Knight of the Black Rose

FIVE

Magda stumbled over a twisted branch hidden by the half-light of dawn and dropped to her knees. After five hours of walking through the tangled forest, she was exhausted. “Please,” she begged, “let me rest. We’ve been walking all night.”

“Get up,” came the reply from behind her. The voice was emotionless.

The young Vistani rubbed her eyes, then struggled to her feet. She looked down at the holes torn into her skirt, the patches of grime splattered onto her white blouse. Her leather shoes were wet from crossing a stream, and deep scratches crisscrossed her legs from passing through thorny bushes. She’d lost all her gold bracelets hours ago. “We can meet up with the Svalich Road near here,” she said hopefully, straightening the small burlap sack tied to her waist. “The going won’t be so hard then.”

Soth did not consider the comment before he replied. “We keep to the forest. The roads in most lands are patrolled, and I do not wish the count to know I am coming.” He extended a hand toward the woman. In another place the same gesture might have been seen as one of support. Magda knew it was a threat: Walk or I will burn you again with the frost of undeath.

Magda did more than walk. She ran.

As fast as her cramped legs could carry her, the young woman raced through the trees. Thin branches whipped her face and arms, and vines seemed to curl purposefully around her ankles. Her breath came in heavy, wheezing gasps after a time, but she did not slow her pace. The road is ahead, she told herself over and over. Reach the road and you might escape him.

Magda dared not glance back, for she was certain the dead man was right behind her, reaching out with his freezing hands. Her pulse thundered in her ears, blocking out the sounds of her own feet stumbling through dead leaves and clinging brambles. Yet no hand closed on her shoulder, no blade pierced her back. Magda dared to hope that she, unencumbered as she was, had escaped her armored captor.

Through a gap in a stand of fir trees, she could see the broad Svalich Road. The rising sun broke through the forest in places, casting long shadows everywhere, and it was through these alternating patches of darkness and light that the young woman now raced. I’m free! she shouted silently. Safe!

Two orange eyes flickered from the pitch-dark shadow of the firs. Magda screamed and slid to a stop. Her muscles taut after the long march and the sudden, frantic run, she tumbled. Ignoring the pain from a wrenched shoulder, she got to her feet and ran again.

She couldn’t tell if she was nearing the road or not. That didn’t matter any longer. Somehow the dead man had gotten ahead of her, between her and the road. Just keep running, she told herself. He can’t keep up with you forever.

Directly in front of the woman. Lord Soth emerged from the shadow of a large, moss-covered boulder. Magda fell to the ground at his feet, wheezing and sobbing. “It is good that we have this out of the way,” the death knight said in a calm voice. “Now that you know escape is impossible, we can continue.”

Sadness in her green eyes, Magda struggled to her feet and resumed the march.

The death knight had stayed in the Vistani camp only long enough for the woman to wrap her frostbitten wrist in strips torn from her skirt and collect a few things from her wagon. He’d not even allowed Magda time to say a simple prayer over the ruin of Madame Girani’s caravan.

For the first few hours, it had all seemed like a terrible nightmare to Magda. She often hoped that she might awaken in her bed, Andari snoring loudly nearby, and find it so. The distant howling of wolves or the grunt of something more sinister and much closer in the dark always brought her back to reality. Then she would turn to see the dead man walking behind her, his orange eyes glowing like will-o’-the-wisps. His heavy boots made no sound as he walked through the undergrowth, and he rarely spoke. Still, by dawn it had become clear to the young woman that Lord Soth did not intend to kill her-at least not until they reached Castle Ravenloft.

The idea of seeking out the home of Count Strahd Von Zarovich frightened Magda almost as much as Soth himself. Rumors of the bloody crimes inflicted upon unwelcome visitors by the devil Strahd circulated freely in the duchy, and Magda herself had seen the ghastly remains of two such hapless victims on display in the village of Barovia. They had been would-be adventurers, thieves who had attempted to sneak into the castle after dark. Hope for quick riches had blinded their common sense, and Strahd had presented them to the other villagers as an example of his justice.

The young Vistani shuddered now at that memory of the bloodless, decapitated corpses dumped in the village square. To dispel the grisly images she tried to focus on the bird song trilling through the forest around her, the bright slants of sunlight breaking through the canopy. It was to no avail. The memory of the dead men pushed to the forefront of her thoughts.

But Madame Girani had said that Soth was under Strahd’s protection, Magda remembered with a start. Perhaps the count wished them to arrive at the castle safely. That thought kept hope alive in the young woman for the next few hours.

