Bloody Tear of the Vampire

That’s what the townsfolk refer to the bird as. It has a name; Driun told me it once. But I promptly forgot it. The name was as uncomfortable as the bird’s gaze. A fitting name that sounds like shrill cries and sharp nails on stone.

The old stories say that not one master hunter, dating as far back as the fortress itself, thousands of years, has been without a raven. When one master hunter dies, the raven takes to the skies. Then, when it is time for a new master hunter to be masked, a raven returns to perch on their shoulder. Some claim it has been the same raven for every master hunter since the first stones of the forge were laid. Driun says the raven is so revered in the fortress that it is usually the one to choose the next master hunter from worthy candidates. Others in the hamlet go so far as to think that the creature is an ancient god in the shape of a beast, defending Hunter’s Hamlet against the vampire scourge.

If that is true, the old god does a poor job of it. Because even though the vampire lord himself can’t come through the Fade, he still sends monsters every full moon to attack, to remind us that he is there, waiting. And the rumored divine could clearly do nothing to prevent the impending Blood Moon.

“Hail, Hunter’s Hamlet,” Davros says in that weary way of his.

“Guide and guard us,” the room intones in response.

“Tonight’s revelries seem to have been a delight.” Davros smiles. I think the expression is intended to be fatherly, but to me it always looks wicked. There’s a gleam to his eyes that deeply unnerves me. Driun has never found my unease surprising.

Davros is baptized in the blood of our enemies, he says. The man has seen more vampires, more of his kin live and die, than any of us.

And none of us are strangers to bloodshed in Hunter’s Hamlet. Death keeps a summer home in this forsaken place.

“But the night is growing thin,” Davros continues. “And I must recall my hunters to me.”

Men and women slowly step away from the crowd, as if in a trance. They are the hunters and have the scars, both visible and not, as a testament to their bloody work. I want to grab Driun’s hand. To ask if he’s sure he’ll be able to come later. I can’t stomach the thought of him marching out tomorrow evening without a chance to speak to him alone just one more time. Even though I don’t know what I want to say yet.

What do you say to someone before they march off to certain death? What could I tell him that he doesn’t already know? What words would be enough to encapsulate everything? He was always the clever one with finesse. I’m useless if I can’t hit my problem with a hammer.

But I let him go.

I have no other choice.

He has his role and I have mine. They were given to us before we were born, determined solely by our family name and sex. No matter how much we might hope, or dream, or begrudge, neither of us can escape the path laid before us.

“Is there anything more you need from the forge?” Mother asks Davros.

“No, you have already done more than enough to protect Hunter’s Hamlet. Without your weaponry, wall fortifications, and assistance with our leather armor, the hunters would be going out underneath the Blood Moon in a sad state,” Davros says as the hunters gather round.

“It is our family’s honor to see the hunters and the hamlet prepared for every hunt, this one especially.” Mother lets her eyes drift to Driun with a sad smile; it’s an expression I’ve seen her give him often, one of both pride and worry, fear and joy. Even though we knew becoming a hunter was his destiny, as much as mine is the forge, neither of us looked forward to him embarking on that path. It is not a life with longevity. But we knew why he had to leave the house and join the fortress. We understood.

That is the way of things in the Runeit family: the eldest daughter is the forge maiden and the eldest son heads to the fortress. Every family has their traditions and their role to play in Hunter’s Hamlet. There is security when we are all in our place. It is the promise and sacrifice we’ve all made. So after Father died it was merely a matter of time until Driun assumed his position in society.

From that moment on, Mother and I have been waiting each month for Davros to arrive and tell us that the vampires have claimed another member of our family. But, miraculously, month after month, Driun has returned. Maybe this month, even with the Blood Moon, will be no different. It’s a fool’s hope and I know it. But all hope is foolish in Hunter’s Hamlet.

“Speaking of your family’s honor…” Davros’s eyes drift to me as he trails off. His eyes shine and the taste of bile rises in the back of my throat. “Following tomorrow night’s hunt, there will be even more cause for celebration. It is time to cement our forge maiden’s future, so that the smithy continues to run hot for generations to come.”

“I will do as the master hunter bids.” I dip my chin and keep my face as blank as the masks the hunters wear when they go out to the Fade Marshes.

“May the bell toll for a wedding in the coming week.” Davros taps his walking stick for emphasis. Driun is fighting a scowl. I think he hates this topic even more than I do.

I can imagine what he’ll say later. How dare Davros speak about you like you’re not there, in front of everyone. How dare he speak of marrying you off like you’re some prized mare. But my fate is no secret. The forge maiden is always married before twenty. That’s just the way of it, the tradition, the necessity since any of our lives might end come the next full moon. I’ll likely be with child before the end of the year and the idea has me cold, even standing next to the forge.

There’s excited murmuring among the eligible male hunters. They leer at me. I grab one of the hammers by the forge on instinct, keeping it at my side.

I might be the forge maiden, but I am no delicate flower. I am as cold as silver. As strong as iron. I will bend for destiny, but not for any man.