Anemoi 4 – Anemoi 6, Imperial Year 1645
The Northern Hills – The Coven's Hideout
The parchment from the Hunters' Hall gave few details: a coven of witches in the northern hills, twelve members, all women, all armed. They had been raiding caravans and burning farms. Two hunter teams had gone after them. Neither returned.
Vlad read the report by firelight, then burned it.
He walked north.
The Hunters' Hall – Briefing
Before leaving, he had stopped at the Hall to ask the clerk for more information.
"Twelve witches," she said. "They don't use magic like the others. They use swords."
"Swords?"
"They were temple guards once. A cult converted them. They know how to fight."
"How well?"
"Well enough to kill two teams of hunters." She paused. "You don't have to go alone."
"Yes, I do."
She shrugged. "Your funeral."
Vlad adjusted his hat and left.
The hunters at the tables watched him go. The thin man with the scar spoke.
"Twelve to one. Even for him, that's a lot."
"He'll die," said the woman with the missing ear.
"Maybe. But he'll take a few with him."
The Northern Hills – Day One
Vlad climbed. The road became a path, then a goat trail, then nothing. He followed signs of passage – broken branches, boot prints, the smell of smoke. The coven's hideout was an old watchtower, its walls crumbling, its courtyard overgrown.
He arrived at dusk. A fire burned in the tower's base. Shadows moved inside.
He did not rush. He studied the terrain – the slope, the rocks, the tower's single entrance. He counted footsteps, estimated distances, noted escape routes.
Then he walked to the door.
The Courtyard – The Challenge
The door was open. Inside, the coven waited.
Twelve women in dark grey robes, each holding a sword. Not ceremonial blades – real swords, worn, sharp, nicked from use. Their eyes glowed faintly green, but their stances were human. Military. Temple‑trained.
Their leader stepped forward. She was tall, grey‑haired, with a scar across her cheek. She looked Vlad up and down and laughed.
"What is this? A lost noble? A theatre actor?"
Another witch snickered. "Look at the coat. All that silver. He thinks he's a prince."
"And the hat. Who wears a hat like that to a fight?"
"Someone who wants to be seen," the leader said. "Someone who wants to be remembered."
She pointed her sword at Vlad.
"You'll be forgotten soon enough."
Vlad said nothing. He drew his sword. The blade caught the firelight, the wolf‑head pommel gleaming.
The witches circled him, still mocking.
"Pretty sword. Does it cut, or just decorate?"
"He's too clean. Probably never been in a real fight."
"Let's show him what a real fight is."
The leader raised her blade. "Enough talk. Kill him."
The dance began.
The Dance – First Exchange
The leader attacked first – a simple overhand cut, telegraphed, slow. She was testing him.
Vlad stepped into her measure, not away. He parried with a Kron – the crown guard, blade horizontal above his head, catching her strike and binding it. The steel sang. He held her blade for a heartbeat, then wound into a Durchwechseln – a thrust under her guard, point at her throat.
She leaped back, barely escaping. Her eyes widened.
"He's fast."
"Shut up and fight!" another witch yelled.
Two witches flanked him – one left, one right. They struck together, a coordinated beat.
Vlad answered with a Zwerchhau – a thwart cut, horizontal, striking the left witch's blade aside, then flowing into a Mordhau – murder strike, turning the sword to strike with the crossguard. The pommel cracked the right witch's temple. She fell without a sound.
One down. Eleven to go.
"He killed Selene!" a witch cried.
"Then kill him back!"
The Dance – Second Exchange
The coven adjusted. They circled him, forcing him to turn, to track. Their leader called out commands.
"Steady. Wait for the opening."
Vlad did not wait. He attacked.
He chose the youngest witch – her stance too wide, her weight on her back foot. A Zornhau – wrath cut, diagonal from his right shoulder to her left hip. She parried, but her weight was wrong; she stumbled. He followed with a Krumphau – crooked cut, blade curving around her guard, striking her shoulder. She dropped her sword, screamed, fell.
