James Lowder - Knight of the Black Rose

“And you are no man’s lackey, eh, Soth? You believe you control your own fate?” the vampire lord asked. He smiled, a genuine smile of cruel amusement. “You will learn we are all lackeys of the dark powers that rule this place, chess pieces to be moved about and set against each other.”

Soth curled his hands into fists. “Have you come to set yourself against me?”

“Us,” Azrael said to the vampire lord. Magda held the ancient wooden club before her, an obvious statement of her agreement.

Strahd laughed. “Of course not,” he replied. Bowing slightly and fanning his cape with one hand, he added, “I am here, Lord Soth, to call a truce to our little conflict and to offer myself to you as an ally.”

“Fine,” the death knight said. “Let us leave this place then. We’ll find somewhere more suitable for… allies to discuss their plans.”

Strahd bowed again, this time more fully. He headed for the door, saying, “I have an outpost nearby, a ruined tower. It will be perfect for just such a discussion.”

Soth retrieved his sword and sheathed it, then followed the vampire toward the tunnel. Azrael quickly fell in beside the death knight and the Vistani.

Before he left the chamber, Lord Soth turned to the werecreature. “If you ever try to speak for me or amend my words again, I’ll cut the tongue from your mouth before you can utter a cry of protest.”

Azrael knew it would be foolish to answer, so he simply nodded and fell a few steps behind the death knight. In silence the trio made its way back through the tunnel, to the fork of the River Luna. The weight of dashed hopes hung on their shoulders like cloaks sodden with foul water.

The young man’s screams reverberated through the crumbling tower of Strahd’s outpost on the outskirts of Barovia. The cries for pity became pleas for a quick death, growing more shrill with each passing moment. They filled the tower’s chimneys like gusts of air and entered the midnight sky as little more than haunting moans. The few peasants who dwelt near the abandoned keep had heard far worse coming from the place, so they weren’t unnerved. They were Barovians, after all, and such night-terrors were part of their lot in life. Those who heard the screaming merely checked the braces on their shutters and tried their best to fall asleep, thanking their gods that it wasn’t them in the tower.

The unfortunate prisoner in the ruined keep prayed to his gods, too, but they did not-or could not-grant him a quick death. It was understood throughout the land, and perhaps even the heavens, that Strahd Von Zarovich seldom trafficked in merciful ends.

The vampire lord stood in a large hall on the tower’s ground floor, his back to the fire burning cheerily in the hearth. He held one hand on the forehead of the captive, the other on Lord Soth’s wounded arm. The young man was a gypsy, a Vistani of Madame Girani’s tribe and a cousin of Magda’s. He tried again and again to shake the bone-white fingers from his brow, but each jerk of his head was weaker, less violent. With his arms tied painfully behind him and his torso and legs lashed to a heavy chair, the young man stood no chance of preventing the count from completing his enchantment.

For his part, Soth stood calmly, feeling the warm flow of the gypsy’s life force seeping into his wrist. His hand flexed and his fingers spread of their own accord, as if the energy Strahd was draining from the Vistani was gifting his limb with an independent will. The death knight knew, however, that the necromantic spell the vampire lord cast did nothing but siphon the life from the mortal prisoner and transfer it to him. Soon the wounds he’d gained from the dragon’s jaws would be healed completely. The muscle spasms were but an odd side-effect.

The look on the count’s face told Soth that the vampire enjoyed the workings of this particular spell. Strahd’s dark eyes rolled back and fluttered, showing only their whites. His pale cheeks flushed with color; his cruel mouth stretched into a wide smile of pleasure. The vampire’s fangs had extended to their full length. The long canines gave the count’s thin face a harsh, bestial cast. To a creature such as Strahd, who sustained himself on the life force of others, serving as a conduit for the transfer of such energy was a tantalizing, invigorating experience.

At last the screams faded to whimpers, then even those pitiable sounds stopped. The Vistani’s handsome features changed as Soth watched; the youth’s dark, piercing eyes grew vague and watery, his smooth face became pitted with pock marks and creased with wrinkles. The skin sagged over his cheeks and jaws like wet cloth, and a thin line of spittle slipped down his chin. When Strahd removed his hand from the prisoner’s forehead, the Vistani slumped forward.

“Is he dead?” the death knight asked, rubbing an appraising hand over his healed wrist.

“Of course,” Strahd replied. He pushed the Vistani’s head up and studied his face. “He was the last of Girani’s clan-apart from Magda, of course. When she’s gone…” The vampire let the corpse’s head loll forward again, then wiped his hands together, as if they’d been sullied by contact with the dead man.

Stiffly Lord Soth retrieved the battered vambrace that had covered his lower arm and the gauntlet that he’d worn on the injured hand. The metal of both pieces of armor showed the effects of the dragon’s attack-the vambrace in the scratches and jagged-edged hole in its side, the gauntlet in its crushed joints and the small punctures pitting its surface. “I will go to the basement now and work on my armor,” the death knight said.

“Not just yet, Lord Soth,” Strahd replied. He gestured toward the only empty seats left in the hall-a pair of block chairs that bracketed the glowing hearth. “We should talk for a while. Besides, I can provide you with replacements for those from the tower’s armory. No one has dared loot the place since I… evicted the previous tenant.”

“I prefer to keep these,” the death knight noted. “This armor is ancient, and over time it has become more a skin to me than this other.” He held up his arm, and the withered flesh shone translucent, ghostly.

Taking a seat by the fire, Strahd nodded. “Of course, of course.” Again he gestured to the other seat. When Soth finally relented and sat down, the vampire lord steepled his fingers. His long, dark nails were as sharp as Azrael’s claws. “You have not asked me why I still seek you as an ally.”

The death knight shrugged. “That seems obvious, Count. You hope to see Duke Gundar inconvenienced, if not slain outright. Now that I’ve proven my strength to you, it is clear I am the one to do this.”

“Just so,” the vampire admitted. “At first I was quite angry. Few dare to challenge me, let alone in my own home.” Rolling his fingertips together, he added, “It’s been quite a long time since anyone of such power entered my realm. Because of that, it was natural for me to underestimate your place in the domain’s web of life.”

Strahd stood and paced before the fire. “The dragon you destroyed is a rarity here, but not irreplaceable, and as far as Gundar’s ambassador is concerned, you managed to trick him into cooperating with us.”

“Pargat told me nothing before he died.”

“But he told me everything when I conjured up his spirit,” Strahd noted happily. “Gundar’s monstrous son had cast a powerful spell over him, making it impossible for him to reveal any secrets to me, but it had power over him only while he was alive. I should have thought of that.”

Strahd’s dark eyes glittered in the firelight. “You proved yourself formidable… I readily admit that. I underestimated your power. To compensate you for that insult, I have healed your wounds and even forgiven you for your breach of hospitality.”