Knight of the Black Rose

by James Lowder

  The count paced a few steps from Soth, then straightened the cuff of his shirt. “Caradoc fled the castle and is heading for the portal to Gundarak. Perhaps he is hoping to gain Gundar’s aid against you, but I suspect the good duke fears you enough that he would never harbor someone you seek.”

  “Then he intends to find the Misty Border,” Soth concluded. “He hopes the mists will deposit him somewhere far from me. And if I follow him…”

  Strahd nodded. “As I explained to you before you left for Gundarak, Lord Soth, any creature of darkness takes a great risk by entering the Misty Border. If he is powerful enough, a new duchy forms around him, trapping him there forever.”

  Soth did not hesitate. “Free Azrael,” he said. “We must be on our way.”

  The count did as the death knight requested, but the instant the dwarf was free of the enchantment, he flew to Soth’s side. “Mighty lord, I could hear what was being said. This is a trap. Strahd is hoping you get caught in the Misty Border.”

  “Of course,” Soth replied. “Where else would Caradoc have heard about the portal or the Misty Border?” He turned to the count. “I assume you have cut a deal with Gundar to keep the way clear for us from Castle Hunadora to the border?”

  A smile on his lips, Strahd bowed. “Just so, Lord Soth. You are most perceptive.”

  Azrael was stunned. Instead of a bloody battle, the conflict between the death knight and the vampire had become a chillingly polite exchange of words.

  “Go to the portal in Vallaki,” the count said to the dwarf. “You will find the ghost’s trail there. I’m certain you will be able to track him.”

  Without another word, Soth headed back up the road, along the circuitous route he had taken from the fishing village. Azrael hurried after him. The dwarf stole a look at Strahd over his shoulder just before he rounded a bend and trees blocked his view of the castle; the count stood bathed in moonlight, his arms folded over his chest.

  “Do not worry, Azrael,” Soth said coldly as they hurried through the night. “We will deal with the ghost now since he may elude us if we delay too long. Strahd has no such road for escape; he is trapped in Barovia forever, and even if it takes a thousand years, I will make him pay.”

  In the clearing before Castle Ravenloft, Strahd’s own thoughts mirrored the death knight’s. He knew Caradoc had provided him with a way to turn aside Soth’s anger, but only for a little while. Sooner or later, the death knight would return to seek his revenge.

  As he crossed the bridge to the keep, Strahd noted with some satisfaction that he had discovered much about Soth from the story of his doom. The fallen knight was a being of great passion, with a damning concern for loyalty. He had abandoned a gods-given quest to punish a wife he feared unfaithful; why shouldn’t he forego an escape from the netherworld to destroy a faithless servant?

  Yes, Strahd decided as he passed into the crumbling halls of Castle Ravenloft, a man’s form may change, but his heart remains the same forever—whether it beats in his chest or not.

  • • •

  The sun hung poised on the horizon, a huge red disc against a darkening sky. It was a guidepost by which Caradoc found his way southeast from Castle Hunadora toward the Misty Border. Strahd had told him that the border offered the only chance he had to escape Lord Soth. The ghost didn’t trust the count, but he had no choice in this matter. If Strahd was lying, he was doomed. If not, he just might avoid the death knight’s wrath.

  Caradoc didn’t need to look over his shoulder to know that Soth and Azrael were close behind him. He’d passed through the portal to Gundar’s keep, then through the tent village outside Hunadora, but the death knight had stayed on his trail. For days—he’d lost track of how many—he had plunged through endless miles of mountainous forest. No matter how fast he moved, the death knight and the werecreature kept pace with him. And in the last few hours, they’d come close to capturing him several times.

  Something snarled to the ghost’s left, and he glanced into the ravine that had been parallel to his path since noon. Things were moving in the caves that dotted the gorge, things that watched him with four pairs of small, bright eyes.

  “If you want some solid food,” he shouted into the ravine, “there is a dwarf and a dead man following me.”

  The creatures blinked, then disappeared into their various dens. It was worth a try, the ghost told himself.

  “Your desperation is pitiful,” said a hollow voice from behind Caradoc. The ghost spun around to see Soth emerge from the shadow of a boulder a hundred yards back. His unblinking orange eyes flickered ominously in the growing twilight. “Stop now, and I will destroy you quickly.”

