Jander had to admire the youth’s poise. Petya’s face took on a dreamy look, and he began to speak in a sing-song voice.
“Kartov of Barovia, you shall rue this night’s deeds. Boris Federovich Kartov, I curse y—” He choked as someone shoved a dirty rag in his mouth. Even though the curse hadn’t been completed, some of the patrons were hesitating to aid their burgomaster. Others, however, were grateful for the opportunity to translate their perpetual fear into action.
They yanked Petya’s arms behind his back, tying the limbs tightly with the boy’s own brightly colored scarf. Jeering and cursing him, they shoved the boy out the door. He stumbled over the threshold and hit the cobblestones hard, unable to break the fall with his bound hands. Raucous laughter burst from the crowd. Kartov pulled Petya to his feet by grabbing hold of the boy’s silky black hair. Petya winced with pain.
The light from the open tavern door spilled out into the center square, its yellow brightness a sharp contrast to the subdued glow of the moon’s light. Lights went on in all the houses along the open square. Shutters opened a crack, and the inhabitants peered out curiously but cautiously.
The mob tumbled out into the night in a collective stream of enthusiasm, half-pushing, half-carrying the hapless Vistani. They were taking him to the gallows at the end of the square. The pig-eyed lackey had run ahead and prepared the hangman’s noose for its victim and waited, grinning viciously, as the crowd moved in his direction. Petya was dragged up the few steps onto the scaffold. He still struggled as the pig-eyed man draped the noose about his neck.
No one noticed when the elven stranger separated from the throng and vanished like a shadow into the night.
But they all heard the sound of the approaching wolf pack.
THEIR SONG SOARED BEFORE THEM AS HORNS’ MUSIC before hunters. The shrill melody rent the night, a gleeful sound that could freeze blood. Wolves had never before come straight for the village. Then again, much was afoot in Barovia these days that was best not examined too closely.
As uniform in their flight as they had been in their bloodthirst, the villagers scattered before the oncoming beasts, shrieking in fear and stumbling toward what safety their small homes could afford. Still the sound closed in about them.
Anastasia took advantage of her captor’s slackened grip to squirm free and scramble up the gallows steps. Ignoring her own terror, she forced her trembling fingers to undo Petya’s bonds. Whoever had tied his hands had done it well. The scarf bit into his flesh, and she practically had to dig it out. She had almost loosened it enough for Petya to work free when her father’s hand clamped down on her arm. “Anastasia, come! Hurry!”
At that moment a gigantic furry shape emerged from the shadows and leaped onto the wooden platform, hurling itself at Kartov. Its jaws remained closed, but the weight of its body sent both burgomaster and wolf thumping from the platform to sprawl on the unyielding stone. As quickly as it sprang, the beast leaped off Kartov, nipping at his feet, almost herding him down Burgomaster’s Way toward his house. Kartov needed no further urging, abandoning his daughter to save himself. The eight wolves raced across the square, their howls clashing with the screams of their intended victims. They chased after fleeing villagers, scrabbled angrily at bolted doors, capered with bestial abandon at shuttered windows. One of them seized a wooden window sill in its mammoth jaws. The beam splintered with a loud crack, and the wolf whimpered in stupid surprise at the pain.
Not a one of the great beasts attacked Petya or Anastasia.
Anastasia continued to work at the scarf, and Petya struggled free. He grabbed her hand and they clattered down the steps. A great gray she-wolf noticed the movement and swung her shaggy head toward them, growling. Petya lunged for a knotty branch one of the men from the tavern had dropped, then shoved Anastasia behind him. Gritting his teeth, Petya raised the stick. The wolf advanced on them slowly, her legs stiff and the hackles on her massive shoulders raised. Her eyes blazed with an amber glow.
“There’s no need for that, Petya!” Petya gasped. Jander stepped in front of him, smiling slightly. He turned to the beast. Calm down, sister, calm down … Clearly unhappy with her lot, the gray female sat down. She still growled, though, and her ears were flat against her head.
