James Lowder - Knight of the Black Rose

Strahd closed the book sharply. Tatyana had no idea that now, almost four hundred years after her death, he still inhabited the castle… still desired her.

He tossed the book onto the fire, and its ancient, dry pages flared and burned. Impatiently the count paced the stone floor.

Yes, the dark powers Strahd had bargained with so many years past had given him much in return for Sergei’s death. He never felt the pall of sickness or the weight of old age. In fact, he had ruled Barovia for the lifetimes of five men. The count had devoted much of that time to arcane study, and the dark secrets he had uncovered in that pursuit granted him sway over the living and the dead.

Barovia, the duchy over which the Von Zaroviches had ruled for many years, had paid for the count’s bloody deeds, balancing Strahd’s triumphs with its suffering. Soon after Sergei’s murder, the duchy was drawn into a netherworld of mists. Strahd soon found he could not cross the borders out of Barovia, though he gained the ability to prevent others from leaving the domain. He became absolute master of the land, yet that victory soon grew hollow. Few of the peasants and boyars who populated the scattered villages offered Strahd much of a challenge; that was why the count anticipated the times when beings such as Soth would appear in Barovia.

“I wonder if my guests are comfortable,” Strahd said softly as he approached a window. The count looked out at the road twisting and clawing its way up the mountainside to his castle. Near the bridge that crossed the River Ivlis, the carriage, marked by the twin lamps on its front, moved steadily onward.

The master of Castle Ravenloft closed his eyes and concentrated. Just as the driverless carriage obeyed his will, the minds of those within the coach stood as open to him as Sergei’s book of verse. He considered the Vistani woman first. As he had expected, terror clouded her mind, yet a part of her intellect resisted the fear, a core of bravery she bolstered by repeating ancient tales of Vistani heroes. The stories couldn’t block out the terror completely, though. That fear would be useful to Strahd, especially when it was heightened by the little shock he had in store for Magda.

In comparison to Soth, the Vistani held no real interest for the count. After all, she was merely a pawn. On the other hand, the death knight demanded careful study, so Strahd let his mind clear, then pushed into the newcomer’s consciousness.

The surface of Soth’s mind appeared as cloudy as the wall of choking fog surrounding the village. Many of the usual emotions that colored the thoughts of men-love, desire, respect-were gone or deadened. Strahd ventured further, and a wave of seething hatred and impotent lust broke around him. The intensity shocked the dark lord, and his mind recoiled for an instant.

What surprised Strahd most, as he resumed his journey into Soth’s consciousness, was the absolute lack of fear. Every other newcomer who had known anything of the count had shown apprehension about meeting him, but not this undead knight. The master of Castle Ravenloft cast no ominous shadow over Soth’s mind. Is he foolhardy? the count wondered, but the power he sensed told him otherwise.

Thinking he knew all there was to know of the death knight’s turbulent thoughts, Strahd readied himself to leave Soth’s mind. He backed slowly away from the swirling chaos of violent emotions, but a flickering impulse made him hesitate. The ride in the carriage had stirred up some ancient event in the death knight’s mind.

With the perverse joy of a voyeur, the lord of Barovia settled back.

Soth’s knees ached as he kneeled in a huge hall. The room was packed with members of all three orders of the Knights of Solamnia-Crown, Sword, and Rose-and every man craned to see their fallen fellow. Their gawking faces angered Soth, and he forced himself to meet the eyes of many of the knights. It gave him a little comfort to see them turn away before he did. To him, their murmuring voices sounded like women gossiping in the marketplace, and their polished armor smelled like the scented handkerchiefs favored by courtiers in Kalaman.

At the room’s front, he saw the highest-ranking members of each order. A long table lay before them, covered with a blanket of black roses. The dusky flowers proclaimed the council’s sentence, but Soth knew the Solamnic Knights would follow the trial’s ritual to the last. They weren’t kneeling in armor, though. Their knees weren’t cramped and almost numb from pain.

“You have failed to defend yourself with regard to the charges brought against you, Soth. We have found you guilty of adultery with the elfmaid Isolde, the murder of Lady Gadria, your lawful wife, and a dozen other less hideous infractions,” Lord Ratelif said sadly. The high warrior of the Rose Knights picked up one of the black flowers and hurled it at the prisoner.

The rose struck Soth in the face, but he refused to flinch. I will not even give them that much satisfaction, he thought vindictively.

Sir Ratelif stood, then pronounced the fallen knight’s doom. “In accordance with the Measure, Soth of Dargaard Keep, Knight of the Rose, will be taken through the streets of this city in disgrace. He will be jailed until highsun tomorrow, then executed for crimes against the honor of the Order.”

Rough hands grabbed Soth’s shoulders, and a sergeant jerked the knight’s sword free of its scabbard. The burly soldier then handed the prisoner’s weapon to Lord Ratelif. The high warrior held the bright sword before him, its blade toward Soth. “The means of execution shall be the guilty party’s own sword.”

The memory grew vague in Soth’s mind as the knights pushed toward him in the room. Strahd had to strain to follow its thread.

His armor was pulled off, but still Soth remained silent, refusing to lend legitimacy to the proceedings. Dressed in only a padded doublet, he was dragged to a cart and paraded through the streets of Palanthas. The day was cool, and the smells of the port city were everywhere-the taunting aromas of meats and vegetables cooking in the open-air markets, the sharp tang of smoke from crafters’ forges, the smell of salt air from the harbor. Scribes and butchers, priests and bureaucrats, all had come out to see the fallen knight, the man of honor brought low. To Soth they appeared as nothing so much as sheep, round-faced and bleating.

“You knights are no better than any citizen of Solamnia,” one woman shouted from the throng.

A grocer hurled an overripe melon at the cart. “The kingpriest is right! Even the Knights of Solamnia are corrupt!” The crowd cheered when the missile hit Soth.

Calmly wiping the smear from his eyes, he looked back at the grocer. In the man’s jowled face, made red from standing in the sun to hawk his wares, the knight saw more hatred than he’d seen from most foes he’d faced at sword point.

I’m no innocent, Soth told himself as the cart lurched through the crowded streets. His inner resolve cracked, and a coiling thread of self-doubt wound around his heart. Now I’ve given the kingpriest proof that corruption exists everywhere-even in the knighthood.

A woman emptied a bucket of filthy water from an open window. As the shower soaked Lord Soth, he lost all thoughts of his own guilt. The people of Palanthas were acting like a mob, and the knights meant to guard him were doing nothing to shelter him. “You are all as guilty as I!” he shouted.

Something struck Soth in the face, a blow that made stars appear before his eyes. When the haze cleared, he saw a young Knight of the Crown standing over him. The youth had his mailed fist raised, ready to strike again.

Cold resolve took hold of the fallen knight’s soul once more, sealing his heart against any self-recrimination. For the rest of the humiliating ride through Palanthas, he closed his eyes and shut out the insults. Somehow I will make them sorry for this, Soth told himself over and over. Somehow I will make Palanthas pay.