Tales of Ravenloft (ravenloft)

by David Wise

  The baby would not suck, paralyzed as it was, and George began to fear for the child's health. The next day he rode Perseus hard until he finally came to a church. The priest laid his hands over the baby's head and prayed. Within a minute the baby was howling and shrieking. The priest fed him with goat's milk, which he sucked down with vigor. Then he slept with exhaustion, and George slept beside him. That night, George dreamed of the banshee tossing his baby down the mine shaft onto the piles of skeletons of other babies. He woke shivering and could not sleep again until he'd lit a candle and watched the child breathe.

  The dreams returned each night.

  Three days later, he stood before Soldest's wife and told her all that he had learned about the baby from the Vistana Aliza. The girl looked down in shame for her husband's crimes, but she met the ranger's gaze steadily when he asked if she loved the child, and she assured him that she did.

  George handed the baby over to the girl. The child was quiet in her arms, but when she set him down to pour him a bottle, he wailed until she picked him up again.

  George did not speak of the banshee or her kingdom. He just said, "Your child suffered much, Lady Soldest. I ask only that you never make me regret returning him to you. I will visit when I can, to be sure he is well. When he is old enough, tell him I will always be his friend."

  "I will never make you regret his return; you will always be welcome, and my son will know you are his friend," Soldest's wife assured him.

  George Weathermay travels far and wide hunting evil, and many people think him fearless. Only a fearless man, they say, could survive the banshee wail of the Sad One. It is true that powers great and dark, powers beyond his ken, hold little terror for the ranger. There are everyday things, though, that stab his heart with an icy chill — seeing a master strike a young apprentice, seeing a child begging in the streets, seeing an infant's coffin, hearing a baby wail. . especially hearing a baby wail.

  Then he dreams of the mad drow spirit grieving for her lost baby and of all the babies others had left for her to claim.

  When George Weathermay has these dreams, he visits Darkon to check on the son of Soldest. The baby is always well; he thrives in the care of Soldest's wife. Still, George Weathermay visits Darkon often, because the world is full of wailing babies.

  Von Kharkov

  The only name he had ever known was Urik von Kharkov, and for a fleeting, exultant moment, he thought he had at long last gained his freedom.

  In that moment he felt the life-force drain from Dakovny's body in distant Karg. He felt the grating of the stake against bone as Dakovny struggled to wrest it from his chest, felt even, for an excruciating instant, the driven blade that separated head from convulsing torso.

  But in the next moment, as the flood of pain and exultation faded to a trickle, he realized that Dakovny's hateful power had not been lifted. It remained, smothering Von Kharkov's mind like a poisonous cloud, paralyzing his body until —

  He screamed, more a snarl of the Beast he dared not summon than any sound that could emerge from his human throat.

  But even as he screamed, he realized there was a difference, a vital difference. Yes, Dakovny's power remained, gripping him as tightly as ever it had, but there was no longer a mind behind that power. That had vanished with Dakovny's decapitation. The chain still bound him, but there was no hand to hold that chain. Not yet. Not until the one who was destroying Dakovny could complete that destruction, make it irreversible. Only then could he turn his full attention to his new slave.

  With a strength born of desperation, Von Kharkov lurched into a stumbling run, forcing those grisly scenes in distant Karg into the background, demanding that his eyes, normally far keener than those of most of his other doomed brethren, focus instead on the world that surrounded him here, the dark and narrow streets of Neblus.

  When finally his vision cleared, he was nearing the graveyard that marked the far end of the tiny village. He could even see — or imagined he could see — the crumbling stones that marked the graves of the parents he had never known.

  A sudden longing to spend a few final moments with them, to bid them one last farewell, was almost overwhelming, but he dared not pause for even a moment, no matter how much the sudden ache in his heart goaded him. His only hope — if hope indeed existed for what he had long ago become — lay in wasting not a second. Eyes were everywhere, looking out from behind every drawn shutter, riding every invisible current of air, concealed in every natural and unnatural shadow, and any of the creatures lurking behind those eyes could become a pawn of that other creature back in Karg as soon as it turned its full attention to him. Von Kharkov could only lurch on as the forlorn shadows of the graveyard slid past, the tendrils of fog that drifted among the stones a tantalizing reminder of his still-distant goal.

  Beyond the graveyard, there were no roads, no paths. Only the River Tempe cut through the shadowed landscape, and even its dank waters grew more sluggish, as if reluctant to complete their journey into —

  Into what?

  If he didn't falter, he would soon know. Less than a mile ahead lay the edge of the world — the Mists. No one knew what they were, much less what became of one who entered them. Even Dakovny and others of his ilk claimed ignorance. All that was known was that no one who had been taken in had ever been returned.

  But whatever lay within them, the Mists were Von Kharkov's only hope. He would plunge into them, not without fear but without hesitation. Whatever awaited him could be no worse than what he had endured in Darkon for more seasons than he could remember.

  The graveyard dropped behind, its grip on him weakening. Ahead, a shrouded wood seemed to half emerge from the Mists themselves, and Von Kharkov wished desperately he dared assume the form of the Beast. Its senses were far sharper, and its lithe, clawed form could cover the distance in a fraction of the time it would take his human form.

