Tales of Ravenloft (ravenloft) Page 4

  It gave a screech pitched so high that my human ears could not have heard it. But my animal ones did, and the sound drove nails into my brain, distracting me just long enough for the thing to break my grip. It scuttled away from me toward the fireplace, dripping whatever it used for blood.

  Again I launched myself at what Gabrielle had become, and caught it just as it reached the stones in front of the vast fireplace. I was on its huge, bulbous back now, but within seconds its wiry legs threw us both over. Those legs cut through the air like steel whips, and the fat, obscene body twisted, pressing me cruelly against the floor. But still I would not release my savage hold. At last the red widow rolled to the right so that we were both on our sides, and turned so that her multieyed face and leering mouth were nearly against me. The fangs came toward me, but I dodged them even more quickly, opened my own great muzzle, and closed my fangs upon the giant spider's head.

  My reward was a mouthful of foul ichor and a scream that made the others sound melodious. I kept my jaws fastened upon that section of the head that comprised several of the eyes and a corner of the mouth, and bore down even harder, until more of the vile fluid gushed over my mouth. The momentary limpness of the widow's body told me that I had struck a mortal spot, perhaps even what served the monster as a brain. And as its body slumped, I relaxed for a split second, just long enough for the creature to yank its head away from me and scuttle back blindly, directly into the flaming logs of the fireplace.

  There was an awful hissing sound, like that of a large chunk of fat falling into a fire, and the red flames became one with the crimson hair of the spider's body. The legs burst into flame as well, igniting like dry twigs, and the creature tried to scramble out of the fire. But the burning legs crumbled beneath her like sticks of charcoal, and the flames mounted as the body fell full upon the blazing, wrathful coals.

  The fire licked up around her, making the fluids within her sizzle, and she twitched as though she were already being prodded by the cruel spears of all the fiends of the pit. Her rotund shape began to diminish, burning greasily away, the hot ichor spitting in final defiance from the mouth of the fireplace. Within minutes, she had been reduced to a smoldering, sparking mass of crusted fur in a puddle of bubbling putrescence.

  My enemy defeated, I felt myself becoming human again, and mortal relief flowed into me as beastliness flowed out. The transition took only seconds, and as I stood, my clothing ripped and torn by the expansion of my frame, I happened to glance in one of the two large mirrors that hung on each side of the fireplace, and saw behind me a pale, ghostly face at the glass of the doors that led out onto a terrace.

  I swung around and saw that the shocked visage belonged to none other than Jacques Legrange, the soldier at the inn. My true nature had been discovered, and I knew I could not let him flee. So I dashed to the door and yanked it open. He stood there, possibly petrified by fright, not knowing what to do. Nor, to tell the truth, did I. I could not kill a man for his knowledge, but if he made any rash move against me, I might have no choice.

  Then his hand tentatively started to move across his body toward the hilt of his sword, as though he intended to attack me, but feared to.

  "Do not fight me," I said as sincerely as I could, trying to keep down the killing rage. "As you love life, man, do not anger me or try to fight me, for I may do what I would not wish to."

  He seemed to understand, then nodded and let his hand fall back to his side.

  "You followed us," I said. "You were the one hiding."

  He cleared his throat roughly. "I was. I suspected her. There was a look. . between her and my brother. .and that night he rode out and did not come back."

  "You suspected her, and you didn't say anything? "

  "I could not be sure, and to accuse a lady. ."

  He left it unfinished, and I shook my head in disgust.

  "You fine gentlemen of Dementlieu," I said scornfully.

  "So did what you saw this night confirm your suspicions well enough?"

  He swallowed heavily and nodded.

  "A red widow, was she not? "

  "A red widow," I agreed. "One of that hellspawn that mimics the appearance of a scarlet-tressed beauty, lures men to intimate privacy, and then reveals her true, hellish self, killing the poor love-struck fools, and then draining their corpses over several days until not a drop of fluid remains. Such indeed was Madame Faure."

