Knight of the Black Rose

FOUR

The tearful keening of a violin filled the clearing and twined with the moonlight in the forest. The man playing the sad, rustic melody tapped his foot in time with his bow’s movement. Nearby, two dozen men, women, and children sat in the glow of a campfire. The small crowd swayed to the music as if they were cobras mesmerized by a serpent tamer’s flute.

Seven caravans were drawn into a semicircle around the forest camp. Ornately carved, brightly painted creatures and designs covered the large wagons, and these now served as a backdrop for the young man playing the violin. The multicolored scarf tied around his head and the similarly dyed sash girded about his thin waist blended in with the garish wagons. His tight black pants and the white shirt hanging open at his neck were in contrast to them.

As the song wound to its conclusion, the musician picked up the tempo. He played the last few bars boldly, in defiance of the piece’s somber tone. Three notes plucked, pizzicato, from the strings concluded the tune. After, all was silent in the midnight forest save the crackling campfire. The musician expected no applause, for these were his nephews, cousins, and grandparents who were listening to him play. Their thoughtful silence told Andari his music had touched them, and that meant almost as much to him as the coins that sometimes rewarded his performances for strangers.

The young man wrapped his violin in a thick, embroidered cloth, stolen yesterday from a village nearby. He took meticulous care of the instrument. It had been handed down from father to son for five generations now, and he intended to give the violin to his own eldest boy when his fingers were too cramped to play.

“No! Leave me alone!”

The woman’s shout startled Andari into dropping the precious heirloom. Had the violin not been covered by the cloth, the stone it struck may well have gouged a hole into its exterior. A small chip was the only damage the instrument sustained, yet it was enough to send Andari into a rage.

“Magda!” he shouted, cradling the wounded violin in his arms like a child.

The sound of glass shattering erupted from inside one of the wagons. “Get away from me!” Something heavy thudded against the wall of the caravan, and the door flew open. “Go back to your fat wife!”

A young woman stood framed by the lantern-lit doorway. Her raven-black hair fell in loose curls to her shoulders, and she shifted a lock of it away from her eyes with a defiant toss of her head. High cheekbones lent her expression a hard edge, despite her full, soft lips and inviting green eyes. With those eyes she cast an angry look back into the wagon as she gathered her long skirt in one hand, revealing slender legs. The way she leaped down the wagon’s three wooden stairs told of her skill as a dancer.

“Damn you, Magda,” Andari cursed. In two long-legged strides he was at the woman’s side. With one hand the musician clutched the violin to his breast, with the other he grabbed Magda’s shoulder. “Look what you’ve done! Your screeching made me drop my violin!”

A short, balding man peered from the noisy wagon. His face was pale, and drops of sweat worked their way down his forehead into his beady eyes. With a shrug, he straightened his shirt. As he did up the expensive silver buttons ornamenting the white cotton, he said, “She’s not for me, Andari, not unless I want to be murdered in my bed.”

Violently Andari shook the young woman. “I told you to be friendly to him, didn’t I?”

Magda slapped her brother across the face. The men and woman nearby paid no attention as they wandered away from the campfire toward their own wagons. They had seen similar scenes between Andari and his sister before; there was no need to interfere. “You can’t make me bed such a lout-not even for my keep,” Magda said, her voice low and taut with anger.

His shirt buttoned tightly over his sizable paunch, the balding man emerged from the caravan. “I would have paid handsomely for a wench as comely as you,” he offered. He scowled and rubbed the back of his head. “For hitting me with that bowl I ought to have the constable whip you. You’re lucky I’m an affable fellow.”

Andari smiled obsequiously. “Indeed, Herr Grest,” he purred. “Have no fear. We will see Magda is punished for her ill treatment of you.”

“Whatever,” the little man replied absently. He looked the beautiful woman up and down. Anger flushed her tan face, and her green eyes flashed like a storm at sea. Even after her insults, the boyar found those large eyes inviting. They were the kind of eyes a man could drown in…

Grest shook his head. “I could have made you a wealthy woman.” That said, he sighed and turned to Andari. “My horse, boy. I should get back to the village right away.”

