Tales of Ravenloft

Von Kharkov

The only name he had ever known was Urik von Kharkov, and for a fleeting, exultant moment, he thought he had at long last gained his freedom.

In that moment he felt the life-force drain from Dakovny's body in distant Karg. He felt the grating of the stake against bone as Dakovny struggled to wrest it from his chest, felt even, for an excruciating instant, the driven blade that separated head from convulsing torso.

But in the next moment, as the flood of pain and exultation faded to a trickle, he realized that Dakovny's hateful power had not been lifted. It remained, smothering Von Kharkov's mind like a poisonous cloud, paralyzing his body until —

He screamed, more a snarl of the Beast he dared not summon than any sound that could emerge from his human throat.

But even as he screamed, he realized there was a difference, a vital difference. Yes, Dakovny's power remained, gripping him as tightly as ever it had, but there was no longer a mind behind that power. That had vanished with Dakovny's decapitation. The chain still bound him, but there was no hand to hold that chain. Not yet. Not until the one who was destroying Dakovny could complete that destruction, make it irreversible. Only then could he turn his full attention to his new slave.

With a strength born of desperation, Von Kharkov lurched into a stumbling run, forcing those grisly scenes in distant Karg into the background, demanding that his eyes, normally far keener than those of most of his other doomed brethren, focus instead on the world that surrounded him here, the dark and narrow streets of Neblus.

When finally his vision cleared, he was nearing the graveyard that marked the far end of the tiny village. He could even see — or imagined he could see — the crumbling stones that marked the graves of the parents he had never known.

A sudden longing to spend a few final moments with them, to bid them one last farewell, was almost overwhelming, but he dared not pause for even a moment, no matter how much the sudden ache in his heart goaded him. His only hope — if hope indeed existed for what he had long ago become — lay in wasting not a second. Eyes were everywhere, looking out from behind every drawn shutter, riding every invisible current of air, concealed in every natural and unnatural shadow, and any of the creatures lurking behind those eyes could become a pawn of that other creature back in Karg as soon as it turned its full attention to him. Von Kharkov could only lurch on as the forlorn shadows of the graveyard slid past, the tendrils of fog that drifted among the stones a tantalizing reminder of his still-distant goal.

Beyond the graveyard, there were no roads, no paths. Only the River Tempe cut through the shadowed landscape, and even its dank waters grew more sluggish, as if reluctant to complete their journey into —

Into what?

If he didn't falter, he would soon know. Less than a mile ahead lay the edge of the world — the Mists. No one knew what they were, much less what became of one who entered them. Even Dakovny and others of his ilk claimed ignorance. All that was known was that no one who had been taken in had ever been returned.

But whatever lay within them, the Mists were Von Kharkov's only hope. He would plunge into them, not without fear but without hesitation. Whatever awaited him could be no worse than what he had endured in Darkon for more seasons than he could remember.

The graveyard dropped behind, its grip on him weakening. Ahead, a shrouded wood seemed to half emerge from the Mists themselves, and Von Kharkov wished desperately he dared assume the form of the Beast. Its senses were far sharper, and its lithe, clawed form could cover the distance in a fraction of the time it would take his human form.

But he dared not.

For the Beast, if it were allowed to emerge into reality, would know nothing of Von Kharkov or his wishes. It would not — could not — struggle as Von Kharkov was struggling now with every step. It was a mindless instrument of death and little else. It had killed and fed at the whim of Von Kharkov's master, and now that Dakovny was destroyed, it would unhesitatingly serve the whim of its new master.

If given the chance.

Von Kharkov's ebony skin rippled in a chill of revulsion as memories of countless awakenings swept over him, countless visions of shredded flesh, countless imagined images of his own features as they regained human form through a veil of blood. If only, all those years ago, he had been able to resist the lure of —

But you could not, Von Kharkov. You could not resist, and you did not.

A new voice echoed in his mind, stronger than Dakovny's had ever been. He stumbled, almost falling.