  "And. . and you. . "Jacques said, his voice trembling.

  "A lycanthrope," I said. "What good to deny it after what you've seen? "

  "And will you. . slay me now? "

  "I slay only the evil — or have been able to until now." And I told him how I had acquired the curse, and how I had been using it. "So keep the secret to yourself," I concluded," and live. And let me live."

  "I think you speak the truth," he said. "If not, you would have no reason to let me remain alive. "He gave his head a sharp nod. "I swear that your secret is safe with me."

  "Glad to hear it," I said gruffly, annoyed that I had to depend on this man's silence. "Now let's find what that hag didn't want me to see."

  It didn't take long. What remained of the corpses of the missing men were in the large attic of the mill, whose locked door I easily battered in. "In constant use, indeed," I said, remembering Gabrielle's words as we entered.

  Jacques uttered one word only," Louis. . "and then was shocked into silence. I could well understand why. His brother's dried and desiccated husk lay on the attic floor amidst the others. There was still enough left of their faces to tell who they were, but I knew Jacques's brother from the uniform that still clung to the fragile, husklike body.

  For a long time we stood there among the dead men, and then Jacques stepped forward and looked into each withered face in turn. At last he stood up and spoke. "My brother. . the cobbler, the smith. . they're all here but one."

  I nodded, for I knew. "Her husband," I said. "He was the first one chosen here. He would have been the mate. So we'll seek him somewhere no one would ever have reason to go."

  I led Jacques straight to the dry well, remembering the smell that had come up from it. There I looped a plain hemp rope under my arms, and Jacques lowered me down into the pit. I clung to the rope with one hand, and with the other held a lantern at my side.

  As I suspected, Roger Faure was at the bottom. At first I thought that he had not suffered the fate of the other victims, for his body seemed full and plump, almost swollen. But when I drew my sword and prodded his body, Gabrielle's children scurried from beneath their dead father's clothing so that he instantly withered into a foul matting of rags, parchment skin, and brittle bones.

  The repellent nest of spiders, hatched within Roger Faure's pitiful corpse, attacked me then, but the change did not come over me, for it was butcher's work I now did, efficient and yeomanlike, hacking them into bits one at a time as they tried and failed to bite through my heavy boots and scuttle up my legs. After I had dispatched the six, I searched the dry well thoroughly but found no more of the creatures.

  "Haul away!" I shouted, and looked up to see Jacques's white face high above. I thought he might be tempted to leave this humble lycanthrope at the well's bottom, but he was a man of honor.

  At the top I turned and spat back into the hole. "Another half a year, and six redheaded beauties would have crawled up out of that hole to go their separate ways and drain the men of this domain. But no more. You might fetch that poor fool's body out when you return with soldiers for the cleaning up."

  "You're not riding back to town?"

  I shook my head grimly. "No. Tell them what you will. Tell them you killed her yourself, if it'll advance your rank. I don't care. My work here's done, and there's something ahead of me that will wait no longer."

  I bade him good-bye and rode here, straight to Strangengrad. For I knew that what I feared has come true. When I held that thing in my arms, even before she had begun to transform into her true monstrous self, I felt my own self changing. Had
she been what I then thought she was, a true woman filled only with love and passion for me, I know that I would have killed her. I felt the beast escaping, that beast that yearned for hot blood and torn flesh.

  And I knew then that I must suffer the cure for my dread disease. I must try to scour this curse from my spirit, whether the attempt drives me mad or kills my body. For I cannot live on knowing that my spirit is corrupted by evil.

  So, Hamer, good friend, good priest, I stand before you a sinful penitent, stuffed full with undesired iniquity. You have heard my story. Tonight is the full moon. Lead me into the chapel, bind me, and do your best to drive this curse from me. And if my blood remains impure. .if the change comes…

  Well, you have a sword, and it is silver. You will know what to do.