The young musician’s false smile dropped. “Are you certain you do not wish your fortune told, Herr Grest? Or perhaps you would prefer the company of one of my cousins?” He eyed the purse tied to the merchant’s belt; it wasn’t often the tribe allowed strangers, who they called giorgios, into camp. To let this one escape with his purse intact would be a shame.

“Just get my horse,” Herr Grest said drily. He looked away from the semicircle of wagons into the darkened forest. “I’m a fool to be traveling at night… but I thought the journey would be worth the danger.”

“Go get the gentleman’s horse,” Magda snapped. Andari tensed to strike his sister. She dropped her hand to the wide sash that bound her waist, and he paused. Andari knew from experience that she had a dirk secreted there.

“My sister does not understand the ways of the world,” Andari noted as he turned to retrieve the boyar’s horse. He rubbed a long, white scar on the back of his hand. “Do not think we Vistani are all so naive.” The musician ran to his wagon, placed his cloth-wrapped violin on the steps, and disappeared behind the caravans.

An uncomfortable silence settled between Magda and Grest, then the young woman smiled. “There may be something I can offer you, after all,” she said coyly.

Magda walked to the family wagon and, careful to avoid touching Andari’s violin, grabbed a small burlap sack that lay near the opening. The bag’s contents jingled as she returned to the giorgio ’s side.

“There are subtle ways to make you irresistible to young girls,” she murmured, pulling a tiny pouch from the sack and holding it up for inspection. “Slip a pinch of this into a beautiful woman’s wine and she will be at your command. Of course, it does not work on we Vistani.”

Herr Grest considered the pouch. “Rubbish,” he grumbled. “Love philters are for those too old or ugly or poor to have a woman they want.”

Smiling thinly, Magda dropped the item back into the sack. Better that he didn’t buy it, the Vistani thought. Grest is the type who would hunt for the tribe once he’d discovered that the powder was only so much ground bone. “Perhaps this charm, Herr Grest. You are a brave man to travel through Barovia after sunset, but even the boldest would be well advised to carry one of these.”

She held up a long leather cord, and the silver charm at its end glittered seductively in the firelight. On the shining teardrop, a single eye was engraved, half-lidded and malevolent. “It’s a ward against the dark things that prowl these woods by night.” Magda lowered her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “Zombies, werewolves, even vampires cannot see you when you wear this.”

From the way Grest’s beady-eyed gaze locked onto the silver amulet, Magda knew that she had a prospective sale.

“How much?” the giorgio asked, his hand gliding toward his purse.

“Thirty gold.”

“Rubbish,” Grest countered. “Fifteen at the most.”

Magda shook her head, setting her raven-dark hair dancing around her face. The charm did have some power, even if she was exaggerating its strength. “I’m only offering it to you at that price because of my unfortunate rudeness before.

If you won’t pay what it’s worth, though, I-”

“Thirty it is, you charlatan.”

As the transaction was being completed, Andari returned with the horse, saddled and ready to go. Grest had snatched the silver amulet from Magda’s hand, and after dropping two handfuls of gold coins into the dirt, mounted. “I would have paid twice that for a night with you,” he said to the beautiful woman as he wheeled his horse about and headed down the narrow path leading into the forest.

As Grest’s mare reached the edge of the wood, it reared nervously, reluctant to leave the safety of the campfire. The balding man angrily kicked his heels into the horse’s flanks. “Come on, you bastard. Get moving.” The mare stared into the bushes at the clearing’s edge, its eyes wide with fright. Grest kicked it again. After pawing the ground a few times, the horse bolted forward.

A figure, even darker than the darkness in which it was hidden, shifted slightly. The death knight turned back toward the Vistani camp, resuming his watch. He had pursued the wolves through the forest for hours, over dark-watered streams and through brush as tangled as a madman’s mind. Some miles back, the monstrous guides had ceased their howling, which was replaced by the faint sound of music. Soth had followed that sweet sound here to the small camp.

