Vampire of the Mists

by Christie Golden

  “I’m bored,” moaned Trina, who’d been moping around all evening. Strahd was seldom home at nights anymore, and Trina definitely didn’t like it that the count had chosen to play a game with Jander rather than pay attention to her. She sprawled by the fire, one arm draped over the big gray wolf who drowsed there.

  “Silence,” growled the count. There was a knock on the study door. “Come.”

  It was one of Strahd’s slaves. “Excellency, there is a Vistani here to see you. He says it’s important.”

  Strahd gave the slave his full attention, the game forgotten. “I shall come down. Jander, Trina—I won’t be gone long.” He rose, paused, made a move, and smiled icily at Jander. “Your Doe is dead.” With a flourish and a rustle of red and black silk, he was gone.

  Trina slipped into the chair he had vacated. “Teach me how to play the game, Jander.” She peered at the round, polished stones.

  “Not tonight.” After a pause he asked, “Do you know where Strahd has been going these months past?”

  She frowned. “No. He used to take me with him. He doesn’t, not anymore. He says he’s looking for someone. Why are these stones gray and those all different colors?”

  Jander wasn’t paying attention to the werewolf. He was thinking about the count and wondering if Strahd himself had noticed how much he had changed. So, he was “looking for someone.” That didn’t surprise the elf. What did surprise him was that Strahd hadn’t instigated a methodical massacre of the population in pursuit of his unknown nemesis. Instead, the count had taken to disappearing for a week or so at a time, conducting his own quiet investigations as well as enhancing his network of spies.

  Strahd’s restraint, however, did not indicate that the count was calmly accepting his lot. Jander knew that, eventually, the net would close in on Sasha. He mentally wished the boy luck.

  “The Vistani have found another one of mine,” Strahd announced, startling Jander out of his reverie. The count stood in the doorway to the study, trembling with contained fury.

  “What happened this time?” Jander asked.

  “He drowned her. It was Marya. Damn him, damn him!” Jander remembered Marya, the newest addition to Strahd’s bevy of lovelies. The count had been quite taken with the voluptuous woman with the large, hypnotic eyes. No wonder he seemed particularly upset.

  “This enemy of mine is uncanny! Time and again I have told my slaves not to travel alone. They are warned. And yet, he keeps surprising and killing them. He blinded Shura so she could not identify him to me. It makes me wonder if this mysterious foe is something more than mortal.” Strahd smiled craftily. “It is well that I have new spells with which to fight him.”

  Absentmindedly playing with the pieces on the board, Trina muttered something under her breath.

  Strahd frowned. “What was that, my pretty?”

  Trina pouted. “Nothing,” she said sullenly.

  The count’s carefully reined temper broke. He strode over to the girl and yanked her head back. “Remember who your master is, little wolf-girl,” he snarled, his lips close to her throat. “I can’t take sustenance from you, but I can take your life. What did you say?”

  “Strahd,” Jander began.

  “Silence!” shrieked the other vampire and followed the command with a jumble of unintelligible words. Jander tried again to speak and found himself mute. His hands flew to his throat as if he could pry the words out. “Speak!” Strahd ordered the werewolf.

  Trina was crying, from anger as much as pain. “I said, ‘if you wouldn’t make so many of your stupid slaves, you wouldn’t lose them!’ ”

  With a sneer of disdain, Strahd released his grip. Trina fell from the chair, writhing into her wolf form. Strahd looked at the board, and his expression grew even darker. “Trina, you have been playing with my pieces. I told you never to touch my game!” Before Strahd could punish Trina further, she had completed her transformation. The werewolf sped out the door, bushy tail between her legs.

  “Jealous little bitch,” Strahd said, his anger turning to self-satisfied humor. “She hates it when my attention wanders from her. She’ll come cringing back in a bit. I have her for as long as I want her. She craves my magical knowledge—and me.” He glanced at Jander and released him from the silence spell.

  “I’ve told you of my abhorrence of magic, Strahd!” Jander spat angrily. “Why can’t you respect that? The lives lost, the atrocities committed—and for what? A violation of the laws of nature! Magic can’t bring you peace of mind, can it?”