Jander looked about, making eye contact with the rest of the pack and issuing silent commands that were obeyed, albeit reluctantly. Thank you, brothers. You may go now. As one, the wolves sprang to their feet and sped into the shadows, shaking their heads to get the human stink out of their delicate nostrils. Within a few seconds, all trace of them had vanished.
Petya and Anastasia gaped at Jander. Then Anastasia started to cry weakly, the strain of the evening finally catching up with her. The gypsy boy put a protective arm about her, but his black eyes never left Jander’s. “What are you?” he demanded in a voice that betrayed nothing of the fear that Jander could smell.
Jander raised his eyebrows, feigning offense. “I am but a traveler from another land. I have saved your life here tonight, Petya. What more must a stranger do to earn your trust? You told me that you knew what it was like to be an outsider here. Have you forgotten?”
Petya flushed. “I have never seen anyone like you before. You will forgive me if I still mistrust. Yet,” he conceded, “we are in your debt. How can we repay you?”
“By getting out of here before the rest of the villagers get suspicious. Anastasia,” the vampire said gently, “you’d best bid farewell to Petya. He won’t be visiting the village again, not with the kind of greeting he is sure to receive.”
Anastasia, who had mastered her tears, threw her lover an anguished look. “Our savior,” Petya said, with a still-suspicious glance at Jander, “has the right of it, my darling. This is good-bye. My people, I think, will be on the move even sooner than we had planned.” He grinned ruefully. “My Papa will be whipping me before morning, I’m sure, for the coins such a retreat will cost us.”
It was with real affection that Petya gathered the girl into his arms for a last embrace, holding her as she sobbed against his chest and planting a gentle kiss on her head. At last Anastasia drew away from him and dragged a hand across her wet face. She took a deep breath to steady herself.
“Good sir, I do not know your name to thank you properly.” Her voice quivered slightly.
Jander glanced around the square, worried that the villagers might be crawling out of their holes. Fortunately it appeared that his little trick had succeeded extremely well. All the windows and doors remained securely fastened. “I am Jander Sunstar.”
“Then, Jander Sunstar, I pledge my friendship to you. I will never forget what you have done for us tonight.” The tears threatened to overwhelm her, and she bit her lower lip. Unwilling to break down again, she fled toward her father’s home. Petya’s black eyes followed her, unusually somber.
“Your true love?” Jander did not mean to sound sarcastic, but the words came out that way.
Petya was oblivious to any needling, however, and merely shook his dark head. “Nay. But I am fond of the girl and would not see her harmed. She has spirit, and that is rare in her village.” He turned to face Jander, planting his fists on his hips. For his small stature, Petya was very sure of himself. His face was bruised and bloody, but he ignored the pain.
“I owe you my life. We Vistani do not take such debts lightly. Jander Sunstar, whatever you might be, you have demonstrated friendship to me here tonight. I offer the same.” He paused and licked his lips. “I invite you to come with me to our encampment, where we may treat you with the honor you deserve.” He bowed deeply.
Jander smiled to himself. His plan to win the gypsy’s trust had worked. “Petya of the Vistani, I should be honored to visit your encampment.”
Petya was pleased with the gracious reply. “Then let us go,” he smiled. “This way,” he said as he took the road headed west. Jander followed.
The lights of the village faded behind the gypsy and the vampire, and the night closed about them. Most
of the dwellings were located well inside the town limits, but as he walked along the dirt road Jander saw a few lone homesteads. A small flock of sheep stood out like specters against the dark green of the grass.
“Tell me about yourself, Jander Sunstar. I do not think you are from this place.”
Jander glanced down at his companion. “What makes you say that?”
“All those who dwell here look like the villagers.”
“Yet your people live here, and you’re not quite the same as the Barovians,” Jander pointed out.
“We are travelers.”
“Well, so am I.”
Petya smiled, flashing white teeth in the moonlight.
“Perhaps that is so. What is the name of your race?”
“I’m an elf,” Jander answered. The term brought an unexpectedly delighted response from the gypsy.
