Tales of Ravenloft (ravenloft)

by David Wise

  Near the top of the summit the thistles and brambles finally thinned out, but the climb did not get any easier. Rubble covered the slopes, and without the plant life holding it down, it shifted like sand, and every step was precarious.

  The sun shone directly overhead when George discovered the mine shaft plunging into the mountain's side. Aliza had said the Sad One lived in a cavern within the mountain, and the mine shaft was the only entrance he could see. He collapsed beside it and pulled out his water flask. He was torn and bleeding from the thorns and thistles and bruised and sore from sliding on the rubble. He was also having trouble catching his breath; the air was thin this high up, and it stank from some invisible vapors.

  Peering down the steeply inclined shaft, the ranger realized that the Sad One could only have traveled so quickly had she levitated up the mountain slope and then down this shaft. He'd never heard of a priestess with the power to levitate before, and he recalled uneasily Aliza's warning of powers great and dark, powers beyond his ken.

  He tossed a few pebbles into the shaft and counted as he listened for them to hit the bottom. Over five hundred feet down, he estimated, unless the pebbles had hit the side of the shaft; then it might be deeper. There was a tunnel opening in the side of the shaft less than fifty feet down. He would start his search for the Sad One and the baby there.

  Hand-and toeholds were chipped into the beams that braced the shaft walls, and some old rusty ladder rungs still remained in some stretches along the northern side of the shaft, but George took the time to anchor a safety rope. The sun was still high as he began his descent, and light bathed the mouth of the tunnel when he reached it. He didn't need to light his lamp until he stepped several feet down the tunnel. The lamplight glistened on silvery cobwebs that hung in thick curtains, blocking several side passages. Tattered strands of web drifted in the air along the main passage, so someone must have used the passage recently.

  As George crept forward, he heard a woman singing. The melody was dissonant and eerie, and the lyrics were in some tongue the ranger did not recognize. He followed the voice until the tunnel opened into a small cavern. Just inside the cavern he halted. The Sad One sat cross-legged on the floor, rocking and singing to the baby. Presumably her song was a lullaby, but hardly one a baby could sleep to. Yet the child was still and made no sound.

  George waited until a pause in the song before he spoke. "Excuse me, ma'am. I've come about the baby," he said.

  The Sad One set the baby down on the floor and levitated to her feet. Her long white hair covered her like a veil, but when she raised her head, it fell back and revealed her face. George gasped, momentarily horrified. It was not her skin, as black as the darkness all around her, but her features that frightened the ranger. Her deep purple lips curled like a snarling dog's, and her bloodshot eyes bulged out and glared at him with mad rage.

  Despite his fear, George's hand went instinctively for his scabbard, but the Sad One blew into him like a gust of wind. She wrenched his hand away from the sword's hilt and clenched it in her icy fingers.

  A searing pain shot up George's arm as the Sad One crushed his hand with inhuman strength. He tried to yank his arm away, but the drow's grip was unyielding, and he succeeded only in pulling the awful woman closer to him. With her face near his own, he could hear her murmur some unrecognizable phrase over and over. Her tongue was as purple as her lips, and her breath was chill. His hand cramped in agony as the Sad One twisted his flesh as though it were clay. His fingers seemed to melt away, and his wrist bent backward, unable to straighten.

  Finally the drow released him and whispered," Now that you are imperfect, Jozell, how dare you come to take my baby?"

  Then darkness enveloped him. George could feel the heat coming from the lantern he still held in his left hand, but he could see no flicker of light, no glimmer of a dying wick. It was a magical darkness that left him blind to the draw's movements.

  Icy fingertips stroked his cheek, and where he had been touched, his skin felt as if it were sizzling beneath a hot poker. The ranger dropped his lantern and clutched at his face with his good left hand. He reeled backward, and with the stump of his right hand felt for the cavern wall until he discovered the tunnel leading to the mine shaft. Then he fled, running and stumbling in the pitchdark underground.

