Vampire of the Mists

by Christie Golden

  To Jander’s amazement, the red in Strahd’s eyes had faded and the count wore a thoughtful expression on his flushed face.

  “Jander Sunstar,” he said slowly, “you are right … up to a point. This is my land. I do whatever I wish here, and tonight, I wished to raise the black beast of panicked terror within the breasts of the Kartovs.” He smiled icily. “I have done so. Now I shall listen to what you have to say regarding, how shall I put it, ‘covering our tracks,’ hmm?”

  The elf didn’t know what to say. Strahd had skewered his argument in a masterful fashion. The count had yielded to Jander without giving up a single thing. As if he could read the elf’s thoughts, Strahd began to smile.

  “Well, the first thing would be to destroy the bodies.” Jander glanced at the nearest vampiress. “You have far too many slaves already.” He thought the count would contest this point, but Strahd nodded thoughtfully.

  “Take them all downstairs,” he told the vampiresses. Wordlessly each of the beautiful undead picked up a corpse and silently bore it down the corridor. “Then what would you have me do?”

  “We should burn the house down. Make it look like an accident. If we destroy all the evidence, there’ll be no reason for anyone to suspect anything.” Jander planned to wait until the last possible moment and then carry out the young woman upon whom he had fed.

  The corpses were gathered in the main room downstairs. The powerful vampires broke the furniture easily and built a pyre in the middle of the room, piling the corpses upon it. Jander couldn’t watch; it conjured up a centuries-old memory for him. Carefully, Strahd lit a torch from the still-burning fire in the hearth and placed it to the pyre. It smoked sullenly at first, then the wood caught and began to burn. Black, oily smoke curled up from the flames. Unnoticed, Jander moved to the stairs.

  Suddenly the vampires heard a loud shout, followed by others. “Fire! Fire at the Burgomaster’s!” came the cry. Strahd cursed, then dissolved into a mist that twined its way out one of the open windows.

  Jander hesitated, throwing a concerned glance up the stairs, noting with disgust that he had stepped in a puddle of blood and left crimson footprints down the steps. The pounding on the door made up his mind for him. The would-be rescuers would find the girl upstairs. Unfortunately, they would also find the corpses.

  The pounding increased. They’d break the door down soon. In a last effort to hide the tragedy, Jander grabbed a burning piece of wood and lit the draperies, which flared immediately. He tossed the brand back on the pyre, shimmered into bat form, and flew outside, dodging the burning draperies, just as the bolt on the door gave way.

  The elf left behind the bloody scene and escaped into the welcoming dampness of the night, bitterly musing on what had just happened. Strahd hated weakness; Jander knew that the whole thing had been staged for his benefit.

  He felt the bloody tears start, and he tried not to think of Merrydale and the horror that had happened there so many centuries before. Of course, the memory returned.

  The red dragon of the Dales was dead, thanks to the adventuring group that called themselves the Silver Six. Merrydale treated the heroes accordingly, opening the Swan’s Song Inn to them free of charge. Jander and his companions—Gideon of Waterdeep, Trumper Hillhollow, Lyria “The Lovely,” Kellian Graycloud, and Alinora Malina—were surprised and pleased with their reception. When Jander had suggested they rest up in the hospitable dale before moving on to new adventures, no one had objected.

  That had been three days before. Trumper’s thieving habits had since gotten him in trouble with the law, although the halfling had managed to talk his way out of it. Golden-haired Lyria had received two marriage proposals and many propositions, and had found the attention so annoying she’d threatened to turn her latest suitor into a leucrotta. “Your breath is bad enough already,” she told the humiliated young man.

  Shy, dark-haired Alinora and the even more reserved ranger Kellian were getting better acquainted, and Jander and the cleric Gideon merely roamed about the town together.

  That night, the Silver Six were gathered at the Swan’s Song for a leisurely dinner. A trio of musicians performed by the fire that snapped and blazed warmly in the large hearth. The happy chatter of a relieved town filled the room with a comforting buzz. The serving maid was prompt, polite, and comely. It was an idyllic setting for a pleasant evening with good friends.

  Trumper blithely packed away enough for any two other people, and the rest of the Six were enjoying the fine fare. All except Kellian, whose blue eyes were circled with purple rings and whose normally tanned face appeared unusually pale.