Resisting temptation was never in your nature, was it, Von Kharkov? That is why you found your way to Dakovny so quickly and submitted to his ministrations so gratefully. And look at you now, rushing headlong toward another of your illusory goals, not a worthwhile thought in your head.

The voice laughed, sending needles of pain through Von Kharkov's mind. It seems I shall have to save you from yourself, then. After all, you are mine now. And your little machinations — you thought I didn't know? You thought you could hold your thoughts secret from not only your master but from me? That is delightful! Naive as well as impulsive and easily tempted! But as I was saying, your little machinations did give me the opportunity to eliminate an old enemy — at least eliminate him with less effort than I might otherwise have had to exert. So you see, Von Kharkov, you did me a favor, and now, in return. .

A pair of eyes, glowing red in the darkness, swooped out of the air directly at his face, sending him reeling. Others appeared, and he could see the shadows of bodies around them, hear the high-pitched chittering. Ahead, at the line of trees that had emerged from the Mists, larger shadows began to take shape, shadows that snarled gutturally as they lumbered toward him across the barren plain.

Desperately, he lurched to the side, toward the river. If he were able to throw himself into the Tempe, no matter how slowly it was running —

The Mists and the escape they offered were obviously beyond his reach now, but the escape of oblivion might still be attainable. It would even be preferable.

With every last ounce of his strength, Von Kharkov plunged into the water.

Fool! the voice thundered in his mind as the water, burning like liquid fire, closed over him.

Fool, he agreed silently as he forced himself to surrender, to simply wait as the pain burned brighter and his consciousness guttered lower even as it tortured him with visions of the Mists he had failed to reach.

Slowly, Von Kharkov's senses returned.

He was lying, not in the icy water of the Tempe but on ground that was solid and utterly featureless. What —

The Mists! They were all around him!

They had not been a figment of his pain-racked mind! They had been real! They had reached down into the water itself and swallowed him up!

And for the first time since that terrible moment in Karg, he felt hope. Not hope that he could someday be human again — his humanity was irretrievably lost — but hope that he could at least be free, free to think and act on his own, but most of all, free of the horrors he had been forced to commit again and again, whenever Dakovny grew bored or wished for another enemy to be destroyed in retaliation for some minor misdeed, either actual or imagined.

Surely even Dakovny's kind could not follow him here!

And the voice —

Von Kharkov smiled abruptly. The voice was gone. There was only silence in his mind. Only his own thoughts.

Eagerly, he leapt to his feet and looked around.

But there was nothing, only the Mists. He could see a few yards into them before they blotted out his vision, but that was all.

And the silence of the world around him was as complete as the silence in his mind.

He began to walk. But though he could see the featureless ground move beneath his feet, nothing changed. There was only the muffling whiteness of the Mists flowing by him. And the silence. Even his own footsteps were swallowed up in it. He could see his feet striking the ground, could feel them thud against it, but no sound reached his ears, ears that had once been able to catch the rustle of a single leaf as it drifted gently to mosscushioned ground.

He ran, but even that was silent and dreamlike, and he began to wonder: Did this place have no end? Had he escaped into the Mists? Or simply been trapped by them?

He remembered the last word the voice had spoken to him, the word his own mind had echoed! Fool. .

A wave of dizziness swept over him, and the Mists seemed to thicken and coil more tightly around him.

But only for an instant. As he lurched to a stop, the muffled silence suddenly evaporated, replaced by the rustling of thousands of leaves in the wind, the beating of wings overhead, the padding of a predator's feet as it stalked its prey through the underbrush —

And the Mists were gone.

A forest — a jungle! — surrounded him, with all its myriad scents and sounds flooding his senses.

Scents and sounds he was certain he had never experienced before, yet were instantly and intimately familiar. The spoor of a hundred different animals conjured up a hundred different images, each as detailed as if the animal itself were standing before him. The cries and flapping wings of a hundred birds, the muffled buzz of countless insects, the fragrance of decaying vegetation drifting up from the matted jungle floor, all assaulted his senses, screaming their familiarity. For a moment, the puzzle of that familiarity gripped him, but he quickly cast it aside. It wasn't important. All that mattered was that he was free!

