Tales of Ravenloft (ravenloft)

by David Wise

  Lord Tenet woke, surprise filling his face. A born warrior, he knew how long it should have taken to recover from the exhaustion of the vampire battle. Stretching his whole body, he found himself free of pain and full of vigor. In the past, he'd never had much use for friars and their talk of peace and brotherhood, but this cleric had saved his sister and healed him.

  "Brothers and sisters, let us welcome Lord Tenet and his sister, Lady Larom."

  Awe and respect filled Lady Larom's face. "I've never met anyone like you. What did you say your order was? "

  "I serve hope, the light of truth. If you will permit me, we can talk of the faith in the weeks ahead as you rest and recover."

  "Rest!" interrupted Lord Tenet. "That's just what we can't do. We're going to ride out of this valley while there's daylight!"

  "You will be attacked by minions of the vampire in countless numbers, numbers even too great for your magical blade and battle skills."

  "Then I'll lead you and some of these other men to kill the creature," Lord Tenet said. "I've killed vampires before. We must go, now!"

  Many in the congregation shook their heads. They knew what the knight was feeling.

  "My order and my people are of a peaceful nature.

  None of us can stand against the might of the undead Crave. With faith in the light and enough hope in your heart, the monster won't come and attack you again. Won't you believe, Sister?" The friar took Lady Larom's hands in his and smiled down at her.

  A shining glow of faith filled her pale face as she turned toward her brother. "Tenet, I feel so weak. I can't help you with my magic. Won't you wait until I'm stronger?"

  "I've weakened the creature. I know it. Now is the time to strike. Won't anyone help me?"

  Everyone's head bent down. No one could look into the bold eyes of this powerful man.

  "My congregation, be not ashamed that you don't go with this man. None of us are warriors, but all of us do what we can for our families and city. Lord Tenet, if you must go — and I recommend against it — you'll find the creature in the cemetery north of the walls. Crave is guarded by minions who don't fear the light, and by cunning traps. It will know of your coming and will be prepared. May hope and light go with you, my son."

  "Hope and light," The congregation intoned without conviction.

  Lady Larom turned, trying to leave with her brother, but the good friar held her back. "You can't go with him. I have restored his strength, but you are still weak."

  One hand went to her brow, and a rush of fever overtook her.

  "I, I do feel faint. Please, where can I lie down? I need to rest."

  The friar took her into his study, and the congregation let itself out. Lord Tenet stood for a moment, worried about his sister. He couldn't think of a safer place for her than behind the walls of a temple. Holy ground was usually safe from most foul creatures, and especially the undead. Grasping the hilt of his sword with grim determination, the warrior went to kill the foul beast that dared to harm his sister. Looking at the sky overhead, he saw the sun come out of a light scattering of clouds and took it as a good omen.

  Lord Tenet easily found the tumble of toppled gravestones that marked the cemetery beyond the walls. Warrior's senses, sharpened from hundreds of battles, searched the area for traps and enemies. Several large mausoleums dotted the fenced area, but a large one in the center caught and held Tenet's attention.

  "Why is it always the center one?"

  As he had expected, skeletons, zombies, and ghouls leapt out at him as he approached the vampire's lair, but his sword of magical flame made short work of these lesser foes. Holding his flaming blade aloft, he charged the crypt door with quick steps and an armored shoulder. The ancient wood gave way with a splintering crack, and he was inside.

  "Crave! I've come to kill you!"

  The light of day and the fire of his sword revealed a huge stone sarcophagus in the room beyond, and on the far side of the room, a set of stairs spiraling down into the depths. There was no doubt where those stairs led, but a sound of crying came from beside the stone coffin, in this very room.

  As Tenet carefully maneuvered the area, heading toward the sound, he noticed that the lid of the coffin was carved into the shape of a warrior at rest. The stone man in plate mail had a comely form and bold manner. Tenet couldn't help thinking it was in just such a noble coffin that he would like to be buried when the gods saw fit to grant him death.

  He rounded the corner of the sarcophagus and discovered a little girl curled up into a ball, sobbing, her hands covering her face.

