by James Lowder
“It takes more than a dabbler to raise zombies that repeat a name and fight on after their limbs have been severed!” the death knight shouted. “I am not some naive farmhand for you to bilk with vague predictions, old woman. Tell me everything you know about Strahd!”
Overcome with fear, Madame Girani got up slowly from her chair. “The villagers call him ‘the devil Strahd,’ and he has earned that title.” Soth stood as well and took a menacing step toward her. “When Vistani pass through Barovia, they are under Strahd’s protection, so the villagers do not dare harm us,” she concluded, edging backward.
Soth’s evil laughter filled the wagon, setting the thing in the cage to squealing again. “You said before that little in this land could harm me, gypsy. If you were telling the truth, I have no reason to fear you or Strahd.”
Before the death knight could make another move, the Vistani snatched up a jeweled dagger. The death knight laughed again as she held the weapon before her. “You think to harm me with that?” he asked. He reached for the old woman.
“I told you that we are no strangers to magic, death knight. This is an enchanted blade, one ensorcelled to deal with one such as you.” Madame Girani flicked her wrist, and the dagger bit through the mail on Soth’s fingers. Though the wound was not deep, it burned as if the dagger were coated with a powerful acid. The death knight gasped at the pain, for he had not had such a feeling in many years.
Soth wasn’t foolish enough to draw his sword, for a long-bladed weapon like that would prove a disadvantage against a properly wielded knife in the close confines of the wagon. Instead, he acted swiftly, lifting up the cage and tossing its blanket aside. The thing inside shrieked and clawed at Soth’s hand; its pointed nails ran harmlessly over his armor.
Madame Girani turned for the door, but not before Soth split the cage open as if it had been made of reeds, not metal. The creature launched itself at the old Vistani, its angel’s wings unfurling, its hands and feet clutching the air before it. Futilely the old woman tried to hold the thing at bay, but it landed on her outstretched arm and scrabbled up it toward her face.
Soth reached up and pulled the lantern from its hook. “My regards to your dark powers,” he said before smashing the lantern on the floor.
Flaming oil splattered onto the feathers and cloth and paper strewn at the old woman’s feet, igniting them all. The blaze leaped from one stack of baubles to the next. Still struggling with the thing as it tore at her shoulder, Madame Girani managed to scream out one final curse.
“A pox upon you, Soth of Dargaard Keep! You will never return to Krynn again, though your home will always be in view!”
The thing raked one of its brown-fingered hands over the woman’s face then, leaving bloody ribbons of flesh in its wake. It opened its mouth wide, and its single eye rolled back in its head as its teeth sank into her throat. A sheet of fire obscured Madame Girani from Soth for a moment, then a horrible shriek filled the wagon. The stench of charred flesh was added to the foul smell of scorched animal skins and burning wood. Soth turned and kicked the caravan’s door from its hinges. The rush of night air fanned the flames, and the death knight left the wagon surrounded by a cloud of thick black smoke.
“Fire!” someone shouted. “Everyone awake.”
“Help us here!” came another voice. “I heard Madame Girani scream.”
The tribesmen had left their beds and were now rushing around the campsite, gathering water to put out the blaze. They heard the screams coming from the wagon and saw Lord Soth walk from the inferno. The death knight was untouched by the flames. When ashes landed on his cloak or his helm, they cooled instantly. When a cloud of thick, choking smoke covered him, he passed through it as if it were a gentle spring breeze.
“He’s murdered her,” someone whispered, though no one dared move toward him.
The Vistani stood, clutching buckets of water, faces paralyzed in expressions of terror. This man with the glowing orange eyes had to be a messenger from Strahd. Perhaps he served the shadowy powers of evil that ruled over all, even the count himself. That thought sent most of the Vistani fleeing into the forest.
There were others, younger and not so superstitious, who saw Soth as nothing more or less than a giorgio who had possessed the nerve to attack one of their own. Two of these, boys no more than fifteen winters old, rushed at the armored man. The unwritten code of the Vistani demanded revenge upon the stranger, and these boys took up the charge with all the unthinking enthusiasm of youth.
