“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.