Or was he?

A new chill of fear gripped him.

He stood perfectly still, listening not to the eerily familiar world around him but to his inner world. Ever since that long-ago night in Karg, there had not been a moment when he had been alone in his mind. The voice might not always be heard, but its potential had always been there, like a velvet cord looped about his neck, waiting to be pulled tight.

And Dakovny's eyes. .

They were never seen, but they were always felt. Dakovny had been a constant presence in Von Kharkov's mind, just out of range, never touchable, but always there, watching, waiting, ready to take control at any moment, to grip the velvet cord and pull it tight in an instant.

Von Kharkov listened. With his ears and with his mind.

And there was nothing!

He was alone, truly alone, in his mind!

For a long time, that was enough. Like someone who has just emerged from years in a dungeon into the open air, Von Kharkov was euphoric with the simple pleasure of freedom, of looking at what he wanted to look at, of touching what he wanted to touch, of not having to constantly fight to cloak his true thoughts, his true intentions from what he had come to see as a hated part of himself.

Finally, more practical thoughts began to intrude.

Where was he? Was this world, wherever it was, nothing but jungle? Were there no people? No villages? No cities?

But the thought cheered rather than worried him. Villages and cities held only painful memories. It was Karg where he had gone to seek immortality, and where, to his everlasting regret, he had found it. It was in Karg and other cities of Darkon he had been forced to assume the form of the Beast and perform for his master, again and again.

Here in the jungle, there would be no vampire masters. No innocent victims to be tortured and killed for his master's idle amusement. Only others like the Beast, content in their mindlessness, never knowing —

A chill swept over him, moist and clammy, and everything was silence. It was as if every living creature within earshot had frozen, motionless, not even breathing.

Suddenly, his every sense was hyper-alert.

Something physically cold and damp brushed against his back.

Silently, he spun toward the touch.

And saw the Mists. For a fleeting instant, they swirled before him, and then they were gone.

A woman stood rigid in their place. She was young and beautiful and as hauntingly familiar as the land itself. Hair as black as night, sleek as —

He blinked the feline image of himself away before it could fully form. The sounds of the jungle returned.

"What is this place?" Her voice was a feral hiss. Her eyes narrowed as they focused on his face. "Who are you, and why have you brought me here? "

"My name is Urik von Kharkov," he said," and I did not bring you here. Beyond that, I know no more than you. And your name? "

"Malika. "Scowling, she looked around. "This is not Cormyr."

"Is it not? "

"You know it is not. "Even as she spoke, he knew it was the truth. But how —

"This Cormyr is your home?" The simple syllables felt strangely at home on his tongue.

She nodded suspiciously. "And yours? "

"Darkon."

She shook her head. "That is not a land I know. How do you come to be here?"

"The same as you, I would venture."

"You are not here of your own volition? "

"Not entirely. I wished to escape Darkon, but — "

"This is useless!" she snapped. She looked around. "Where is the nearest village? "

"There may not be any villages in this world."

"Do not be foolish. This is not the Great Desert. It is a forest, and all forests have an end to them."

"In your world, perhaps."

She laughed, but with a sudden edge of fear. "What foolishness is that? There is but one world. Even for sorcerers."

"I am no sorcerer."

"That is unfortunate. If you were, perhaps you could conjure up a meal. I had not eaten for near half a day when I was snatched here. "She pulled in a breath. "I suppose there's nothing for it, then, but to set out. You have no suggestions regarding direction? "

"None."

She was silent a moment, then shrugged and pointed at random. "There. That is as good as any, I imagine." Abruptly, she turned and strode away.

Before she had gone a dozen steps, a sound emerged from the dense thicket ahead of her. Not a growl, but still a sound from deep in some waiting creature's throat.

It was a sound Von Kharkov had heard a thousand times welling up from his own throat as the change had begun and his consciousness faded.

"Wait!" he called after her.

A dozen yards away, she paused and turned toward him, frowning. She seemed unaware of the sound. "You remembered something?"

Behind her, the sound grew louder, more like a growl. Even she heard it then.

