David Wise - Tales of Ravenloft

The elf's eyes widened in terror. She tried to wrench her hand away, but Larson's magic held her fast. The amulet in his hand hummed with power and silent song, and the lost, lilting dance tunes of the Kartakan festival flowed back into his mind. The elf began to dissolve as he reclaimed the songs she'd taken from him. Her features melted and flowed into a new shape. She writhed in anguish as her body became more lush and compact, and screamed when her silvery hair burst into a rippling, dark mass of curls. Suddenly, Larson found himself gripping the slender bronze wrist of a Vistana woman. The elf he had loved to the point of madness was gone. Though his heart nearly broke with grief, Larson continued to chant.

More music flowed into him: the aires, laments, and dances of Kartakass that embodied the essence of the bard Quintish. Again the Lhiannan shee changed form, this time into a beautiful, flame-haired vampiress. From her the bard wrested songs of passion and dark hunger that no human voice had ever sung. A dainty farm girl pleaded and wailed as Larson's magic drained from her the ancient tunes of a shepherd's pipes. A beautiful halfelven minstrel yielded up songs in a language Larson had never heard, but understood, nonetheless. On and on the magical battle raged as Larson took stolen songs from the undead creature.

The light of his amulet flared into an explosion of power that rocked the forest clearing and cast Larson to the ground. Through the thunderous roar, he heard the creature's cry of denial and rage. The magical force dissipated, and with it, the last incarnation of the Lhiannan shee.

For a long moment, Larson clutched the ground, dazed and nearly blinded. When he could draw breath, he groped for his amulet. The light and the power that had led him to the Lhiannan shee had faded; the creature was truly gone.

Larson remained in the clearing until the moon set behind the mountains and the sky flushed with the first pink of dawn. There he regained his strength and savored his triumph. Hundreds of stolen songs resounded through his mind, stretching it to limits of musicianship he had only imagined possible. Nearly all his life he had studied and stalked the Lhiannan shee, but nothing he'd learned in the monastery of Oghma had prepared him for this night.

He had first encountered a Lhiannan shee in his fifteenth year, when he heard a victim sing in the throes of enchantment. In that moment, the fledgling bard found his life's quest. He studied all the arcane lore on the Lhiannan shee, and his faithfulness — or, as some named it, his obsession — was rewarded by the priests with a holy amulet. With it, Larson could restore a bard's stolen essence. The first test of this power changed Larson's life.

One night some men brought an enspelled bard to the monastery, bound and drugged. Larson began the sacred chant, and felt for the first time the rush of music and power as the amulet reclaimed the bard's stolen essence. All the bard's songs, all his memories and experiences and tales, flooded Larson's mind with an intoxication greater than that of any wine. Drunk with the music, he willfully neglected to cast the last, vital part of the clerical spell, that which would restore the afflicted bard. Larson kept the stolen songs. The bard died, and his unknowing companions did not fault the young priest.

But one bard's life was not enough. From that day, Larson sought those who'd fallen under the spell of a Lhiannan shee. In ten years, he had found only one other. Then came the trip through the mists, to a land of dark enchantment that seemed uniquely suited to his purpose. Yet even in musical Kartakass, such creatures were rare. Quintish was the first afflicted bard Larson had found, and Larson had nearly ruined his chance with a too-generous dose of poisoned mead.

Ellamir's words the night before suggested another way. As she pointed out, the Lhiannan shee would seek a new victim. Why should Larson mourn the loss of an enspelled bard, when he could go directly to the source? Draining the Lhiannan shee had brought Larson success beyond his dreams, and more songs than anyone could learn in a lifetime.

But once again, Larson found that it was not enough. There was so much still to learn, so very much. Already he hungered for the kiss of another Lhiannan shee.

At first light Larson returned to the inn, deep in thought. He was startled by the sight of Ellamir in his bed. She sat up slowly, fighting off sleep and still groggy from the potent mead.

Quickly recovering his composure, he sauntered into the room and greeted her with a kiss. "I thought you would never awaken, my love," he said cheerily. "Too much wine last night, I fear."

He saw the relief cross her face, and suddenly he realized that she suspected his involvement with a Lhiannan shee. Well, there was one sure way to convince her that she was wrong.

Much later, they nestled in each other's arms and spoke of things that could be said at no other time. "I feared that I'd lost you," she confessed, a little shamefacedly. "First Quintish, and then it seemed that — "

Larson stilled her with a kiss. Ellamir was lovely and loving, but her intensity was becoming a bit much. The festival lasted but four days, and though Ellamir was a pleasing diversion, he had no interest in the enduring passion her violet eyes promised.

As if she sensed his thoughts, as if she feared her serious tone might be displeasing to the lighthearted youth, Ellamir gave him a gay smile and shook a finger at him in a teasing parody of warning.

"Do not toy with me, Sir Bard," she said with mock severity. "For I would surely die for love, and come back to haunt any lady you chose over me!"

Her words hit Larson with the force of inspiration. Once again, Ellamir had suggested a solution to his problem! He might not find another Lhiannan shee in Kartakass, but perhaps he could create one!

He doubted not that Ellamir's heart was his for as long as she lived. If all went well, after her death he could possess her songs, perhaps even her skill with the harp!

The young man's slow, charming smile returned to his face. He took both of Ellamir's hands, and fervently vowed his undying love for the talented, beautiful bard. But as he spoke, his eyes strayed to the table where stood his flask of raspberry mead.

Fire ran through the knight's veins, burning his body in the pain of his struggle. His legs blazed from the constant effort to keep upright, to keep moving, and his arms felt like two hot pokers pressing into his shoulders as he held the unconscious form of his sister. Each breath ripped spikes of fiery agony into his lungs.

A vampire!

His mind raged at the thought of the attack. For the hundredth time, he mentally reviewed the battle. Guilt caused him to wonder if there was anything else he could have done to save his sister from the coma the vampire had forced on her.

In his mind's eye, he again saw the battle, saw himself drawing the sword:

Leaping from his bolting mount, the knight had activated his weapon's magic to slay the vampire with sorcerous fire and enchanted steel. The sword struck the vampire's side, and the creature hissed and turned away from the still form of his sister. Rising with bloody fangs, it stepped back. The knight would never forget the red glare of the undead monster's eyes.

"Leave the woman and go," the creature growled.

Its words tried to beguile; the vampire's magic prodded at the knight and commanded him to flee. . but his sister's life was at stake.

He raised his sword again and uttered a word. A blast of intense mystical heat bathed the vampire in flames. The creature must have had some type of magic of its own, because it stood proudly in the flames, flames that had turned many a previous monster into ash.