James Lowder - Knight of the Black Rose

“No! Leave me alone!”

The woman’s shout startled Andari into dropping the precious heirloom. Had the violin not been covered by the cloth, the stone it struck may well have gouged a hole into its exterior. A small chip was the only damage the instrument sustained, yet it was enough to send Andari into a rage.

“Magda!” he shouted, cradling the wounded violin in his arms like a child.

The sound of glass shattering erupted from inside one of the wagons. “Get away from me!” Something heavy thudded against the wall of the caravan, and the door flew open. “Go back to your fat wife!”

A young woman stood framed by the lantern-lit doorway. Her raven-black hair fell in loose curls to her shoulders, and she shifted a lock of it away from her eyes with a defiant toss of her head. High cheekbones lent her expression a hard edge, despite her full, soft lips and inviting green eyes. With those eyes she cast an angry look back into the wagon as she gathered her long skirt in one hand, revealing slender legs. The way she leaped down the wagon’s three wooden stairs told of her skill as a dancer.

“Damn you, Magda,” Andari cursed. In two long-legged strides he was at the woman’s side. With one hand the musician clutched the violin to his breast, with the other he grabbed Magda’s shoulder. “Look what you’ve done! Your screeching made me drop my violin!”

A short, balding man peered from the noisy wagon. His face was pale, and drops of sweat worked their way down his forehead into his beady eyes. With a shrug, he straightened his shirt. As he did up the expensive silver buttons ornamenting the white cotton, he said, “She’s not for me, Andari, not unless I want to be murdered in my bed.”

Violently Andari shook the young woman. “I told you to be friendly to him, didn’t I?”

Magda slapped her brother across the face. The men and woman nearby paid no attention as they wandered away from the campfire toward their own wagons. They had seen similar scenes between Andari and his sister before; there was no need to interfere. “You can’t make me bed such a lout-not even for my keep,” Magda said, her voice low and taut with anger.

His shirt buttoned tightly over his sizable paunch, the balding man emerged from the caravan. “I would have paid handsomely for a wench as comely as you,” he offered. He scowled and rubbed the back of his head. “For hitting me with that bowl I ought to have the constable whip you. You’re lucky I’m an affable fellow.”

Andari smiled obsequiously. “Indeed, Herr Grest,” he purred. “Have no fear. We will see Magda is punished for her ill treatment of you.”

“Whatever,” the little man replied absently. He looked the beautiful woman up and down. Anger flushed her tan face, and her green eyes flashed like a storm at sea. Even after her insults, the boyar found those large eyes inviting. They were the kind of eyes a man could drown in…

Grest shook his head. “I could have made you a wealthy woman.” That said, he sighed and turned to Andari. “My horse, boy. I should get back to the village right away.”

The young musician’s false smile dropped. “Are you certain you do not wish your fortune told, Herr Grest? Or perhaps you would prefer the company of one of my cousins?” He eyed the purse tied to the merchant’s belt; it wasn’t often the tribe allowed strangers, who they called giorgios, into camp. To let this one escape with his purse intact would be a shame.

“Just get my horse,” Herr Grest said drily. He looked away from the semicircle of wagons into the darkened forest. “I’m a fool to be traveling at night… but I thought the journey would be worth the danger.”

“Go get the gentleman’s horse,” Magda snapped. Andari tensed to strike his sister. She dropped her hand to the wide sash that bound her waist, and he paused. Andari knew from experience that she had a dirk secreted there.

“My sister does not understand the ways of the world,” Andari noted as he turned to retrieve the boyar’s horse. He rubbed a long, white scar on the back of his hand. “Do not think we Vistani are all so naive.” The musician ran to his wagon, placed his cloth-wrapped violin on the steps, and disappeared behind the caravans.

An uncomfortable silence settled between Magda and Grest, then the young woman smiled. “There may be something I can offer you, after all,” she said coyly.

Magda walked to the family wagon and, careful to avoid touching Andari’s violin, grabbed a small burlap sack that lay near the opening. The bag’s contents jingled as she returned to the giorgio ’s side.

“There are subtle ways to make you irresistible to young girls,” she murmured, pulling a tiny pouch from the sack and holding it up for inspection. “Slip a pinch of this into a beautiful woman’s wine and she will be at your command. Of course, it does not work on we Vistani.”

Herr Grest considered the pouch. “Rubbish,” he grumbled. “Love philters are for those too old or ugly or poor to have a woman they want.”

Smiling thinly, Magda dropped the item back into the sack. Better that he didn’t buy it, the Vistani thought. Grest is the type who would hunt for the tribe once he’d discovered that the powder was only so much ground bone. “Perhaps this charm, Herr Grest. You are a brave man to travel through Barovia after sunset, but even the boldest would be well advised to carry one of these.”

She held up a long leather cord, and the silver charm at its end glittered seductively in the firelight. On the shining teardrop, a single eye was engraved, half-lidded and malevolent. “It’s a ward against the dark things that prowl these woods by night.” Magda lowered her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “Zombies, werewolves, even vampires cannot see you when you wear this.”

From the way Grest’s beady-eyed gaze locked onto the silver amulet, Magda knew that she had a prospective sale.

“How much?” the giorgio asked, his hand gliding toward his purse.

“Thirty gold.”

“Rubbish,” Grest countered. “Fifteen at the most.”

Magda shook her head, setting her raven-dark hair dancing around her face. The charm did have some power, even if she was exaggerating its strength. “I’m only offering it to you at that price because of my unfortunate rudeness before.

If you won’t pay what it’s worth, though, I-”

“Thirty it is, you charlatan.”

As the transaction was being completed, Andari returned with the horse, saddled and ready to go. Grest had snatched the silver amulet from Magda’s hand, and after dropping two handfuls of gold coins into the dirt, mounted. “I would have paid twice that for a night with you,” he said to the beautiful woman as he wheeled his horse about and headed down the narrow path leading into the forest.

As Grest’s mare reached the edge of the wood, it reared nervously, reluctant to leave the safety of the campfire. The balding man angrily kicked his heels into the horse’s flanks. “Come on, you bastard. Get moving.” The mare stared into the bushes at the clearing’s edge, its eyes wide with fright. Grest kicked it again. After pawing the ground a few times, the horse bolted forward.

A figure, even darker than the darkness in which it was hidden, shifted slightly. The death knight turned back toward the Vistani camp, resuming his watch. He had pursued the wolves through the forest for hours, over dark-watered streams and through brush as tangled as a madman’s mind. Some miles back, the monstrous guides had ceased their howling, which was replaced by the faint sound of music. Soth had followed that sweet sound here to the small camp.

At first he had assumed the gypsies gathered around the campfire to be an illusion or the human guises of the foul denizens of the Abyss. During the hour or so he had spent watching the men and women, the death knight had abandoned this notion; it seemed clear these were merely humans. Now Soth waited for someone to reveal himself as leader of the ragtag troupe-perhaps even this “Strahd” of whom the zombie had spoken. The young man named Andari obviously had some power over the others, but no one seemed to fear him. No, he was not the one who kept the tribe together.