She had just turned toward the sound when the tangle of brush and vines exploded and a massive, jet-black panther emerged, its coat sleek and untouched by the underbrush it had just come through. Its green slitted eyes were tinged with red.

"Stay still," Von Kharkov warned her.

His own eyes locked with those of the animal. Slowly, his motions as fluid as those of the Beast, he moved toward her. She seemed as frozen in place as the animal.

Finally he was at her side. His hand on her shoulder, he urged her to move behind him. Silently, she obeyed.

The panther's eyes remained fixed on his as it crouched, as if preparing to leap, the growl rumbling deeper in its throat with each movement Von Kharkov made.

He took a step forward.

And another.

The growl became a snarl, then a hiss. The animal slashed the air with its claws.

A hiss emerged, unbidden, from Von Kharkov's own throat. His eyes remained locked with those of the panther, and for a moment it was as if he and the animal were linked — even more closely than he and the Beast had been. For a moment, he saw himself through the other's eyes, saw the feral snarl on his own face, almost as dark as that of the panther, his eyes even more piercing, more unblinking.

And then it was over.

Abruptly, the animal's entire posture shifted, from one of menace to one of submission. It slumped and lowered its eyes. Then it turned and vanished the way it had come, but in silence.

But as it vanished, Von Kharkov felt the Beast within himself begin to stir.

"No!" A strangled cry ripped at his throat.

"What's wrong?" The woman's voice came to him from a great distance, even though, as he turned, he felt her hand upon his arm.

He shook his head violently. He couldn't speak. He dared not. In his mind, he heard the Beast snarl. What was happening? There had been no voice in his mind, no command that the Beast come forth! There had been only that brief, intense link, and the Hunger had begun to rise.

The Hunger had come upon him countless times before, but not like this, not without a command from his master! And here he had no master! It should not — could not be happening!

But it was!

But he could control it!

Here, without Dakovny or another like him commanding the Beast to come forth, he could stop it in its tracks, just as he had the panther! In Darken, knowing he could not disobey his master, he had never dared resist the transformation. He had invariably surrendered, abandoning both resistance and consciousness as if simply going to sleep. He had let the Beast assume control as his body began the change. Only when his human form returned had he awakened, his consciousness returning from whatever dark recess it had hidden itself in.

But now he would not retreat! He would not give in! He would fight, as he had fought — and beaten! — the panther.

Instead of letting his body drop to all fours when the transformation had barely begun, he held himself rigidly erect. But even as he did, he felt his body begin to change. His skin started to itch unbearably, then burn, and the fire went deeper and deeper until his very bones were aflame.

Had it always been like this? he wondered. Was this what he had blanked from his mind all those hundreds of times before? Or was this only the result of his resistance?

Why was it happening?

He lurched uncontrollably, his arms flailing the air for balance. The bones in his legs, still aflame, softened and shifted and bent and formed new joints. The flames concentrated in his hips, then, and his whole body bent forward, as if pressed by a gigantic hand.

And he fell.

Reflexively, his arms — now his forelegs — took the weight.

His whole body erupted in a new wave of agony, as if his flesh were being eaten from his bones with acid.

And then the flame engulfed his face, and the world melted and ran like candle wax as his eyes were transformed. When the fire faded and the world solidified again, the jungle shadows were no longer places of concealment. To the eyes of the Beast, they were bright as day.

Looking up, he saw Malika. Her eyes were wide in terror, yet she stood before him as if frozen. "Go! Run!" he tried to scream at her, but only a snarl of the Beast emerged.

But that was enough. Whatever spell had held her was broken. She turned and ran, vanishing into the jungle as quickly as the panther had moments before.

Then the change was complete. As he emerged from the flames of the transformation, the Hunger was unbearable.

The Beast sniffed the air. Malika's scent was unmistakable, as were the sounds of her flight.

No! I will not allow you to do this!

But the Beast ignored him, as if he did not exist. It stood silently for a moment, as if savoring what was to come.

