Tales of Ravenloft (ravenloft) Read online

  "Domenic," he hissed with contempt. "I should have known you would find a way to free yourself. And I see you have brought your foul goblyns with you."

  Clarisse followed Gareff's gaze and gasped in horror. She saw now that the four musicians upon the dais were not men at all, but creatures like those she had seen beyond the glass. The beasts threw down their instruments and leapt to their feet, baring jagged teeth in hungry leers.

  "Begone with you!" Gareff cried, waving his hand in an intricate gesture. The four goblyns screamed as each burst into flame. They writhed for a moment in agony. Then the flames died, leaving only four small piles of greasy soot.

  "Clarisse, come to me," Domenic beckoned urgently, holding out a hand toward her.

  Gareff quickly interposed himself between them. "Stay back, Clarisse," he warned. "I know you have heard rumors from the villagers, rumors of a goblyn lord. Know, then, that Domenic is he."

  "In the flesh," Domenic bowed with a flourish. He and Gareff began to circle each other warily.

  "Years ago Domenic ruled these lands with fear, Clarisse, capturing villagers and transforming them by unspeakable means into goblyns. "Gareff's voice shook with loathing. "But finally I put a stop to him, imprisoning him in the window. Since that time I've traveled the land, hunting down and destroying the last of his vile creations. I tried to conceal it from you Clarisse, to protect you. I see now that I was in error."

  "You defeated me once with your trickery, Harrowing," Domenic spat. "You will not do so again. "He spread his hands apart. Crimson light crackled between them. "This time you'll discover what it feels like to be transformed into a goblyn yourself. "The shimmering energy between his hands arced toward Gareff. Clarisse screamed, backing up against the wall.

  Just as the livid, blood-red fire reached him, Lord Harrowing crossed his wrists and chanted in a strange, dissonant tongue. A circle of green light flashed into being before him, blocking the crimson radiance. Domenic swore violently.

  "Your magic has diminished during your confinement," Gareff goaded. He muttered the queer incantation again, and the circle of green light grew until it surrounded him completely. Then an emerald tendril began to reach out, pushing back the searing crimson magic streaming from the hands of the handsome goblyn lord.

  "And you are a weak old fool," Domenic said between gritted teeth. Scarlet fire crackled around his entire body now, reaching out to entwine itself about the green glow conjured by Gareff's incantation. Clarisse shook her head in horror, watching as the two wizards assailed each other with all their powers. Sweat poured down Lord Harrowing's face, and Domenic's brow was furrowed in supreme effort. Halfway between them, emerald magic met crimson in a sizzling fount of sparks. Gareff was growing paler, his bushy eyebrows knit in concentration, and Domenic was trembling. Yet the violent juncture of their magics stayed even between them. It was a stalemate.

  "Clarisse!" Domenic cried. "You must help me!"

  The anguish in his voice rent her heart. She took a hesitating step toward him.

  "No, Clarisse!" Gareff shouted. "You must not listen to him. I beg you, come to me. You can help me defeat him once and for all."

  Clarisse froze, gazing from man to man. Magic charged the air with the acrid scent of lightning.

  "You are my wife, Clarisse," Gareff grunted sternly. "You must do as I tell you. Come to me!"

  "No, Harrowing, she is yours no longer," Domenic gasped. "Her soul is mine. I own her now."

  Clarisse shook her head. "No. . "she whispered, backing away from the two wizards.

  "You will never have her, Domenic!" Lord Harrowing cried furiously. The emerald magic surged forward. "Clarisse is mine!"

  Crimson fire leapt from Domenic's hands, countering the green incandescence. "No, Harrowing. She is mine!"

  Clarisse let out a wordless cry of anguish. Clutching her gown up above her ankles, she turned and fled the room. She ran down shadowed corridors, leaving the desperate shouts of the two men behind. She made her way through the grand hall. Portraits of Harrowing ancestors seemed to glare down accusingly at her from the walls. Afraid she had gone mad, she ran on.

  Abruptly she stopped, blinking in surprise. The stained-glass window shone before her. She didn't remember coming here. But that wasn't important, for now a thought struck her, a horrifying thought, yet terribly compelling ail the same. She knew she could not choose between Lord Harrowing and Domenic. One form of imprisonment was no better than another. Each man believed he owned her soul.