One wielded a long sword, the other a dagger. Both appeared to be skilled fighters, but the death knight could see that anger and fear had made them reckless. With little effort, he drew his sword and dispatched the two. Their blood ran into the dirt, coloring it red.
The death knight stood with the caravan at his back, his sword resting in his left hand, point down before him. The flames licking hungrily at the wagon cast a wild, dancing shadow of Soth across the bodies at his feet and over the entire clearing. A small explosion rocked the camp as Girani’s jars and vials of exotic spell components fell to the blaze. The caravan’s roof, already burning, shattered into a thousand fragments and blew across the clearing. The few Vistani who had not fled were tossing buckets of water on most of the smaller fires ignited by the fragments, but the wagon nearest the old woman’s soon burned steadily, too.
From the screaming children and panicked adults left in camp only one other person dared to near Soth. Magda, the beautiful dancer, rushed across the clearing toward the conflagration. “Madame Girani!” she cried, tears streaming down her cheeks.
Soth grabbed the young woman as she tried to pass. The unearthly cold from his hand raised blue welts on her thin wrist. “She is dead,” he told her.
Magda stood rigid with fear and pain. She tried to pull away from the death knight, but found his grip like an iron vise. Falling to her knees next to the corpses of her tribesmen, the young woman looked out at the remaining Vistani as they fled into the forest. Her brother, Andari, paused at the clearing’s edge and met her gaze. Unashamed at his cowardice, he turned away and ran, his violin clutched to his chest.
The death knight scanned the clearing. The Vistani had all scattered into the night, and only the crackle of the fires and the quiet sobbing of the young woman at his feet broke the silence. Loosening his grip on her wrist, he said, “Your name is Magda, is it not?”
Without waiting for a reply, Soth continued. “You seem an intelligent woman, Magda, so do not think to lie to me or try to escape.” He released her wrist and sheathed his sword. Rubbing her wrist, Magda did not look up at her captor.
“Madame Girani said your tribe has traveled throughout Barovia, so I think I will make you my guide,” the death knight said at last. “Castle Ravenloft is the first place we will visit. Take me there.”
FIVE
Magda stumbled over a twisted branch hidden by the half-light of dawn and dropped to her knees. After five hours of walking through the tangled forest, she was exhausted. “Please,” she begged, “let me rest. We’ve been walking all night.”
“Get up,” came the reply from behind her. The voice was emotionless.
The young Vistani rubbed her eyes, then struggled to her feet. She looked down at the holes torn into her skirt, the patches of grime splattered onto her white blouse. Her leather shoes were wet from crossing a stream, and deep scratches crisscrossed her legs from passing through thorny bushes. She’d lost all her gold bracelets hours ago. “We can meet up with the Svalich Road near here,” she said hopefully, straightening the small burlap sack tied to her waist. “The going won’t be so hard then.”
Soth did not consider the comment before he replied. “We keep to the forest. The roads in most lands are patrolled, and I do not wish the count to know I am coming.” He extended a hand toward the woman. In another place the same gesture might have been seen as one of support. Magda knew it was a threat: Walk or I will burn you again with the frost of undeath.
Magda did m
ore than walk. She ran.
As fast as her cramped legs could carry her, the young woman raced through the trees. Thin branches whipped her face and arms, and vines seemed to curl purposefully around her ankles. Her breath came in heavy, wheezing gasps after a time, but she did not slow her pace. The road is ahead, she told herself over and over. Reach the road and you might escape him.
Magda dared not glance back, for she was certain the dead man was right behind her, reaching out with his freezing hands. Her pulse thundered in her ears, blocking out the sounds of her own feet stumbling through dead leaves and clinging brambles. Yet no hand closed on her shoulder, no blade pierced her back. Magda dared to hope that she, unencumbered as she was, had escaped her armored captor.
Through a gap in a stand of fir trees, she could see the broad Svalich Road. The rising sun broke through the forest in places, casting long shadows everywhere, and it was through these alternating patches of darkness and light that the young woman now raced. I’m free! she shouted silently. Safe!
