Tales of Ravenloft (ravenloft)

by David Wise

  But then the thought occurred to me that a lycanthrope could be a ferocious enemy to evil, even more so than a strong warrior, such as I had been. So I postponed my visit to Stangengrad and, instead, continued my crusade, seeking out villainy in all its forms in order to destroy it.

  I learned to deal with my disorder in the weeks that followed. I sought out deep caves during the full moon, and when I could no longer find any, had a ropemaker weave me a rope with silver strands woven through the jute. I wind myself up in it before nightfall, and tie knots that my lycanthropic side cannot undo. Those nights are filled with terrible pain, but they keep me from killing.

  I also have to avoid traveling in any party, for if it were attacked and I changed into a beast, I might not stop at destroying our enemy, but might savage my companions as well.

  So I've traveled alone, and I've come across my share of evil creatures. With every battle, the werebeast within me has come out and triumphed, far more easily than I would have if fighting as a mortal man.

  I was in Lekar when I heard rumors of an evil that the soldiery had not been able to deal with in the town of Chateaufaux. So I rode quickly to the domain of Dement lieu. I hoped that I could put aright whatever was amiss before the next full moon.

  I arrived in Chateaufaux just before noon, and stopped at a large inn. I ordered a haunch of venison and a mug of tea, at which some of the drunkards made stupid remarks, but my fierce look quickly quieted them. Before too long I fell into conversation with a pair of soldiers. When I told them my name, I learned that they had heard of me, and they eyed me with more respect than before.

  When I remarked that rumors had spread of doings darker than usual in their city, one of the soldiers, a stout, honest-looking fellow named Jacques, was quick to give me the details.

  "You need not tell us, Monsieur Dragonov. We've seen comrades, and in my case my brother, disappear."

  "Or we haven't seen them disappear," said Henri, the other soldier," but they're gone nonetheless!"

  Jacques nodded. "For the past six months, men of Dementlieu have been vanishing, one every few weeks. The first was a mill owner named St. Just. Three weeks later a cobbler who left behind a beautiful wife and two children. Then a blacksmith, a tailor's apprentice, and a merchant who was also a member of the town council."

  "That got some action, that did," Henri added. "Town council came to the army then, sure enough."

  "Asked us to solve the mystery," said Jacques. "And a mystery it was."

  I didn't get the point. "But men run off all the time," I said. "Women, money problems, wanderlust — a whole slew of reasons."

  Jacques's face grew rigid then. "Are you saying my brother would desert?"

  One thing I didn't need was a brawl in an inn; it's not a good place to turn into a werebeast. "No, by the gods, of course not. But what about these other men? "

  "They vanished without taking along a thing, and the horses were always found of the ones who rode away," said Jacques, apparently pacified. "None of the men owed anyone money, and each man already had a wife or sweetheart whom he loved, except for my brother."

  "And," said the slightly drunk Henri," do you think any man in his right mind would leave a woman such as that?" He pointed toward the door, which had just opened.

  You know that I'm not the kind of man whose heart beats faster at the sight of a female. Never had time for them, battling evil for most of my life. But when I saw this creature walk into the inn, my jaw swung down, my eyes got wide, and I thought every woman I'd ever seen before didn't deserve the name.

  This was a woman; no doubt about it. Hair red as flame, falling down the back all the way to her. . well, pretty long hair anyway. A face like an angel's, with cheeks red as the rose and eyes so deep you wanted to fall into them and never come up. She was dressed modestly, but it was hard for even the heaviest cloth to disguise the lushness of her figure. And I found myself thinking that maybe I'd wasted too much of my life without the companionship of such females, though she was unique.

  Then she looked in our direction, called Jacques's name, and came swiftly toward our table. "Monsieur Legrange," she said with a voice as sweet as honey," have you news of my poor husband — or of your unfortunate brother?"

  "None, Madame, I regret to say. But pray, allow me to introduce a gentleman who has heard of our plight and whose curiosity has brought him far: Ivan Dragonov. Mister Dragonov, this is Gabrielle Faure, the wife of Roger Faure, who was the first man to vanish."