  Finally, gasping from the thin, poisonous air, George slowed and tried to orient himself. He didn't need to see to know he was covered with cobwebs; he could feel them fluttering about his face and shoulders in the warm breeze coming from his left. He followed the current of air until he could see a glow of light up ahead.

  The tunnel opened into the mine shaft. He stood blinking in the sunlight, grateful for its warmth and light. His face throbbed with pain, and he stared with sickening distaste at his maimed hand. He'd never heard of a power that could twist flesh as his had been. One of those powers great and dark, a power beyond his ken, he thought. The drow, he realized, could probably have killed him, but she had let him live. She wanted only the baby, and she did seem to cherish it.

  She was mad, though. Of that, the ranger had no doubt. He'd seen it in her eyes. Then there was the name she'd called him — Jozell — it might mean stranger or warrior, but George's instincts told him it was the name of one of the drow who'd killed her own baby. The Sad One was reliving her past, as the mad so often did. She would protect the baby from outsiders, he realized, but caring well for it might not be in her power. He had to go back.

  It took him several minutes of searching for the rope he'd left hanging before George realized the tunnel he'd used to enter the drow's realm was across the shaft and several feet above him. He'd taken a wrong turn in the dark. Now he'd either have to wind his way back through the maze of passages or climb his way over and up to the first tunnel. Better, the ranger thought, to take the route I took before and stay in the light as much as possible.

  He began his climb up. There weren't as many handholds on this side of the shaft, and he was unable to grip with his maimed hand, so the climb was awkward and slow. He'd made it halfway around the shaft when a rotted timber gave way beneath his weight. He began sliding down, grabbing at the dirt and timber walls with his left hand, but unable to get a purchase. He spread out his arms and legs against the wall, trying to slow his descent. It took him longer to reach the bottom of the shaft than the pebbles he had thrown in to judge its depth, but ultimately that was where he ended up.

  He circled the wall until he'd reached the north side of the shaft, where there were more handholds. Before he began his ascent, though, he sat down, as much to regain his composure as to rest his aching muscles and to catch his breath.

  A small pool of water sparkled in the center of the shaft, and all about the pool thistles grew thick and green. George was just beginning to think of the shaft floor as an oasis in the desert of the mountain when he spotted the gleam of a skull. He might have ignored it as he had the second skeleton on the mountainside, but this skull was different. It was so small.

  George bent down to retrieve the ivory ball shape. It fit in the palm of his hand. Once it had belonged to an infant. The ranger scanned the shaft floor again. Having spotted one skull, he could now see that the floor was littered with skeletons. Some were large enough that they might have belonged to children old enough to walk, but mostly the bones were very, very small. Aliza had not been the first to abandon a baby for the Sad One to claim.

  He'd observed thousands of animal skeletons during his years in the wilderness, so he was quick to realize all the skeletons were missing their leg bones. With a sickening dread, the ranger remembered Aliza's tale. The draw's baby had been born without legs of its own. With her power to twist flesh and bone, the Sad One had found a way to relive that part of her life, too, over and over. Had the Sad One then relived her grief each time one of these babies had died?

  Had she arranged their deaths so she could relive that grief?

  George turned and faced the shaft wall so he couldn't possibly c
ount the skulls. He would have to move quickly now to retrieve the baby and flee before the sun got any lower in the sky. The sun would shield him from pursuit. He stood up and began climbing the shaft wall.

  By the time George reached the tunnel he'd taken into the drow's lair the sun's slanting rays were beginning to climb up the sides of the shaft. Still, he figured, if he could just get in and out quickly, he'd have several hours of bright daylight left. He twisted his scabbard belt so he could draw his sword with his left hand. With his injured hand it seemed to take him forever to strike a flint for lighting a candle, but he dared not go without some light. He tied the end of a ball of twine to the rope hanging from above, stuck the ball in his pocket, and struck off down the passageway, letting the string unwind as he went.

