Blood and Snow

The horse was already knee-deep in the snow. Surrounding it and it’s rider was an endless white of flurrying winter, forcing itself on the land and locking it in bitter cold. The rider took a tired glove to his helmet and dismounted. His heavy armour clattered against the small harness and his iron boots sunk quickly into the drift.
He wadded around to the front of his mount and calmed the frightened horse with ‘shushing’ noises. After a few stressful moments of hasty prompting , the Shetland  flopped onto it’s side and allowed the rider to cover it with the many layers of cloth it had been carrying.

He breathed heavily as he scanned the landscape for anything moving. The rider was jittery with his movements, partly because of the frost but mostly of fear. It was like he was in enemy territory - with the hatred and dislike spilling around him. They were hunting him, stalking him, waiting for their moment.

When Lord Straldoph had told him of his task, a new fear was born.
Or was it  an old fear reawakened?.
He had long forgotten about them.

Myths

It was fear of something that seemed not to exist.
A  character in a story told to stop the young from wandering.

Now he lay awake at night, in dread of the thing he had dismissed as legend.

He scuffled around the saddle bags anxiously searching. He finally managed to extricate the item. He quickly set about the construction of a basic tent with wooden poles. He worked quickly and with baited breath, he felt like something was watching him - but he always felt like that. A hairy dome was erected in the middle of the white plain and he quickly fed the horse it’s oats -  all the while casting fugitive looks about him.

Fear of the unknown, Fear of change, Fear of competition, Fear of the supernatural.

He was not a very tall man. His beard and hair were rusty brown and coarse. Covered with furs from head to toe and still shivering violently. He was armed only with a light-horseman's helmet and a sword. The hilt of the sword boldly displayed Lord Straldoph's bright insignia.

He scrambled into his tent and latched up the flap securely, he did not want visitors. He tried to drift into an uneasy sleep.

ç                    ç                    ç

A  shriek echoed though out the plain. The page sat bolt-upright and rounded upon his sword with haste. He seemed to work on instruction but his mind was frozen with fear. What he had been dreading had come to pass. ‘May the Lord see fit to save me’ he whispered to himself in his frailing.

The greyish blur lifted it’s head again and called into the night. It was an un-earthy sound, like a woman and a falcon cry mixed. With inhuman speed it turned and started bounding towards the scent of Blood.

The hunter and the prey.

It clenched a bone dagger in each hand and it had the intelligence to use them. It’s black hair flew loose behind it and unkempt nails had grown into rotten talons.  It’s clothes were in rags, but it paid not heed to the cold. It’s putrid mouth was flung open revealing dagger-sharp teeth.

The page scrambled out of the tent and tried desperately to wake the Shetland. He was holding the sword with white knuckles and sweat was racing down his forehead and freezing in streaks on his face. He could see the shambling figure in the distance, it’s strong but loping grait was loud enough to hear. He turned around to face his death and put his sword in the ready position.

Out of the snow a man rose. The page started and turned his attention. This newcomer was only a few yards away. It unnerved the messenger that this man could get so close without being heard, by him or the Shetland. The stranger gave him a quick look and then focused his attention on the horror drawing ever closer.

The creature sensed more Blood, closer than the first and turned toward this new prey.

It felt itself being struck abruptly on the shoulder and being toppled into a snow drift.

The Pict fitted another bolt into the crossbow and started advancing on the creature. Slowly at step at a time. He looked strange , even for a Pict. He wore a white fir vest with a bandoleer strapped over the top , filled with vials. On his back he carried a round iron shield with a crest of flames upon it. He wore a skirt of white mail with warm leggings underneath as well as steel capped walking boots. On his belt he carried a sword with wickedly curved handles and a collection of silver tipped stakes.

The page took all this in and collapsed as his body succumbed to the cold and tiredness, as well as the shock generated by the two appearances.