  But he dared not.

  For the Beast, if it were allowed to emerge into reality, would know nothing of Von Kharkov or his wishes. It would not — could not — struggle as Von Kharkov was struggling now with every step. It was a mindless instrument of death and little else. It had killed and fed at the whim of Von Kharkov's master, and now that Dakovny was destroyed, it would unhesitatingly serve the whim of its new master.

  If given the chance.

  Von Kharkov's ebony skin rippled in a chill of revulsion as memories of countless awakenings swept over him, countless visions of shredded flesh, countless imagined images of his own features as they regained human form through a veil of blood. If only, all those years ago, he had been able to resist the lure of —

  But you could not, Von Kharkov. You could not resist, and you did not.

  A new voice echoed in his mind, stronger than Dakovny's had ever been. He stumbled, almost falling.

  Resisting temptation was never in your nature, was it, Von Kharkov? That is why you found your way to Dakovny so quickly and submitted to his ministrations so gratefully. And look at you now, rushing headlong toward another of your illusory goals, not a worthwhile thought in your head.

  The voice laughed, sending needles of pain through Von Kharkov's mind. It seems I shall have to save you from yourself, then. After all, you are mine now. And your little machinations — you thought I didn't know? You thought you could hold your thoughts secret from not only your master but from me? That is delightful! Naive as well as impulsive and easily tempted! But as I was saying, your little machinations did give me the opportunity to eliminate an old enemy — at least eliminate him with less effort than I might otherwise have had to exert. So you see, Von Kharkov, you did me a favor, and now, in return. .

  A pair of eyes, glowing red in the darkness, swooped out of the air directly at his face, sending him reeling. Others appeared, and he could see the shadows of bodies around them, hear the high-pitched chittering. Ahead, at the line of trees that had emerged from the Mists, larger shadows began to take shape, shadows that snarled gutturally as they lumbered t
oward him across the barren plain.

  Desperately, he lurched to the side, toward the river. If he were able to throw himself into the Tempe, no matter how slowly it was running —

  The Mists and the escape they offered were obviously beyond his reach now, but the escape of oblivion might still be attainable. It would even be preferable.

  With every last ounce of his strength, Von Kharkov plunged into the water.

  Fool! the voice thundered in his mind as the water, burning like liquid fire, closed over him.

  Fool, he agreed silently as he forced himself to surrender, to simply wait as the pain burned brighter and his consciousness guttered lower even as it tortured him with visions of the Mists he had failed to reach.

  Slowly, Von Kharkov's senses returned.

  He was lying, not in the icy water of the Tempe but on ground that was solid and utterly featureless. What —

  The Mists! They were all around him!

  They had not been a figment of his pain-racked mind! They had been real! They had reached down into the water itself and swallowed him up!

  And for the first time since that terrible moment in Karg, he felt hope. Not hope that he could someday be human again — his humanity was irretrievably lost — but hope that he could at least be free, free to think and act on his own, but most of all, free of the horrors he had been forced to commit again and again, whenever Dakovny grew bored or wished for another enemy to be destroyed in retaliation for some minor misdeed, either actual or imagined.

  Surely even Dakovny's kind could not follow him here!

  And the voice —

  Von Kharkov smiled abruptly. The voice was gone. There was only silence in his mind. Only his own thoughts.

  Eagerly, he leapt to his feet and looked around.

  But there was nothing, only the Mists. He could see a few yards into them before they blotted out his vision, but that was all.

  And the silence of the world around him was as complete as the silence in his mind.

  He began to walk. But though he could see the featureless ground move beneath his feet, nothing changed. There was only the muffling whiteness of the Mists flowing by him. And the silence. Even his own footsteps were swallowed up in it. He could see his feet striking the ground, could feel them thud against it, but no sound reached his ears, ears that had once been able to catch the rustle of a single leaf as it drifted gently to mosscushioned ground.

  He ran, but even that was silent and dreamlike, and he began to wonder: Did this place have no end? Had he escaped into the Mists? Or simply been trapped by them?

  He remembered the last word the voice had spoken to him, the word his own mind had echoed! Fool. .

  A wave of dizziness swept over him, and the Mists seemed to thicken and coil more tightly around him.

  But only for an instant. As he lurched to a stop, the muffled silence suddenly evaporated, replaced by the rustling of thousands of leaves in the wind, the beating of wings overhead, the padding of a predator's feet as it stalked its prey through the underbrush —

  And the Mists were gone.

  A forest — a jungle! — surrounded him, with all its myriad scents and sounds flooding his senses.

  Scents and sounds he was certain he had never experienced before, yet were instantly and intimately familiar. The spoor of a hundred different animals conjured up a hundred different images, each as detailed as if the animal itself were standing before him. The cries and flapping wings of a hundred birds, the muffled buzz of countless insects, the fragrance of decaying vegetation drifting up from the matted jungle floor, all assaulted his senses, screaming their familiarity. For a moment, the puzzle of that familiarity gripped him, but he quickly cast it aside. It wasn't important. All that mattered was that he was free!

  Or was he?

  A new chill of fear gripped him.