  The death knight stepped into the boulder’s shadow again and vanished, but Caradoc didn’t wait to see where he would come out. Swiftly he dropped into the ground, sliding easily into the hard-packed earth. He had evaded the death knight this way many times in the last few hours. It was only useful as an emergency escape measure, though. Caradoc could see nothing beneath the ground, so he lost his way each time he hid there.

  After a while, the ghost surfaced. Cautiously he poked his head up and surveyed the area from inside a fallen tree. Cursing and prodding the ground with his sword, the death knight was hunting for Caradoc in the spot where he had disappeared into the earth. The ghost smiled with relief; he had lost his pursuer again, at least for a little white.

  “There you are, you coward,” a voice said, and a mace passed harmlessly through the ghost’s head. He looked up to see Azrael standing over him, ready to strike again.

  Attacks with mundane weapons had no effect upon the ghost’s noncorporeal form, but Caradoc knew that he could harm a mortal creature, even an unnatural one like Azrael. Before the dwarf could shout an alarm to Lord Soth, the ghost shot from the ground. He rushed past Azrael, raking his ethereal hands through the dwarf's face as he went. The pain was so great that it made Azrael collapse to his knees, gasping and unable to cry out. The ghost’s touch had left the chill of the grave upon him. His face and skull ached as if he’d been stabbed with ten barbed daggers, and the newly grown stubble of his sideburns and mustache turned as white as newly failed snow.

  The dwarf's agony bought Caradoc some much-needed time. Without the werecreature’s tracking ability, the death knight could not follow the ghost’s trail as quickly. Moreover, clouds were beginning to roll in. With luck, they would blanket the moon. Without that orb’s light, there would be no shadows Soth could use for travel. He would be slowed to his walking pace.

  The sun sank in the west, and the velvet darkness of night replaced the muted colors of twilight. A cavern in the gorge belched forth a thousand bats. The little rodents fell screeching through the air, hunting for their sustenance. Caradoc envied the creatures their freedom as they darted overhead through the cloud-choked sky.

  Without the sun or moon to guide him, the ghost found himself slowing his pace, too. Even if he had been able to see the constellations through the clouds, he wasn’t familiar enough with Gundarak’s stars to navigate by them. Fear tugged at his mind, filling his thoughts with wild imaginings. Each tree seemed capable of hiding Soth or Azrael. Each sound in the darkness—the distant yowl of a night-hunting cat, the hiss of leaves rustling in the cool air, the babbling of the river that ran at the ravine’s bottom—seemed to warn Caradoc of the doom awaiting him at the death knight’s hands.

  And so it went through the long night. Caradoc kept the ravine to his left as he hurried on. At first he traveled close to the edge of the gorge, but a gnarled branch thrust up from the slope looked so much like a hand reaching up to grab him that he chose to move farther into the woods. Perhaps the branch was a warning, he told himself, suddenly convinced that the land itself was pointing out ways in which Soth could lay an ambush.

  Like the clouds blotting out the moonlight, Caradoc’s fear choked off his senses and muddled his thinking. So many things in the night terrified the ghost that his mind began to turn on itself, blocking out the su
dden noises of animals on the prowl or wind through the trees. Soon only the void that awaited undead creatures who were destroyed yawned horribly in his mind. The sights and smells of the forest around him paled before this apocalyptic sight.

  Caradoc didn’t notice when the first bands of pale blue and gold appeared on the eastern horizon, the harbingers of the dawn. Nor did he notice the thin fog that clung to the ground beneath his feet as he raced blindly through a copse of pine. Even if he had seen the fog, he probably would not have realized that he had finally reached the outskirts of the Misty Border. As the sun pushed its way into the sky and shadows began to fall around the trees, Caradoc knew only one thing: he had to keep running, because the death knight was behind him.

  He was wrong.

  From the shadow of a gnarled pine in front of the ghost, a gauntleted hand appeared. The ice-cold fingers reached for Caradoc’s throat but only caught him by the hair. “I have you at last,” Soth rumbled.