At first he had assumed the gypsies gathered around the campfire to be an illusion or the human guises of the foul denizens of the Abyss. During the hour or so he had spent watching the men and women, the death knight had abandoned this notion; it seemed clear these were merely humans. Now Soth waited for someone to reveal himself as leader of the ragtag troupe-perhaps even this “Strahd” of whom the zombie had spoken. The young man named Andari obviously had some power over the others, but no one seemed to fear him. No, he was not the one who kept the tribe together.

Unaware of the glowing eyes that watched him, Andari continued to berate his sister. “You won’t steal. You won’t dance for strangers. Your stories are worth nothing to the tribe.” The young man kicked Magda in the side, and she fell to the ground. “You are lucky Grest bought that amulet or you would be sleeping in the woods tonight.”

“Magda’s fate is not for you to decide.”

The young man spun around to face the shriveled old woman who had made that terse pronouncement. “Madame Girani,” he said, color rising to his cheeks in embarrassment. “I do not presume to speak for you, but Magda-”

“Heeds my word, not yours.” Madame Girani set her cold gaze upon Andari, and her blue eyes leeched the heat from the man’s soul. Cowed, he extended a hand to his sister. “Good,” the old Vistani said as the young woman stood and brushed the dust from her skirt. “Now, what is the trouble?”

Magda moved to the old woman’s side. She placed a gentle hand on Madame Girani’s stooped shoulder. “Andari wanted me to sell myself to a wealthy boyar from the village. When I said no, he left me in the caravan alone with the pig. I had to break a crystal bowl over the man’s head to convince him to leave me alone.”

Madame Girani sighed and clutched her gnarled walking stick more tightly. “I have told you before, Andari, I have plans for your sister. The tribe is large enough to support a storyteller, and I want Magda to be the one to fill that role.”

“I only thought to gain the tribe a little more gold from a giorgio ’s fat purse,” he replied sullenly. Andari dropped to one knee and gathered up a few of the gold coins scattered in the dirt. “This is for you.”

The old Vistani woman did not reply. Instead she stared at the armored man who had appeared at the edge of the clearing; it was as if he’d materialized out of the darkness, so abrupt was his coming. As the tall man drew closer, the firelight revealed him to be a knight clad in ancient armor. The damage from many battles marred the delicate ornamentation on the breastplate, which was also blackened from the touch of intense heat. Yet those scars could not hide the beauty the armor had once possessed.

A long purple cloak hung heavily from the stranger’s shoulders and draped behind him almost to his knees. A tassel of long black hair topped his helm, which was as ancient and as ruined as the rest of his armor. Of the man himself, only his eyes shone from beneath the plate mail. He entered the camp with the haughty self-assurance of a wealthy boyar, his tread slow and confident, like the relentless progress of fall into winter.

“Welcome,” Madame Girani said. “This is the camp of my tribe, and I offer you its shelter.”

Lord Soth bowed slightly and rested a hand upon the pommel of his sword. “I accept that offer.”

Andari gawked at the stranger. At his side, Magda stiffened at Soth’s sepulchral voice. Like all Vistani, she knew that unnatural creatures stalked the forests of Barovia after sunset, and this might well be one such monster. She reached for the silver-bladed dirk hidden in her wide sash.

“He is under the protection of the master,” Madame Girani whispered, placing a bony hand on Magda’s arm. The young woman relaxed, though her eyes did not leave the death knight.

The two women, standing side-by-side as they were, appeared to Soth as age-distorted reflections of one another. Both Magda and Madame Girani were dressed in long, flowing skirts and snow-white blouses with billowing sleeves. They wore colorful sashes wrapped about their hips. Large bracelets circled their wrists, and glittering gold rings dangled from their ears. And, even though Madame Girani’s hair was silver and pulled back from her face, the death knight could see that once it had been as dark as Magda’s halo of curls.

