by James Lowder
He smiled, then a mad giggle escaped his lips. “Keth and Bast and Fingelin, they all were killed by the watcher, the thing at the end of the dark tunnel. And Voldra…” He made a ritual symbol of blessing over his heart. “The castle took him. Now there’s only me.”
After a moment, Terlarm leaned forward and studied the death knight closely. “You are trapped here, too?” he asked, his eyes filled with tears. “Then I was correct all along! This place is a hell!” The cleric looked to the grimy ceiling and raised his hands. “Gilean, Master of the Balance, forgive me for my sins. At least tell me what crimes I have committed so I may atone for them. Perhaps then you’ll let me through the gate, past the watcher-”
There was an edge in the cleric’s words and a wildness in his eyes. The mention of a gate made Soth suddenly take notice of his rambling. “Gate?” the death knight repeated. “Have you discovered a way back to Krynn?”
Fear filled Terlarm’s eyes. “The Vistani told us of a way back home. They sold us the information for all the gold we had.” The madman frowned. “The gate was there, all right, but the watcher wouldn’t let us by. Only Voldra and I escaped. It killed all the others.”
“Where is it?” Soth growled.
“At the fork of the River Luna,” the cleric said softly, shrinking back from the death knight. “But the watcher-”
Soth laughed. “The watcher means nothing to me!”
“Lord Soth?” a soft voice said from behind the undead warrior. He turned to face Magda. The woman rubbed her bruised throat, and the claw marks on her shoulder from the gargoyle were bleeding again. Her voice hoarse, she added, “I can lead you to the fork in the river. I’ve heard stories about the gate that’s supposed to lie there.”
Soth studied her for a moment. Once free of Castle Ravenloft, Magda had revealed Strahd’s intention to use her as a spy. After what had happened in the keep, the woman was in danger from the count, so she had her reasons for aiding the death knight. She was set against Strahd, or so her battle with the gargoyle seemed to show, but that was not the main reason Soth believed her.
Magda had proven herself far stronger than the death knight would have suspected on the night he destroyed the Vistani camp. She had defied Strahd, defeated one of his minions, and now she had even overcome her fear of Soth. Such strength meant a great deal to the death knight. He had always found weaklings to be untrustworthy-like the treacherous Caradoc-but Magda was far from weak-willed. Still, he had learned enough in Barovia to know trust should never be given fully. “Go on,” he said guardedly.
“The storytellers in a few of the local tribes speak of a gate to other worlds,” she began. “It’s been there for a long time. One of my ancestors-a hero named Kulchek-escaped from Barovia through the same gate. Legend has it that some horrible guardian watches over it now, some… thing. ”
The cleric shook his head. “It had eyes and mouths, and it made us all see visions. Nothing we did could hurt it.” He hugged himself tightly. “First it bit off Keth’s arm. Blood. Oh, gods, blood everywhere…”
As the man rambled on, the death knight turned to Magda. “Does the River Luna run between here and Duke Gundar’s castle?” When she noted that it did, Soth said simply, “Let us start on our way, then.”
Before the death knight had even reached the exit, Magda had stripped Donovich and Arik of their purses. She took the barkeep’s shoes, too. The boots’ worn leather would offer little comfort, but the Vistani knew better than to begin a long trek barefoot. Finally, she retrieved the teardrop-shaped charm from the boyar’s pocket and slipped it into her sack. One never knew when such charms might come in handy.
“Please,” the cleric said, his hands knit together in supplication before Soth, “take me with you. Perhaps you will defeat the watcher.” He got to his knees. “Take me back to Palanthas.”
“Palanthas is gone,” the death knight noted. “I led the armies that sacked it a few days ago.” He turned his back on the cleric and pushed open the door.
The priest whimpered and tugged at the hem of his red robes. “It can’t be gone,” he said. “I won’t believe it. Palanthas has never been invaded. Its beautiful walls have never been breached, its towers…”
The death knight strode unimpeded through the streets of the village. Shutters banged closed and mothers hustled their ragged children inside their homes. Even the trade road into the mountains to the west remained strangely empty as the dead man and the Vistani left the village behind. Only once, a few miles along the Svalich Road, did Magda think she saw something following them, but when she stopped and studied their trail, nothing seemed out of the ordinary.
