Tales of Ravenloft (ravenloft)

by David Wise

  Soth nodded. "Win and you earn your freedom. Since I have nothing left to cover your bet, I can offer you only that."

  With trembling fingers, Oliver took up the dice. They felt like cubes of black ice, drawing the warmth from his palm, numbing his fingertips. He clenched his hand, but the cold only spread to his wrist. Soth's touch had chilled the dice, he realized. Cursing, Oliver flung them away.

  "Seven," Soth said.

  Oliver could hardly believe his ears. "I won," he breathed softly, trying to convince himself of his victory. The feeling began to flow back into his hand.

  "Not yet," said the Knight of the Black Rose, reaching for the dice. "As dealer, I can kill the roll by throwing double death's-heads."

  Soth's words took Oliver unawares, like an assassin's blade in a close alley. And when he looked at the knight, the gambler saw something that finished the murder of his hopes. The leather gauntlet had slipped away from Soth's wrist. The exposed flesh — what little of it remained — hung in scabrous tatters from blackened bones. Whatever the knight was, he most certainly wasn't alive.

  Oliver knew then that any dice Lord Soth threw would turn up death's-heads. He was doomed. "No," the sharp blurted before he even realized what he'd said. "You don't get a kill roll."

  Lord Soth paused. "What? "

  "H-House rules. I own the inn, I can set whatever house rules I want. "Oliver tried to muster a more authoritative tone, but failed miserably. "You should have asked what they were before we smarted the game."

  Snarling madly, Azrael charged at Oliver. As the seneschal scrambled across the taproom, his features flowed and blurred like an image viewed through a rainsoaked pane of glass. His face elongated. His nose and mouth lengthened into a snout. Hands transformed into paws that bristled with razor-sharp black claws. Arms and legs thickened until they resembled an animal's limbs more than a man's. And all over his body, coarse fur sprouted in a thick coat. Azrael's features and the striping of his fur marked him as a terrifying admixture of dwarf and giant badger.

  Oliver managed to get his sword clear of its scabbard, but not even the sharp's battle-honed agility could bring the blade to the ready before the werebadger vaulted the dice table. Horror-struck, he stared at the mad thing leaping for his throat. A prayer flashed through his thoughts: let me bring my sword to bear before Azrael tears my heart out. At least then I might drag the creature down to death with me.

  But Azrael never reached the gambler. As he passed over the center of the table, Lord Soth upended the heavy board and dashed him from the air. The bone rail splintered against the werebadger's skull. He landed in a heap, surrounded by shattered wood and torn felt.

  "You're right," the Knight of the Black Rose said, as if the conversation with Oliver had continued uninterrupted. "I should have asked for the rules of the house before wagering."

  Soth let the dice slip from his hand onto a chair. They came up death's-heads. "You see why I use this place to lure gamblers in, Azrael. They're much more clever than the drill-dulled military-types who would covet the commission."

  The werebadger grunted and struggled to his feet. "And the gamblers you make warden live at least two or three days longer than anyone else you throw against the elves."

  Cautiously Oliver backed toward the door, but Soth stopped him with a fiery stare. "You aren't going anywhere," the knight said.

  "But the wager," Oliver began.

  "Was more than paid when I saved your life from Azrael. "Lord Soth recovered the chain of office from the ruins of the dice table. He held it up and examined it, then turned toward Tisiphone and Unthar. "The inn's charter states that, should the owner of the Iron Warden escape his duty, I am free to choose a replacement from the populace. You two will share the job. Azrael, get them ready to make the journey to Nedragaard Keep."

  Unthar opened his cavernous mouth to protest, but Tisiphone silenced him with a somber shake of her head. "There's no way to beat him," she whispered. "Not when he makes the house rules for all of Sithicus."

  As the werebadger herded the new wardens of the Iron Hills out into the night, Lord Soth faced Oliver once more. "You are confined to the inn," he said. "I will return in a few weeks — or perhaps a month — to play again for your service. Undoubtedly I will need a new warden by then."

  Soth reached out and gripped Oliver's hands tightly. The chill that had radiated from the dice was a touch of the summer sun compared to the bitter, aching cold that Oliver felt in the death knight's grasp. His hands went numb quickly, but not before needle-sharp slivers of pain sliced into his flesh and began a slow, agonizing crawl up his arms.