The similarities went beyond their physical appearance. In the eyes of both Vistani women Soth saw determination and fearlessness. Whereas Andari was clearly frightened by the death knight, Magda and Girani appeared to accept him for what he was. These women know much, Soth decided, but they are not to be trusted completely.

“The night is growing chill,” Magda noted after a moment. “Come, giorgio, warm yourself at our fire.” She moved toward Soth, but the death knight held up a gauntleted hand in warning.

“I have no need of such comforts. I want only information.”

“You will have that,” Madame Girani offered as she turned her back on the death knight. With slow, deliberate steps, she made her way to a chair set close to the dying fire. “Andari, you will play for our guest. And, if we are so honored, Magda will dance.”

Andari balked at the suggestion. “Magda never dances for-”

“Of course I will,” the young woman interrupted. “Get your violin, Brother. I will dance a tale of Kulchek the Wanderer.”

With obvious dismay, the musician unwrapped his instrument and tuned the strings, running a finger mournfully over the slight damage inflicted earlier. Magda stood at Madame Girani’s side, helping her settle a fringed shawl around her thin frame. Soth remained at the clearing’s edge. When Andari appeared ready to begin, the old woman motioned to the knight. “Enjoy the dance, then we will talk.”

The death knight crossed the clearing to stand near the fire, away from Madame Girani. When Magda gestured to a chair near the old woman, Soth shook his head. “I am quite comfortable here,” he said flatly.

The song Andari chose started slowly, but it seemed to take possession of Magda from the first note. Eyes closed, she swayed to the music, her body writhing with a grace known only to the elves of Krynn. Her lips moved as if she were speaking to some unseen lover, and Soth tensed, expecting some sorcerous attack.

“She speaks some of the tale that goes with the dance,” Madame Girani offered reassuringly from across the fire. “It is long and she does not know the entire tale yet.”

As the tempo increased, the words were forgotten. The Vistani beauty whirled with greater speed and started to circle the fire. Magda’s skirt spread and swooped as she twirled, and her bracelets jangled together, adding their rhythm to the violin’s.

Despite his suspicions, the death knight found himself mesmerized by the woman’s dancing. Long ago, when he’d been alive, Soth had loved little as much as music and dance. Of course, Magda’s wild flamenco was quite unlike the stately, formal ballroom steps of which he used to be fond. Still, the fallen knight found himself missing the mortal life that had been stolen from him by his curse.

The fire flared. At its center, the flames took on the shape of a man. In one hand the man-image gripped a club, in the other a dagger. A hound of smoke was at his side. Soth’s sword had cleared its sheath before Madame Girani had a chance to say, “That is part of the storytelling, a shadow play for those who don’t wish to watch the dance.”

Magda continued to whirl, blithely unaware of the weapon in the death knight’s hand. Soth stared at the fire, watching as the man and his hound battled a giant formed from a gout of blood-red flame. It was then that Soth noticed how the shadow play mirrored the young woman’s dance. When Magda whirled faster, the combatants exchanged furious blows; they circled each other warily when her movements slowed.

The spell Magda had cast with her grace was broken when she danced too close to the knight. The unearthly cold that always radiated from Soth’s long-dead body washed over her, even through the heat of the fire, chilling her to the core. The woman did not stop her dance, but for an instant her steps were clumsy and out of time. The thread of the tale was lost. The fire engulfed the flame-born hero and his hound.

Luckily Andari finished the tune then, and Magda could hurry to Madame Girani’s side. Because Soth had been watching Magda so intently, he had not noticed the old woman studying him closely all through the dance. “Good night, children,” Madame Girani said. The other two looked surprised by the abrupt dismissal, but did not argue. Magda bowed to Lord Soth and smiled as graciously as she could-though her concern for the old Vistani was clear on her face. Andari hurried into the caravan, his precious violin in his arms.