Two down.
"He's reading us," one hissed.
"Then stop being readable," their leader snapped.
Three witches attacked simultaneously – high, low, middle.
Vlad performed a Wechsel – a change, lowering his blade to catch the low strike, then winding into a Zwerchhau to deflect the high, then a Scheitelhau – parting cut – to split the middle. Three strikes, three counters, one breath.
The witches recoiled.
"How is he doing that?"
"He's not human."
"Focus!"
The Dance – Third Exchange
The leader came at him again, faster now. She had learned – her cuts were tighter, her footwork sharper. She drove him back, step by step.
Vlad let her. He retreated in a straight line, his sword tracing small circles – a Winden technique, winding, keeping her blade bound. She thought she was winning.
She was not.
At the edge of the firelight, he stopped retreating. He changed the tempo – from slow to fast, from defense to offense. A Zornhau to her head. She parried. He followed with a Krumphau to her legs. She leaped. He thrust – a simple Durchwechseln – under her guard, point at her belly.
She twisted away, but his tip drew blood. A shallow cut, but a cut.
"You're leading," she said, breathing hard.
"I always lead."
"Who are you?"
"Your end."
The Dance – Fourth Exchange
The remaining witches attacked together. Eight of them, now, surrounding him. No room to retreat. No room to dodge.
Vlad changed his grip – Mordhau again, holding the blade, using the crossguard and pommel as a hammer. A brutal, close‑quarters technique.
He stepped into the first witch, smashing her sword arm with the pommel. She dropped her blade. He kicked her knee – she folded.
He spun, striking a second witch's temple with the crossguard. She fell.
A third lunged at his back. He heard her footstep, pivoted, and drove the pommel into her stomach. She collapsed, gasping.
Three more down. Five remained.
The leader screamed in frustration. "Hold formation!"
They tried. But Vlad was inside their formation now, too close for their swords to swing. He flowed through them like water – a Nachreissen here, a Absetzen there – each movement a counter, each counter a strike.
The fifth witch fell. The sixth. The seventh.
The leader stood alone.
The Final Exchange
She faced him across the courtyard, blood on her robes, her sword shaking.
"You're not human."
"No."
"What are you?"
"The last thing you'll see."
She charged. A wild, desperate cut – no technique, no tempo, just fury.
Vlad stepped inside her swing. He caught her blade with his crossguard, twisted, and disarmed her. Her sword clattered on the stones.
He held his point at her throat.
"You killed two hunter teams. You burned farms. You took innocent lives."
She spat at him. "You'll die someday. Someone will put you in the ground."
"Perhaps."
He thrust. Quick. Clean. Through the throat, angled up through the brainstem. She fell without a sound.
Vlad withdrew his sword, wiped it on her robe, and sheathed it.
He counted the bodies. Twelve.
He walked out of the tower, into the night.
The Hunters' Hall – Afternoon
Vlad returned to Luminara three days later. The Hall was busy. Hunters looked up as he entered.
He was covered in dust, not blood. His coat was unmarked. His sword was clean.
The clerk looked up. "You're alive."
"The coven is dead."
"All twelve?"
"Yes."
The room went quiet.
The thin man with the scar spoke. "Twelve to one. And you walked away."
"They were amateurs. Dangerous, but amateurs."
"What does that make you?"
Vlad turned to him. "Professional."
The hunters murmured. The clerk made a note in her ledger.
"There's another bounty. A witch in the western woods. She's been cursing livestock."
"I'll take it."
"You don't want to rest?"
"Witches don't rest."
She handed him a new parchment.
Vlad left. The door closed behind him.
The hunters sat in silence.
"Alucard," someone said. "He's not human."
"We knew that."
"No. I mean he's really not human."
The thin man nodded slowly. "Doesn't matter. He hunts witches. That's enough."
End of Chapter Ninety‑Eight