  "In case you have any ideas about gambling the deed away," was all Soth said before he abruptly whirled and strode from the taproom of the Iron Warden.

  Oliver guessed the meaning of the knight's obscure statement even before he fumbled the dice into his painracked hands. But he had to test it, had to know for certain what Soth had done to him.

  Wincing, the sharp spilled the dice onto a tabletop. Two death's-heads grinned up at him, just as they would each time Oliver Arkwright cast dice for the rest of his short life.

  Cold, Hard Silver

  The beautiful young woman who stood on Baratok's western slope seemed disoriented, like one but recently wakened from a long sleep. In the foothills below and to her right were barrens dotted with pits, tailings, and workers'huts, which marked the location of rich silver mines. On either side stretched outliers of the vast Tepurich Forest. Beyond, at the mountain's base, lay Wagner Lake, its waters lapping the shores near the boyar's mansion and the adjacent village, pastures, and farmholds.

  The scene ought to have gladdened her heart, for in times long past, Jezra was the Wagners'heiress. All she beheld belonged to her. But a terrible curse now forever divided her from kindred and home.

  She gazed sadly at the bleak, autumnal landscape. Snow had come early to Baratok this year; even before the last leaves fell, deep drifts had accumulated above the mines and forest. The moon, at its zenith, reflected on a stark white wilderness and illuminated Jezra's silvery tresses and strange, pale eyes.

  Bathed in pearlescent, unearthly radiance, she shivered despite her costly fur-lined cloak. Anguish contorted her exquisite face. Why was she condemned to wander endlessly through wintry weather, never knowing spring and summer? Why must she be alone and friendless? And why, no matter how warmly she was clad, was she always so cold? — as if knives of ice stabbed her to the very bone, never ceasing their brutal torture.

  Suddenly her attention was caught by a faint glimmer in the forests below. Pinpricks of light moved slowly on an angling course from south to north, heading toward the mines.

  Torches! People carrying brands to guide them in the woods!

  After a moment of wonderment, Jezra realized this was the last night the miners would spend on Mount Baratok until spring. The torches probably were borne by the workmen's families, hurrying to meet their fathers and brothers dwelling in the hillside huts. It was most unusual for Barovians to be abroad at night, but she understood a yearning to see kin after a long separation. Tomorrow, the reunited families would return to the village. There the miners would deliver the results of a season's labor — a mule train loaded with refined silver — to the boyar's stronghold. That pattern had been repeated for generations on the Wagner estates. It was one she remembered well.

  Hunger kindled in Jezra's heart, a hunger as intense as the perpetual cold afflicting her. To hear voices, to feel the touch of a hand, to know the warmth of a human presence. .

  Warmth!

  It was a long way down to the forest, but nothing would deter her from reaching her goal. Wreathed in mist and moonlight, she started to descend Mount Baratok.

  Five mercenaries and a half-breed Vistana woman climbed a narrow, twisting animal track. Towering trees, leafless silhouettes against the hazy, moonlit sky, swayed overhead. The glow of the travelers'torches cast eerie, wavering shadows, and creatures hidden in the surrounding blackne
ss cried out sharply, startlingly. A thickening mist crawled like a serpent through frostrimmed brush and deadfalls, obscuring the steep path.

  "How can he see where we are going?" one of the mercenaries said, furtively indicating the darkly hand- some giant at the head of their group.

  "Need you ask?" the youngest fighter muttered. "He sees like a wolf or a cat, thanks to that damned enchanted sword. "His tone sour, he added," and because of it he wields powers none but the gods should own."

  "Aye, but on this climb he is relying on the gypsy to guide him. And how trustworthy is she, after watching him kill her cousin? "

  "As trustworthy as the spells he uses to control her and the rest of us," the young man said with smothered rage.

  They spoke softly, but Lord Captain Hans Eckert overheard them. He halted abruptly and wheeled around. His height allowed him to loom over his men dauntingly. "Why do you chatter and drag your feet?" he demanded. "One would think we had never invaded enemy territory ere now. What has become of the boasting cutthroats I led against Teglan's forces and the maddened hordes of Dessiro? You were bold enough then."