When they were gone, Madame Girani stood stiffly and headed for a wagon at one end of the semicircle. “We will talk elsewhere,” was all she offered as an explanation to the death knight.

The caravan she entered was the largest of the tribe’s seven. The old woman had a wagon to herself; a single, small bed-no more than a pile of blankets, really-was crammed into the crowded interior. The rest of the space was filled with jars and vials of every description, some filled with powders, others with liquids. Animal skins hung from the ceiling, blocking much of the light from the single oil lantern dangling in their midst. A few books with tattered, chipped pages and greasy leather covers lay piled in one corner. Cups filled with dice, bones, and other assorted small items were scattered everywhere.

A gilt cage, large enough for a young child, stood near the Vistani’s bed. The gap between its bars was narrow, and the bars themselves sturdy. Serpents wrought of silver twined around the base, their heads merging with the bars. The cage’s top was a single bloated snake, coiled around and around until its mouth opened at the very pinnacle. Soth had seen similar cages used on Krynn to house exotic birds. The thing trapped in this one was nowhere near so mundane.

“I see you are admiring my pet,” the old woman said. She picked up a broom handle and ran it along the bars.

The creature’s squeal sounded like a pig’s, but the string of half-finished words that followed were definitely in some exotic human tongue. The thing gripped the bars with brown fingers and toes that curled completely around the metal, like a monkey’s tail around a branch, shaking the bars hard enough to make the cage dance in place. Small wings, feathered like a dove’s, beat the air in the cramped prison, then folded against the thing’s scaly body. The face it pressed into the gaps was round with fat, but it had no nose, no ears-only a single red-rimmed eye and a large, slobbering mouth.

“A wizard traded it to me long ago for some information.” Madame Girani shrugged. “I still don’t know what it is, but every now and then it murmurs things in its sleep-secrets and spells and words of power. I learned the sorcery you saw tonight, Magda’s shadow play, from its rambling.”

Again she rattled the bars, and the creature spit out a string of words that sounded hateful, even if Soth did not comprehend the language in which the thing spoke. Madame Girani chuckled at the tirade, then dropped a heavy blanket over the cage. The creature’s muffled squeals continued for a moment, then the wagon subsided into silence.

In the center of the squalor, directly under the lantern, rested a small table bracketed by two chairs. Madame Girani hobbled through the mess, deftly avoiding the bundles of clothing and packets of feathers cluttering the floor. She took a seat on one side of the table and motioned to the other chair, opposite her. “I will tell you what I can, Lord Soth of Dargaard Keep,” she said in a whisper that sounded like tearing paper.

The death knight nodded, showing no reaction to the old woman’s use of his name. He’d purposefully neglected to reveal it when he’d entered the camp; it was obvious now such precautions were futile in this strange land. “You may find sitting so close to me uncomfortable. The cold of the afterlife clings to me like a sickness.”

The old woman laughed mirthlessly. “The chill of death seeps into my old bones with every sunrise and every sunset,” she said, knitting her fingers together on the tabletop. “Your aura can do nothing to me that time has not already accomplished. Please, sit.”

Soth accepted the invitation. “The wolves in your forest are quite large,” he noted without preamble.

Madame Girani nodded. “The wolves are but half as ominous as the other creatures that prowl these woods, but little in this land could harm you, Lord Soth.”

“And what land is this?”

“The duchy of Barovia.”

“Barovia,” Soth repeated pensively. “I have never heard of this place. Is it part of Krynn? A level in the Abyss, perhaps?”

“Though I have traveled much with my tribe, I know nothing of either of those places,” the old Vistani said. “Barovia is simply… Barovia.”

The death knight fell silent as he considered the reply. Madame Girani smiled and toyed with one of her bracelets. “The Mists brought you here, did they not?” she asked after a time.

“Yes. One moment I was in my castle on Krynn, the next I was surrounded by a fog. When it receded, I was on a hill a few miles from here.”

“Were you alone?”