“I am happy to have met you! I have never before seen an elf. Although,” he added with a trace of self-importance, “I have heard the stories.” Jander had to smile to himself. He would have given much to hear exactly what kind of tales Petya had listened to. “Then the mists must have brought you.”
Jander was surprised. He certainly remembered the thick fog that had enveloped him, but he hadn’t thought it the reason he had come to Barovia. “Does that happen often?”
“No, but it is not unknown. We ourselves travel the mists. Our tribe has only been here a short time.” He stopped and pointed. Ahead roiled the mysterious fog through which Jander had passed earlier when he entered the village. It was a thick gray barrier that shifted and pulsed as if it possessed its own kind of malevolent life. Jander had not enjoyed passing through it when he entered the village a few hours earlier, but it had not harmed him.
Petya shoved a dark hand into one of the voluminous pockets of his red pants and pulled out two small vials of a purplish liquid.
“It is well that I put these here and not in my sack, hey?” He tossed Jander one of the vials, uncorked his own with a small “pop” and drained the contents. Jander examined his, wondering what he should do. He couldn’t drink it, that was certain.
“Come, come!” Petya chided. “This is a potion that will let you pass safely through the fog.”
“Why, is it dangerous?”
Petya stared, then shrugged. “You came through the mists, so you would not know. That is killing fog. It is poisonous. This”—he held up his now-empty vial—“makes you immune to its effects.”
Jander hesitated, then pretended to drink the liquid, spitting it out the minute they entered the fog and Petya couldn’t see him. The fog hadn’t harmed him because he didn’t breathe. Poison couldn’t affect one who was already dead. The fog welcomed them, folding damp arms about them, trailing tendrils about their faces and down their backs. Jander would have lost Petya within minutes but for his infravision. He concentrated on the redness of Petya’s warmth ahead of him. After several minutes, the fog lessened, then faded altogether.
“That’s … uncanny,” the vampire said.
“There is much that is uncanny in Barovia,” the gypsy replied somberly.
“Yes, tell me about Barovia. I—” Jander broke off in mid-sentence. The poisonous fog had shut them off completely from their surroundings, even to the point of eliminating outside noises. The elf heard the bubbling of water a short distance away and glanced ahead down the path. It led directly to a small wooden bridge that arched over a fast-flowing, dark river about fifty feet wide. On the other side, the path continued, twisting ahead into the forest. Jander’s sure footsteps faltered, and his mind raced. As a vampire, he would be unable to cross the running water. Petya still believed him a living being—elven, and therefore alien, but alive. The music of the flowing water taunted him.
“Is something wrong?”
They drew closer. “I … have a confession. When I was young, I nearly drowned in a river. Ever since then, I’ve been deathly afraid of them. Is there no other way to your camp?”
Petya looked skeptical. “The bridge is secure, I promise you. Look.” The youth scampered halfway across the wooden bridge and back like a rabbit. “I will guide you safely across.” A crafty smile touched his lips. “You have asked me to trust you, and I have walked alone in the Barovian night with a stranger! Now it is your turn to trust me.”
The elf glanced down into the swirling water, glad it was not still. Petya would not notice that his companion had no reflection.
The river churned beneath the bridge, heedless of the vampire’s dilemma. No, he would be unable to cross the water. He had tried once, a few hundred years before, and had doubled over in agony. He had to make the attempt here, if for no other reason than to convince Petya that his false phobia was crippling.
The elf slowly reached and took Petya’s proffered hand. For extra support, he felt Petya’s arm go around his back. Together, gypsy and vampire took a tentative step onto the bridge. Jander moaned in pain and quickly stepped back onto the land. He could not do it. Before he realized what had happened, he was on Petya’s back.
“Petya—”
“A debt is a debt, giorgio.” The slender youth was surprisingly strong. Quickly and with a sure stride he walked across the bridge, carrying Jander easily. Jander glanced down as they crossed, seeing the silver glint of moonlight reflected in the water.
Petya reached the far shore, and Jander slipped to the ground.
“You are kind,” he said to the boy. Petya shrugged off the compliment.