  The death knight stepped fully from the shadows and lifted Caradoc from the ground by the hair. The pain and the shock snapped the ghost from his numbness, but there was little he could do. Viciously Soth slapped him across the face with the back of his hand, then twice more. “The sun will set again before I am done with you,” the death knight said.

  “Mighty lord!” Azrael shouted, rushing through the trees. “The mists are rising!”

  The dwarf was correct. In the growing light of the new day, swirls of white fog curled around the tree trunks like huge snakes. Smaller tendrils of the stuff wound around Soth’s legs, almost to his knees. The fog covered the shadows and muted the daylight.

  “Quickly,” Azrael said. “Kill him! We might still escape from here!” There was panic in the dwarf's voice, and not just from the threat of the Misty Border. He could see himself in the ghost’s place.

  Caradoc struggled against Soth’s grip, but the death knight clamped his other hand around the ghost’s throat. His orange eyes flickered as he tightened his grip.

  “You will… never… have… Kitiara,” the ghost managed to gasp through the pain.

  Soth laughed. “You are hardly in a position to deny me anything, traitor.”

  The doomed ghost did not, could not, hope for a better afterlife, but in the instant before he died for a second time, Caradoc saw the mist rising up around Lord Soth. He knew then that revenge had cost the death knight everything. It was enough.

  The mist billowed around the death knight in the same instant Caradoc died, his body slipping through Soth’s fingers like fine sand. As it had in Dargaard Keep, the mist filled Soth’s world, blinding him and deafening him. The sun, Azrael, the copse of trees—all were blotted out, as if they’d never really been there at all. For the briefest moment, he dared to hope that the mist would clear and he would find himself back on Krynn, in the burned-out throne room of Dargaard Keep.

  A figure appeared in the fog. He was clad from head to toe in shining armor patterned with roses and kingfishers, the symbols of the Order of the Rose. A sash, a token from the woman he championed, girded his waist. The sash was the blue of a clear spring sky, and it matched the color of the eyes that gazed out of his helmet.

  Soth tensed at the sight of the knight. The man moved with an easy, confident step, which told the death knight he faced a seasoned warrior. Only one used to the battlefield could move gracefully in heavy plate armor. Yet hope also flared to life in Soth’s mind; the presence of a knight of the Order meant he had found his way to Krynn!

  “Follow me,” the knight said, his voice clear and steady and full of resolve. “I have come to rescue you.” He turned and strode into the mist.

  Soth followed but took only a few steps before the blanket of fog lifted. He and the silver-clad knight stood next to a busy road. The broad way passed through the thriving tent city that sprawled outside the walls of a castle. Hundreds of knights and priests and merchants bustled toward the keep, and its open drawbridge and gates welcomed them all. The keep was wrought from rose-red stone, its main tower ending in a twisted cap much like an unopened rosebud. Pennants of blue and gold and white fluttered in the wind, and the sound of music and laughter came to Soth’s ears.

  “Dargaard Keep!” the death knight said. His mind reeled at the sight of his ancient home.

  The mysterious knight stepped forward. “Yes, Soth,” he said happily. “While Dargaard was never like this, it could be, You can make it so.”

  A woman came to the knight’s side then. She was thin, with the graceful step of an elf. Her long golden hair hung loose, cascading over her shoulders like warm sunlight. A veil concealed her face, but her eyes shone with beauty and serenity. “My lord,” she said, bowing slightly.

  The silver-clad knight removed his helmet so that he could kiss the woman, and Soth gasped. The face was his own, as it had been long, long ago. His golden curls framed his features like a halo, and his mustache was neatly trimmed. His blue eyes shone with wisdom and peace, things Soth had lost many years before his death. Those eyes bored into the death knight like a cold spike as he pulled the veil away from his wife’s face and kissed her.

  Isolde! The elfmaid, too, was as she had been before the siege, before the Cataclysm. As she embraced her husband, a smile of joy lit up her face.

  The death knight drew his sword. “What sorcery is this?”