  "Don't hurt me, don't hurt me!" She screamed in panic.

  "The vampire must have been keeping you for a snack. You're not large enough for a full meal." Tenet sheathed his sword and tried to get the spratling to uncurl. "There, there, little one. No one is going to hurt you. We'll get you back to your parents, but first let's get you into the sunlight, where you'll be safe."

  A gravelly voice erupted from the tiny fanged maw," No!" Talons reached for the knight.

  Suspecting something like this, he'd kept a stake in his hand. Lashing out, in one strike, he put the little one to rest for eternity.

  "You won't find me so easy to destroy."

  Lord Tenet whirled as Crave floated into view from the stairway. The foul stench of rotting flesh and ancient blood wrapped around the monster in a dusky mist while dark clouds rolled out from it and blocked the sun's rays.

  Twirling in the air, the vampire floated to the top of the arched vault and glared down at Lord Tenet.

  The knight drew his sword and blasted flame at Crave.

  "I thought we'd decided your magical fire couldn't hurt me," the creature hissed with a smile. "Now it's my turn."

  With a few gestures and words, the vampire cast black bolts of energy from its talons, striking the knight in the chest. His armor glowed white for a second, then dimmed. The knight appeared unharmed.

  "A magical sword and magical armor? I had no idea you were such an enchanting fellow. I guess we'll have to do this the old-fashioned way. "The monster hurled itself down on the knight. As it fell, its talons, muscles, and fangs grew larger and larger.

  Flaming sword out, the knight pierced the breast of the monster as its talons ripped and tore at his armor. With every blow, the vampire raged at Lord Tenet, but the knight grasped his sword with two hands, causing it to tear and burn at the vitals of the undead thing.

  "Yes, it hurts! Yes, it burns! But you'll be dead before your blasted weapon kills me!"

  The vampire ripped off the shoulder plates and helm of the knight and sank its fangs deep into his throat. New energy filled the vampire as it hurled away the sword that had caused it so much pain and ripped apart the body of the human who dared to use the weapon.

  In one gruesome moment of raining blood, the knight was unmade.

  For hours after the battle, the vampire lay gasping for life on the cold stone floor. Shards of the sword were still buried in its flesh, preventing it from regenerating to full health.

  Crave could hardly think, the pain was so terrible. It needed more food; it needed the sister and knew where to get her.

  Many hours later, it gathered enough energy to turn into mist, then floated into the city, seeking a meal seasoned with revenge.

  Sitting by herself at the funeral, Lady Larom seemed fully recovered from the previous day's attack. Several congregation ladies had donated their clothes and other accoutrements to properly outfit her for the temple service. An ivory shawl draped a snowy blouse and creamy, form-fitting skirt. It was obvious to the women that Lady Larom looked good in white things.

  Many had sadly shaken their heads at her hair. The lustrous, dark tresses of yesterday were peppered with gray today, and the sheen of her hair was also gone.

  "It must have been the horror of the attack," some had said behind concerned hands.

  "The loss of a loved one can often do that, too," others had added, thinking of times when the friar had come to their
houses.

  But now, all the voices were silenced, for Friar Whelm was beginning his eulogy.

  "We are here today to honor and mourn a brave man. Some would argue a foolishly brave man, but I would never say that. "Whelm's hand reached out and touched the now-graying hair of Lady Larom.

  Looking up, her devotion and respect plain to read in her face, Larom shed a single tear.

  "This wonderful lady took up the faith of hope and light, taking it into her bosom. That strength comforts her in this sad hour. The vampire must have taken her brother as it has taken others down through the centuries. But she sits here, a shining example of what hope can do. Pray with us, brothers and sisters."

  The service was simple and quick. Friar Whelm made sure Lady Larom went home with respectable people, people who would feed her well and take care of her, people who would show her the ways of the city and help her learn how wonderful it was to be a part of the temple.

  Friar Whelm wanted her around for a long, long time.

  Filled with vigor it hadn't known in centuries, the friarcoraltan closed the doors of the temple, warding them from entrance. The portal wasn't locked, but anyone coming to the doors would suddenly find something else to do.