  The House of a Hundred Windows

  "Three. . four. . five. ." Clarisse Harrowing murmured, counting windows as she wandered through the ancient, dust-dim air of Evenore's grand hall.

  It was here that her game always began, in the gloomy, rambling room that sprawled across the entire front half of the manor's first floor. Here the high, narrow windows were easy to count, each opening like a keyhole onto a leaden sky, nestled between smoke-stained beams arching overhead like the ribs of some dread leviathan from the deepest sea. Seven windows on the west side of the hall, seven on the east. Fourteen in all. But that was just the beginning.

  The House of a Hundred Windows. That was what the old Vistana woman in the village below — the woman with eyes as small and black as a raven's — had called the manor, even though Clarisse had only ever been able to count ninety-nine. Of course, had it been so simple, it would not have been a game at all.

  Clarisse moved into the library, her gown of dove-gray silk whispering across the worn stone floor. Heads of boars, stags, bears, and feral beasts she could not name snarled down at her from high walls, each draped in a shroud of cobweb and dust, as though wearing a funeral veil. She tried not to look at them. She concentrated on the windows. They were smaller here, trickier. Some hid behind the corners of overburdened bookcases, and others were all but obscured by tarnished suits of armor or tapestries whose idyllic hunting scenes had been darkened by years of soot and dust. Carefully she counted each window, making certain she peered into every alcove, every recess. The dreary afternoon light made her game difficult. It looked as if a storm was brewing.

  After some moments she nodded. Yes, nine more. That was what she always counted in the library. But then, it might be that there was a window here she had yet to find.

  Clarisse sank into a chair of blood-red velvet to consider this thought. She had played the game a dozen times or so — always when Lord Harrowing was away, of course — and at first, each time she searched, she had found more windows than the time before. Many of them were small and obscure, and easily overlooked. But on the last few occasions, Clarisse had counted only the same windows she had discovered before. Ninety-nine of them.

  She frowned, a fine line casting a shadow across her smooth, pale forehead. She thought of her encounter with the old Vistana, as she did with curious frequency of late. It was the day Clarisse had dared to tell Ranya, Lord Harrowing's red-faced housekeeper, that she would walk to the village herself to purchase candles and salt. On her way back, in the middle of the village's one muddy street, she had come upon the old woman, clad in shabby rags that swirled on the cold wind like dirty feathers. The shriveled Vistana had gazed at Clarisse with those hard black eyes, and had pointed with a crooked finger toward the manor house, perched like a dark bird on the tor above the village.

  A window lets in darkness as easily as light, the old woman's cracked voice whispered once again in Clarisse's mind. Forget that not, child, if you would dare live in the House of a Hundred Windows.

  Clarisse sighed, wondering if she should give up her game. Perhaps the old woman was mad. Gareff had often said that all the wandering Vistani were, what with their fate-scrying cards and their magic crystals and their strange, wild music. But no, she couldn't give up. Not yet, at least. The game was all she had to stave off the vast loneliness of this place when Gareff was away.

  And he was so often away, doing what she did not know, for he never spoke of it.

  Clarisse wondered if this was what her father had meant for her, this desolate existence in a country manor, so far from the bright, candlelit ballrooms and opulently gilded opera houses of the great city of Il Aluk. But no, all that had mattered was that his daughter married a lord of ancient and honorable lineage. Clarisse's father was one of the wealthiest merchants in all of Il Aluk, but he had learned that there was one thing all his gold could not purchase — noble blood. Thus it was that when Lord Gareff Harrowing came to call at their fashionable city redstone nearly a year ago, Clarisse's father had welcomed the suit for his daughter's hand, even though the suitor himself was more than twice her age, and lord of a provincial estate over a fortnight's journey from the city.

  Clarisse, of course, had been given no voice in the matter.

  "The choice of whom to marry is not ours to make," her mother had explained as she had basted up the hem of Clarisse's antique lace wedding gown.

  "I don't see why," Clarisse had replied crossly.