  Strahd’s eyes went red. “Careful what you say, friend Jander,” he said, his voice dangerously soft. “Remember whose guest you are. And remember also, you yourself are a violation of the laws of nature.”

  The elf froze as if struck. Strahd ignored him, rearranging the pieces on the board. “Shall we play again?”

  Jander stormed from the study. A breeze blew at his back all the way from the castle, rich with the fragrances of summer. Once in the shelter of the forest, the elf took out his flute and began to play a frenetic melody, his fingers dancing as he channeled some of his anger into his music.

  A violation of the laws of nature. I am that, Jander noted bitterly, but I am also other things, things Strahd will never comprehend. For a moment he considered trumpeting the count’s crimes to the village, but the thought of committing treachery did not rest easy with the elf. Back on Toril, treachery had cost him everything: his life, his happiness, perhaps even his undying soul. Memories of the traitor’s evil deed pushed all anger from Jander’s mind, and a deep sadness washed over him as he became lost in remembering.

  The fire spat as Jander put a fresh armload of dead branches on its red-orange heart. The elf stepped back as the flames crackled and sent a shower of tiny sparks spiraling upward. The fire subsided after a moment to a cheerful glow.

  The elf was not cheerful. He was very tired and still had several days of traveling before him. A few yards away, his horse cropped contentedly, occasionally cocking an ear in her master’s direction. Jander spread out his bedding and rummaged in his pack for something to soothe his growling stomach. He grimaced at what his search yielded. All that remained of his supplies were a hunk of salted, practically inedible pork and some stale traveler’s bread. He gnawed with little enthusiasm on the hard bread, knowing that he ought to bestir himself and set a snare for a rabbit.

  His heart did quicken slightly at the thought of finally going home. Two hundred years of wandering Faerûn, fighting evil, making and losing friends, sleeping on cold, hard earth—surely that was enough to wear anyone down. He had held up the reputation of the Sunstar family at all times. Evermeet sang to his soul, calling him home after his wanderings. Evermeet, Evermeet, home of the People …

  Alone with the night, Jander reached for his flute. He had carved it himself back on Evermeet, and it had traveled with him, his one unchanging companion over the last two centuries. The elf carefully unwrapped the instrument from its layer of protective coverings and raised it to his lips.

  Sweet as a bird’s call and haunting as the waves’ eternal sigh, the uncanny, nearly magical music filled the air. Jander’s mare paused in her feeding to harken to the sound for a few moments. Gideon used to claim that the very beasts of the forest stopped whatever mischief they were about to listen when Jander played. Whether it was true or not the elf couldn’t say, but he knew that it always soothed his own troubled soul.

  The pure sound lingered in his heart, even after he put the flute down.

  “There’s no one else in Toril who can play like you do, old friend,” came the voice.

  Jander’s sword was drawn and in his hand in a heartbeat. “Who’s there?” he challenged, unsettled by the fact that he hadn’t heard the intruder approach.

  As an answer, the figure moved closer to the firelight. His bulk was better suited to a warrior than a cleric, but the big, bearded man wore the garb of a priest. Jander’s breath caught in his throat, and for an instant emotion blocked all words.


  “Gideon,” he breathed softly. “I’d given you up for lost at Daggerdale!”

  “So I would have been, were it not for Ilmater’s Miracle. I am blessed. He came and took my pain from me.”

  Jander had heard of Ilmater’s Miracle. Occasionally, when a devout priest was in great pain, the god of the martyrs would manifest and take the priest’s place. It was far from a common occurrence, but the elf could think of no one more worthy of such a gift than Gideon.

  Sheathing his sword and tossing it onto his bedding, Jander strode toward his friend, arms outstretched in welcome. A huge smile on his face, Gideon met him halfway, nearly crushing him in a bear hug.

  “Oh, thank the gods, thank—”

  Jander’s prayer turned into a choking cry as two small points of white heat stabbed into his neck, piercing his soul as well as his flesh. The scalding pain traveled down to his gut, and it felt as though his soul were being pulled out through the two small holes in his jugular. Dimly the elf felt droplets of his own blood trickling down his throat and staining his blue tunic.