  She turned those incredible eyes on me then. "Monsieur," she said," your reputation precedes you. "I saw her gaze run over me, taking in my size, my weapons, my warlike attitude, my hair and beard nearly as flame red as hers; as you know, I present quite an impressive picture, and I felt certain that she was sizing me up as a potential ally. Her next words proved me right.

  "Could I beg you, Monsieur, to assist us? I have done little but tremble in fear and worry during the past six months, ever since my dear husband disappeared. I know that he would not have deserted me, and even if my judgment is wrong, he would not have left his thriving business behind. You have in the past exposed many evils and righted many wrongs, Monsieur Dragonov. Will you not have pity on me and on the other poor wives, families, and sweethearts who have been left lonely and distraught by these disappearances?"

  Well, I mean, what was there to say? How could I refuse such a beautifully phrased — and flattering — entreaty? So I gave a little bow, feeling silly as I did it, and said I'd be happy to do whatever I could to help find her husband.

  We were all colleagues then, and I think Jacques was also pleased that I would be trying to help find his brother as well. The four of us sat there for nearly an hour. Gabrielle and I drank tea, Jacques nursed a glass of wine, and Henri fell into a drunken sleep.

  Gabrielle told me about her husband's disappearance. She said he had ridden toward town one morning from their country house near the mill, and was not seen again. No one reported meeting him on the road, but many hours after he vanished, a soldier found his horse roaming in the fields halfway between the town and the Faures'home. There was no trace of blood on the saddle, no signs of violence at all.

  Then Jacques told me as much as was known about the other missing townspeople. Quite simply, they had gone off on errands at different times of the day and night, and never reappeared. The mounts of those who rode away were always found, but with never a trace of evidence that suggested violence.

  "And then they assigned my brother to find the men, or their bodies. . you'll pardon me, Madame. He meticulously interviewed families, friends, fellow workers, but learned little. Then one night he told me he had some new evidence to gather, but would say no more, and rode off. I have not seen him since."

  "But they found his horse?" I guessed.

  "They did," said Jacques. He excused himself then; he had to go back to his barracks.

  I felt uncomfortable left alone with Gabrielle. Although my manner is rough, I seldom feel ill at ease with either man or woman; they can take me or leave me as it suits them. But this woman was different, as I say. Beyond doubt I was drawn to her, but she showed no sign that she had conquered me. Instead, she asked me if there was anything she could do to help in my investigation.

  I thought that, since her husband had vanished somewhere between his house and the town, it might be worth my while to look around the mill and see if I could find anything. Oh, not the kind of evidence that the law and soldiery look for on their hands and knees, but signs of monstrous habitation — the spoor of cursed night-creatures who might be swooping down and plucking men out of their saddles, then flying away to devour them at their leisure — or worse. I've found more than one hellspawn lurking in a remote mill.

  She seemed agreeable enough and promised to show me over the grounds of the house as well. So we rode out together. By the time we got there, it was nearly time for the three men who were crushing grain to leave for the day, and Gabrielle dismissed them early. I coul
dn't help but notice the looks that they gave her as they left, as though they dreaded leaving the glory of her sight. And these were men with wedding rings on, too. She just had that effect on anything in trousers.

  I got my attention off her long enough to prowl around the mill. The grounds didn't have many places for creatures to skulk. I found a dry well, but she told me that they used it for garbage, and after I got a whiff of the stench coming from down there, I believed her.

  We looked in the mill then. "The only place within that is not in constant use is the cellar," she said. So I told her to stay upstairs while I went down with a lantern in one hand and the hilt of my sword in the other. I needn't have been so cautious. There wasn't a thing down there except for some staved-in barrels and some empty wooden boxes, none of which was long enough to harbor a vampire. Even the dirt floor had been long undisturbed.

  I used the time alone down there to think about my situation. My emotions, really. I hadn't come into close contact with a woman since my blood was profaned by lycanthropy, so naturally I started to think that this. . baser feeling toward her might be the result of it. If this were true, then the best thing I could do would be to avoid Gabrielle now that I'd gotten as much information from her as she could give.