  “Does your throat still hurt?” Alinora asked, concern in her hazel eyes. Shyly she laid her rough warrior’s hand over his. Kellian nodded listlessly, stirring the broth Jander had ordered for him with his spoon. The ranger had complained of a sore throat for days, and with each passing hour he grew more exhausted.

  “Probably picked up something from those bug bites,” Trumper said with his mouth full, waving a chicken leg at the two tiny marks on Kellian’s neck.

  “I can’t eat this,” the ranger said in a hollow voice, pushing his bowl away. Lyria frowned, her emerald eyes narrowing, but she said nothing.

  “Try,” Jander urged. “How can your body fight off the infection without nourishment?”

  Kellian glanced at the elf with haunted eyes. “I’m just not hungry, that’s all,” he murmured. “I’m going to bed. I’ll be fine in the morning. All I need is a good night’s sleep.” Jander tried to push the bowl back in front of Kellian, concealing his shock when his hand touched his friend’s wrist. Despite the fact that Jander had commandeered the table closest to the huge, well-tended hearth fire, Kellian’s flesh was icy cold.

  The ranger was dead in the morning, and the task of informing the rest of the companions fell upon Jander. Alinora was heartbroken. Lyria, too, was in tears, and even the halfling Trumper was subdued. The funeral was held that afternoon. Jander piped his friend to the eternal sleep, and the good folks of Merrydale, sympathetic to the strangers’ grief, would not take a copper in return for laying the unfortunate Kellian to rest.

  The next morning Alinora woke up with a sore throat. She, too, was looking pale and had the same curious insect bites on her throat as Kellian had. Jander was definitely worried. He made it a point to ask around the town and discovered that fully a quarter of the populace was coming down with the mysterious malady.

  “I don’t like this,” said Gideon when they stopped in at the Swan’s Song for their noon meal. “This is no natural sickness.”

  Jander took a sip of his wine. The crowd at the tavern that afternoon was scarce, due to the large number of would-be patrons down with the illness that was rampaging through the town. Gideon, a bear of a man who had been a warrior until one of the gods had called him into service, stared at the amber ale before him. “Alinora didn’t respond when I tried to cure her,” he said, his voice low. The priest raised sad brown eyes.

  Jander tried not to let his surprise show. Gideon was a cleric of great skill and tenderness, despite his gruff demeanor. Jander had never seen anyone fail to rise after Gideon had pleaded with Ilmater on their behalf.

  “Maybe she really isn’t that sick,” he suggested, knowing how feeble the excuse sounded. He couldn’t meet Gideon’s eyes. Ilmater was the god of the martyr, patron of all who suffered. It was inconceivable that he would not wish to ease Alinora’s pain.

  When Alinora, too, died quietly in the night, Gideon was devastated. That time, the folk of the dale accepted money for disposal of the body; far too many corpses were accumulating for them not to. Slim, pretty, tomboyish Alinora was buried in a shabby coffin that had been built hastily, and Jander saw Gideon’s eyes grow shiny with tears when the elf piped a dirge for the second fallen comrade.

  Back at the Swan’s Song, Jander noticed that many of the patrons who had before bought them rounds of ale now stole covert, hostile glances. “I think we may have overstayed our we
lcome,” he said quietly to Lyria.

  The mage flipped her long blond hair out of her perfect face. “I agree with Jander. Who’s for leaving tomorrow?”

  “Me,” said Trumper. “Soon as they stop paying for my beer, I’m gone.”

  Jander turned to Gideon. The cleric was staring, brooding, at the fire. His bushy brown beard hid the frown that Jander knew was on his best friend’s lips. “Gideon?” the elf prompted.

  “I heard you,” Gideon snapped, his rough tone failing to hide his pain. “Yes. Let’s leave this place.”

  Jander’s silver eyes met Lyria’s green ones. The whole tragedy, they both knew, had been hardest on the cleric.