  The elf tried to shove Gideon away from him, but he was too weak, and his hands pushed feebly against the cleric’s massive chest. The feeding continued mercilessly, and Jander felt his consciousness coalesce into a tiny point of light behind his eyelids, then fade altogether.

  Awareness returned some time later. Something cool and moist and filled with the rich loam fragrance of earth covered the elf, pressing damply against his face. He shifted and tried to wipe the dirt away, but found that soil covered the rest of his body as well. Panic gripped him, and he flailed frantically, scraping at the dirt on his face and clawing his way out of what he realized was a shallow grave.

  Fear lending him energy, Jander scrambled a few feet away from the lightly dug pit. He sagged, too weak to stand and get his bearings. He could only stare at the trench, an ugly gash in the forest’s fertile soil, and say a prayer for his narrow escape.

  “Good evening, Jander,” came a strident voice. “Hope you slept well.” Nervous laughter followed.

  Jander sat up, turning weakly in the direction of the voice. A slender young man emerged from the shadow of a nearby tree. The youth was pale, his hair a mass of coppery curls with one stray lock trailing across a milky brow. His eyes were large, with a rather doelike quality, and he gnawed his lip nervously as he twisted a pair of fine calfskin gloves in his white hands. The rest of his clothing, from leather boots to linen shirt, was equally fine.

  “Who—” began Jander, but the sound emerged as a croak. He licked dry lips and started again. “Who are you? Where’s Gideon?”

  Again the youth laughed, a short, harsh bark. “Your friend wants you, cleric.”

  The former priest stepped into Jander’s limited range of vision. His eyes glowed an eerie red, and he smiled, showing white, sharp teeth in a beard matted with blood. With a cold pang of loathing, Jander realized that the blood on Gideon’s face had come from his own throat.

  “You’re one of us now, Jander,” Gideon said in a voice that was nothing like the strong, sad tone that the elf remembered. The voice of the cleric-turned-vampire had a hard, sneering edge to it.

  You’re one of us now. Jander’s hand groped for his throat. It was smooth, unmarked. The elf closed his eyes in relief. They hadn’t gotten him yet, so if he—

  “No, Jander Sunstar,” the red-haired young man was saying. “You are indeed a vampire. Feel for a pulse. You’ve been dead for a full day.”

  Slowly, keeping his eyes on Gideon and the stranger, Jander stretched one thin hand to the other and felt at his wrist. He frowned to himself and readjusted his grip.

  There was no pulse.

  Still sitting on the earth, the elf craned his neck to look up at the strange young man, who was staring down at him appraisingly.

  “I do like this one, Gideon, very much. You’ve done well. Bring him something to eat. Jander, my name is Cassiar, and I am your master.”

  “No,” Jander whispered. “Gideon … We were friends!”

  “Gideon the mortal was your friend,” the evil creature snarled at him. He approached Jander, and the elf saw that Gideon was carrying a towheaded child in his arms. “I am Gideon the vampire, and I have little use for things from my past. Cassiar is my master, and I obey.”

  “You’re very hungry, Jander, aren’t you?” Cassiar purred. Suddenly the elven vampire was hungry, and he realized that his newly undead body craved fresh blood from the little boy’s throat. He could smell the blood, and the elf felt a curious sensation in the roof of his mouth. Fangs were growing in response to the bloodscent, and fresh horror overwhelmed him.

  “No!” he cried, covering his face with his arms. “You can’t make me do that to a child!”

  Cassiar frowned, his boyish mouth puckering in annoyance. “You have no say in the matter. You will obey me, and I say drink!”

  Jander was too young, too weak a vampire then to resist the command his master had given. With loathing, he bit into the boy’s white throat clumsily, gracelessly. Blood splattered softly on his golden face. Even as his mind was overwhelmed by revulsion at what he was doing, his body drank greedily, messily.

  Afterward he looked up at Cassiar, and his silver eyes were filled with hatred. Though it would take him nearly a century, he eventually slew his evil master. That act of rebellion allowed him to forge his own future, but it did little to free his soul from the curse his traitorous friend had inflicted upon him.