  He stood perfectly still, listening not to the eerily familiar world around him but to his inner world. Ever since that long-ago night in Karg, there had not been a moment when he had been alone in his mind. The voice might not always be heard, but its potential had always been there, like a velvet cord looped about his neck, waiting to be pulled tight.

  And Dakovny's eyes. .

  They were never seen, but they were always felt. Dakovny had been a constant presence in Von Kharkov's mind, just out of range, never touchable, but always there, watching, waiting, ready to take control at any moment, to grip the velvet cord and pull it tight in an instant.

  Von Kharkov listened. With his ears and with his mind.

  And there was nothing!

  He was alone, truly alone, in his mind!

  For a long time, that was enough. Like someone who has just emerged from years in a dungeon into the open air, Von Kharkov was euphoric with the simple pleasure of freedom, of looking at what he wanted to look at, of touching what he wanted to touch, of not having to constantly fight to cloak his true thoughts, his true intentions from what he had come to see as a hated part of himself.

  Finally, more practical thoughts began to intrude.

  Where was he? Was this world, wherever it was, nothing but jungle? Were there no people? No villages? No cities?

  But the thought cheered rather than worried him. Villages and cities held only painful memories. It was Karg where he had gone to seek immortality, and where, to his everlasting regret, he had found it. It was in Karg and other cities of Darkon he had been forced to assume the form of the Beast and perform for his master, again and again.

  Here in the jungle, there would be no vampire masters. No innocent victims to be tortured and killed for his master's idle amusement. Only others like the Beast, content in their mindlessness, never knowing —

  A chill swept over him, moist and clammy, and everything was silence. It was as if every living creature within earshot had frozen, motionless, not even breathing.

  Suddenly, his every sense was hyper-alert.

  Something physically cold and damp brushed against his back.

  Silently, he spun toward the touch.

  And saw the Mists. For a fleeting instant, they swirled before him, and then they were gone.

  A woman stood rigid in their place. She was young and beautiful and as hauntingly familiar as the land itself. Hair as black as night, sleek as —

  He blinked the feline image of himself away before it could fully form. The sounds of the jungle returned.

  "What is this place?" Her voice was a feral hiss. Her eyes narrowed as they focused on his face. "Who are you, and why have you brought me here? "

  "My name is Urik von Kharkov," he said," and I did not bring you here. Beyond that, I know no more than you. And your name? "

  "Malika. "Scowling, she looked around. "This is not Cormyr."

  "Is it not? "

  "You know it is not. "Even as she spoke, he knew it was the truth. But how —

  "This Cormyr is your home?" The simple syllables felt strangely at home on his tongue.

  She nodded suspiciously. "And yours? "

  "Darkon."

  She shook her head. "That is not a land I know. How do you come to be here?"

  "The same as you, I would venture."

  "You are not here of your own volition? "

  "Not entirely. I wished to escape Darkon, but — "

  "This is useless!" she snapped. She looked around. "Where is the nearest village? "

  "There may not be any villages in this world."

  "Do not be foolish. This is not the Great Desert. It is a forest, and all forests have an end to them."

  "In your world, perhaps."

  She laughed, but with a sudden edge of fear. "What foolishness is that? There is but one world. Even for sorcerers."

  "I am no sorcerer."

  "That is unfortunate. If you were, perhaps you could conjure up a meal. I had not eaten for near half a day when I was snatched here. "She pulled in a breath. "I suppose there's nothing for it, then, but to set out. You have no suggestions regarding direction? "

/>   "None."

  She was silent a moment, then shrugged and pointed at random. "There. That is as good as any, I imagine." Abruptly, she turned and strode away.

  Before she had gone a dozen steps, a sound emerged from the dense thicket ahead of her. Not a growl, but still a sound from deep in some waiting creature's throat.

  It was a sound Von Kharkov had heard a thousand times welling up from his own throat as the change had begun and his consciousness faded.

  "Wait!" he called after her.

  A dozen yards away, she paused and turned toward him, frowning. She seemed unaware of the sound. "You remembered something?"

  Behind her, the sound grew louder, more like a growl. Even she heard it then.

  She had just turned toward the sound when the tangle of brush and vines exploded and a massive, jet-black panther emerged, its coat sleek and untouched by the underbrush it had just come through. Its green slitted eyes were tinged with red.

  "Stay still," Von Kharkov warned her.

  His own eyes locked with those of the animal. Slowly, his motions as fluid as those of the Beast, he moved toward her. She seemed as frozen in place as the animal.

  Finally he was at her side. His hand on her shoulder, he urged her to move behind him. Silently, she obeyed.

  The panther's eyes remained fixed on his as it crouched, as if preparing to leap, the growl rumbling deeper in its throat with each movement Von Kharkov made.

  He took a step forward.

  And another.

  The growl became a snarl, then a hiss. The animal slashed the air with its claws.

  A hiss emerged, unbidden, from Von Kharkov's own throat. His eyes remained locked with those of the panther, and for a moment it was as if he and the animal were linked — even more closely than he and the Beast had been. For a moment, he saw himself through the other's eyes, saw the feral snarl on his own face, almost as dark as that of the panther, his eyes even more piercing, more unblinking.