  But neither did, Clarisse knew now. Her soul was her own, to do with what she would. She would pretend to be weak no longer.

  "There is one more choice," she murmured softly, approaching the hundredth window.

  She gazed through the shining, colored glass — glass she sensed was older than Lord Harrowing, older than Evenore, ancient as the bleak and shadowed countryside itself. She reached out and thrust her hand into the window. The glass did not shatter. Instead, it was as if she had plunged her arm into warm, ruby-colored water. She felt the touch of a dozen cold, clawed hands on her own.

  Clarisse smiled.

  Moments later, she stepped through the door of the ballroom to see the two men still locked in their magical duel. Both were gray and haggard with exhaustion.

  "Clarisse, you must choose between us!" Lord Harrowing gasped grimly when he saw her.

  "Yes, Clarisse. "Domenic's rich voice was now hoarse.

  "Who will you give yourself to? Him or me? You have to choose!"

  Clarisse approached the two men, her silk gown rustling. "Indeed?" she said mockingly. "I must choose which of you will possess me like a common brood mare?"

  The two men stared at her in shock. "Isn't that all I am to you?" she went on, her voice hard. The men shook their heads, dumbfounded. Their shimmering magic wavered. "All my life I have been treated as so much chattel — by my father, by you, Lord Harrowing, and yes, by you, Domenic. An object to be sold and bought, or a prize to be seduced, won, and used. But no more. "She laughed, a cold, crystalline sound. "You wished to hear my choice, gentlemen. This then, is it: I choose neither of you."

  Before either man could react, Clarisse held her arms aloft. "Come to me, my friends!" she called exultantly.

  Suddenly a chill mist poured through the doors and windows of the ballroom. From the fog leaped dozens of hunched, twisted forms, eyes glowing ravenously. Goblyns. The creatures circled about the two wizards. Both crimson and emerald magic flickered and faded as Clarisse watched in satisfaction.

  "Clarisse, no!" Gareff shouted.

  "Please, my love!" Domenic cried.

  Their words turned to screams as the goblyns fell upon them.

  The day hung drearily over Evenore, but Clarisse did not mind.

  She banished a knot of trembling peasants from the doorstep of the manor, though not before throwing the wretched throng a few coins. She shut the massive mahogany door and turned to wander through the grand hall, running her hands lightly over ancient vases and expensive tapestries. She reveled in the ornate beauty of the hall. It was hers now. All of it. The folk in the village below had taken to calling her the Lady of Evenore. Clarisse supposed the title suited her well enough.

  Humming dreamily to herself, she made her way upstairs. She found herself in a room on the third floor, a chamber that had only recently been enlarged and furnished. She approached a black velvet curtain and pulled a golden cord. The curtain lifted, and crimson light poured forth, shimmering off the pearl at Clarisse's throat.

  The stained-glass window glowed despite the dimness of the day outside. In the window, intricately portrayed in glass mosaic, two men struggled, locked in a mortal embrace, their faces wearing expressions of frozen, ceaseless anguish.

  Clarisse laughed softly as she released the golden cord. The curtain fell back in place, concealing the window, as the Lady of Evenore turned to leave the chamber.

  Song Snatcher

  Larson had been a traveling bard for fourteen years, almost
half his life, but none of the lands he'd visited could rival the dark beauty of Kartakass. From his perch aboard the riverboat's top deck, he had a fine view of the rugged landscape. Forests of deep, velvety pine covered much of the land, punctuated by a scattering of snug villages. In small, well-tended holdings, farmers wrested crops from rock-strewn soil. Watching over all were the Balinok Mountains. Purple clouds gathered around the craggy peaks even on the fairest of days, brooding over the mountains as if trying to fathom the secrets hidden within a labyrinth of caverns. Larson's hazel eyes drank in the wild beauty with an appreciation that was deep and passionate. He sang softly to himself as the riverboat made its way north.

  The sun hung low over the mountains when the village of Skald Finally came into view. The young bard let out a whoop of delight at the sight of his long-awaited goal. Grabbing a passing sailor by the waist, he spun her around the deck in an exuberant dance. After her first startled shriek and salty oath, the woman fell into step with the ease of frequent practice.

