfeld... what is this about survival?"

"I am sure you are aware Sir Winterfeld, that a certain lord within your ranks is not entirely as he seems. I'm sure you know the name Du Lac," Abdul-Salaam said quietly, and the words sent a chill through Alan's blood.

"What do you know?" Alan demanded.

"He is an unholy monstrosity, sent here by neither your God, nor mine. Even now he plans on destroying your column of soldiers. There was no caravan, it's a trap to gain him more followers from the corpses of the slain."

Alan looked back at the mounted soldiers, and waved Curtis forward. The scout uneasily moved closer to the Saracens, and kept his gaze on Alan.

"Go back to the column, warn Sir Garret that it's a trick. We've been betrayed."

"My lord... can we trust them?" Curtis asked, flicking his gaze towards Salaam.

Alan shook his head gently, then shrugged. He looked back at Salaam and pointed at him with a chainmail clad finger.

"Should I find you were lying to us, I will hunt you down," Alan promised.

"No need my friend. He will find us first, if you have any desire to save your comrades, ride now," the Saracen bid, and Curtis let out a long breath before turning and galloping back towards the column.

"We must unite my friend, against a common foe that would drain all holiness from this land," Salaam said, and Alan was reminded of his own musings earlier in the night.

Even as the screams reached his ears from across the desert.

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