by David Wise
"Do not rejoice, Van Richten. There is no mercy for those who defy curfew. Only one thing stays your death: curiosity. What are the Vistani to you?" Another zombie shuffled up and joined the chorus. Van Richten stared dumbly at the ribboned stumps of its fingers, worn away from digging free of the earth.
"Speak! What are the Vistani to you?" they all asked in sepulchral tones.
The man's gaze sank to the ground as the story formed in his head. "They came yesterday, to my house in Rivalis, and demanded that I treat one of their tribe: Radovan Radanavich — that man there. "Van Richten pointed a trembling finger at the raven-haired Vistana, who lay in a heap beside Tasha's scored, crimsoned haunches. "But he was too sick. I couldn't save him."
Van Richten's throat constricted as the memories focused. "He was the son of their leader. She accused me of letting him die, and she threatened to curse me. I told them they could have anything of mine if they would withhold their terrible powers. And when I awoke this morning, I found that they had chosen to take my son!" The doctor halted, swallowing his rage like a shard of broken glass.
"Old Belandolf — my neighbor — saw them go west," he finally growled. "I've chased them all day, but they're faster than I expected. "More zombies lumbered into the simmering circle of faerie fire, which now outshone the dwindling embers of cloth on the torch, and he could hear the graceless shuffle of even more approaching.
"The Vistani do not travel the roads," intoned the raspy chorus. "They travel the Mists. Most likely they are in Barovia by now, for they are Strahd von Zarovich's toadies, and he grants them asylum."
"Barovia? But that must be four or five days'ride from here."
"For them it is not an hour's walk."
"Then my son is lost!" moaned Van Richten.
"Most certainly," returned the manifold voice of Azalin. "So, how would you avenge yourself, if you could? "
"I — "He paused, unprepared. "I don't know, but I'd figure something out."
"Would you. . murder them? "
"I am a doctor. I don't know how to kill anything! I. . I hoped to simply steal back my son. I may have seen more than forty winters, but I can still move quite stealthily."
"You cannot even follow the Vistani at a distance, let alone approach them unnoticed," retorted the undead assembly. Still others were arriving; there must be twenty or thirty of them now.
Van Richten felt a prickle of irritation. "How can I know what to do when I haven't done something before. Without knowledge, one can learn only through experience — "
"And thus are foolish mages killed."
"I'm not a fool, I'm a desperate father! Besides, Lord, I learn quickly, and as a doctor I am sure that knowledge is power."
The forest echoed with the throaty laughter of desiccated vocal cords; the doctor felt spiny icicles form in the pit of his stomach. "Indeed, Van Richten, it is the purest power, but one must wield it only when one has acquired it."
Van Richten blustered with ill-acted bravado and claimed, "I am here, after all!"
"Well said. I am of a mind to help you to your revenge, for I cannot tolerate the devil Strahd's gypsy poachers in my lands. Besides, it will be interesting to see if this dead Vistana of yours can guide you through the Mists."
"You can restore his life?" cried the doctor with sudden hope and awe. "That would be perfect! Surely the Vistani will return my boy if Radovan is returned to them!"
"I did not say I would restore his life. . "
The chorus began to whisper, first in unison and then in dizzying counter-rhythms that blended into an acidic hiss. Ebony coils of smoke belched from their mouths and slithered across the ground, coalescing into a shiny, scaly cord that wormed its way into Radovan's mouth in search of his unbeating heart. When the ebony tip curled and sank between his lips, the chanting subsided and Radovan's eyes fluttered open. He wobbled to his feet and stood crookedly, for his spine had snapped when Tasha had fallen. The youth's slack-jawed, listing face was flushed with chalky blue, and his chestnut eyes rolled back, white, while his swollen tongue punched between his teeth and waved in the air as if it were lapping at the remains of the inky smoke that had animated him.
"Fetch the bridle of the horse," commanded Azalin's multitude.
Too numb to question, Van Richten stumbled to Tasha and knelt beside her still head. Her icy blue eye lay open wide in motionless terror. He stroked her jaw, shot with oozing sockets, and mumbled," I'm sorry, girl." A pang of guilt stabbed him as his hand caressed the velvety lip. Gently he unstrapped the bridle and slipped it off her muzzle.