Secretly, Soth frowned beneath his helmet. “I am alone now. That’s all that needs concern you.”

Madame Girani took the rebuke mildly. Her smile never faltered as she sank back in her chair. “I promised to answer what questions I could, Lord Soth, but I am an old woman who needs her sleep. Is there anything else you wish to ask?”

“Who controls the Mists?”

“I do not know,” came the answer. “Some say the Mists are a mindless force, pulling people from different places and bringing them to Barovia. Others claim that there are dark powers directing the Mists.”

“Dark powers? Is Strahd one of those beings?”

The question seemed to surprise the old Vistani, Soth thought, but she did her best to conceal it. “Where did you hear that name?”

“Can’t you read minds?” the death knight asked. “You knew my name when I did not offer it to you, so why do you not know this information as well?”

Madame Girani scowled, and the folds of wrinkles on her face knitted together, almost obscuring her dark eyes. “I had my grandchild dance for you, had her call up the shadow play, to show you we are a magical people. It was easy enough to discover your name.”

Folding his arms across his armored chest, Soth repeated his earlier question. “Who is Strahd?”

“Some information comes at a high price in this land,” Madame Girani answered.

Soth slammed his fist onto the table. A pattern of fine cracks snaked across the wood like a slowly expanding spiderweb. “I do not carry gold, and I have nothing to trade with you.”

“Ah, but you do,” the old woman said slyly. “We Vistani travel a great deal. Over the centuries my people have learned that there is one universal currency: information.”

She stood, grabbed one of the worn books lying in the corner, and tossed it onto the table. It flipped open of its own accord. Two columns of cramped script marked each page. “This is a list of the true names of all mages in the faraway land of Cormyr, magical names that can be used to control those men and women. No magic-wielder in that country would dare harm a Vistani of my tribe, because I could give that true name to an enemy.”

“I will never part with any knowledge that would grant you power over me, old woman,” Soth said, brushing the book away from him. It closed with a thump as it landed on a pile of feathers.

“I would be foolish to expect you to, Lord Soth,” Girani said soothingly. She returned to her seat. “But you realize I must have something in return for what I can tell you.”

“What do you wish to know?”

Count Strahd had dispatched a vague set of orders to the Vistani camp: learn what you can of the knight, but do not anger him or reveal too much about me. The Vistani often served Strahd in such matters, and they were skilled in gathering information from unwary travelers. The undead warrior was far from unwary, however, so Madame Girani had to consider her answer carefully.

“Tell me what you will. A heroic deed you once performed. How you came to be as you are now, perhaps,” she said. “And I will relate to you what I can of Strahd.”

The death knight scanned his memory for a suitable story-one that would satisfy the Vistani but tell her nothing that could be used against him later. “In the three and a half centuries I have walked as one of the undead, I have forgotten many proud moments from my life,” he began. “But I can tell you this. I was once the bravest of the Knights of Solamnia, the most noble in the Order of the Rose. My heroic deeds were told in song throughout Krynn, from the sacred glades of Sancrist Isle to the temple of Istar’s kingpriest.

“My fall was long, and it started the day I set out from my home for a Knights’ Council in the city of Palanthas, the most beautiful city on Krynn. Along the way, my thirteen most loyal knights and I rescued a party of elven women from some brigands.”

The memory washed over Soth, and the shabby caravan faded from his sight. “I was married,” he continued, his voice sounding almost mechanical as he related the remembered events unfolding in his mind, “but my eye was drawn by the beauty of one of their number, an elfmaid named Isolde. On the long journey to Palanthas, I seduced the beautiful, innocent elf. She was to become a Revered Daughter of Paladine, a priestess of Krynn’s greatest god of Good, but I corrupted her!”

An image flickered to life in Soth’s brain: in a sunlit glade, he held Isolde close, her long, golden hair streaming over his arms, her face radiant. Though he could no longer feel the stirring of lust, the death knight was overtaken for a moment by remembered desire.