Two orange eyes flickered from the pitch-dark shadow of the firs. Magda screamed and slid to a stop. Her muscles taut after the long march and the sudden, frantic run, she tumbled. Ignoring the pain from a wrenched shoulder, she got to her feet and ran again.
She couldn’t tell if she was nearing the road or not. That didn’t matter any longer. Somehow the dead man had gotten ahead of her, between her and the road. Just keep running, she told herself. He can’t keep up with you forever.
Directly in front of the woman. Lord Soth emerged from the shadow of a large, moss-covered boulder. Magda fell to the ground at his feet, wheezing and sobbing. “It is good that we have this out of the way,” the death knight said in a calm voice. “Now that you know escape is impossible, we can continue.”
Sadness in her green eyes, Magda struggled to her feet and resumed the march.
The death knight had stayed in the Vistani camp only long enough for the woman to wrap her frostbitten wrist in strips torn from her skirt and collect a few things from her wagon. He’d not even allowed Magda time to say a simple prayer over the ruin of Madame Girani’s caravan.
For the first few hours, it had all seemed like a terrible nightmare to Magda. She often hoped that she might awaken in her bed, Andari snoring loudly nearby, and find it so. The distant howling of wolves or the grunt of something more sinister and much closer in the dark always brought her back to reality. Then she would turn to see the dead man walking behind her, his orange eyes glowing like will-o’-the-wisps. His heavy boots made no sound as he walked through the undergrowth, and he rarely spoke. Still, by dawn it had become clear to the young woman that Lord Soth did not intend to kill her-at least not until they reached Castle Ravenloft.
The idea of seeking out the home of Count Strahd Von Zarovich frightened Magda almost as much as Soth himself. Rumors of the bloody crimes inflicted upon unwelcome visitors by the devil Strahd circulated freely in the duchy, and Magda herself had seen the ghastly remains of two such hapless victims on display in the village of Barovia. They had been would-be adventurers, thieves who had attempted to sneak into the castle after dark. Hope for quick riches had blinded their common sense, and Strahd had presented them to the other villagers as an example of his justice.
The young Vistani shuddered now at that memory of the bloodless, decapitated corpses dumped in the village square. To dispel the grisly images she tried to focus on the bird song trilling through the forest around her, the bright slants of sunlight breaking through the canopy. It was to no avail. The memory of the dead men pushed to the forefront of her thoughts.
But Madame Girani had said that Soth was under Strahd’s protection, Magda remembered with a start. Perhaps the count wished them to arrive at the castle safely. That thought kept hope alive in the young woman for the next few hours.
The sun was almost directly overhead when three riders charged along Svalich Road, their horses kicking up chunks of packed earth. They led a fourth horse behind them, a man slung over its saddle. The road was far enough away that neither Soth nor Magda could make out any detail of the riders, but similar groups of mounted men, as well as lone farmers with wagons full of supplies, had become a more frequent sight in the last hour.
“We must be nearing the village,” Soth said once the riders had passed. “If we continue at this pace, when will we arrive there?”
Magda looked around. She noted that the road was beginning a steady curve to the southwest; the village and Castle Ravenloft were little more than four miles away. “Midafternoon,” she answered, “but only if we press on at the same rate.”
After considering that for a moment, the death knight ordered Magda to sit. “That is too soon,” he noted. “I wish to reach the castle well after dark. It will be easier to breach its defenses then.”
The stories told by the natives of Barovia made it clear that, day or night, Castle Ravenloft seldom welcomed guests. And the hulking stone fortress had a more sinister defense than walls or thick doors-if the local rumors were to be believed. Still, Lord Soth was more than a sneak-thief intent on pilfering a few of the count’s treasures.
“You may sleep,” the death knight said, though it was more of a command than an offer.
Magda studied the wounds Soth had caused by grabbing her wrist at the camp; the frostbitten welts were still sore, but healing. Her shoulder was feeling better, too. The grueling march had taken a much worse toll on her feet, however. After examining the blisters and scrapes covering her heels and toes, the Vistani took out her silver dirk and shredded part of her sash into bandages. Pausing in that task, she glanced at Soth. He stood a few yards away, his arms folded over his chest. “Aren’t you going to sit?”
