At the room’s front, he saw the highest-ranking members of each order. A long table lay before them, covered with a blanket of black roses. The dusky flowers proclaimed the council’s sentence, but Soth knew the Solamnic Knights would follow the trial’s ritual to the last. They weren’t kneeling in armor, though. Their knees weren’t cramped and almost numb from pain.
“You have failed to defend yourself with regard to the charges brought against you, Soth. We have found you guilty of adultery with the elfmaid Isolde, the murder of Lady Gadria, your lawful wife, and a dozen other less hideous infractions,” Lord Ratelif said sadly. The high warrior of the Rose Knights picked up one of the black flowers and hurled it at the prisoner.
The rose struck Soth in the face, but he refused to flinch. I will not even give them that much satisfaction, he thought vindictively.
Sir Ratelif stood, then pronounced the fallen knight’s doom. “In accordance with the Measure, Soth of Dargaard Keep, Knight of the Rose, will be taken through the streets of this city in disgrace. He will be jailed until highsun tomorrow, then executed for crimes against the honor of the Order.”
Rough hands grabbed Soth’s shoulders, and a sergeant jerked the knight’s sword free of its scabbard. The burly soldier then handed the prisoner’s weapon to Lord Ratelif. The high warrior held the bright sword before him, its blade toward Soth. “The means of execution shall be the guilty party’s own sword.”
The memory grew vague in Soth’s mind as the knights pushed toward him in the room. Strahd had to strain to follow its thread.
His armor was pulled off, but still Soth remained silent, refusing to lend legitimacy to the proceedings. Dressed in only a padded doublet, he was dragged to a cart and paraded through the streets of Palanthas. The day was cool, and the smells of the port city were everywhere-the taunting aromas of meats and vegetables cooking in the open-air markets, the sharp tang of smoke from crafters’ forges, the smell of salt air from the harbor. Scribes and butchers, priests and bureaucrats, all had come out to see the fallen knight, the man of honor brought low. To Soth they appeared as nothing so much as sheep, round-faced and bleating.
“You knights are no better than any citizen of Solamnia,” one woman shouted from the throng.
A grocer hurled an overripe melon at the cart. “The kingpriest is right! Even the Knights of Solamnia are corrupt!” The crowd cheered when the missile hit Soth.
Calmly wiping the smear from his eyes, he looked back at the grocer. In the man’s jowled face, made red from standing in the sun to hawk his wares, the knight saw more hatred than he’d seen from most foes he’d faced at sword point.
I’m no innocent, Soth told himself as the cart lurched through the crowded streets. His inner resolve cracked, and a coiling thread of self-doubt wound around his heart. Now I’ve given the kingpriest proof that corruption exists everywhere-even in the knighthood.
A woman emptied a bucket of filthy water from an open window. As the shower soaked Lord Soth, he lost all thoughts of his own guilt. The people of Palanthas were acting like a mob, and the knights meant to guard him were doing nothing to shelter him. “You are all as guilty as I!” he shouted.
Something struck Soth in the face, a blow that made stars appear before his eyes. When the haze cleared, he saw a young Knight of the Crown standing over him. The youth had his mailed fist raised, ready to strike again.
Cold resolve took hold of the fallen knight’s soul once more, sealing his heart against any self-recrimination. For the rest of the humiliating ride through Palanthas, he closed his eyes and shut out the insults. Somehow I will make them sorry for this, Soth told himself over and over. Somehow I will make Palanthas pay.
• • •
A draconian, its curved blade coated with blood, stands over a fallen woman. His face frozen in horror, a young man holds his ground against one of Soth’s own skeletal minions, only to have his head severed from his body. Tanis Half-Elven flees down arrow-straight streets, showing his true soul at last…
Something tugged at the edges of Soth’s consciousness. Amidst the clear scenes of victory a shadowy thing lurked. Yet, when the death knight tried to concentrate on it, the shadow-thing slipped away. Something powerful was intruding upon his mind.
The death knight scowled. I will destroy any who betray me, any who prevent me from returning to Krynn, Soth repeated to himself again and again as the carriage rattled along its way through the night.
Magda gasped, and the sharp sound drew Soth out of the near-trance into which he had lapsed. He had lost track of their progress, for now the carriage was high in the foothills. “What is it?” the death knight asked, but the answer was obvious.
They had reached Castle Ravenloft.
Twin gatehouses of crumbling, turreted stone slouched in the darkness like drowsing sentinels. Their charge, a wooden drawbridge that spanned a chasm of frightening depth, swayed in the wind, and the rusted chains holding the planks in place chimed and groaned. Across the bridge lay the keep, protected by a moss-covered curtain of gray stone. Gargoyles with hideous, tortured faces stared sightlessly from the wall.
The rickety, weathered planks protested as the pitch-black horses charged across. Their complaints were so much idle threat; the carriage crossed the bridge without mishap. At the horses’ approach, the ancient portcullis that sealed the entrance to the keep lifted sullenly off the ground, clearing a path to the courtyard. Once inside the massive wall, the horses slowed, then stopped.
“We have arrived,” Soth said as the carriage door opened. The death knight slid from the coach into the empty courtyard. He took in his surroundings with a glance.
Castle Ravenloft must have been gorgeous once. Its subtly peaked roofs and lofty towers still gave testament to the builder’s skill, but wild vegetation left unchecked and weather damage left unrepaired had long ago marred the virgin beauty of the place. The castle’s huge double doors stood open now, and soft light bled into the courtyard.
“Come,” Soth ordered. Magda hesitated, then shrank back into the plush red velvet seat. His voice cold, the death knight added, “Your master awaits.”
Steeling herself, the Vistani climbed from the carriage. As soon as she was clear of the coach, its door slapped shut and the horses shot forward. The carriage disappeared back across the drawbridge and into the night.
Magda led the way into the castle. A small entry hall, no wider than the main doors, greeted them. Near the ceiling, four dragons carved from red stone crouched. They seemed ready to pounce on unwelcome visitors, their gemstone eyes glittering menacingly.
“Your Excellency?” the Vistani called.
With a creak, the doors to the courtyard closed.
“Parlor tricks any jester could rig,” Soth said disdainfully. Without waiting for a further reply, he boldly entered the next room.
The room was large, and torches in iron sconces provided barely enough light to banish the darkness. No furniture filled the hall. No tapestries covered the walls. The domed ceiling and the leering gargoyles squatting around its rim were festooned with cobwebs. The gray sheets danced and fluttered, casting fantastic shadows over the ruined frescos that graced the dome. An arch opened onto a small room to the right, doors of solid bronze sagged on their hinges straight ahead, and, to the left, a wide stair of dust-covered stone climbed from the hall.
“Count Strahd?” Magda said, shuddering. There was an oppressive feel to the castle, an air of subdued mystery that reminded her of nothing so much as the mausoleum from which she’d rescued Andari when they were children. He’d gone in to rob the dead, but all he’d gotten for the trouble was a broken ankle from a falling stone.
“Ah, Lord Soth, Magda. I am Count Strahd Von Zarovich, ruler of Barovia. Thank you for accepting my invitation.”
The Vistani started at the smooth voice, but the death knight turned with an air of disinterest to the man who had appeared at the top of the broad flight of stairs. “You must forgive me for not greeting you at the door,” the master of Castle Ravenloft said evenly. “I was in one of the tower rooms when you arrived, reading some tomes of… sentimental value.”
The count took the stairs slowly, with a studied elegance. His long black cape floated behind him. Yet the cloak could not hide the strength in its wearer, strength possessed only by great warriors.