Soth sat crosslegged at the mouth of a small cave, watching the rain fall in cold, swollen drops. It beat a jarring, staccato rhythm on the ground around the mouth of the cave. The death knight silently cursed the weather. The noise would make it difficult to hear anything creeping from the rocky crevices or scattered copses of trees nearby. It might even prevent him from hearing if the traps he’d set up were sprung during the night.
Turning his orange eyes to the nighttime forest, Soth scanned the inhospitable landscape for any sign of the trio of wolves that had begun to follow them almost immediately after they’d left the village almost two days past. The shaggy beasts had always remained just out of sight, exchanging piercing howls. Something else was tracking the duo as well. Magda had glimpsed it once, outside the village, and the death knight, too, had spotted a hairy, child-sized thing loping through the underbrush on the following day.
“Are they still out there?” Magda asked from deeper inside the cave.
“Yes,” Soth replied. “But the wolves will not attack me, and the other thing… We shall see.”
A pause followed. “Why hasn’t Strahd come after us?”
The death knight did not respond at first, for he truly did not know why the count had failed to chase them. The wolves were clearly his spies; they had led Soth toward the Vistani camp his first night in Barovia. “His reasons do not matter as long as we reach this portal near the river or the one in Duke Gundar’s castle.”
A wolf howled long and low in the distance. Closer to the cave, another answered, and a third yelped its response from an outcropping of rock above the cave entrance. As Soth scanned the trees and blisters of granite for some sign of the beasts, another sound came to his ears: music.
Magda half-sang, half-hummed an ancient Vistani bardic song. The death knight caught snatches of the story-a strangely familiar tale of love gained and lost. It was not the fact the gypsy was singing that caught Soth’s attention; he’d been in enough battles, awaited enough tense confrontations during his time as a Knight of Solamnia, to recognize an attempt to calm jangled nerves.
No, it was the tune itself that tugged at the corners of his subconscious. The song insinuated itself into the death knight’s mind and curled up like a cat before the cold hearth of his memories. At this prompting, images buried by hundreds of years of disregard shrugged off their ashes and flared to life. Soth marveled at the memories, even as he attempted to smother them. The images would not be damped, though, and soon he was lost in the past, remembering…
Music filled Dargaard Keep. Five minstrels in the gallery overlooking the large, circular main hall played a light air on dulcimer, horn, flute, and drum. The spritely notes seemed to leap over the railing, down the twin curving stairs running along the walls, then prance around each reveler in the room. Six men and women, attired in their finest silks and brocades, hose and silver-buckled shoes, twirled by pairs. The music twirled with them, then rose higher and higher toward the room’s massive chandelier and vaulted, rose-colored ceiling.
As the dance went on, booming laughter twined with the music. The laughter came from the thirteen renowned knights clustered around a table at the room’s edge. Their hands cupping goblets that were brimming with sweet wine from the vineyards of Solamnia, the men loudly saluted the wedding couple who hosted the revelry. This done, they retu
rned to telling stories of heroic deeds and fair maidens.
The song reached a crescendo, sweeping the dancers in breathless haste around the room, then ended suddenly. The three couples clapped for the minstrels, but their polite appreciation of the musicians was overwhelmed by a burst of loud boasting.
“There was never a man in Solamnia, nay the entire continent of Ansalon, who could best Sir Mikel in a test of wit!” one of the knights shouted. He gestured with his cup to the smiling man on his right. “Why, in Palanthas that night-”
Anger swelled in the breast of one of the dancers. Before the knight could elaborate on his boast, this dancer, Lord Soth, took a single step away from his partner. “My loyal retainers,” Soth proclaimed, his voice silencing the boasts and laughter. “You do a disservice to minstrels who visit us.”
The thirteen knights lowered their wine cups as one. Soth could see the shame in their eyes, though he could not tell if it was feigned or genuine. The men put leather-gloved hands together in gentle applause, but kept their contrite faces upon the man who had pointed out their breach of etiquette.
