David Wise - Tales of Ravenloft

Wincing, the sharp spilled the dice onto a tabletop. Two death's-heads grinned up at him, just as they would each time Oliver Arkwright cast dice for the rest of his short life.

The beautiful young woman who stood on Baratok's western slope seemed disoriented, like one but recently wakened from a long sleep. In the foothills below and to her right were barrens dotted with pits, tailings, and workers'huts, which marked the location of rich silver mines. On either side stretched outliers of the vast Tepurich Forest. Beyond, at the mountain's base, lay Wagner Lake, its waters lapping the shores near the boyar's mansion and the adjacent village, pastures, and farmholds.

The scene ought to have gladdened her heart, for in times long past, Jezra was the Wagners'heiress. All she beheld belonged to her. But a terrible curse now forever divided her from kindred and home.

She gazed sadly at the bleak, autumnal landscape. Snow had come early to Baratok this year; even before the last leaves fell, deep drifts had accumulated above the mines and forest. The moon, at its zenith, reflected on a stark white wilderness and illuminated Jezra's silvery tresses and strange, pale eyes.

Bathed in pearlescent, unearthly radiance, she shivered despite her costly fur-lined cloak. Anguish contorted her exquisite face. Why was she condemned to wander endlessly through wintry weather, never knowing spring and summer? Why must she be alone and friendless? And why, no matter how warmly she was clad, was she always so cold? — as if knives of ice stabbed her to the very bone, never ceasing their brutal torture.

Suddenly her attention was caught by a faint glimmer in the forests below. Pinpricks of light moved slowly on an angling course from south to north, heading toward the mines.

Torches! People carrying brands to guide them in the woods!

After a moment of wonderment, Jezra realized this was the last night the miners would spend on Mount Baratok until spring. The torches probably were borne by the workmen's families, hurrying to meet their fathers and brothers dwelling in the hillside huts. It was most unusual for Barovians to be abroad at night, but she understood a yearning to see kin after a long separation. Tomorrow, the reunited families would return to the village. There the miners would deliver the results of a season's labor — a mule train loaded with refined silver — to the boyar's stronghold. That pattern had been repeated for generations on the Wagner estates. It was one she remembered well.

Hunger kindled in Jezra's heart, a hunger as intense as the perpetual cold afflicting her. To hear voices, to feel the touch of a hand, to know the warmth of a human presence. .

Warmth!

It was a long way down to the forest, but nothing would deter her from reaching her goal. Wreathed in mist and moonlight, she started to descend Mount Baratok.

Five mercenaries and a half-breed Vistana woman climbed a narrow, twisting animal track. Towering trees, leafless silhouettes against the hazy, moonlit sky, swayed overhead. The glow of the travelers'torches cast eerie, wavering shadows, and creatures hidden in the surrounding blackness cried out sharply, startlingly. A thickening mist crawled like a serpent through frostrimmed brush and deadfalls, obscuring the steep path.

"How can he see where we are going?" one of the mercenaries said, furtively indicating the darkly hand- some giant at the head of their group.

"Need you ask?" the youngest fighter muttered. "He sees like a wolf or a cat, thanks to that damned enchanted sword. "His tone sour, he added," and because of it he wields powers none but the gods should own."

"Aye, but on this climb he is relying on the gypsy to guide him. And how trustworthy is she, after watching him kill her cousin? "

"As trustworthy as the spells he uses to control her and the rest of us," the young man said with smothered rage.

They spoke softly, but Lord Captain Hans Eckert overheard them. He halted abruptly and wheeled around. His height allowed him to loom over his men dauntingly. "Why do you chatter and drag your feet?" he demanded. "One would think we had never invaded enemy territory ere now. What has become of the boasting cutthroats I led against Teglan's forces and the maddened hordes of Dessiro? You were bold enough then."

"This. . this is different, Cap'n," the eldest fighter said," and that was another time and place."

For a moment, the handsome giant's expression grew remote. "Yes, another place. . "Then he focused again on his followers and growled," a place where you paid little heed to a storyteller's pratings. I told you to ignore that silly graybeard back in the tavern at the crossroads. Have we met any of the creatures he warned us about? "

"The. . the wolf-thing that jumped us just after we started up the trail."

"The werewolf, you mean," Hans corrected him, scornful. "The dead werewolf. You saw my sword cut him down. Gods, how the brute yowled! And were any of you harmed? Did the man-wolf even touch you? Ho! Nor will any Barovian monsters, not so long as I wield this." He lovingly caressed the weapon's silver pommel.

Hate glittered in the black eyes of the gypsy at his side. "Warlock!" she cried. "If I could contact my people, they would warn the count of your presence here, and he would destroy you!"

"Your people, Lisl?" Eckert's mouth curved in a cruel smile. "But half-breed gypsies have no people. The Vis- tana tribes cast them out. True? Your stupid cousin revealed that, as he did so many other useful things before I washed my sword in his blood."

She gasped and pressed her hands to her heart. "Oh, Sebestyen, poor Sebestyen. ."

"Best appreciate your current enslavement, or you can join him in his wretched, unmarked grave."

"Have you no decency left, Brother?" the youngest mercenary exclaimed. "Quit tormenting her!"

The giant's icy gaze shifted in his direction. "Ah! Lisl's chivalrous would-be protector is heard from. Still the moralist, eh, Wilm? You and she both learn slowly." Hans drew upon the enchanted weapon's power. A familiar sensation gripped Wilm and the gypsy, holding them fast while invisible whips lashed their bodies. The flogging left no marks, but the pain was very real. The three mercenaries cringed, remembering past occasions when similar punishment had been meted out to them.

Hans laughed as his victims'limbs trembled and their eyes bulged with silent pleas for mercy. Finally, with a negligent gesture, he released the sufferers and addressed them and his hirelings sternly. "Take warning: Waste no more of my precious time. All of you — move!"

Still shaking from her ordeal, Lisl stumbled up the path. Her master did not look back to see if his brother and the other men followed him; there was no need.

Ruthlessness was as much a part of Captain Hans Eckert's garb as the finely Grafted wool, leather, and metal he wore. Like his men, he went well-armed, but no weapon they carried was a match for his blade. Its keen edge and sorcerous powers had cut down many a foe — most recently, a werewolf!

As he trod close behind the gypsy, his thoughts strayed to Wilm's impotent outburst minutes ago. Foolish, idealistic Wilm! Faithful to a boyhood vow, he had been his sibling's loyal lieutenant throughout their mercenary careers. Not even profound disgust with that sibling's ever more vicious behavior had made the young man renounce the oath. And now he could not; the sword's obedience spell bound him with unseen but unbreakable chains. No matter how severe the provoca- tion or how much Wilm's conscience protested, he must never raise his hand against his master and must follow wherever Hans chose to go. .

Or did not choose. .

The captain's smile faded. He had built a solid reputation as a mercenary leader who did not quibble over the amount of blood spilled or whether or not his employer's cause was just. And he had amassed considerable loot and acquired influence among kings and princes who hired him.