  I was just about to bid her good-bye, as much as it hurt me to do it, when she asked me if I'd be willing to come and dine with her, that she had a few more things she wanted to tell me about her husband — "things hard to say," as she put it.

  I should have refused. I should have gotten on my horse and ridden back to Chateaufaux and never seen her again. That was what I wanted to do, for I feared for this woman to whom I was so attracted, this woman whom I feared I was actually starting to love. Imagine that: me, who had never known love except for the concepts of goodness and purity. But what if that love for her grew into a passion that bore away Dragonov the good man, the slayer of evil, and the beastly side of my nature took over?

  But I could not say no to her, no matter how much I wanted to. I believe I would have done anything to remain by her side. So I agreed to dine with her.

  As we rode the short distance toward the house, I suddenly drew up my mount and raised a hand for Gabrielle to do the same. She did, looking at me curiously, but I only listened.

  Finally she asked, "What is it? "

  "Nothing, I guess," I said. "Just thought I heard something. "What I did not tell her was that it was not hearing as much as sensing. My years of hunting and being hunted by foul beings has given me a sixth sense, in most cases at least, and my lycanthropic blood has increased the sensation. I can feel the presence of a stalker, and I knew that there was something watching us from the thick trees that surrounded the open space in which we rode. I did not want to alarm Gabrielle, however, and since I couldn't tell where the watcher was hiding, I rode on. After a moment I thought that maybe there was nothing there at all, that my sensing an unseen enemy was just a manifestation of my own unease at being alone with Gabrielle.

  At the house, she ushered me to a large dining hall and told a servant that there would be two at dinner that evening. I was placed at the end of the large table in the middle of the hall, and she at my right, a very intimate setting in spite of the size of the room. The ceiling was a good thirty feet high, and richly embroidered tapestries hung from nearly every wall.

  Two servants brought the dinner and waited on us as we ate. The food was plentiful and delicious, though I could scarcely take my eyes from the woman long enough to eat. We talked of this and that, and she didn't bring up her husband until after she had dismissed the servants for the night, and we were alone in the room, lit by firelight and candles.

  Then she walked toward the fireplace, turned, and stood there looking at me. Her gaze might just as well have turned me to stone. During dinner, she had looked at me politely, and reacted with interest when I spoke, but now the look she gave me was that of a lover, intimate and searching.

  "Monsieur," she said huskily, "I have told you that there is more to the story, and there is. My husband Roger and I did not share the happy marriage you might have imagined. I do wish to find him, that is true, for he is my husband, and for that I owe him the loyalty of a wife. But when I saw you and spoke to you, I knew that you were. . different from other men."

  She had me there, no doubt about it.

  "I could tell this to no one before, but I feel certain that you will understand. My husband, despite his public face, was not a kind man to me. He did not know how to treat a woman. But you, I am sure, do."

  I felt unaccountably hot, not only because of the blazing fire whose red-yellow glow illuminated the room, making Gabrielle's hair shimmer like red mist, or, I fancied, a swirling cloud of blood.

  "I prefer to be frank, Ivan Dragonov. I will say it once and once only, and if you do not wish to hear it you may leave and I will never speak of it to you again. But I have never felt about a man the way that I feel about you. I see in you the lover and husband I wish I might have had. And I sense that you feel the same emotion toward me."

  I could scarcely breathe. I felt passions and longings I had never known I was capable of.

  "There is no one else here," she said. "The servants are dismissed for the night. I beg you, Ivan, come to me. Take me in your arms. And love me as I have never been loved before."

  I had no choice. I stood up, completely weaponless. I had not even my will to stop me from going to her embrace. Her moist lips were slightly parted so that I could see the pure whiteness of her teeth in the bright firelight. Her bosom rose and fell with the quickness of her breath, and I knew that she longed for my touch as greatly as I did for hers. She held her arms out toward me, and I ran into them as though blown there by a strong wind.