Then it padded after the fleeing woman. Its pace deliberate and unhurried, its step lighter and surer than Von Kharkov's had ever been, it unerringly followed her trail. Desperately, Von Kharkov struggled to rein the Beast in, but it paid no more attention to his efforts than it would to a light spring breeze. He couldn't even be sure it was aware of his existence.

But Von Kharkov was aware of the Beast, excruciatingly so. He could feel its muscles ripple as it padded on, could feel the dirt beneath its paws, could smell the jungle scents that assaulted its nostrils.

But most of all, he could feel the Hunger.

A Hunger he could not overcome.

Ahead, the scent and sound of the fleeing woman grew stronger.

He could not save her.

Or himself.

And then he was upon her.

And the real nightmare began as the Beast's jaws — his jaws — closed on living flesh.

It was like a thousand other awakenings: the blood, the shredded flesh, the feeling of satisfaction giving way to self-loathing.

But this time it was not an awakening. This time, he had not lost consciousness — had not been able to lose consciousness for even an instant. Instead, he had lived through it all, experienced every grotesque horror of the Beast's feeding frenzy.

And every detail was gouged deeply and permanently into his memory.

He could not forget a moment of the horror, could not force it out of his thoughts for even a second. Nor could he forget — or forgive — his own helplessness to stop it.

Fool! his inner voice exploded. You were wrong! What the Mists held was worse than your wretched existence in Darken!

In a daze, he found a stream to wash the gore from his human form, but nothing could remove it from his mind.

After what seemed like an eternity of aimless wandering, he fell asleep on the jungle floor from sheer exhaustion, but even then, he gained no relief. His dreams, his nightmares, were virtually the same as his waking memories, yet more horrifying.

And even more real, more vivid.

Again and again he relived what he had done. And each time Malika died, her memories spread over the surface of her mind, just as her blood spread over the remnants of her body, and while the Beast devoured the flesh, Von Kharkov unwillingly devoured her mind, absorbed her very soul, until he knew his victim more intimately than he knew himself.

And then he was forced to kill her again. And again.

After the dozenth — or perhaps the hundredth — time, a new memory began to emerge from the horror.

He had done this before, the memory said. To this same woman or to another very like her.

Not here in this jungle world the Mists had thrown him into.

Not even as Dakovny's slave in Darken.

But somewhere else, in a lushly furnished apartment in a city whose name and country he couldn't even guess at.

And with that amorphous memory taking root in his mind like a gangrenous wound, he awakened. The jungle still surrounded him. The scent of blood once again clung to him like a poisonous shroud, renewed and strengthened by the nightmare.

As if triggered by his return to consciousness, a pocket of Mists pulsed into existence barely a dozen yards in front of him. He felt a physical chill as it swirled before him, thickening until it was as opaque as the jungle around it.

Abruptly, the Mists took on a reddish tinge, and for a moment he was certain it was Malika's blood diluting the m and that her tortured body would be deposited at his feet when the Mists retreated.

But it was not the dark red of blood, he realized a moment later. It was brighter, a crimson so intense it almost glowed.

A crimson that, like the jungle, triggered an inexplicable feeling of familiarity. And horror.

Then the Mists were gone, vanishing as quickly as they had come.

A man stood before him, his black-bearded face knotted in anger, his overweight body wrapped from neck to toe in a robe of brilliant crimson.

A name leapt out of nowhere into Von Kharkov's mind.

"Morphayus. ."

The man's eyes widened. For a long moment he scowled at Von Kharkov, then darted quick glances at the jungle around them.

"How did you manage this, Von Kharkov?" the man snapped. "And what is it you want? Whatever it is, be quick about it!"

"Your name is Morphayus? "

"As if you didn't know! Don't waste my time with foolish posturing! Just tell me why you brought me here and what you want of me. If indeed you did bring me here."

The man's voice — Morphayus'voice — grated on Von Kharkov's ears. And suddenly, he did know. He knew this place. He knew this person, this wizard. He knew —

In an instant, like the sky opening and drenching him in a downpour, his true past descended on him, burying him under the million details of a life he had not until that moment known existed.