  "And what might we be celebrating this time?" she demanded when the dance spun to a finish.

  "What else?" replied Larson gaily. "We're almost to Skald!"

  The sailor turned and squinted upriver. High stone walls surrounded the town and cast long shadows onto the silver water. Beyond the walls loomed the ruins of an ancient, fire-ravaged keep. She harumphed and stepped back, folding her arms and regarding the young bard with a mixture of exasperation and amusement.

  "Aye, that rubble heap has long been a favorite of mine, too," she said dryly. "Now get below, afore the night falls."

  Larson grinned and picked up his viola da braccio, a small viol slightly longer than his forearm. "I'll go to my cabin," he agreed slyly," but only if you'll join me. You Kartakans need to stop fearing the nights and start enjoying them!" He tucked the instrument into the crook of his elbow and began to play a bawdy little ballad.

  The sailor harumphed again and stalked off, trying to hide her amused chuckle. Larson blew her a kiss, then he brushed back a lock of his wind-tossed, dark hair and once again set his bow to the strings.

  The sound of a single distant fiddle stilled his arm.

  Larson lowered his viol and hurried to the rail. Tangled vines and bushes lined the shore and hid the musician from his view, but, oh, the music! Melody that throbbed with acute, searing pain, then soared into a wordless song of such hope and longing that even the gruff sailor paused to listen, her eyes moist with remembered dreams. Larson hummed along as best he could. When the song ended, he took up his viol and tentatively began to play. He captured most of the melody, if not the magic or the pathos. As he played, the haunting song again reached out to him from across the water, joining him in an impassioned duet.

  The music faded into a moment's silence. Bushes parted near the shore, and a dark-eyed woman stepped out onto the rocks. A mass of black curls tumbled over her bared shoulders, and a battered gypsy fiddle was tucked under her arm. She smiled at her handsome partner. Larson returned the smile with a roguish wink and a courtly bow.

  "When the moon rises, we will dance," she said casually. She turned and disappeared into the forest.

  Larson shook his head in disbelief. "Am I dreaming, or was I just invited to a Vistana campfire?" he murmured incredulously. The gypsies — or Vistani, as they preferred to be called — were as wild and elusive as their music. They could not bear to remain within walls, nor would most villagers welcome them. Finding the camp would not be easy, but Larson vowed to try. Outsiders were seldom permitted into the Vistani's circle. An opportunity to learn Vistana music was nearly as precious as the one that had brought him to Skald.

  In Kartakass, almost everyone sang. There were songs for all occasions, and each season had its own musical contests and festivals. For many months, Larson had been content to wander from village to village, collecting songs and stories. In recent months, however, all talk had turned to the spring festival at Skald. Of even greater interest to Larson was news of a notable bard and teacher who had retired to the village. Larson was eager to learn all he could from such a man.

  As evening shadows crept over the river, other, even more elusive musicians began to sing. Mournful and mocking, the cry of wolves came from mountain caverns and forest glades. In Kartakass wolves were as plentiful as seabirds, and nearly as bold. The people lived in dread of night attacks. Even aboard ship, in the center of a broad river, no one felt truly safe. Each night torches were lit before the sun disappeared, and the crew set watch for any creature that might swim for the boat. Larson had never seen this happen, but many a night he had seen the eyes reflecting back torchlight from the not-too-distant shore. Sometimes they were so numerous that it seemed a cloud of watchful red fireflies stalked them along the river.

  The sky had faded to silver when Larson's boat docked at Skald. Dock hands sang as they secured the boat. The urgent rhythm of their work song sped their movements in a race against the approaching darkness.

  Larson joined the stream of latecomers hurrying for the city gates. Once inside Skald, he made his way down the cobblestone streets, taking in his new surroundings with the trained eye of a storyteller. He saw little to suggest the presence of a festival. Skald looked much like any other large village: rows of sturdy wooden structures topped by thatched roofs and decorated only with bright blue or green shutters. The buildings huddled together, silent and wary. Each narrow window was shuttered and barred from inside, so tightly that not a bit of light escaped.