  I had not held a woman in my arms for many years, and the heat of her body pressing close to mine excited me beyond reason, seared my very soul. I sank into her embrace as though drowning once more in the Sea of Sorrows. But this time I welcomed the sensation, preparing myself to dive into the blissful oblivion this sea of love would bring me. We kissed, and the heat from her mouth was like a furnace, a heat that annealed, molded. .

  Transformed.

  I felt myself begin to change.

  True horror is not knowing that something is going to destroy you. No, true horror is just the opposite, knowing that you are the evil, the monster, and that in another few seconds you will be destroying the only person you have ever loved — and are unable to stop yourself. True horror is when the monster looks out of your own eyes. That, my friend, reduces all other horrors to bedtime tales. And that is the horror in which I found myself immersed.

  I first felt the transformation in my face, the teeth pressing outward against my gums, lengthening into points that cut into my lips until they, too, expanded and grew, pressing outward along with my snout as the very shape of my skull changed, becoming long and beastlike. Then my muscles expanded, my back broadened, and I closed my eyes and struggled desperately to keep from crushing the air from Gabrielle's lungs. I became taller too, and thought I could feel her flaming red hair gliding down my chest as my head grew nearer to the dark ceiling. I knew that in only seconds my claws would thrust out of my fingertips, piercing the flesh of my gentle love.

  There was still enough of the human left in me to realize that if I pushed her away, I might still be able to turn and run out of the house before the beast took over completely and rended her dear body to pieces. But when I tried to push her back, I discovered that she was still clutching me tightly, even tighter than before, holding in her arms a lover who was turning into a murderous fiend.

  That startling fact alone actually stopped the transformation for a moment. The overwhelming trust I thought the woman must have in me nearly returned me to my human self, goodness overcoming evil. Or so I thought.

  Then I realized that it was not soft arms wrapped around my widening back, but the hairy, long, and wiry legs of a gigantic spider. My dear Gabrielle was a creature like myself,
a shapeshifter, a deadly red widow, queen of spiders who seduces men and then drains the life from their bodies.

  But this knowledge did not come to me then, for the sudden danger dropped my lycanthropy over me like a spider's web, and in an instant I was transformed into a raging, furious beast, knowing only that it was being attacked, that it must kill to live — and that it lived only to kill.

  I remember, though, as if my human mind was looking out through those blood-rimmed eyes. I saw what was trying to hold me. A round body larger than an ale barrel, coated with crimson hair. From its bulk eight great legs grew like small trees, wrapping themselves around me, drawing me closer and closer to the hideous head. Two rows of shiny eyes glared at me, and gleaming fangs protruded from two hairy sheaths.

  Suddenly the head thrust itself toward me, and before I could pull away, the fangs buried themselves in the thick fur of my neck. Poison that would have killed a man instantly pumped into my veins, and it was as though my blood caught on fire. All my beast-mind could think of at that moment was escape, and ease from the pain that burned every inch of my flesh, muscles, and bowels.

  With a tremendous burst of strength, I hurled the hideous thing from me and screamed until my pain was bearable. It took but a few seconds, and I can only guess that my lycanthropic blood, already tainted by unimaginable evil, could not fall prey to the red widow's otherwise fatal poison. But all I knew then was that I must destroy whatever had hurt me, and I leapt toward the giant spider-thing.

  It was quicker than I and scuttled on its eight great legs into a corner, displaying the telltale black hourglass on its bloated back. It didn't pause, but went right up the wall until it reached the thirty-foot ceiling, where it hung looking down, as if wondering what to do next.

  I didn't wonder a thing. I simply acted without thought, following it into the corner and using my steely claws to climb up the tapestry, shredding the sturdy cloth as I went. When the hangings stopped, ten feet beneath the clinging spider, I leapt at it. My preternaturally strong legs carried me up into the corner, where, at the apex of my jump, I sank my claws into the red, rotund ball and dragged it from its perch, so that we both fell heavily to the stone floor. I did not let the monster escape again, but grasped it with both of my feral hands, and kicked the claws of my feet against it, spraying yellow ichor over the gray stones.