  "This. . this is different, Cap'n," the eldest fighter said," and that was another time and place."

  For a moment, the handsome giant's expression grew remote. "Yes, another place. . "Then he focused again on his followers and growled," a place where you paid little heed to a storyteller's pratings. I told you to ignore that silly graybeard back in the tavern at the crossroads. Have we met any of the creatures he warned us about? "

  "The. . the wolf-thing that jumped us just after we started up the trail."

  "The werewolf, you mean," Hans corrected him, scornful. "The dead werewolf. You saw my sword cut him down. Gods, how the brute yowled! And were any of you harmed? Did the man-wolf even touch you? Ho! Nor will any Barovian monsters, not so long as I wield this." He lovingly caressed the weapon's silver pommel.

  Hate glittered in the black eyes of the gypsy at his side. "Warlock!" she cried. "If I could contact my people, they would warn the count of your presence here, and he would destroy you!"

  "Your people, Lisl?" Eckert's mouth curved in a cruel smile. "But half-breed gypsies have no people. The Vis- tana tribes cast them out. True? Your stupid cousin revealed that, as he did so many other useful things before I washed my sword in his blood."

  She gasped and pressed her hands to her heart. "Oh, Sebestyen, poor Sebestyen. ."

  "Best appreciate your current enslavement, or you can join him in his wretched, unmarked grave."

  "Have you no decency left, Brother?" the youngest mercenary exclaimed. "Quit tormenting her!"

  The giant's icy gaze shifted in his direction. "Ah! Lisl's chivalrous would-be protector is heard from. Still the moralist, eh, Wilm? You and she both learn slowly." Hans drew upon the enchanted weapon's power. A familiar sensation gripped Wilm and the gypsy, holding them fast while invisible whips lashed their bodies. The flogging left no marks, but the pain was very real. The three mercenaries cringed, remembering past occasions when similar punishment had been meted out to them.

  Hans laughed as his victims'limbs trembled and their eyes bulged with silent pleas for mercy. Finally, with a negligent gesture, he released the sufferers and addressed them and his hirelings sternly. "Take warning: Waste no more of my precious time. All of you — move!"

  Still shaking from her ordeal, Lisl stumbled up the path. Her master did not look back to see if his brother and the other men followed him; there was no need.

  Ruthlessness was as much a part of Captain Hans Eckert's garb as the finely Grafted wool, leather, and metal he wore. Like his men, he went well-armed, but no weapon they carried was a match for his blade. Its keen edge and sorcerous powers had cut down many a foe — most recently, a werewolf!

  As he trod close behind the gypsy, his thoughts strayed to Wilm's impotent outburst minutes ago. Foolish, idealistic Wilm! Faithful to a boyhood vow, he had been his sibling's loyal lieutenant throughout their mercenary careers. Not even profound disgust with that sibling's ever more vicious behavior had made the young man renounce the oath. And now he could not; the sword's obedience spell bound him with unseen but unbreakable chains. No matter how severe the provoca- tion or how much Wilm's conscience protested, he must never raise his hand against his master and must follow wherever Hans chose to go. .

  Or did not choose. .

  The captain's smile faded. He had built a solid reputation as a mercenary leader who did not quibble over the amount of blood spilled or whether or not his employer's cause was just. And he had amassed considerable loot and acquired influence among kings and princes who hired him.

  Then he came upon a dying mage in a castle's ruins. His vision failing, the necromancer mistook Captain Eckert for an apprentice who had been slain during the attack. With his last words, the mage entrusted Hans with an ensorceled blade and its secrets.

  The captain's first spellcasting enforced lifelong obedience on those attending him — Wilm and the three veteran mercenaries. It even protected him from assassination while he slept. Next he concealed the blade within arcane shields, lest enemy wizards steal it from him ere he had fathomed all its powers, which promised to be enormous.

  He proceeded cautiously, discovering the range of the sword's magic little by little. At each new conquest, each overthrown opponent, each new trick of the sword revealed, he grew more confident. In time, this marvelous weapon would put wealth, slaves, and perhaps a throne within his grasp, if he controlled his impatience and did not become foolhardy. And no one ever accused Hans Eckert of being a fool.