  It needed to rest after feeding so well. It wondered if it should have used an energy spike on the woman: the herd expected such things. But the undead thing was so full that the thought of taking more energy during the normal feast time made it nauseated.

  Then it felt a presence in the warded temple, an energy source it hadn't felt for centuries.

  "Crave?" the coraltan asked the empty air. "Didn't I tell you never to come in here after your first foray into the city?"

  Turning from mist into monster, the vampire gasped in pain while leaning against the altar.

  "I had to!" Fear and anger mixed with a plea for help in the sound of the vampire's voice. "Part of that warrior's blade is still in me. It burns; the pain is unbearable. Do something, or I'll perish and you'll be left to your own devices."

  "Perish? You can't do what you've already done, and perishing is something we all do but once. Go back to your comfortable dirt before I become angry."

  "I want the sister. You've sensed the energy in her. I must have her, and I will. Today. Now!"

  The coraltan shed its robes like a snake shedding its skin. Standing before the vampire, the creature revealed its true, undead nature, its desiccated and worm-infested body, and the vampire knew itself for the puny thing it was. Crave curled up before the transformed friar, much as the vampire girl before Lord Tenet.

  "I won't hurt you while you remain useful. Come, let me heal your wounds and show you the light of truth."

  A spark spewed from the tangled maw of the coraltan and sucked energy from the vampire. It used that energy to heal the wounds the magical sword had made. Judging from the damage done to the vampire, the warrior would have made a nasty foe. The monstrous friar was glad.

  "Did you turn the knight into a minion, or drain him dry? "

  "After the pain he caused me? His body is in pieces all over my lair. His weapon and armor hide forever in a sarcophagus ten men couldn't open. Now, may I have her? "

  "The Lady Larom is much too tasty a morsel for the likes of you. Feed, as we agreed, in your own way. I'll feed in mine."

  The coraltan stroked the head of the vampire as the creature rested in his lap. A look of wearied peace was on the face of the vampire.

  The White Friar started growing new robes and thought of its next sermon. . and the need to talk again about patience. .

  The Briar at the Window

  Even as Lord Kromfier tear free his helmet amp;roar aloud in the Havok to rally his Folk, the Will of his men be break before the Daemons claws amp;teeth in the Darkness of Castle Harith. The Shriek of men clutch in the arms of fiery Monsters ring the Halls as their flesh be burn; bloody men beg for Succor yet be trod under-foot and crush; the Laugh of Daemons echo in the ears of the Lost. At such pass did the Wyzards of Demune lose sight amp; sound of the Lord in their magic Pool, yet they renew not the spell, for they see that all be Finish.

  Of the Fate of Lord Kromfier amp; his Paladins we know No-thing, but for a Squire who be trample amp; be forget as dead. In the Blood of his Folk he lie, by-pass amp;forget by Daemon-kind. He hear in the Dark much of Awfulness, then crawl to tell all to a Lay-priest before he be perish of his many grave wounds. Before he breathe last, the Squire speak of the great Screams that. .

  Something tapped at a window.

  Lord Godefroy looked up through his pince-nez, his habitual frown deepening. He sat motionless in the halfgloom, the old volume propped in his lap on a crossed leg, and waited. Light from the oil lamp's flame flickered once across the steady darkness.

  The tapping came again, fainter now. It was from the corridor to the entry hall.

  Lord Godefroy took a slow, deep breath, though he didn't need to, and exhaled through his nose in silent rage. The yellowed bookmark was carefully fitted into place, and the volume reluctantly set aside on the tea table.

  Lord Godefroy treasured his history books, and the early evening, after the sun had fallen and all was still, was his favorite time for reading.

  He quietly got to his feet, the spell of the moment broken. Something always happened. He never got to finish that book, and he had been trying to read it for the damned knew how long.

  There was but one thing to do about it.

  Lord Godefroy left the room in no great hurry. He had all the time in the world these days. In the soundless hall, out of reach of the lamplight in the study, he shuffled through darkness that cloaked him like a second skin. Faint moonlight lit the bare tree branches outside on the lawn, seeping through the streaked and aged windows that opened into the old mansion.