“I need no rest,” Soth answered shortly.
“ ‘The living tire easily, but the dead never sleep,’ ” she murmured, reciting part of an old Vistani saying. She wrapped her feet, tied the remainder of her sash around her waist, then leaned back against the tree. “What do you want with the count, dead one?”
“Do not be coy with me, girl,” the death knight rumbled. “I am Lord Soth of Dargaard Keep. If you must address me, use my title.”
Magda had not intended to be disrespectful, but exhaustion had made her forget her fear momentarily. “Forgive me, Lord Soth,” she said, her voice betraying no hint of anxiety.
The silence that followed was full of tension. “You Vistani are a bold lot,” Soth said at last. “You must have great faith in Strahd. Do you think he can protect you from me if I decide to kill you?”
For a horrifying moment Magda wondered if the dead man could read her thoughts. All Vistani-not only those of Madame Girani’s tribe-served as Strahd’s eyes and ears in Barovia, as well as the duchies that bordered it. In return for this service Strahd granted them freedom of movement in and out of his domain. “Why do you think I am a servant of the count?” she asked nervously.
“Your mentor warned me the Vistani were under Strahd’s protection,” Soth replied. He waved his hand, dismissing the matter. “What happened in the camp should prove how tittle that means.”
The young woman met Soth’s gaze directly for the first time. “Strahd has great power, but so do the Vistani-after a fashion. There are many Vistani tribes in Barovia and the duchies nearby, and word of your crimes against my people will spread to them all.”
“Bah!” the death knight snapped. “Your gypsy brethren can do nothing to harm me.”
Magda settled back against the tree and closed her eyes. “There are dark powers greater than you, greater even than Strahd, who listen to the pleas of the Vistani and make our curses come to pass.” She rolled onto her side, her back to her captor. “Even Strahd respects the Vistani, Lord Soth. There is no shame in that.”
Anger was the death knight’s first reaction, but as he considered Magda’s words he realized that they were merely a statement of rote belief by a tired, beleaguered woman. As Soth stood over the Vistani, watching the dark-haired beauty drift off to
sleep, he found himself comparing her to Kitiara. The same fierce desire to survive burned in both women. The highlord had courage the Vistani lacked, though. She would never have submitted to the march the way Magda did. Perhaps the young gypsy was biding her time. Perhaps she possessed greater patience than Kitiara could have hoped to muster…
Thoughts of Magda and Kitiara turned to thoughts of Caradoc. Soth wondered where his traitorous seneschal had hidden himself, where in Barovia he would seek asylum-for the ghost must have known his master would succeed in killing him when next they met.
“There is no one powerful enough to shield you,” the death knight vowed. “And once I am certain you have been destroyed, I will escape this hellish place and resurrect my Kitiara.”
The Svalich Road emptied of travelers well before sundown, and not a single rider traversed it after dark. Soth woke Magda when daylight started to fade. “It is time,” was all he needed to say for the Vistani to hurry to her feet. As she trudged along, Magda ate the last of the food she had managed to gather before leaving the ruined camp. Even though a river crawled within a few hundred yards to the south, Soth did not allow her to get any water to drink with the crusty bread.
The land rose and fell dramatically as they crossed the last few miles to the village of Barovia and Castle Ravenloft, and the road was forced to twist and turn around huge outcroppings of granite. Overhead, a large flock of bats dove haphazardly through the air. The soft flutter of their wings in the cloud-covered sky heralded the coming of night.
“They’re a bad omen,” Magda said, making an arcane sign over her heart.
Soth felt a twinge of… something when the woman performed the superstitious gesture. Perhaps the ritual had once been part of a spell intended to protect the caster from evil, he decided. As Madam Girani had said, the Vistani were no strangers to magic.
At last they reached the top of the final rise. Below them lay a valley, a small village huddled in its embrace. In the lessening sunlight, the place looked grim and uninviting.