"Put the bit into the mouth of the Vistana," ordered the voices.
Van Richten looked at Radovan, perplexed. "You want me to put the bridle on him? "
"Correct."
". . Will he not attack me? "
"By my will, no unliving thing may touch you this night." Van Richten squinted at Radovan, then at the mortified congregation. Finally, he scanned the darkness around him. "And what about the ghoulies in the bushes? "
"Your perceptions are sharp, Doctor. The blood hunters are indeed not undead. But all things in Darken, living or otherwise, are at my command and will not accost you. Now, obey me!"
"You have even that much power, Lord Azalin?" uttered Van Richten, stricken by the thought. "How do mortals possess such omnipotence? "
"Obey me!" commanded the multitude.
"Yes, Lord." Van Richten stood before Radovan and searched the lolling, dark irises; they returned his gaze in a cadence of movements, but no glimmer of sentience shimmered behind them — nothing except perhaps some instinctive craving for some forgotten thing, long gone. Gingerly, the doctor reached out, grasped Radovan's cold chin, and forced the bit of the bridle between his crusty lips, pinning back the wagging tongue. He slipped the muzzle strap over the top of Radovan's head and cinched it behind, letting the rest of the harness and reins dangle to the ground.
The deathly voice of Azalin instructed," Obey me! Hold this minion's reins and he will heed your commands. Learn if he can guide you through the Mists. Report to me, Van Richten, if you return."
Dr. Van Richten reluctantly took up the reins. "Radovan?" he whispered, but the gypsy made no reply.
"Radovan," he repeated, louder. "Take me to your people."
The zombie lingered a moment longer, then turned its back on the doctor and paused again.
"Radovan! Damn you, take me to your mother!" With that, the bridled, emaciated scout staggered forward, and as one, the undead mob turned and followed. Gray tentacles of mist embraced and drew them all into a blind fog, leaving the netherworld of faerie fire and blood hunters behind. Van Richten's walk among the dead stretched into a time-trapped phantasm, a shuffling nightmare in which his leaden feet slavishly ignored the constant, desperate urge to flee. There was little to see as he trudged squeamishly behind his ghoulish beast of burden, and all he could hear was the funereal shuffle of the lifeless herd, so he stared glumly at Radovan's broken back, unwillingly reliving the Vistana's last moments of life.
"I didn't kill you, Vistana," Van Richten asserted.
"Blood on my hands washes clean! Find your people," he growled. "Find them now?”
In response, a breeze swelled and broke the mists, swiftly scattering them to reveal the foothills of an unfamiliar, mountainous region. Van Richten searched the terrain around him and wondered at stark, keen-ridged peaks to the east, carving a jagged horizon in the starry sky. The heavens behind them were vaguely blue, portending morning's advance, but dawn was at least an hour off.
Slowly, the size of the undead horde around him dawned on Dr. Van Richten. A great host of them — perhaps a hundred! — stood by in a huge crescent. They gibbered with ravenous urgency while their mindless presence pressed against Azalin's invisible barrier, grasping for a seam with an unconscious, unliving will of their own. Only Radovan looked away from Van Richten, to the south, along a grassy road that led over a knoll. His tongue began to writhe under the bit of his bridle, rattling
the metal rod against his yellowish teeth.
"You've found them, haven't you?" breathed Van Richten, and as if they understood his words, the legion of corpses turned and lumbered toward whatever lay over the ridge.
What to do! The undead would shred any living thing they found. What if a farm lay beyond the ridge? Even if the kidnappers were there, was this what he wanted? What if the zombies should attack Erasmus?
Van Richten dropped Radovan's reins and jostled through the moving throng of undead. They groaned hungrily at him, but let him pass. He crested the hill and looked down a short expanse, into a glade of poplars, where he spied the twinkle of a campfire. The leafy cover of the glade around the bivouac did little to hide the rounded roofs of three large wagons.
It was the Vistana caravan.