“My bonds to another,” Soth noted, “did nothing to lessen my desire for her. I offered to give up everything for Isolde-my status as a knight, my place in Solamnic society… my honor.”

“Honor was important to you?” Madame Girani asked, breaking Soth’s concentration and scattering the memories gathered before his mind’s eye.

Forcing away his annoyance at the interruption, Soth said, “One oath was sacred to all who filled the ranks of the Knights of Solamnia: Est Sularus oth Mithas. My honor is my life.”

The death knight clenched his hand into a tight fist. “I gave up my honor for Isolde,” he noted. “Before I reached Palanthas, I sent orders to my seneschal, who had remained at the keep to look after my affairs. He was to murder my wife, slit her throat in our bed, and dump her body into a chasm that lay near the castle. The deed was done. It seemed that I had solved my problems in ridding the world of my shrewish wife, but Isolde fell ill in Palanthas. She was pregnant with our son.”

Waving his hand to dismiss the matter, Soth concluded quickly. “The elven women revealed my crimes to the Knights’ Council, and they tried me as an adulterer and murderer.”

The death knight leaned forward across the table menacingly, but the old woman did not shrink back. “Now,” he said, “who is Strahd?”

“Count Strahd Von Zarovich is ruler of Barovia,” Madame Girani replied without hesitation. “His castle, called Ravenloft, stands on a mountainside. It overlooks the village of Barovia, from which the entire duchy takes its name.”

Soth nodded. “This Strahd is a powerful necromancer, is he not?”

“Strahd does not control the Mists that brought you here, if that’s what you mean,” she said. A worried look crossed the old Vistani’s face again. The death knight pressed too hard for information she was forbidden to offer. “Some say he dabbles in the arcane. He is shrouded in rumor and mystery.”

“It takes more than a dabbler to raise zombies that repeat a name and fight on after their limbs have been severed!” the death knight shouted. “I am not some naive farmhand for you to bilk with vague predictions, old woman. Tell me everything you know about Strahd!”

Overcome with fear, Madame Girani got up slowly from her chair. “The villagers call him ‘the devil Strahd,’ and he has earned that title.” Soth stood as well and took a menacing step toward her. “When Vistani pass through Barovia, they are under Strahd’s protection, so the villagers do not dare harm us,” she concluded, edging backward.

Soth’s evil laughter filled the wagon, setting the thing in the cage to squealing again. “You said before that little in this land could harm me, gypsy. If you were telling the truth, I have no reason to fear you or Strahd.”

Before the death knight could make another move, the Vistani snatched up a jeweled dagger. The death knight laughed again as she held the weapon before her. “You think to harm me with that?” he asked. He reached for the old woman.

“I told you that we are no strangers to magic, death knight. This is an enchanted blade, one ensorcelled to deal with one such as you.” Madame Girani flicked her wrist, and the dagger bit through the mail on Soth’s fingers. Though the wound was not deep, it burned as if the dagger were coated with a powerful acid. The death knight gasped at the pain, for he had not had such a feeling in many years.

Soth wasn’t foolish enough to draw his sword, for a long-bladed weapon like that would prove a disadvantage against a properly wielded knife in the close confines of the wagon. Instead, he acted swiftly, lifting up the cage and tossing its blanket aside. The thing inside shrieked and clawed at Soth’s hand; its pointed nails ran harmlessly over his armor.

Madame Girani turned for the door, but not before Soth split the cage open as if it had been made of reeds, not metal. The creature launched itself at the old Vistani, its angel’s wings unfurling, its hands and feet clutching the air before it. Futilely the old woman tried to hold the thing at bay, but it landed on her outstretched arm and scrabbled up it toward her face.

Soth reached up and pulled the lantern from its hook. “My regards to your dark powers,” he said before smashing the lantern on the floor.

Flaming oil splattered onto the feathers and cloth and paper strewn at the old woman’s feet, igniting them all. The blaze leaped from one stack of baubles to the next. Still struggling with the thing as it tore at her shoulder, Madame Girani managed to scream out one final curse.

