James Lowder - Knight of the Black Rose

There were others, younger and not so superstitious, who saw Soth as nothing more or less than a giorgio who had possessed the nerve to attack one of their own. Two of these, boys no more than fifteen winters old, rushed at the armored man. The unwritten code of the Vistani demanded revenge upon the stranger, and these boys took up the charge with all the unthinking enthusiasm of youth.

One wielded a long sword, the other a dagger. Both appeared to be skilled fighters, but the death knight could see that anger and fear had made them reckless. With little effort, he drew his sword and dispatched the two. Their blood ran into the dirt, coloring it red.

The death knight stood with the caravan at his back, his sword resting in his left hand, point down before him. The flames licking hungrily at the wagon cast a wild, dancing shadow of Soth across the bodies at his feet and over the entire clearing. A small explosion rocked the camp as Girani’s jars and vials of exotic spell components fell to the blaze. The caravan’s roof, already burning, shattered into a thousand fragments and blew across the clearing. The few Vistani who had not fled were tossing buckets of water on most of the smaller fires ignited by the fragments, but the wagon nearest the old woman’s soon burned steadily, too.

From the screaming children and panicked adults left in camp only one other person dared to near Soth. Magda, the beautiful dancer, rushed across the clearing toward the conflagration. “Madame Girani!” she cried, tears streaming down her cheeks.

Soth grabbed the young woman as she tried to pass. The unearthly cold from his hand raised blue welts on her thin wrist. “She is dead,” he told her.

Magda stood rigid with fear and pain. She tried to pull away from the death knight, but found his grip like an iron vise. Falling to her knees next to the corpses of her tribesmen, the young woman looked out at the remaining Vistani as they fled into the forest. Her brother, Andari, paused at the clearing’s edge and met her gaze. Unashamed at his cowardice, he turned away and ran, his violin clutched to his chest.

The death knight scanned the clearing. The Vistani had all scattered into the night, and only the crackle of the fires and the quiet sobbing of the young woman at his feet broke the silence. Loosening his grip on her wrist, he said, “Your name is Magda, is it not?”

Without waiting for a reply, Soth continued. “You seem an intelligent woman, Magda, so do not think to lie to me or try to escape.” He released her wrist and sheathed his sword. Rubbing her wrist, Magda did not look up at her captor.

“Madame Girani said your tribe has traveled throughout Barovia, so I think I will make you my guide,” the death knight said at last. “Castle Ravenloft is the first place we will visit. Take me there.”

Magda stumbled over a twisted branch hidden by the half-light of dawn and dropped to her knees. After five hours of walking through the tangled forest, she was exhausted. “Please,” she begged, “let me rest. We’ve been walking all night.”

“Get up,” came the reply from behind her. The voice was emotionless.

The young Vistani rubbed her eyes, then struggled to her feet. She looked down at the holes torn into her skirt, the patches of grime splattered onto her white blouse. Her leather shoes were wet from crossing a stream, and deep scratches crisscrossed her legs from passing through thorny bushes. She’d lost all her gold bracelets hours ago. “We can meet up with the Svalich Road near here,” she said hopefully, straightening the small burlap sack tied to her waist. “The going won’t be so hard then.”

Soth did not consider the comment before he replied. “We keep to the forest. The roads in most lands are patrolled, and I do not wish the count to know I am coming.” He extended a hand toward the woman. In another place the same gesture might have been seen as one of support. Magda knew it was a threat: Walk or I will burn you again with the frost of undeath.

Magda did more than walk. She ran.

As fast as her cramped legs could carry her, the young woman raced through the trees. Thin branches whipped her face and arms, and vines seemed to curl purposefully around her ankles. Her breath came in heavy, wheezing gasps after a time, but she did not slow her pace. The road is ahead, she told herself over and over. Reach the road and you might escape him.

Magda dared not glance back, for she was certain the dead man was right behind her, reaching out with his freezing hands. Her pulse thundered in her ears, blocking out the sounds of her own feet stumbling through dead leaves and clinging brambles. Yet no hand closed on her shoulder, no blade pierced her back. Magda dared to hope that she, unencumbered as she was, had escaped her armored captor.

Through a gap in a stand of fir trees, she could see the broad Svalich Road. The rising sun broke through the forest in places, casting long shadows everywhere, and it was through these alternating patches of darkness and light that the young woman now raced. I’m free! she shouted silently. Safe!

Two orange eyes flickered from the pitch-dark shadow of the firs. Magda screamed and slid to a stop. Her muscles taut after the long march and the sudden, frantic run, she tumbled. Ignoring the pain from a wrenched shoulder, she got to her feet and ran again.

She couldn’t tell if she was nearing the road or not. That didn’t matter any longer. Somehow the dead man had gotten ahead of her, between her and the road. Just keep running, she told herself. He can’t keep up with you forever.

Directly in front of the woman. Lord Soth emerged from the shadow of a large, moss-covered boulder. Magda fell to the ground at his feet, wheezing and sobbing. “It is good that we have this out of the way,” the death knight said in a calm voice. “Now that you know escape is impossible, we can continue.”

Sadness in her green eyes, Magda struggled to her feet and resumed the march.

The death knight had stayed in the Vistani camp only long enough for the woman to wrap her frostbitten wrist in strips torn from her skirt and collect a few things from her wagon. He’d not even allowed Magda time to say a simple prayer over the ruin of Madame Girani’s caravan.

For the first few hours, it had all seemed like a terrible nightmare to Magda. She often hoped that she might awaken in her bed, Andari snoring loudly nearby, and find it so. The distant howling of wolves or the grunt of something more sinister and much closer in the dark always brought her back to reality. Then she would turn to see the dead man walking behind her, his orange eyes glowing like will-o’-the-wisps. His heavy boots made no sound as he walked through the undergrowth, and he rarely spoke. Still, by dawn it had become clear to the young woman that Lord Soth did not intend to kill her-at least not until they reached Castle Ravenloft.

The idea of seeking out the home of Count Strahd Von Zarovich frightened Magda almost as much as Soth himself. Rumors of the bloody crimes inflicted upon unwelcome visitors by the devil Strahd circulated freely in the duchy, and Magda herself had seen the ghastly remains of two such hapless victims on display in the village of Barovia. They had been would-be adventurers, thieves who had attempted to sneak into the castle after dark. Hope for quick riches had blinded their common sense, and Strahd had presented them to the other villagers as an example of his justice.

The young Vistani shuddered now at that memory of the bloodless, decapitated corpses dumped in the village square. To dispel the grisly images she tried to focus on the bird song trilling through the forest around her, the bright slants of sunlight breaking through the canopy. It was to no avail. The memory of the dead men pushed to the forefront of her thoughts.