  The next morning the entire town was under quarantine, and the group wouldn’t be able to leave for at least another week. The populace was dying off at a staggering rate, too many to bury adequately. Some suggested that the corpses be burned to cut down on the spread of infection. The more superstitious in town concluded that the recently buried corpses should be dug up and burned alongside the freshly dead. A bonfire was lit that night, and the bodies—some fresh, some a few days old—were heaped upon it. Various clerics came and intoned a few words. The remaining inhabitants of the town glanced at the four strangers nervously, and Jander’s sharp elven ears caught hostile muttering.

  Shattering the silence of the mourners came a howl of pain and rage, the like of which Jander had never heard and which he prayed he would never hear again. He gasped, his silver eyes going wide with astonishment and terror.

  The corpses on the pyre were moving.

  Filled with a purposeful animation, they were hurrying as best they could to escape the flames. Some were partly burned already and bellowed their pain, shuffling monstrosities of rotting and charred flesh. Others were intact and began to leap upon the mourners. Jander dimly noticed Lyria beginning to chant a spell as he raced back to the inn to get his sword. When he came thundering down the stairs and out into the street, he skidded to a halt.

  Alinora was there, waiting for him. Her innocence had ripened and rotted into lasciviousness, but there was nothing attractive about her well-toned figure anymore. Her short, dark hair was matted with blood and filth. The red mouth opened, and Jander saw long, sharp fangs as she sprang at him.

  He swung at her with his sword, managing to cut deeply into her torso. She shrieked in agony, but the injury served only to enrage her. Alinora reached out her long, sword-strengthened arms and seized the elf in a powerful grip. Red eyes blazed with hate-filled light, but Jander’s elven blood was protection against her hypnotic gaze. The gold elf continued to struggle, grateful that he would at least die fighting.

  The vampiress’s strength was staggering, and Jander knew he could not break free. Alinora bared her teeth, preparing to sink them into his neck. Jander heard a sharp cry behind him.

  “Begone, demon!”

  Alinora shrieked and cringed. Abruptly released from her unnatural grip, Jander tumbled to the earth. The vampiress hissed angrily, thwarted, and her form dissolved into mist. She was gone, for the moment.

  The elf peered up at his savior. Through the flickering light of the torches that lined the street, he recognized the strong features of Gideon, who had been brandishing a medallion etched with the crossed hands of Ilmater. “Thank you, my old friend,” the elf breathed, letting himself be helped up.

  Gideon examined Jander’s neck and wrists with narrowed eyes. “Did she …?” Jander shook his head. “Good. Jander, do you understand what’s happening here and what we’ve got to do?”

  Jander nodded, his face solemn. “Vampires have invaded Merrydale. We’ve got to send their souls to rest.” It sounded like a brave and noble venture, and perhaps it was, but the elf discovered that he was totally unprepared for the sheer, wracking horror that was vampire-kind. Evil was easier to deal with when it was an ugly, inhuman creature than when it took the shape of a friend.

  The elven warrior and the fighter-turned-priest clung to one another as they hesitantly made their way to the nearest holy house. Though Jander knew that a temple to Tymora, Lady Luck, was just around the corner, the brief trip took an agonizingly long time. Unearthly sounds filled the night air: shrieks and moans and, most hideous of all, malicious, nearly human laughter. Some of the undead tried to approach them, only to hiss in furious surprise when they encountered Gideon, wielding the power of his martyr god.

  Some of the dalefolk had reached Tymora’s house before the heroes and had locked the door securely against the night creatures. As Gideon and Jander banged with growing frustration and fear on the heavy oaken door, a familiar voice came from behind them.

  “Move aside and guard my back!” Lyria commanded, her eyes slitted and her full mouth hard. She muttered something underneath her breath, then clapped her hands three times. The door swung open to reveal dozens of frightened dalefolk cowering within.

  “Come on, what are you waiting for?” Lyria asked her companions, tossing her blond tresses. “It’s only vampires who need invitations!” They hurried inside, hauling the door closed behind them. Lyria and another wizard began magically sealing the door, while Gideon sought out the skittish priestess of Tymora.

  “Wondering when you folks would make it here,” Trumper greeted Jander. His tone was light, but there was affection in his grip when he shook the elf’s hand.

  After a sleepless, terror-fraught night, Jander and his companions began stalking the vampires as soon as the sun touched the horizon. The dalefolk, somehow blaming the Silver Six for their sudden misfortune, were more of a hindrance than a help, although their own clerics and soldiers dispatched many of the undead.