A life before Darken. A life in which the parents whose gravestones he had visited so often in Neblus did not exist except in his own false memory.

A life in lands called Cormyr and Thay, where that first killing had taken place, the killing that had been echoed in the slaughter of Malika.

And before Cormyr —

For an instant, it was as if he were confronted by a featureless wall that threatened to shatter and fall and crush him, but instead it became akin to the Mists, and shadowy images reached out to grasp him and pull him in.

And he recognized those images.

And he knew the truth about himself.

The final truth.

He had not lost his humanity, trading it for immortality that night in Karg when he had eagerly submitted himself to Dakovny. He had had no true humanity to lose, only a veneer, an illusion.

An illusion created by the creature, the wizard that stood before him now: Morphayus.

Before Morphayus had found him and created that illusion of humanity, there had been no Urik von Kharkov. There had been only a beast, a jungle beast. A panther, virtually a twin to the one he had just encountered and bested. A beast, living its life out in this very jungle to which the Mists had returned both him and Morphayus.

The wizard had found the beast and transformed it into a man. Into the form of a man. And he had supplied that man with memories of a past that did not exist.

And then, when it had suited the wizard's warped purpose, the Beast had been brought back — to wreak bloody vengeance on an innocent woman whose only crime had been to spurn Morphayus. A woman named Selena, who could have been twin to Malika.

For what seemed like an eternity but could have been only a moment, Von Kharkov was lost, adrift in the vast sea of new and contradictory memories.

But then his eyes focused on the crimson-robed man who still stood impatiently before him.

Morphayus.

And he knew that only one thing mattered in all that churning ocean of newfound memories: his true nature lay not in the Von Kharkov shell but in the nameless jungle beast he had originally been. Had he been allowed to remain in that true form, here in the jungle, he would have lived out his life as the simple predator he was. All the senseless killing, all the pain and horror he and his hundreds of victims had undergone, was the fault, not of the Beast or of the Von Kharkov shell, but of the monster who stood before him, the wizard who had created this misbegotten half-human thing and set it upon its hellish course.

Morphayus, who had been brought here and put before him.

For the first time in his pseudo-life, Von Kharkov willingly — eagerly — called forth the Beast. This time the transformation seemed almost instantaneous, the flames of his altering body compressed into a brief pulse of pure agony of an intensity he could not have imagined.

And then it was as if they were one: Von Kharkov and the Beast. Von Kharkov's lust for revenge on Morphayus meshed with the Hunger that pulsed through the Beast, a Hunger that, he was now positive, had not been a part of his original jungle self but something the wizard had stirred into the mixture when the Von Kharkov shell had been created.

They leapt.

Together.

Von Kharkov felt the wizard's will grasping at them, trying to force them back, trying to control them as it had in Cormyr, as Dakovny's will had controlled the Beast so often in Darken.

But the wizard's power was not great enough, not here on the far side of the Mists, and not against the two of them, united in their overwhelming desire for his destruction.

And they were upon him.

It was over.

Little remained of the wizard's body and robe but crimson tatters.

For the first time, the feeling of self-loathing did not come to Von Kharkov as he observed the Beast's — and, this time, his own — grisly handiwork. Instead, there was a feeling of grim satisfaction. He would never atone for what the Beast had done in the names of its masters, but at least he had put an end to the human monster who had been ultimately responsible for those horrors.

And here, in the jungle of his birth, with no perverted master to serve, perhaps those horrors would come to an end. In time, even, perhaps the Von Kharkov shell itself would fade back into nonexistence, now that its creator was gone.

Perhaps that was why he had been brought here by the Mists — or by whatever power lurked behind them, using them to manipulate people and animals and even wizards for its own, impenetrable purposes.

Or so he could hope, though he feared it was more likely just the opposite. No power with any pretenses of goodness or justice could ever have brought an innocent like Malika here only to be pointlessly and cruelly slaughtered as part of its obscure plan for Von Kharkov and Morphayus.

And with that thought, his mind was invaded by a rumble of distant laughter.

And he felt the Mists closing about him once again.