  When the candle went black, he knew he'd reached the darkness cast by the Sad One. He stepped back a few paces and smiled with satisfaction when he could again see the flame of the candle wick. Assuring himself that he still had plenty of twine, he moved back into the darkness. He counted the paces forward with his maimed hand running along the wall. At the count of eighteen, the candlelight flickered about him again. So large a sphere of darkness could be an indication of the drow's great power, George realized, or the great evil of her nature.

  The Sad One was not in the cavern, but the baby lay on the floor, swaddled in blankets. George knelt beside him, holding the candle so he could see his face. The infant's eyes were closed, and he was very still, but George could see his tiny chest rise and fall and his tiny nostrils flare.

  The ranger set the candle down on the floor. As he slipped his good hand beneath the baby, he sensed something was wrong. He didn't need to unwrap the blankets to confirm his suspicion, but he did anyway. Both of the infant's legs were twisted stumps, as useless as George's right hand.

  George gritted his teeth. There was not time to dwell on this problem now. Somehow, after he'd rescued the infant, he'd find a way to heal it, but the rescue came first. George wriggled the baby into the space between his own chest and his leather jerkin.

  He was reaching out to retrieve his candle when he heard the Sad One whisper," Return my child or die." She hovered on the far side of the cavern. In her arms she clutched a spider the size of a house cat. She dropped the creature, and it skittered off into the darkness.

  George leapt to his feet and drew out his long sword with his good hand. It wasn't his stronger arm, but he had practice using it. This time he had the sword out and brandished in front of him before the drow could close on him and touch him again.

  "Do you think that I fear your weapon, Jozell?" the Sad One sneered. She lunged for George, impaling herself on the ranger's blade. Shrieking, she drew back from the weapon, but did not fall. Bits of white vapor dripped from the blade and drifted back toward her. Her form grew hazier, and the candlelight shone through her.

  Finally, George understood what he was facing. The powers great and dark, beyond his ken, had not preserved the Sad One from death, they'd preserved only her spirit. And the undead spirit of a female drow became a banshee. If his weapon had not been enchanted, the Sad One would have gone right through it, uninjured, and inflicted her deadly touch on him again.

  George felt a surge of certainty. If the banshee could not touch him, her only other weapon was her banshee wail, which could do him no harm while the sun shone in the sky. She might be undead, but he knew how to deal with the undead. He lunged forward and slashed through the spirit, tearing the misty form into shreds that hung in the air all about them.

  The banshee drifted backward. She opened her mouth and let out a keen that pierced through George's heart like an ice blade. The sun's presence outside did nothing to lessen the paralyzing fear that gripped George — fear, not of dying here, but of what would follow his escape.

  Even if Soldest's wife could cherish the child of her husband's mistress, she would not love the baby, as deformed as it had been made. She would abandon it to the rubbish, or Soldest would drown or strangle it. Maybe Soldest's wife would let it live, but come to hate it and abuse it far more than it had been abused these past five days. Then she might abandon it. There were abandoned children all over Darkon, wandering the streets, hungry and fearful, despised and unloved, without comfort anywhere. Those who survived to maturity led lives without joy, save for the few savage ones rumored to have joined the ranks of the Kargat, Darkon's secret police. He could rescue the baby, only to bring it more misery.

  George felt his left hand go numb, and his sword clattered to the cavern floor. He: the baby is a he, he thought, not an it. And if no one else wants him to grow up happy, I do. He'll be mine.

  George shook off the fears ripping into his heart just in time to see the Sad One flying toward him with her arms outstretched. He leapt clear just in time. Before the banshee could turn, he pulled a vial out of the emergency pocket of his backpack and unstoppered it with his teeth. As the drow spirit swooped toward him yet again, he splashed her with the contents of the vial.

  The banshee howled as the holy water seared into her being. Mist rose from her form and dissipated into the darkness. George scrambled for his long sword and slashed again through the undead form.

  The Sad One drifted up out of the ranger's reach. "You'll not escape my kingdom, Jozell. You will die here. When the darkness comes, I will destroy you." Then she floated off, leaving George alone in the cavern with her treasure, the baby.