With a howl the vampire flung it’s self from the drift and reverted to all four limbs for extra speed. It bared down the attacker with the fresh bolt wound still leaking onto the ground.

With practised movements the Pict slotted his loaded crossbow into his belt and drew the sword. With that done he took his fighting stance and awaited his enemy.

The vampire viciously leapt at the Pict, sweeping the daggers in piercing movements. The Pict parried the blow and pirouetted to the right and the vampire fell on what now was empty air. The vampire bounded back to it’s feet and flung itself at the Pict, who locked his feet and fended of the blows with ease.

The creature changed it’s tactics. It had thought at first it could take this Blood with mere force, now it seemed the Blood had skills with Blood weaponry.

The vampire struck on both sides at once. The Celt swivelled on one foot and battered away both blades. The vampire sprung clean over the man taking deadly chops at his head. The Pict shifted slightly and hammered the beast with a boot before it hit the ground.

For the third time the vampire’s superhuman strength did not prevent it from being toppled. The Pict flicked his crossbow from his belt and gave the creature a bolt in the leg.

The Pict launched himself forward sword drawn to finish the fight. The vampire locked it’s blades and tried to block the sword. The Pict stepped back and then re-engaged with the sword in one hand, a stake in the other.

Within a few moments of feeble struggling the vampire slumped.

ç                    ç                    ç

The beast lay still. The Pict did not go over to the page, but knelt down and filled his vials with the vampire’s blood.

The page had recovered drowsily and was watching from where he fell. Even from the last seconds of the battle he had determined that he was watching a battle of masters.

The Pict stood up and drew two poles from behind his shield. With a deafening crack he smashed them together, showering the corpse with cinders. The dead flesh kindled and the pyre smoke began to rise.

Only then did the Pict decide to help the page. He stalked over and hoisted the man from the ground with one hand. With a low whistle he bought the Shetland to it’s senses and made it stand. The page was left preciously seated on his mount as the large man picked through his belongings and packed the saddle bags.

Soon the camp was no-more and the Pict began to lead the Shetland away.

“What’s going on? Who are you?! Where are you taking me?!” requested the petrified voice of the page.

“My name is MacAoidh, i’m taking you where you be safe - you southern blood is a delicacy to those who want it” said the man slowly. The page got the impression he had not spoken English very often.

They travelled on through the rest of the night.  It was a cold night and MacAoidh had to keep covering him with cloths. MacAoidh just continued ,never breaking his stride nor faltering in his step.

ç                    ç                    ç

It was only after falling asleep and reawakening that the page finally thought of his own agenda. “What did you say your name was again?” he asked hesitantly.

“MacAoidh” grunted the hulking figure with annoyance.

“The vampire slayer?”

MacAoidh halted, but kept looking ahead. There was a pause, broken only by the insufferable wind.

With out warning MacAoidh swung and knocked him from the saddle. His massive fist grabbed him by a scruff of mail. With a dashing movement he bought his blade to the man’s throat. The page was terrified and near senseless because of the fall. MacAoidh’s silver blade was only a centimetre from his neck.

“Who are you?” growled MacAoidh “Spy!”. MacAoidh breath frosted out onto the page’s face. “You’re southerner, how you know of me?!” he barked, impressing his considerable weight on the man beneath him.

The page spluttered to life: “I... i’m Widsib!.. messenger..uh.. page for...”. A large hand wrapped around Widsib’s throat.

“Why are you here?” asked MacAoidh gruffly.
“I’m...I was in search of ..Mac.. you!” Widsib finished still struggling.

“Why were you in search of me?!”. At that point the page fainted in his arms. 'Southerners scare too easily' MacAoidh thought vindictivly.

MacAoidh didn’t dare leave him to the vampires, he packed him back on his horse and started to travel.

The wind had calmed down, but the conversation had swirled up MacAoidh’s mind like a blizzard. Why was he here? How did he know me? What could a lord want with a vampire slaying Pict? The Southerners don’t believe they exist!