David Wise - Tales of Ravenloft

Through. I'd gotten through.

The burning wall was behind me. But not the heat. That rose up from the roasted earth, curling about my body as if to yet sear me. The ring helped, but I'd pushed its limits. My hands and face were red and stinging, but not too badly. They could be ignored; I kept moving.

I'd known that the vanguard of the blaze would be my greatest danger, but once past its barrier there would be a relative respite since the grass and wheat would have been quickly exhausted as fuel. Had this been a heavily forested tract, with tall trees capable of burning for hours, I'd have never attempted it.

Striding forward into a charred and reeking world, I viewed a sorry landscape, utterly black except for bright spots where it still burned or an unexpected patch of green that had somehow escaped. Ahead, partially concealed before by the smoke, was a farming village — or rather its corpse.

It hadn't been much before the fire, and was less than nothing now, just a few wretched hovels crowded together on each side of the road. The thatch roofs were gone, but the wooden frames and beams were still aflame. My attention, however, was focused on something far more riveting. Scattered in the ruins and along the road were the bodies of the peasants who had lived here. Young and old, some so burned I couldn't tell man from woman, but others nearly untouched. These latter told me that the fire might not have had a natural origin. For without exception they'd been cut down by sword or by arrow.

Slaughtered. Murdered.

The smell of their blood hung thick in the hot air. My drowsing hunger, ever a light sleeper, came fretfully awake.

But I had no time to attend it. Every minute's delay meant the fire spread a few more yards. Multiply that by its breadth. .

I dashed to a waist-high ring of mortared stones that marked the remains of the village well. Its low roof was burned away; the four poles that had supported it were smoking stumps that had to be kicked down so I could get to the opening.

Bucket and rope were missing, but I'd expected as much. I sat on the edge of the stones and swung my legs around, easing myself into the well. Its rock sides were hot to touch, but not uncomfortably so, growing cooler as I descended; my hands had no difficulty maintaining purchase. Down I went, until my boots splashed into the debris-clogged water. I went lower in order to thoroughly soak the bottom of my cape, but when I began climbing back up, something tugged at it, pulling strongly.

Thinking that the edge had simply caught on something, I turned to shake it loose and nearly lost my hold on the wall from the surprise. Clinging to the hem were two small fists belonging to a thin child not more than ten years old.

Dumbfounded for all of two seconds, without further thought, I reached down and grabbed one stick of a wrist and hauled upward. The waif instantly wrapped arms and legs around my body in a death-grip. The extra weight was negligible; I climbed back to the top quick as a spider.

Once out of the well, I took a look at my partially drowned rat. It was a girl, if one might draw conclusions about the dripping rags that served as a dress. Her bone-white face was puffed from tears and blank with shock, and it took no little effort to peel her from my waist and set her on the ground. She took one terrified look at the village, another at the body of a woman slumped near the well, then fastened herself around my legs and started wailing.

Grief has its place and purpose, but hers was a decided impediment to my urgent business. I pushed her an arm's length away, stared hard into her eyes, and instructed her to be quiet and go to sleep. Her weeping hiccupped to a stop, and I lay her limp body onto a bare patch of earth for the time being.

That distraction dealt with, I drew the incense from my pocket, found a brand of wood, and commenced the work of casting the spell I'd planned.

This was no light undertaking; I wasn't even sure of success, but after several minutes'work, the first tremors of power began running through me like the hot blood of battle fever. Squeezing a quantity of water from my cloak was the final step. I shouted the last words completing the spell at the sky and clapped my hands overhead. Raw power leapt from them, shooting up until its dark purple aura was lost against the clouds.

Nothing visible happened for a time, then I detected a shifting in the gray billows above, like a great animal rousing itself. They roiled and writhed in harrowing silence, then a kind of pale mist suddenly obscured their details.

Rain struck my upturned face.

It was better than I'd hoped. Such magic is difficult to manipulate; sometimes the results of alteration are as impossible to predict as natural weather. But this time I'd brought about a steady soaking downpour that hissed and steamed among the flames, gradually smothering them. I was well satisfied.

Free now to turn my attention to the child, I spent some moments waking her and more still gently opening her mind up to questioning. Because she was so young, and thus had little understanding of adult things, it was a tax on my patience to correctly interpret her answers into something comprehensible.

As far as I could judge, hers had been an unremarkable village, like hundreds of others dotting the valleys of Barovia. All had been at peace until the arrival of perhaps a dozen or so strangers who blithely announced they were taking the place over. When the elderly farmer who acted as burgomaster dared to question this, they cut his head off. After a few days of plunder and play, the new landlords grew bored and began the butchery, ultimately setting fire to everything. The girl had only survived because her desperate mother had dropped her into the uncertain safety of the well at the last moment.

I glanced at the woman's body. There was a fearful gashing on her back and shoulders. Sword wounds.

By the time I'd gotten this much from the girl, my conveyance was approaching in the distance. The downpour had apparently extended at least to the edge of the fire and likely beyond, else the horses would never have kept coming. I welcomed it, stopping and turning them until they faced east toward Vallaki. Since the back was crammed with boxes — including a special one large enough for a man to lie in — I put the girl up front on the driver's bench. She was alert to the point of being aware of her surroundings, but unable to offer much reaction. Crouching miserably in the rain, holding hard to the seat, she stared at me with neither expectation nor fear.

That counted for something. I firmly ignored the temptation of her blood while drawing my cloak around her slight body. Its heavy wool was wet, but would keep her warm enough until she reached Vallaki. I had more work ahead of me, anyway, and wished to rid myself of its encumbrance.

"The coach will stop at an inn," I said to her. "Tell the people there that Lord Vasili commands they care for you and the horses until his return. Understand?"

She nodded. Having imparted the instructions with a slight mental nudge, I could trust that she would readily pass the message on in a clear manner. She would be well fostered.

As the horses and wagon lurched over the now muddy road with their new cargo, I turned to the west, arms once more spread to ride the wind, and began to search beyond the burned area surrounding the village. Six hours later, after backtracking a sodden and nearly obscured trail originating in a wheat field, I discovered them camped high up in the foothills of Mount Baratok, to the north. Bandits they were, by the look of them, though it would not have mattered to me if they'd been nobles or slaves.

They'd sheltered in one of the caves piercing the limestone there and, from the piles of refuse thrown about, had evidently been in occupancy for quite a period prior to their invasion of the village. My small body hanging easily from the slender branch of a nearby tree, I settled in to listen to the men on guard.