The sun was almost directly overhead when three riders charged along Svalich Road, their horses kicking up chunks of packed earth. They led a fourth horse behind them, a man slung over its saddle. The road was far enough away that neither Soth nor Magda could make out any detail of the riders, but similar groups of mounted men, as well as lone farmers with wagons full of supplies, had become a more frequent sight in the last hour.

“We must be nearing the village,” Soth said once the riders had passed. “If we continue at this pace, when will we arrive there?”

Magda looked around. She noted that the road was beginning a steady curve to the southwest; the village and Castle Ravenloft were little more than four miles away. “Midafternoon,” she answered, “but only if we press on at the same rate.”

After considering that for a moment, the death knight ordered Magda to sit. “That is too soon,” he noted. “I wish to reach the castle well after dark. It will be easier to breach its defenses then.”

The stories told by the natives of Barovia made it clear that, day or night, Castle Ravenloft seldom welcomed guests. And the hulking stone fortress had a more sinister defense than walls or thick doors-if the local rumors were to be believed. Still, Lord Soth was more than a sneak-thief intent on pilfering a few of the count’s treasures.

“You may sleep,” the death knight said, though it was more of a command than an offer.

Magda studied the wounds Soth had caused by grabbing her wrist at the camp; the frostbitten welts were still sore, but healing. Her shoulder was feeling better, too. The grueling march had taken a much worse toll on her feet, however. After examining the blisters and scrapes covering her heels and toes, the Vistani took out her silver dirk and shredded part of her sash into bandages. Pausing in that task, she glanced at Soth. He stood a few yards away, his arms folded over his chest. “Aren’t you going to sit?”

“I need no rest,” Soth answered shortly.

“ ‘The living tire easily, but the dead never sleep,’ ” she murmured, reciting part of an old Vistani saying. She wrapped her feet, tied the remainder of her sash around her waist, then leaned back against the tree. “What do you want with the count, dead one?”

“Do not be coy with me, girl,” the death knight rumbled. “I am Lord Soth of Dargaard Keep. If you must address me, use my title.”

Magda had not intended to be disrespectful, but exhaustion had made her forget her fear momentarily. “Forgive me, Lord Soth,” she said, her voice betraying no hint of anxiety.

The silence that followed was full of tension. “You Vistani are a bold lot,” Soth said at last. “You must have great faith in Strahd. Do you think he can protect you from me if I decide to kill you?”

For a horrifying moment Magda wondered if the dead man could read her thoughts. All Vistani-not only those of Madame Girani’s tribe-served as Strahd’s eyes and ears in Barovia, as well as the duchies that bordered it. In return for this service Strahd granted them freedom of movement in and out of his domain. “Why do you think I am a servant of the count?” she asked nervously.

“Your mentor warned me the Vistani were under Strahd’s protection,” Soth replied. He waved his hand, dismissing the matter. “What happened in the camp should prove how tittle that means.”

The young woman met Soth’s gaze directly for the first time. “Strahd has great power, but so do the Vistani-after a fashion. There are many Vistani tribes in Barovia and the duchies nearby, and word of your crimes against my people will spread to them all.”

“Bah!” the death knight snapped. “Your gypsy brethren can do nothing to harm me.”

Magda settled back against the tree and closed her eyes. “There are dark powers greater than you, greater even than Strahd, who listen to the pleas of the Vistani and make our curses come to pass.” She rolled onto her side, her back to her captor. “Even Strahd respects the Vistani, Lord Soth. There is no shame in that.”

Anger was the death knight’s first reaction, but as he considered Magda’s words he realized that they were merely a statement of rote belief by a tired, beleaguered woman. As Soth stood over the Vistani, watching the dark-haired beauty drift off to sleep, he found himself comparing her to Kitiara. The same fierce desire to survive burned in both women. The highlord had courage the Vistani lacked, though. She would never have submitted to the march the way Magda did. Perhaps the young gypsy was biding her time. Perhaps she possessed greater patience than Kitiara could have hoped to muster…

Thoughts of Magda and Kitiara turned to thoughts of Caradoc. Soth wondered where his traitorous seneschal had hidden himself, where in Barovia he would seek asylum-for the ghost must have known his master would succeed in killing him when next they met.

“There is no one powerful enough to shield you,” the death knight vowed. “And once I am certain you have been destroyed, I will escape this hellish place and resurrect my Kitiara.”