“A pox upon you, Soth of Dargaard Keep! You will never return to Krynn again, though your home will always be in view!”

The thing raked one of its brown-fingered hands over the woman’s face then, leaving bloody ribbons of flesh in its wake. It opened its mouth wide, and its single eye rolled back in its head as its teeth sank into her throat. A sheet of fire obscured Madame Girani from Soth for a moment, then a horrible shriek filled the wagon. The stench of charred flesh was added to the foul smell of scorched animal skins and burning wood. Soth turned and kicked the caravan’s door from its hinges. The rush of night air fanned the flames, and the death knight left the wagon surrounded by a cloud of thick black smoke.

“Fire!” someone shouted. “Everyone awake.”

“Help us here!” came another voice. “I heard Madame Girani scream.”

The tribesmen had left their beds and were now rushing around the campsite, gathering water to put out the blaze. They heard the screams coming from the wagon and saw Lord Soth walk from the inferno. The death knight was untouched by the flames. When ashes landed on his cloak or his helm, they cooled instantly. When a cloud of thick, choking smoke covered him, he passed through it as if it were a gentle spring breeze.

“He’s murdered her,” someone whispered, though no one dared move toward him.

The Vistani stood, clutching buckets of water, faces paralyzed in expressions of terror. This man with the glowing orange eyes had to be a messenger from Strahd. Perhaps he served the shadowy powers of evil that ruled over all, even the count himself. That thought sent most of the Vistani fleeing into the forest.

There were others, younger and not so superstitious, who saw Soth as nothing more or less than a giorgio who had possessed the nerve to attack one of their own. Two of these, boys no more than fifteen winters old, rushed at the armored man. The unwritten code of the Vistani demanded revenge upon the stranger, and these boys took up the charge with all the unthinking enthusiasm of youth.

One wielded a long sword, the other a dagger. Both appeared to be skilled fighters, but the death knight could see that anger and fear had made them reckless. With little effort, he drew his sword and dispatched the two. Their blood ran into the dirt, coloring it red.

The death knight stood with the caravan at his back, his sword resting in his left hand, point down before him. The flames licking hungrily at the wagon cast a wild, dancing shadow of Soth across the bodies at his feet and over the entire clearing. A small explosion rocked the camp as Girani’s jars and vials of exotic spell components fell to the blaze. The caravan’s roof, already burning, shattered into a thousand fragments and blew across the clearing. The few Vistani who had not fled were tossing buckets of water on most of the smaller fires ignited by the fragments, but the wagon nearest the old woman’s soon burned steadily, too.

From the screaming children and panicked adults left in camp only one other person dared to near Soth. Magda, the beautiful dancer, rushed across the clearing toward the conflagration. “Madame Girani!” she cried, tears streaming down her cheeks.

Soth grabbed the young woman as she tried to pass. The unearthly cold from his hand raised blue welts on her thin wrist. “She is dead,” he told her.

Magda stood rigid with fear and pain. She tried to pull away from the death knight, but found his grip like an iron vise. Falling to her knees next to the corpses of her tribesmen, the young woman looked out at the remaining Vistani as they fled into the forest. Her brother, Andari, paused at the clearing’s edge and met her gaze. Unashamed at his cowardice, he turned away and ran, his violin clutched to his chest.

The death knight scanned the clearing. The Vistani had all scattered into the night, and only the crackle of the fires and the quiet sobbing of the young woman at his feet broke the silence. Loosening his grip on her wrist, he said, “Your name is Magda, is it not?”

Without waiting for a reply, Soth continued. “You seem an intelligent woman, Magda, so do not think to lie to me or try to escape.” He released her wrist and sheathed his sword. Rubbing her wrist, Magda did not look up at her captor.

“Madame Girani said your tribe has traveled throughout Barovia, so I think I will make you my guide,” the death knight said at last. “Castle Ravenloft is the first place we will visit. Take me there.”