  Trumper, agile and sharp-eyed, ferreted out the creatures’ coffins. Some hiding places were obvious; graveyards and crypts yielded several fresh-looking, bloody-mouthed corpses. The halfling also found vampires in more unlikely places, such as the wine cellar of the Swan’s Song. “Fitting name,” Trumper mused as Jander pounded a stake into a vampire child’s heart. Jander swallowed his disgust, taking what relief he could in the expression of peace that settled upon the little girl’s dead face as her soul was released.

  With a sigh, the elf dragged his arm across his sweaty forehead, sitting down on the cold stone and leaning his aching back against a wine barrel. He was exhausted. The four of them had slain fifteen of the ghastly beings today. “I feel like I’ve been doing this for a year,” he groaned. “What’s the hour, anyway?”

  Wine the color of blood drenched Jander as powerful white arms tore through the wine barrel at his back. The elf barely had time to react as the icy hands of the vampire locked on his throat. With all his strength, Jander flung himself forward, yanking the vampire off balance, pulling the creature down after him, down among the shattered barrel staves. The sharp pieces of broken wood pierced the belly of the monster, and it writhed and howled, its savage grip momentarily weakened.

  A moment was all Gideon needed. The priest of Ilmater pulled his friend out of the way with one hand and impaled the vampire on a broken barrel stave with the other. The creature gasped and flailed as blood mixed with wine. It convulsed once, spat blood, and lay still.

  Jander hugged Gideon tightly, both of them gasping to catch their breath. “Gentlemen …” came Lyria’s voice, tighter and higher-pitched than usual.

  “What is it, Lyria?” Gideon asked. The beautiful mage, her face pale, pointed at the vampire they had just destroyed. Jander closed his eyes in sympathy when he recognized the wine-stained body as that of Kellian.

  That night there was no time to make it to the temple. Gideon drew a circle in which they were able to take turns catnapping in safety. The next day was similar to the first, save that they divided forces. Lyria and Gideon took one side of the town, Jander and Trumper the other. The elf didn’t like the idea very much. “There’s strength in numbers, Lyria,” he protested, but everyone else agreed with the plan.

  That night, Trumper and Jander made it to Tymora’s Temple before sundown. It was near
ly midnight when Lyria joined them, her lavender gown bloody and torn and a wild look in her eye.

  “They almost got us that time,” she gasped as Jander eased her down on the rushes and Trumper expertly began to tend to her scratches. The elf inspected her throat and wrists; she didn’t appear to be bitten. Lyria closed her eyes and lay back into Jander’s lap. She was obviously near collapse.

  “Where’s Gideon?” the elf asked. Lyria’s green eyes opened, and Jander saw fear in their emerald depths.

  “He’s not with you?”

  Trumper, for once, didn’t say anything, but kept his eyes on Lyria’s cuts and scrapes. Jander began to tremble. “No, he’s not here.…”

  “There are other churches open to those seeking shelter,” Lyria offered, her slim strong hand reaching for Jander’s gold one. “I’m sure he’s—”

  “What if he’s not?” Jander’s words came out as a shout, and more than a few heads turned in his direction. The elf didn’t care. He and Gideon had been friends for over ten years. Jander’s mind went back to the days when the two had been HellRiders of Elturel and had fought Tiamat in her own lair. It was then that Ilmater had come to Gideon, and the mighty warrior had gladly put aside his sword. Since then, they had been inseparable, riding wherever they were needed, but always together.

  Jander didn’t notice that he had begun to silently weep, crystal tears meandering down his sharp-featured face. Neither did he notice when Lyria took him in her arms, laying his head on her breast and rocking him into a fitful slumber that was haunted by blood-red sunsets and corpses who wouldn’t stay dead.

  They had no chance to discover what had happened to Gideon, for the three strangers were driven out the next morning. Less than a week earlier, they had been heroes in a town that had for centuries been synonymous with hospitality. There had been no locks on any doors, and no stranger had gone hungry. Now the folk of Merrydale ruthlessly expelled all but their own to face the dangers of the night. The remnants of the Silver Six, now a pathetic three, made it to the next village, where they went their separate ways.