The Svalich Road emptied of travelers well before sundown, and not a single rider traversed it after dark. Soth woke Magda when daylight started to fade. “It is time,” was all he needed to say for the Vistani to hurry to her feet. As she trudged along, Magda ate the last of the food she had managed to gather before leaving the ruined camp. Even though a river crawled within a few hundred yards to the south, Soth did not allow her to get any water to drink with the crusty bread.

The land rose and fell dramatically as they crossed the last few miles to the village of Barovia and Castle Ravenloft, and the road was forced to twist and turn around huge outcroppings of granite. Overhead, a large flock of bats dove haphazardly through the air. The soft flutter of their wings in the cloud-covered sky heralded the coming of night.

“They’re a bad omen,” Magda said, making an arcane sign over her heart.

Soth felt a twinge of… something when the woman performed the superstitious gesture. Perhaps the ritual had once been part of a spell intended to protect the caster from evil, he decided. As Madam Girani had said, the Vistani were no strangers to magic.

At last they reached the top of the final rise. Below them lay a valley, a small village huddled in its embrace. In the lessening sunlight, the place looked grim and uninviting.

The Svalich Road passed through Barovia’s center, bisecting the tiny collection of two- and three-story buildings. A squat, dilapidated mansion stood just outside town, and a sagging church of stone and wood, its bell tower shattered, rested away from the village to the north. Forest pushed in on the houses and fields from all sides, and the river that earlier had come so close to the road now bordered Barovia to the south. Both the road and the river continued to the west. The river formed a large pool before snaking into high, craggy hills. The road led to a castle that crouched on a massive spire of rock overlooking the village.

“Castle Ravenloft,” Magda whispered. She wrapped her arms around herself, but Soth was unsure whether she did so to stave off the chill night air or because of the sight of the ancient, brooding fortress.

It wasn’t only the castle that drew Soth’s attention as he looked out over the valley. In a band several hundred feet wide, a ring of fog circled both Barovia and Castle Ravenloft like a protective wall. “More fog,” he hissed. “So Strahd is the one who brought me here from Krynn.”

“No,” Magda said. “The ring of fog is a defensive barrier for the village and the castle. Strahd uses it to detect and control who enters or leaves the area.” She rummaged in her sack and withdrew a stoppered glass vial. A thick purple liquid filled the small container.

After drinking the bitter fluid, she continued. “The fog is a powerful poison. If you do not drink an antidote-one only we Vistani have permission to create-the poison works into your lungs and your heart. Then, if you try to leave the village without Strahd’s permission…” The Vistani let the sentence trail off.

“It is fortunate I do not breathe,” Soth said as he started toward the barrier.

Magda hurried after the death knight. When they reached the edge of the fog, Soth hesitated. “Tie your sash around your wrist-tightly.” When Magda did not jump to the task, he added, “If you do not, I will be forced to hold your arm as we pass through the fog.”

The death knight had to say little more. Soth took the other end of the cloth and said, “Keep this tight between us. If I feel it loosen while we are in the fog, I will grab you by the throat and hold you that way until we are in the village.”

They emerged from the fog to the north of the village and kept to the trees as they made their way toward the high, steep hill that held the castle. Just as the sun was tossing its last feeble rays over the mountains to the west, Soth and Magda heard voices close at hand.

“Hurry!” someone shouted, panic making his voice shrill. “The light is almost gone!”

“Get the rope over that branch!”

The death knight moved silently through the trees, Magda at his side. At the forest’s edge, near the sagging church Soth had observed from the rise, a group of ten stout men milled. One tried time and again to toss a rope over a high, sturdy branch of a gnarled tree that stood in front of the abandoned building. Most of the men had dark hair and dark eyes, and sported long, drooping mustaches; Soth himself had worn a mustache like that once, as did all the Knights of Solamnia on Krynn. Their rough wool vests and heavily accented speech marked these men as rustics, however, not noble-born warriors.

“Give me that,” one of the villagers snapped, taking the rope from his compatriot. This man, unlike the others, had blond hair and blue eyes. He was also clean-shaven, and, instead of heavy work clothes, wore long red robes faded with age and in a size too small for his bulk. He held the rope in his pudgy fingers and looped it over the branch with a single throw.

Hidden in the trees, Magda closed her eyes. “A hanging,” she murmured. “Probably someone caught stealing from a boyar.”

The men had turned expectantly toward the village. Being near the forest as the sun set obviously upset them, for they continually glanced into the woods. Gloaming had not yet turned to full night when a man mounted upon a spirited chestnut gelding charged up the dirt and cobblestone road leading from the main cluster of buildings. A small figure was tied behind the horse, and he bounced and rolled painfully.