The undead mass lurched forward, grasping with their claws and grumbling in incoherent agitation, but as they neared the camp an alarm went up. From within the advancing mob, Van Richten watched the gypsies rush about, casting glittering dust into the air and making frantic gestures. Two dark-haired men swung thick staves at the first zombies to reach the camp, beating them to the ground. Another cadaver cast itself upon a defender and the two of them went down. The man began to scream as it bit into his shoulder. A young girl snatched up a heavy staff and jabbed it sharply against the ghoul's ragged skull, knocking the head from its shoulders. Meanwhile, the dead circled the encampment, but their inward progress halted as the gypsies completed a warding circle.
Sharp commands rose above the grunts and sighs of the thwarted zombies as they huddled on the perimeter. Van Richten sought their source and finally sighted a hunchbacked old woman. It was Madame Radanavich, rushing among her people, snapping out orders and reinforcing the perimeter with somatic hexes of her own. As he looked upon her frightened yet resolute face, Van Richten seethed in vexation. Without a plan, he parted the wall of undead and crossed the warding line. Two of the tribe moved to halt him, but fell back amazed when they recognized him.
"Madame Radanavich! Thief!" he charged.
"Dr. Van Richten!" gasped the wrinkled woman. "How came you to Barovia? Have you set these flesh-eaters upon us? "
"Where is my son? Give me my son!" he cried in answer.
Radanavich looked over the zombies, then back at Van Richten with hardened eyes. "No! The boy is forfeit by your own agreement and by your own incompetence."
"Return him to me or I'll — I'll unleash the dead upon you," the doctor threatened.
Two burly males seized the doctor, and the old Vistana laughed cruelly. "Your brainless minions cannot touch us, Van Richten," she sneered. "We know their ways better than you."
"I want my son, witch." Madame Radanavich hobbled up to the prisoner and gazed into his pale blue eyes. "We sold the giorgio child for fair profit. He now belongs to Baron Metus." She gestured to the east with her head. "If you want the child back, deal with him."
"Sold Erasmus?" gasped Van Richten. "Why, I will — I will — "He struggled against the rough hands that held him. The old Vistana laughed.
"What will you do, little doctor? Your companions can't reach us, and it's a wonder you even found us — " She paused and frowned. "How did you find us? Only the Vistani can travel the Mists."
In spite of his predicament, Van Richten realized it was his turn to smile. "Radovan showed me the way," he replied, grinning enigmatically.
"Radovan?" she sputtered, taken aback. "My Radovan?" She began to cast worried glances toward the undead. "Dr. Van Richten, where is my son? "
"Call him," whispered Van Richten coolly. "Call your son."
"No!"
"Then I will. Radovan! Radovan, come to me!"
The dead Vistana pressed to the fore and halted at the warding circle. The gypsies who held Van Richten cried out and released him, backing away from the sight of their lifeless fellow, who weaved like a broken doll, a horse's bridle in his mouth. Madame Radanavich wailed and wrung her hands, moaning," Black gods, black gods, my poor son!"
Van Richten rushed to Radovan, seized his reins, and snarled," Here's your son, witch! Don't you want him back? I've brought him for you!" The doctor flipped the reins over the dead gypsy's head and began to pull him across the invisible barrier. Radovan's feet remained planted where they were, but his body folded unnaturally from his severed spine — he seemed to look at Van Richten as if to plead not to be pulled so, but the man tugged harder. Finally, with a stumble, the zombie crossed the line.
"He is inside the circle!" yelled a young Vistana girl. Now Radovan staggered past Van Richten and moved toward his mother.
"Stop!" she cried, making a sign against her son, but he continued toward her.
Van Richten caught the reins and held them, and Radovan paused. "Tell me where to find my son!" demanded the doctor, and the entire army of undead pronounced it with him. "Where is Erasmus?" they asked in unison.
Madame Radanavich's expression changed from fear to horror and finally to fury. She pointed two fingers and a thumb at the doctor and hissed," I curse you, Rudolph Van Richten, with all the power I have to lay you low! Live you always among monsters, and see everyone you love fall beneath their claws, starting with your son!"
Erasmus is the slave of Baron Metus, and he will be forever. "She laughed hysterically and cried," The baron is a vampire!"
"No!" cried Van Richten in horror. "No! A vampire! NO!" Hatred burst his heart, transporting him beyond reason, and he blathered," You curse me, Madame Radanavich? You curse me? I say, feel the power of that oath redoubled upon you — I curse you! I will have my son back, as you have yours!" He threw down the reins and cried," Go to her, Radovan!"