  "Men are better at making decisions, Clarisse. "Her mother's voice had sounded flat and weary. A look of resignation had shone in her eyes — eyes that years of meekness and subservience had washed utterly of all color and emotion. "Men are stronger and smarter than we are, Clarisse. Do try not to forget that."

  Clarisse had only bit her tongue. She knew she was smarter by far than most of the flighty, foppish noblemen who frequented the city's ballrooms and theaters — and most likely stronger than half of them. But there was no use in saying it. Her mother had given up long ago. Now Clarisse supposed she would do the same. It was, after all, what was expected of her.

  The next day Clarisse had wed Lord Harrowing in the largest cathedral in Il Aluk. Then, while her mother wept silently, her father had lifted Clarisse into a carriage with her new husband. As the horses lurched into motion, Clarisse had gazed back through the carriage's small, tear-drop-shaped window to see her father smile. With a start, she had recognized the satisfied expression. It was the same smile her father always wore after a profitable business venture. Apparently he had finally bought himself-what he had always desired. A spark of hatred had flared in Clarisse's heart then, so hot and sudden that it frightened her. She had turned her gaze from the window, trembling.

  Now Clarisse stood and smoothed her gown, as if the memories could be brushed away like dust. The gloom was steadily gathering in the library. What little light the day had managed would fade to night soon, and then her game would be over. Swiftly she moved through the parlor, the ballroom, and the kitchen, with its cavernous stone fireplace large enough to cook an entire roe deer. She made her way quickly up the great, sweeping staircase to the manor's second floor and there went from bedchamber to bedchamber, pausing to count the windows in each. Finally her game brought her up to the attic rooms. Here Ranya and Evenore's few servants resided, though most of the small, haphazardly arranged chambers had been given over to storage, each filled with a maze of shabby furniture, ancient trunks, and portraits of long-forgotten Harrowing ancestors.

  In the last of the storage rooms, Clarisse sat upon an ironbound chest and ciphered in the thick dust that covered a worm-eaten mahogany serving table. Fourteen windows in the grand hall, and nine in the library. Six for the parlor, and twenty for the ballroom, and five more for the kitchen. Then all the bedchambers, and the servants'quarters, and the storage rooms. Carefully she checked her numbers. At last she leaned back, brushing the dust from her hands, gazing at the numbers drawn upon the table.

  Once again, she had counted ninety-nine.

  Clarisse sighed, and for the first time found that her game had left her lonelier than before. She caught a pale glimmer out of the corner of her eye and turned to find herself gazing into an old mirror with a gilt
frame. A pretty young woman stared back at her with wide green eyes. Her dark hair was pulled back from her high fore- head, and a tear-drop pearl glistened at her throat. The mirror's ornate frame made her face look like a painting — just one more object of delicate beauty purchased to decorate the rambling manor called Evenore.

  Sudden rage flashed through Clarisse's breast. Was that all she was, then? A mere thing to be bought and sold? Without thinking, she snatched up the mirror and smashed it against the floor. The gilt frame cracked and splintered, and the glass shattered into a dozen jagged shards. Clarisse clapped a hand to her mouth, her anger turning into cold horror. From each of the shards, a fragment of a pale, wide-eyed face stared up at her in mute shock. What had she done?

  Quickly she snatched up an old rug and threw it over the broken glass, concealing the disturbing images. Then she moved toward the door. She needed to wash her face. Gareff could return at any moment, and she didn't want him to wonder why there were cobwebs in her hair and dust on her gown. She reached to turn the porcelain doorknob.

  A single spark of ruby light touched her hand.

  She gasped, snatching her arm back. Then, tentatively, she reached out once more. A small circle of crimson light danced across the back of her hand. Small motes of dust swirled on the air, transformed briefly into tiny glowing suns before vanishing. It was a beam of sunlight.

  Clarisse looked up at the storage room's sole window. It was utterly overgrown with ivy, letting in only a dusky green illumination. But that meant the light must come from. .