“At last!” one of the villagers cried, and the group raced toward the rider. The gelding came to a stop not far from the tree, and the unlucky prisoner was pulled to his feet.

He stood four feet tall, from the tip of his bald pate to the iron heels of his boots. The rough treatment had torn his pants to ribbons, and bloody scrapes covered his bare chest and steel-muscled arms. His hands were tied behind him with enough rope to bind several men. The captive struggled against the bonds like a madman being dragged toward captivity.

“You are making a very, very large mistake,” the little man growled. He took a deep breath and stopped struggling. “Let me go now and we can forget about this whole stupid misunderstanding.”

“Ah, a dwarf,” Soth said softly. “This world is not so unlike my own.”

Magda looked puzzled. “Do you mean there are more of those freaks where you come from?” she asked. “There are few like him in Barovia.”

As Soth pondered this, the chubby villager in the red robes struck a torch and held it toward the captive. “You must pay for your crimes.”

By the light of the torch, Soth saw that a swollen bruise held one of the dwarf's eyes shut. His face was as scratched as his chest, and a steady stream of blood ran from his flat nose. The gore matted the close-cropped brown mustache that dipped beneath his nose and joined with his muttonchop sideburns. Oddly, the dwarf was smiling at the man in the red robes. “Really,” he advised, “we’ll all be happier if you let me go now.”

“Let’s just get this over with,” one of the other villagers said, glancing nervously at the bats darting overhead.

The rest of the group murmured their assent, and the dwarf was pushed toward the hanging tree. As the villagers draped the noose around the criminal’s neck and tied the other end to the horse, Soth turned away from the spectacle. “Come,” he said to the Vistani. ”I’ve seen enough.“

Magda gladly followed the death knight away from the clearing. As they made their way deeper into the forest, the ominous sounds of the hanging were replaced by the gentle chirping of crickets. Magda let the familiar sound calm her.

“By all that’s holy, no!”

A scream split the air, then a growl rolled, loud and low, in the night.

“Run, you fools, run!”

A snarl echoed from the scene of the hanging. Screams, first of one man, then of two more, cut through the darkness. The sound of a horse shrieking in pain came hard upon these awful cries, followed by the awkward crashing of someone running blindly through the woods.

Without a word, Soth turned back toward the commotion. Magda stayed close to him as he moved through the darkness. Both the death knight and the Vistani were surprised when the man in red robes burst toward them from behind a huge fir. The man waved a torch in front of him.

The scene in the forest froze in a weird tableau. Magda crouched in a defensive position. Soth, his head cocked slightly, stood stiff and still, though his cloak flapped silently behind him. A few feet away, the red-robed man leaned forward, off balance but motionless, staring at the death knight with panic-filled eyes. Soth saw something else in those eyes: recognition. The red-robed man was not just startled, but horrified because he recognized the death knight.

Just as suddenly as the villager had burst upon Soth and Magda, he fled into the forest, his torch bleeding a trail of light.

The death knight considered chasing the robed man, but the terrifying yowl that came from the clearing pushed that thought away. Instead he turned in the direction of the hanging.

A surprising scene greeted the death knight and his guide. The horse and five of the villagers lay near the hanging tree, their corpses shredded and bloody. The other rustics were nowhere in sight. In the center of this carnage sat the dwarf, bruised and battered but free of the ropes that had been wrapped around his hands and coiled around his throat. As he pulled on one of his iron-soled boots, he whistled tunelessly.

With the slowness of one just awakened from a long nap, he stretched and reached for his other boot. He stopped moving abruptly and wrinkled his nose in disgust. “More farmers?” he muttered, letting his boot drop to the ground. The dwarf crouched low, almost onto his hands and knees, and sniffed the air. “Come on out of there so I can see what you are.”

He was looking toward Soth and Magda, though they were quite well hidden by the thick-needle firs around them. The Vistani tried to shrink back into the forest, but the death knight stepped forward.

“And the other one,” the dwarf said, squinting after the Vistani.

“Now, Magda,” Soth ordered when the woman hesitated. She moved from her hiding place, her hand straying to the dagger in her sash.

“Vistani!” the dwarf hissed as he saw the olive-skinned, dark-haired woman. He growled deep in his throat and tensed as if ready to spring. “I should have known you’d be agents of the count.”

Magda drew her dagger, and the dull moonlight pushing through the clouds made the metal blade glow. The dwarf took a wary step forward.

“Enough,” Soth said. “The girl is my prisoner, and I am no servant of Strahd Von Zarovich.”

