“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