  SASHA WAS HORRIFIED TO FIND HIMSELF SHAKING AS HE stood over the corpse of his latest victim. He steadied himself for a moment, kneeling in the forest litter. Even after the pause it took him two tries to pull the heavy wooden spear from the vampiress’s breast, and sweat beaded his brow as he stuffed the beautiful mouth with garlic. He stubbornly ignored the Little Fox, who stood quietly, observing his distress.

  Picking up the small hatchet, he prepared to cut off the head. His hands, however, were trembling so badly that he couldn’t manage it.

  “I’ll get this one,” Leisl said, stepping in so smoothly that it seemed completely natural. Gratefully he handed her the hatchet and watched in admiration as she coolly proceeded to behead the corpse. She was so calm about it—no trembling, no tears. Not for the first time, Sasha wondered if she had any heart at all.

  The vampiress had only been undead for a few weeks. The scent of blood and decay assailed his nostrils, and Sasha turned a sickly shade. Stumbling to his feet, he made it to the nearest tree and vomited. Leisl politely ignored him, concentrating on her work.

  The priest fought to control his shivering as he slumped against the tree, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. Of course he was afraid. He was always afraid. Only a fool would not have a healthy respect for these powerful, clever beings. A fool—or the impulsive, innocent child he had been on that long ago night, when rashly he had braved the darkness outside only to lose his family in the sanctuary of their own home.

  The fear did not bother him. His sudden weakness did.

  At the edge of his vision, something white fluttered. Sasha was instantly alert, adrenaline suddenly pumping through him. Another vampire? He caught the image again and recognized it.

  “Katya!” he cried, his voice a sharp violation of the thick, enveloping silence of the late summer forest. Without thinking, he sprinted off after her.

  “Sasha, wait!” Leisl called. Cursing, she gathered up their tools in her blood-drenched hands and took off after him. She caught him easily, for Katya, or whatever it was, had disappeared. The priest was breathing raggedly, and real fear haunted his face. He looked down at Leisl in agony.

  “Katya!” he said, as if the one word would explain everything.

  Leisl’s heart sank. She knew where they were going.

  In his apprehension, Sasha set a hard pace, and by the time they had reached the village they were both panting heavily. Sasha pounded frantically on the door of Katya’s tiny cottage. “Katya? Darling, it’s me. Please, ope
n the door!”

  There was a long silence. Sasha’s face reflected his anguish as he nervously dug with a thumbnail at a splinter in the wooden door jamb. At last, the door eased open a crack, and Katya peered out fearfully. Her small white hand clutched her holy symbol about her neck.

  “Sasha? Oh, Sasha!” With a sob, she flung herself at him. He held her closely.

  “Darling, what’s wrong? What happened? I thought I saw you—” He stopped himself just in time. “Outside.”

  “Oh, Sasha, you may have. That’s what’s so horrible!” She gazed at him, her brown eyes enormous and full of tears. “I … sleepwalk,” she confessed, the last word a whisper.

  Sasha went cold inside. Sleepwalking in Barovia was an invitation to disaster. The priest knew, better than anyone, just how dangerous it could be. Suddenly frightened, he moved her thick brown hair off her neck, fearing to discover the telltale tiny puncture wounds. He sighed with vast relief when he saw that her throat was unmarked.

  “I have such terrible dreams,” she continued. “Dreams about blood and somebody stalking me in the shadows. Then I wake up, and I don’t know where I am!” The tears began again, and she buried her face against Sasha’s chest. “And I wish … I know it isn’t right, but … I wish you were here with me when I sleep, just so I’d know I wasn’t alone.”

  “Hey, you two, it’s getting cold out here, and I’d like to get a little bit of sleep myself,” came Leisl’s sharp voice.

  Sasha started. He had forgotten about the Little Fox, so upset was he at Katya’s distress.

  “Of course,” sniffled Katya, drawing back from the priest shamefacedly. “I’m so sorry, Leisl. I’m all right.” Katya didn’t fool either of her visitors, however. Her eyes were still huge, and her lower lip quivered.

  “Here,” said Sasha, slipping his medallion of Lathander off his neck and placing it around Leisl’s. “Go back to the church. I’ll see you there in the morning. I don’t feel comfortable leaving Katya alone right now.”

  A little, grateful cry escaped Katya’s lips, and she clutched his hand hard.