The dwarf snorted and shrugged his shoulders. “A Vistani woman and… hmmm.” He studied Soth, taking measure of the death knight with his one good eye. His face betrayed his interest in the newcomer. Not a hint of fear showed in his stance.

Nodding toward the castle, the dwarf said, “You certainly aren’t one of his walking corpses, Sir Knight. They can’t say much other than his name. Shows his ego, don’t you think-having zombies that can only groan or say ‘Strahd’?”

Soth watched the dwarf closely as he sat back down and struggled with his other boot. “Did you do this to the villagers?” the death knight asked.

Wiping some blood from his brawny arms, the dwarf smiled. “Not all this is mine, if that’s what you mean,” he replied. “I warned ’em, though. ‘If you try to hang me, you’ll be sorry,’ I said.” He glanced at the dead bodies. “And so they are.”

“How?” the death knight asked emphatically.

Having finished with his boot, the dwarf was now doing what he could to straighten his tattered pants and daub away the blood. “You’re new here.” He laughed and looked up at the Vistani. “I’m right-er, Magda, wasn’t it? He’s new to the duchy, isn’t he?”

The Vistani, her silver-bladed dirk still clutched tightly in her hand, remained grimly silent. Her gaze wandered from corpse to gruesome corpse, and whenever the dwarf made a sudden movement, she brandished the weapon before her menacingly.

Not fazed in the least by either Magda’s hostility or Soth’s silence, the dwarf returned to the task of cleaning himself up. After doing what he could for his clothes, he walked from body to body, looking for anything worth stealing. Most of the villagers’ rough-woven clothes were shredded beyond use, but the dwarf managed to salvage a sleeveless wool vest from one of the corpses and a brightly patterned blanket from the horse. As he draped the latter around himself like a cloak, he turned to the death knight. “Is there something else I can do for you? I mean, you’re not hanging around. here just to watch me rob corpses.”

“You said I was a newcomer to this land. Why do you think that?”

The dwarf moved closer to the death knight. When he got near Soth, he pulled the blanket tighter around his shoulders. “Look,” the dwarf said in a conspiratorial whisper, “there are two things I’ve learned about Barovia in the time I’ve been here. First rule: Don’t ever ask strangers about themselves. Most of the people I’ve met here have dark secrets they’d rather keep hidden. They’ve done things worse than you or I might ever think of doing-well, you anyway. And some, maybe even most, don’t like people prying into their business.”

He stood back and glanced around as if someone might be listening. “For example, I know you’re not mortal-don’t ask how, ’cause I won’t say-but I’m accepting that for what it is. I’ve seen stranger things than you around here. Not many, of course.” When Soth did not comment, the dwarf shrugged.

“Why are you telling me this? Are you so certain I am not a spy for Strahd Von Zarovich?” Soth asked.

A smirk crossed the dwarf’s face. “The second thing I learned about Barovia is: Don’t have anything to do with the Vistani. They tell the count everything they learn about strangers, and harming ’em is like insulting Strahd to his face.” He nodded toward Magda. “If she’s learned anything about you, Sir Knight, you should take her back into the forest and make certain no one sees her again. Just a suggestion, mind you. Free advice from someone who’s been stuck in this hell for quite some time.”

Magda, who still stood a few feet away, nervously gripping her dagger, took a step back toward the forest. “Something’s coming,” she hissed. “From the direction of the village.”

“Can’t be the yokels,” the dwarf said. “They never leave their homes after sundown if they can help it. Too many things like you and me roaming about.”

A distant clatter of wooden wheels and the roar of horses’ hooves pounding steadily on stony ground sounded from the direction of the village. Two lantern lights flickered in the darkness, and the clatter grew louder.

“It’s a carriage,” Soth said, staring into the night with his glowing eyes. “Two horses, dark as pitch.” He peered down the road. “I do not see a coachman.”

“Oh! Bloody-” The dwarf started for the trees. “I told you, didn’t I? Bloody Vistani!” With a burst of incoherent cursing, he disappeared into the forest.

Soth drew his sword and turned to Magda. “What is it?”

The woman did not have the time to answer before the carriage came to a stop in front of the broken-down building. The black horses stamped in agitation, snorting and tossing their heads. No coachman had directed the horses along the road from the village, and no hands touched the carriage door as it opened invitingly.

“Strahd’s carriage,” Magda managed to say at last. “Just like the stories! He sends it for you!”

“For us, Magda,” Lord Soth corrected. “Don’t think I would leave my charming guide behind.”