After a moment, Soth dismissed the minstrels with a wave of his hand. He gave his men the briefest of glances, but they knew from his slight frown that they were to moderate their revelry. Finally, he returned to his lovely partner.
“Sincere apologies, my dear,” Lord Soth said, taking his new wife’s hand. He gazed into her pale blue eyes and ran his fingertips gently across her lily-white cheek. The warmth of her skin made desire stir within him. “My knights sometimes forget themselves. They are quite happy for me, knowing my marriage to you will make this keep a joyful place.” He laughed softly. “Perhaps they celebrate in hopes your fair temper will soften my hand in ruling the lands surrounding Dargaard.”
The elfmaid smiled sweetly. “There is nothing we cannot overcome together, you know.” She nodded her fine-boned chin, and her long golden hair stirred, revealing the daintily pointed ears of a high-born elf. “Perhaps even Paladine, given time-”
“Indeed,” one of the other dancers chimed in, moving to Soth’s side. “Lady Isolde is correct. The great god Paladine, Father of Good, Master of Law, will light your way from this, er, time of tribulation. That you brought me here to officiate over your union is a good step, of course. We of Paladine’s faithful are certain that such a fine knight as yourself will come to see…”
The speaker, a fatuous cleric of little reputation, let his comment trail off and grinned obsequiously when Soth turned his gaze upon him. The knight could feel the tension drawing his mouth into a grim line and draining the happiness from his heart. His desire for his wife fled in the face of boiling anger, a desire to strike the man before him. Soth found it difficult to banish these thoughts of violence, thoughts that were so familiar to him of late.
“Disciple Garath,” the knight murmured, taking his hand from his wife’s grasp, “we value your presence at the ceremony. Yet even your position as celebrant at this wedding does not give you the right to offer comment on our private problems.”
The priest straightened the few wisps of hair remaining on his shining pate and swallowed nervously. His wife, a sour-looking woman twice the age of the young cleric, hurried to prevent her husband from doing any more damage.
“Your Lordship is correct, of course,” she offered. With a mongoose-quick grab, she snatched Garath’s hand. “We are honored to be at this splendid occasion. The musicians are fine, are they not?” Before Soth could answer, she turned to Lady Isolde. “That is a lovely dress, by the way. I understand you made it yourself.”
The elfmaid blushed. “I made do with what we had in the keep. I’m glad you find it pleasing.” She raised her arms, and the gossamer shawl of the snow-white dress wafted gently in response. Isolde gazed down at the floor-length gown, and the slightest veil of sadness crept over her eyes.
Soth gritted his teeth. In Silvanost, the land of Isolde’s people, the wedding gowns of the high-born were strewn with pearls and other precious gems; hers was but a slight imitation of the beautiful garb her sisters and friends would wear upon their wedding days. Soth could see the unhappiness marring her beautiful features as she looked up, and that expression cast a shadow across his own heart.
Wandering to various other subjects, the conversation let the knight and his bride, the priest and his wife, put the tension behind them. The other couple that had joined them in the dance, a minor bureaucrat from the nearby city of Kalaman and his mistress, came to listen to the discussion of hunting and court fashion, but they said little. They were not used to the company of the rich and powerful.
Though Soth remained polite, the inane chatter galled him. These four were the only ones who had responded to his invitation; the other knights, politicians, and merchants from Kalaman and the smaller towns near Dargaard Keep had found any excuse not to attend. Many had not even responded to Soth’s missives.
An hour passed slowly, then the great hall rang with the footsteps of self-importance. Soth, like the others, turned to the spotlessly attired young man who made his way toward the matrimonial gathering. Caradoc was seneschal of Dargaard Keep, the man in charge of the day-to-day operation of the fortress-home. This night he wore a pair of white velvet breeches, high black boots, and a doublet of the finest elven silk. Dwarven-smithed bands of purest gold clasped his wrists, and an ornate medallion proclaimed his office. The servant carried himself with an acquired grace usually denied one of such low birth and spotty education.