  Then he turned a corner, and the Fireside Feeshka Inn shone like a beacon in the center of a large, stone-paved courtyard. The inn was a vast and sprawling complex, crafted of thick stone and crowned with deep red tiles. Light streamed from its narrow, tiny-paned windows, and the sound of music and laughter beckoned Larson.

  Inside the inn, chaotic merriment ruled. A dozen or so musicians played a reel. Everywhere small circles of dancers kept time with the rollicking tune. Even the doves perched on the steeply pitched rafters broke into occasional swirling flight. Barmaids with wheat-colored braids carried trays laden with mugs and steaming trenchers of beet soup. The air was fragrant with the mixed tang of borscht, sourdough bread, and meekulbrau, a bitter local brew distilled from berries. Small tables were scattered here and there so that patrons could enjoy the simple fare in comfort. On one of these tables, a woman danced in an uninhibited testimony to the meekulbrau's potency. Larson smiled and began to ease his way through the crowd toward the bar.

  There was but a single discordant note to mar the revelry. Near the bar, a solitary man slumped over a table, staring at his hands. Larson noticed a glint of silver between the man's fingers. As he took a stool at the bar, Larson studied the lone figure with a mixture of sympathy and curiosity. His face was sharp-featured and strikingly handsome, but lacking animation, with skin nearly as pale as the thick, graying blond hair that spilled carelessly over his shoulders. He did not move; he barely breathed.

  The barkeep tapped the meekulbrau Larson ordered and slid the mug toward the bard with a flourish. Larson thanked him and nodded toward the solitary man.

  "Who is that? "

  "Him? That's old Quintish."

  This news turned Larson's first sip of meekulbrau into a sputtering cough. "Not the bard Quintish!" he said, as soon as he could speak.

  "See you anyone here who isn't a bard?" the barkeep retorted. "Even I've been known to tell a tale or two. "He raised a single eyebrow, inviting further inquiry.

  "I hope you'll share your stories with us," the young man murmured absently. He left his mug on the bar along with a few coins, and hurried over to the bard's table.

  Larson made his introductions with a deep bow. "I have been searching for someone like you for years, Master Quintish. "He nodded to the empty chair. "May I?"

  He waited politely for a response. When none seemed forthcoming, he took the empty seat and carefully placed his viol on the table. Quintish's eyes settled on the instrument, and he gently stroked the polished wo
od with fingers that were tapered and supple. "What do you want from me?" he asked without looking up.

  The voice was a thin, dry whisper, and Larson struggled to hide his dismay. This was the master he had long sought?" Will we have the honor of hearing you sing later this evening?" he asked tentatively, hoping he had been misinformed.

  Quintish turned his gaze to the tavern window, as if an answer could be found there. The sky had darkened to black velvet, and the moon had yet to rise. "No, you won't hear me," he said emphatically.

  The man's voice was stronger this time, and in it Larson heard the resonant bass timbre for which the bard Quintish was famed. The young man leaned forward eagerly. "If you no longer perform, Master, surely you still teach?"

  Regret — the first emotion that Quintish had shown — flickered in his eyes. "No, no more students. "As if eager to end the discussion, he resumed his study of the silver object.

  Larson glanced at it, wondering if therein lay the key to the bard's strange behavior. He held out a hand. "I'm very fond of silver jewelry. May I see it?"

  Quintish's hand clenched possessively, and for the first time he met Larson's eyes. He recoiled, as if shocked by the unfamiliar act of making contact. Larson smiled encouragement, and after a moment the older bard relaxed. His eyes seemed to take on more focus, and he handed his treasure to Larson.

  It was a small locket. Larson opened it to find a skillfully rendered miniature of a woman. The painting was faded by the passage of years, but Larson could see that she was a Vistana, a beauty with rippling dark hair and enormous black eyes.

  "My Natalia," the bard said simply. "She died one night bearing my son. The babe followed his mother ere morning broke."

  "I'm sorry," Larson said awkwardly. There seemed nothing to add. He closed the locket and handed it back.

  Quintish nodded acknowledgment, and a strange light dawned in his eyes. "I'm going to her soon," he said with certainty.

  "But you said — "Larson broke off, for the bard was no longer listening. As he studied the older man, he noted that Quintish apparently paid little heed to much of anything but his ancient sorrow. Not only was the master bard distracted and unkept, he was painfully thin.