Van Richten turned upon all the terrified gypsies and screamed," I curse you all! Living dead take you as you have taken my son!" To the zombies he bellowed," Take them! Take them all!"
The army of undead writhed on the circle, pressing against it with inflamed determination, until one of them suddenly broke through where Radovan had crossed. Then another penetrated the ward on the other side of camp. Screams of alarm went up among the tribe as the circle collapsed and the mass of voracious corpses swarmed over the camp. Some of the living futilely swung weapons or tried to flee before collapsing under the rush of starving, oblivious carnivores. The Vistani's terrified wails rang through the countryside as the ghouls chewed upon their raw human flesh. The stench of fresh meat thickened the air, and slowly it penetrated Van Richten's delirium of rage — he gaped in shock as Radovan tore the bit from his mouth and began to devour his own mother before her bulging eyes.
"Stop!" he shouted, but the feeding frenzy was long beyond control. "Stop!" he bawled again, then ran from the butchery, leaving the undead to finish their human repast with smacking lips and licking tongues. He careened down a footpath, away from the carnage, crashed into some bushes, and lay there retching in utter misery. Soon his dry heaves gave way to sobbing, and he wept until dawn.
"I am a murderer," he confessed woefully," and I will never be the same."
When the sun began to cast its beams among the peaks of the mountains, brightening their snowcaps with blue-white radiance, Van Richten sat up and wiped his eyes and mouth. There, in the wilds of Barovia, far from home, he realized that he had survived the night. It was more terrible than he could have imagined, yet still he lived.
Dr. Van Richten looked toward the east. Somewhere out there, his son remained the prisoner of a vampire. It was said that those creatures must sleep by day, and if Erasmus had somehow survived the night as well, perhaps Van Richten might still find him! Weakly he stood, then staggered off to climb the rocky slopes. He would find this Baron Metus, and nothing would daunt him, ever again!
It is with some measure of trepidation and yet infinite resolve that I, Rudolph van Richten, begin this journal as I begin a new life — if "life" I can call it. In truth, I am more like an undead creature, for all that I knew of life is gone, and I am most assuredly a foul murderer.
Madame Radanavich's tribe
is slaughtered by my hand, for I set doom upon them like vicious dogs upon a fallen beast. My son, whose rescue was my only chance for vindication — for redemption itself — is dead, again by my hand, for he was transformed into a monster by the vampire Metus, and it was I who drove the killing stake through his tender heart. My beloved wife Ingrid is dead, and still again I am to blame, for I threatened Baron Metus before fleeing Barouia, and he preceded me to Darkon and vented his wrath upon her!
I should have died that night on the Ludendorf Road, when the blood hunters attacked, and perhaps I did, for all that is left of me is hatred and malice, which inflame my spirit beyond mortal limits! Because of Metus, I have dipped my hands into blood whose taint shall never leave me! I am forever lost to the night, belonging only among those whom I would obliterate with my own bare hands!
If Death will allow me to be its champion but once — if I may only live to see Baron Metus delivered into everlasting darkness — I will gladly yield what "life" remains in me. I'll make no claim to heroism in the assassination of the fiend, but if even one person is spared my agony by the destruction of Metus, then I may rest in peace. .
Rudolph van Richten
Rivalis, Darkon
King's Calendar, 735
The Vanished Ones
It's not easy being a lycanthrope, especially if you want to do more with your life than rip apart red-blooded creatures. I've told you already how I got the bitter venom of lycanthropy in my system, how the blood of the creature I slew dripped into my eyes and polluted my bloodstream, turning me into a beast during every full moon or when I become enraged.
A damnable situation, particularly for one like me, Ivan Dragonov, who has dedicated his life to fighting evil in all its dreadful forms. Now here am I, a creature of evil myself — or potential evil. I'll let you be the judge of that.
My first inclination as I left the chilly domain of Lamordia was to visit the one man I knew who could possibly release me from the curse. Well you know of Hamer, priest of Stangengrad. I was weary from battling Victor Mordenheim's monster — blast both their dark souls — and another flesh golem, from whose master's tomb I stole weapons and coin.