“It is a good thing you fell in with me,” the Vistani said as they continued. The forest pressed in thickly about them, and Jander noticed that Petya’s footsteps were almost as silent as his own. “You would have terrified the villagers long before now. I assume you are a magician?”
Inwardly Jander grimaced, but it was a convenient way to pass off his control of the wolves. “You could say that.”
“I understand these things. The villagers, they are too frightened. Your kind of magic is most often found practiced by the akara.”
Jander did not recognize the word, and raised an inquiring eyebrow. “Akara?” he repeated.
“Nosferatu,” Petya explained, “vampires. The undead who feed upon the blood of the living.” He made a quick sign of protection over his heart. Though it was as alien to Jander as the word Petya had used, he instinctively flinched. Fortunately, Petya didn’t notice.
“Ah, I see,” Jander replied. “You’re right. I am lucky indeed that we met. Tell me more about this world. Is Barovia the name of the town?”
“Yes, and the name of the land as well.” They passed beneath some hunching apple trees, their beautiful blossoms sharply at odds with their twisted appearance. Petya paused a moment, then leaped upward and seized a branch bursting with blossoms. It cracked loudly in the still night and showered him with petals. He tugged, and the branch came free in his hand. The youth inhaled its scent deeply, smiling.
“For my sister,” he explained. “Flowers turn their anger, hey?” His smile deepened to a grin as he gave Jander a sly wink. “Do you have a lady, Jander? They can be very fine company, but sometimes they talk too much.”
Jander was growing impatient. The boy was amusing, yes, and it had been far too long since Jander had been amused. He had rescued Petya’s neck from the noose for information, however, not entertainment.
“I heard the name Strahd at the inn, and mention of a place called Castle Ravenloft.”
Petya’s mercurial features registered a true seriousness, and Jander smelled fear. “Let us not speak of these things in the dark,” he said quickly. “We can talk about that tomorrow.”
“Tonight,” Jander pressed.
Something in the elf’s tone caused Petya to look at him closely. “Very well,” said the boy slowly, “though it is best not to talk of such dark things at all. Count Strahd von Zarovich is the lord of the land. His home is Castle Ravenloft. He was a powerful warrior once, but now it is said he cultivates magic.”
Magic. Would he never
be free of it? Jander fought the urge to spit contemptuously. It was a stroke of ill luck indeed that the lord of the fell place was a mage.
“Do you think that’s true? About magic?”
“It must be. He has ruled here far longer than any mortal man should.”
“How long is that?”
Petya shrugged. “I do not know. We are not Barovian. We do not follow its history that much.”
Jander considered the strange surroundings for a moment. “The fog answers to him, doesn’t it?”
“The fog around the village, yes. It is under his control. But the mists that brought you to this land bow to no one.”
“Who is Olya?”
Petya glanced at him again, a flicker of suspicion in his eyes. “A girl who died, as you obviously heard. It cannot interest you.” A sharp twittering caused Jander to look up. A small gray and white bird, disturbed from its sleep, regarded him with a bright eye before settling back to its rest. “Mark that bird well, Jander. It is a vista chiri. When you see one of them, you know that the Vistani are not too far. They follow us, our little friends. We believe that they are the spirits of our ancestors, here to keep an eye on us. Come, we leave the path here. I know a shortcut.”
Petya veered into the forests. Jander followed. It was quite dark here, as the thick trees that arched overhead cut off most of the moonlight. Giant roots crisscrossed the shadowy forest floor. Petya, however, navigated the tricky footing with a sure step and an air of complete safety. “The villagers seem to be afraid of the night,” Jander ventured, “yet you stride off like a hero, Petya. There are wolves in this realm. Are you not afraid?”
“You speak with the wolves, Jander, and no self-respecting bandit would attack a Vistani.” He grinned over his shoulder. “All Vistani can cast the Evil Eye, hey? As for not-so-mortal danger, the powers of this place have no effect on me. It is why Strahd—” He broke off and muttered a curse under his breath. “You loosen my tongue, elf, and that is not necessarily a good thing. I have spoken enough, perhaps too much. Come, tell me of your land.”
Vampire of the Mists Page 5
