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.”
SIX
Strahd Von Zarovich stood before a massive fireplace, one arm resting on the mantel. A few logs burned in the hearth, but the light they gave off scarcely illuminated the count let alone the cavernous room which he now occupied. The lord of Barovia leafed absently through a book of poetry. As he turned each time-worn page the smile twisting his cruel mouth grew wider and wider.
“Ah, Sergei. You always were a hopeless romantic.”
The book had been penned long ago by Strahd’s younger brother, Sergei, and the verses it contained were all dedicated to a single woman, his beloved Tatyana. The cause of the count’s smile was not the poems themselves, for they were like everything Sergei had created in his tragically short life-beautiful and full of heartfelt sentiment. No, it was knowledge of the futility of those exclamations of love that amused him so. Sacred vows had never bound the lovers in wedlock; Strahd knew this because he himself had murdered his brother on the day he was going to wed Tatyana.
An all-consuming desire for the girl had made it so that Strahd could think of nothing other than the gentle, loving Tatyana. The thought that she was to be wed to his hopelessly naive sibling had only fueled Strahd’s hunger for her; he had spent his days in a foul temper, roaming the halls of Castle Ravenloft, hoping to catch a glimpse of his beloved. At night he had pored over arcane tomes, hoping against hope to discover some charm that would win Tatyana’s heart for him.
At last the unrequited desire had driven Strahd to forge a pact with the forces of darkness, a pact to be sealed with an act of fratricide. He had concluded his bargain on the day Sergei was to be married, with an assassin’s dagger sharper than any he had ever seen. With his brother’s murder, Strahd had gained powers that could be imagined only in nightmares, but even those new strengths could not sway Tatyana’s love.
When Strahd had revealed his desire for her, Tatyana had ended her life rather than spend a single moment in his embrace.
Strahd closed the book sharply. Tatyana had no idea that now, almost four hundred years after her death, he still inhabited the castle… still desired her.
He tossed the book onto the fire, and its ancient, dry pages flared and burned. Impatiently the count paced the stone floor.
Yes, the dark powers Strahd had bargained with so many years past had given him much in return for Sergei’s death. He never felt the pall of sickness or the weight of old age. In fact, he had ruled Barovia for the lifetimes of five men. The count had devoted much of that time to arcane study, and the dark secrets he had uncovered in that pursuit granted him sway over the living and the dead.
Barovia, the duchy over which the Von Zaroviches had ruled for many years, had paid for the count’s bloody deeds, balancing Strahd’s triumphs with its suffering. Soon after Sergei’s murder, the duchy was drawn into a netherworld of mists. Strahd soon found he could not cross the borders out of Barovia, though he gained the ability to prevent others from leaving the domain. He became absolute master of the land, yet that victory soon grew hollow. Few of the peasants and boyars who populated the scattered villages offered Strahd much of a challenge; that was why the count anticipated the times when beings such as Soth would appear in Barovia.
“I wonder if my guests are comfortable,” Strahd said softly as he approached a window. The count looked out at the road twisting and clawing its way up the mountainside to his castle. Near the bridge that crossed the River Ivlis, the carriage, marked by the twin lamps on its front, moved steadily onward.
The master of Castle Ravenloft closed his eyes and concentrated. Just as the driverless carriage obeyed his will, the minds of those within the coach stood as open to him as Sergei’s book of verse. He considered the Vistani woman first. As he had expected, terror clouded her mind, yet a part of her intellect resisted the fear, a core of bravery she bolstered by repeating ancient tales of Vistani heroes. The stories couldn’t block out the terror completely, though. That fear would be useful to Strahd, especially when it was heightened by the little shock he had in store for Magda.
In comparison to Soth, the Vistani held no real interest for the count. After all, she was merely a pawn. On the other hand, the death knight demanded careful study, so Strahd let his mind clear, then pushed into the newcomer’s consciousness.
The surface of Soth’s mind appeared as cloudy as the wall of choking fog surrounding the village. Many of the usual emotions that colored the thoughts of men-love, desire, respect-were gone or deadened. Strahd ventured further, and a wave of seething hatred and impotent lust broke around him. The intensity shocked the dark lord, and his mind recoiled for an instant.
What surprised Strahd most, as he resumed his journey into Soth’s consciousness, was the absolute lack of fear. Every other newcomer who had known anything of the count had shown apprehension about meeting him, but not this undead knight. The master of Castle Ravenloft cast no ominous shadow over Soth’s mind. Is he foolhardy? the count wondered, but the power he sensed told him otherwise.
Thinking he knew all there was to know of the death knight’s turbulent thoughts, Strahd readied himself to leave Soth’s mind. He backed slowly away from the swirling chaos of violent emotions, but a flickering impulse made him hesitate. The ride in the carriage had stirred up some ancient event in the death knight’s mind.
With the perverse joy of a voyeur, the lord of Barovia settled back.
Soth’s knees ached as he kneeled in a huge hall. The room was packed with members of all three orders of the Knights of Solamnia-Crown, Sword, and Rose-and every man craned to see their fallen fellow. Their gawking faces angered Soth, and he forced himself to meet the eyes of many of the knights. It gave him a little comfort to see them turn away before he did. To him, their murmuring voices sounded like women gossiping in the marketplace, and their polished armor smelled like the scented handkerchiefs favored by courtiers in Kalaman.