  “No sorcery at all,” Isolde said kindly. “This is a world where you completed the quest given you by the Father of Good. And since you saved Krynn from the wrath of the gods, these people—” she spread her arms wide in a gesture that encompassed Dargaard and the tent city “—have come to our home to share in your glory. Many in Ansalon honor you as the greatest of the Knights of Solamnia. Some say you will outshine Huma Dragonbane in your lifetime.”

  “Bah,” Soth rumbled. “This is all just an illusion, and a poor one at that. Paladine told me that I would have to sacrifice my life to stop the kingpriest.” Yet something in the scene spread before him called to Soth, kindled long-abandoned speculations within his mind. He had been a great knight once, capable of any feat. If the gods presented another chance…

  Isolde smiled sweetly at him. “Yes, Soth. The gods of Good are forgiving. To have this, to have me again, all you need to do is kneel before your new home and swear to protect it.”

  “Prove you are worthy of your new palace,” the mortal Soth said. “Bow down to the gods of Good.”

  The demand stirred a wave of anger in the death knight’s mind, a black wave that washed over the budding hopes for a new life and drowned them. “I bow before no one,” he replied. He stepped toward Isolde. “Is this some test, woman? Some part of the curse you leveled against me that is coming to pass only now?”

  The elfmaid shrank back from the death knight, but contempt, not fear, colored her features. “You have always said that your damnation is your own doing, Soth. This is no different.”

  A feral smile crossed the dead man’s lips. “You are correct, of course.”

  He lashed out, and his sword went deep into Isolde’s shoulder, splashing a gout of blood across her white dress. She cried out in a voice like a newborn’s as she crumpled to the ground. “And your doom has always been your own doing, fair Isolde.”

  A bright blade clashed against the death knight’s bloodstained one. Soth looked up at himself; the noble knight’s face was twisted in righteous fury. “Pray that she still lives, fallen one. If you kill in this place, you are damned forever.”

  The two exchanged blows, but neither dealt his opponent a wound. Their swords clanged and sparked as they met between the evenly matched foes. All the while, Isolde’s blood soaked the ground beneath her still form. The crowd stopped on the road and pointed, their faces masked with horror. The passing knights drew their weapons, but they could not interfere; such was the way of the Order. A few women moved tentatively forward to tend to Isolde’s wounds, but they were driven back by the fury of the conflict.

  At last one young knight did rush forward,
having just come upon the battle. “Mother!” the youth cried, tears streaming down his face.

  Peradur, the son of Soth and Isolde, was fair of skin, with hair so blond that it was almost white. A look of piety and resolve made his features appear hard for one who’d lived only sixteen years, but his eyes reflected the goodness of his heart. Like his father, the boy wore the armor of a Knight of Solamnia. The metal was painted pure white, and holy symbols of the gods of Good were its only decorations.

  Trembling, Peradur removed his gauntlets and laid his hands over his mother’s wound. A faint glow radiated from the youth’s fingers as he cast his tearing eyes to the heavens. The bloody wound closed beneath his touch, and his mother slumped into a healing sleep.

  The death knight and his foe came together, so close that the dead man could smell the warm breath of the other through the slits in his helmet. The mortal Soth drew his mouth into a hard line and said, “You still have a chance, fallen one. Lay down your sword.”

  The death knight shoved his foe away and looked from the distorted reflection of himself to the youth—his son. Their armor was perfectly kept, their swords glinting like razors in the sunlight. Just as he radiated the chill of undeath, the cold of the Abyss, they were cloaked in an invisible aura of vitality and strength. They were models of knightly virtue, men whose goodness shone in their faces and their deeds.

  He hated them with all his unbeating heart.

  With a cry of anger, the death knight grabbed his opponent’s sword with his free hand. The blade squealed against his metal gauntlet, but he only tightened his grip on it. With strength no mortal knight could match, he wrenched the blade from his foe and tossed it aside.

  Instead of diving for the sword, the silver-clad knight got down on his knees before the death knight. He looked up at him with hope-filled eyes. “You have bested me in combat,” he said. “I will name you the victor if you bow down and give thanks for your power.”

  Though he knew this was all some sort of test, some way for the keepers of the Misty Border to decide if he was worthy of a domain, Soth never considered heeding the words of his goodly reflection. Instead, he raised his hand and uttered a word of magic that would surely end the conflict.