  Steadily, surely, abetted by the sword, he ascended. Shrewd, calculating, pitiless to any standing in his way, he neared the heights. Within a year, kings who once treated him as a hireling would grovel before his majesty. . And then his dreams of glory vanished in impenetrable mist.

  One moment he was about to capture an important stronghold, slaughter its inhabitants, and plunder at his leisure. The conquest would enhance his rapidly growing political strength.

  But a peculiar fog separated Hans, his three veteran fighters, and Wilm from the rest of the army. And when the mist lifted, the five found themselves in this alien realm, Barovia.

  Initially unperturbed, Hans called upon his sword to help retrace their steps. In vain! The portal between his world and this one remained hidden. Evil gods and some sorcery far greater than his blade thwarted every attempt to escape.

  How could this have happened? All his hard-won wealth and influence lay on the far side of that diabolical mist, and he could not reach them! The mercenary genius who had ensnared so many others was himself ensnared! Hans belabored the problem and brooded for days before he was forced to concede defeat.

  There seemed no way out. So. . he must adapt if he hoped to survive. This was, in effect, enemy terrain, and he must study it. Over Wilm's outraged objections to the shedding of innocent blood, Hans coerced information from isolated farm families and wayfarers and left the bodies for scavengers. He learned that Barovia harbored numerous fantastic and deadly creatures. And the mist that had trapped him was not unusual; such mists were all too common in this realm, and were rightly feared.

  The wealth and reputation that could have kept Hans and his followers sheltered and well fed lay on the far side of that infernal gate of mist.

  In the end, they stooped to robbery, always leaving evidence to imply that the thefts and murders were committed by renegade gypsies. Wilm, naturally, abhorred these despicable forays even as his brother Compelled him to participate.

  Inwardly, though, Hans, too, seethed with resentment. He was a master mercenary, a man on his way to great things. It was shameful to be reduced to common pilfering and throat slitting!

  He must escape from Barovia. If he could not return to his own world, he would seek out other realms in this one — realms ripe for the sort of conquest Captain Eckert had perfected elsewhere. Once he left Von Zarovich's fog-shrouded land, Hans could create a domain of his own. Wealt
h was the key, and for a time, he despaired of ever acquiring sufficient funds to fulfill his dreams.

  When he first met Lisl and her cousin he did not foresee the gypsy half-breeds'value to him. But tuika brandywine loosened Sebestyen's tongue. He began to boast of big plans for stealing an annual shipment of silver from the Wagner mines. Hans immediately saw the flaws in the clumsy scheme. And he saw how to correct them with the aid of his enchanted sword. The end result would be a masterpiece!

  In drunken generosity, the Vistana offered to make his new "friend" a partner. Hans, however, had no intention of sharing. Resisting the takeover, Sebestyen forfeited his life.

  Terrorized and grief-stricken, Lisl was easily bound by an obedience spell. She became an unwilling native guide to Barovia, particularly to this mountain trail. Once Hans had the treasure and was safely across the border, she would serve him in a more sensual capacity. And if Lisl failed to please, she would go the way of her cousin. Small loss; there were countless other women he could enslave.

  Sebestyen had proposed an operation worthy of Captain Eckert's talents: an entire season's output of refined silver. His palms itched at the prospect, and he lusted to hold the lovely, argent metal, the shining foundation of his future private kingdom.

  King Hans! He liked the ring of that, and soon it would be true! The path had begun to fork and divide confusingly, sometimes dwindling to nearly nothing. He held his torch high, probing the darkness, staying to the main trail with difficulty. "How much farther to the campsite?" he demanded.

  Lisl tensed at the sound of his harsh voice. "I. . I do not know."

  He seized her arm in a brutal grip. "Liar! Your cousin knew. But that map he sketched for me on the tavern's filthy tabletop was as muddled with wine as his brain. Sebestyen bragged that gypsies are familiar with every pathway in this realm. Prove it!"

  He thrust her away from him so violently that she nearly fell. The Vistana rubbed her aching arm and dabbed at her tears with the hem of her shawl as she staggered on.