Yet the servant’s presence was a slap to the master of Dargaard. From the day Soth had ordered the murder of his first wife, Caradoc had used his knowledge of the crime for blackmail; the Knights’ Council had condemned Soth for suspected involvement in the mysterious disappearance of his wife, but no one could prove any crime-unless Caradoc revealed what he knew. The seneschal was wise enough to limit the freedoms he bought with that knowledge, for Soth would surely kill him if he pushed things too far. Still, he flaunted his position just enough to make Soth uncomfortable.
Caradoc moved to Lord Soth’s side as if unconscious of the attention his entrance had attracted, then asked to speak to the nobleman privately, on a matter of the household. “The knights encamped outside have sent word that the red moon has now risen,” he said meaningfully, when they were apart from the others.
Lord Soth sighed. “Then the feast must end, as we agreed yesterday.” He looked around the room and found concern on all faces, creasing even the unwrinkled brow of his elven wife. He forced as convincing a smile as possible to his lips and gestured broadly. “Our keepers tell us the time for celebrations is at an end.”
A few of the knights rose, but Soth motioned them back to their seats. “We need not man the battlements again-” he turned to his four guests “-until our friends leave. The men of the army outside are to be trusted. They will not harm you.”
A flurry of half-sincere congratulations to the bride and groom followed, then the two couples gathered their cloaks and left, guided by Caradoc to the keep’s main entrance. At the door, the priest of Paladine stopped and uttered a prayer, spreading wide his arms as if to encompass all of Dargaard Keep. The gesture struck Soth as pathetic somehow.
“This is not the wedding I would have wished for us,” Lord Soth said sincerely, turning to his wife. “The lords and ladies of Kalaman feared to come to a feast in a castle under siege-even if the knights offered a truce for the day. That toadie and his-”
Softly the elfmaid put her fingers to Soth’s lips. Her touch was light, carrying the gentle, alluring fragrance of her perfume. “My darling, your men remain loyal to you. And Caradoc. And the servants who man the stables and the kitchen. I, too, will stand beside you always.” She cast her eyes down and placed a slender hand on her stomach. “Neither can we forget our child, my lord. He will need you and love you most of all.”
The pair stood in silence for a moment, then the wide, main double doors to the hall swung wide. A blast of chill air curled into the room
from outside, setting the candles on the chandelier guttering. Broad shadows warped across the floor and walls, and for a moment it seemed as if the light would vanish altogether. Caradoc closed the doors behind him, however, and the candles sputtered back to life.
“The siege party has seen the musicians and your guests across the bridge and to a safe distance from the keep,” the seneschal announced, but not before he straightened his short black hair and settled his chain of office on his chest. “Perhaps it’s time to man the towers and draw up the bridge.”
“All right,” the nobleman said curtly. “Go see to the servants, Caradoc. Make certain the craftsmen have plenty of water stored near their houses in case our foes try to lob burning pitch into the keep again tonight.”
With a flourish the seneschal bowed and went his way. Soth faced his wife one last time. “Good night, my love,” he murmured. Gently he kissed her hand. “I must prepare our defenses, and you need your rest.”
Isolde returned her husband’s kiss before she moved up the stairs to her quarters in the keep’s upper floor. Only when she had been gone for several minutes did Soth order his knights to arm themselves and take their defensive positions. Then he stood alone in the main hall, which now seemed cavernous and lonely. For an instant, the echo of the minstrels’ song wailed ghostly in the back of Soth’s mind. With a frown and a shake of his head, he dismissed it and made his way to the stairs.
At the first landing, he passed a full-length mirror, a gift from the cleric and his wife. Such items were rare and quite expensive, though it didn’t surprise Soth that the priest could afford it. Churchmen, at least those Soth knew, rarely went without luxury.
Looking into the glass, Soth stood as if on military review-his broad shoulders squared, his back straight. His golden hair shone in the light of a nearby torch, framing his face like a heavenly glow. His mustache, long but neatly trimmed, hung to either side of a small, expressive mouth. A doublet of black velvet hugged his muscular frame to his waist, its darkness broken by a fiery red rose embroidered on its breast. This, the symbol of the order of knighthood to which Lord Soth belonged, was the only ornamentation he wore.