  Forced to abandon his candle in order to keep his sword at the ready, George followed the twine back through the darkness by winding it up on his maimed hand.

  The sun still shone bright when he finally climbed over the edge of the mine shaft. Eager to flee as far as possible before nightfall, George abandoned his rope and dashed down the mountain's slope, sliding in the rubble and ignoring the prickles of the thistles and briars. He didn't stop until he came upon Perseus. The horse neighed with recognition of its master and nearly bowled him over as it nuzzled him with joy.

  "Yes, I'm back. You tried to warn me about this place, didn't you?" George whispered to the beast. "You've more sense than I, don't you? Well, we're leaving now."

  George mounted awkwardly and steered the beast toward the forest path down which he had tracked the Vistana last night. He slipped his hand inside his jerkin and stroked the baby's arm. He could feel the child breathing, but it remained disturbingly silent. Possibly, he realized, the infant was paralyzed with fear by the banshee's wail, as he had nearly been. The ranger wondered uncomfortably if the child might not retain some memory of the past few horrible days, stored in some dark recess to be released only when dreams stole upon him. He shook off his fears and urged Perseus into a trot.

  Less than a mile down the trail, the horse halted abruptly and lowered its head. "What is it, Perseus?" George whispered. Then he felt the wind. It started as a breeze and within moments grew into a gale. Flying bits of dirt and twigs stung at his face. There was no moving forward in such a wind. George cursed and allowed the horse to turn around.

  Perseus took three steps toward the road, but reared up and neighed in terror. Then the horse stood still, quivering with fear.

  "You see, Jozell, you cannot escape," a voice shrieked overhead.

  George looked up. The Sad One hovered at the top of the trees, the light from the setting sun piercing through her. "My winds will keep you here, Jozell, until nightfall. Then I shall destroy you."

  Annoyance pushed aside George's fear of the banshee's powers. "I'm not Jozell," he declared.

  The banshee said nothing. The wind continued to howl at his back. "I'll bet I don't even look anything like this Jozell, whoever he is."

  "Jozell murdered my baby," the Sad One moaned.

  "But I'm not him," the ranger insisted.

  "You've stolen my baby," the Sad One argued. The wind howled louder. "This baby is not yours. "George unbuttoned the top of his jerkin so the baby's face peeked out. "He's not drow. He doesn't look anything like you."

  "He's mine.
The Vistana left him for me."

  "Well, I'm not giving him to you. You'll only murder him like all the others."

  "I never harmed them. They just died."

  "They just died?" George asked, disbelieving, but then he understood. "You're undead. You can't nurture some-, thing alive. You can't give the baby what he needs."

  "As long as he lives, he is mine," the banshee wailed, and the wind wailed with her.

  "I am not giving him to you so that he can starve to death," George snapped.

  "Come nightfall, my keen will destroy you," the banshee cried.

  "Then it most certainly will kill the baby. You've already paralyzed him with fear," George retorted.

  The banshee was silent.

  "You don't want a dead human baby," George pointed out. "And it's not me you want to kill; it's Jozell."

  "Yes," the Sad One whispered. "Jozell must die for what he did to me and my baby."

  "But I'm not Jozell," George reminded her. "Let me leave here, and I won't bother you ever again."

  The Sad One drifted down toward George. She stared intently at the baby. "That is not my child," she hissed. "Jozell murdered my child, and he must pay. "She spun about and flew off toward the mountain. The wind died down.

  Gently, George urged Perseus to turn about. The horse took a few tentative steps away from the banshee's kingdom, then, sensing a last chance, it galloped off at reckless speed.

  Some hours'distance from the banshee's lair, George's right hand began to throb. Like a bug emerging from a chrysalis, his fingers began sprouting from the hand that the Sad One had maimed. The baby's legs grew back, too. George could not recall ever feeling so relieved in his life. That night, though, he dreamed he was begging in the streets of Darken with the baby beside him, his hand again a stump, while the baby had eight hairy spider legs. He woke up covered in sweat and had to check both his hand and the baby's legs to assure himself the dream was false.