  The tapping came once more. Lord Godefroy stopped by the second of eight tall, black-framed windows. There he waited again, all patience, staring down at a dirty corner windowpane through his thin lenses.

  A long, whiplike branch swayed gently into view, pushed by the cold wind and lit by the white moon. The briar swung close, then struck the windowpane with a faint tap.

  Lord Godefroy reached for the briar. His right hand and ruffled sleeve, colorless as the moon's rays, slipped through the dirty pane of glass to seize the branch. He felt the thorns but no pain from their pricking, felt the wind but not the bitter cold. He was long beyond that now.

  "Suffer now, dear wretch," he whispered with bared teeth to the briar in his hand, then willed his words to happen.

  The briar writhed with the jolt of the Touch and tried to curl away from him, but too late. It withered and broke apart into rotting dust before it could escape his grip, reduced to blackened debris. Lord Godefroy fancied the briar even gave out a cry of agony like an animal as it did, though in a voice too small to be heard.

  The entire briar bush then collapsed, its shattered stems and leaves scattering out of sight. It was dead to its last root, a ruin that would feed no worm.

  Lord Godefroy pulled his hand back through the old, streaked glass. The satisfaction he felt at the briar's demise was a cold glow inside him, new snow where his heart had been. To his discomfort, though, the emotion passed quickly and left him feeling hollow, useless. Lord Godefroy squinted out the window at the empty space where the briar had grown. His teeth clenched together in frustration.

  The briar's death was not enough anymore to satisfy. It was far too easy most times to dominate and punish. His Touch would age any living being by decades in mere seconds; plants and small animals suffered and died too rapidly for him to take a lasting pleasure in their agonized struggles. People were different — their deaths were more satisfying by far. One gained a sense of genuine accomplishment in hewing them down, the treacherous and ungrateful mongrels. Humans were like waste matter, vile trash to be disposed of in vile ways. Abruptly, almost unwillingly, Lord Godefroy remembered the feel of the mattock in his hands, the smell of manure and blood, the sound as the mattock bit i
nto her soft flesh —

  Something creaked overhead. Startled, Lord Godefroy blinked and looked up at the vaulted ceiling. Only motionless shadows gathered there.

  What had he just been thinking of? The powerful images had fled. He strained for the memory but caught nothing. Was he becoming senile even in this form? He looked down at the window and remembered the briar, but nothing else. Nothing moved on the lawn outside in the moonlight. Reminiscing, perhaps. .

  With a slow look around, Lord Godefroy left the corridor. He looked behind him twice before entering the study again, then closed the double doors with a thump of finality.

  Back in his study, Lord Godefroy stopped by the tea table next to his favorite chair and stared down at his book. It was no use to pick up his reading; his mood was spoiled by the interruption. Perhaps tomorrow night there would be time. He lifted the old brown tome in his hands and headed reluctantly for a bookcase.

  I've done this before, he thought, too many times before. Each time he wanted to relax and take a few moments to himself, something ruined it. Something would pay with its life for the interruption, but then he wouldn't be in the mood for his favorite book, for which he had paid so much to that leech, Marian Attwood. Served the old mongrel right to be run down by his own horse, laid up in bed a cripple and a pauper when he died at last.

  That wouldn't happen to me now, thought Lord Godefroy. He paused before the bookcase, looking up to locate the space among the books from which he'd pulled his favorite history. Five shelves up, only three feet beyond his reach.

  He willed himself up, his slippered feet leaving the faded red carpet. Not a sound, he marveled; not a sound. Flying was the easiest thing. He came to a stop at eye level with the shelf he wanted, then glanced over his shoulder and saw how small the rest of the room looked as he hovered above it, so near the ceiling.

  Lord Godefroy almost smiled. Though his frame was still bent and his face furrowed with three-and-a-half score years, the aches and creakings of his once-rotting body were gone. He felt no pain now, none at all. And he could fly, fly like a leaf from a dead tree, fly like smoke from ashes.