Tales of Ravenloft

The Briar at the Window

Even as Lord Kromfier tear free his helmet amp;roar aloud in the Havok to rally his Folk, the Will of his men be break before the Daemons claws amp;teeth in the Darkness of Castle Harith. The Shriek of men clutch in the arms of fiery Monsters ring the Halls as their flesh be burn; bloody men beg for Succor yet be trod under-foot and crush; the Laugh of Daemons echo in the ears of the Lost. At such pass did the Wyzards of Demune lose sight amp; sound of the Lord in their magic Pool, yet they renew not the spell, for they see that all be Finish.

Of the Fate of Lord Kromfier amp; his Paladins we know No-thing, but for a Squire who be trample amp; be forget as dead. In the Blood of his Folk he lie, by-pass amp;forget by Daemon-kind. He hear in the Dark much of Awfulness, then crawl to tell all to a Lay-priest before he be perish of his many grave wounds. Before he breathe last, the Squire speak of the great Screams that. .

Something tapped at a window.

Lord Godefroy looked up through his pince-nez, his habitual frown deepening. He sat motionless in the halfgloom, the old volume propped in his lap on a crossed leg, and waited. Light from the oil lamp's flame flickered once across the steady darkness.

The tapping came again, fainter now. It was from the corridor to the entry hall.

Lord Godefroy took a slow, deep breath, though he didn't need to, and exhaled through his nose in silent rage. The yellowed bookmark was carefully fitted into place, and the volume reluctantly set aside on the tea table.

Lord Godefroy treasured his history books, and the early evening, after the sun had fallen and all was still, was his favorite time for reading.

He quietly got to his feet, the spell of the moment broken. Something always happened. He never got to finish that book, and he had been trying to read it for the damned knew how long.

There was but one thing to do about it.

Lord Godefroy left the room in no great hurry. He had all the time in the world these days. In the soundless hall, out of reach of the lamplight in the study, he shuffled through darkness that cloaked him like a second skin. Faint moonlight lit the bare tree branches outside on the lawn, seeping through the streaked and aged windows that opened into the old mansion.

The tapping came once more. Lord Godefroy stopped by the second of eight tall, black-framed windows. There he waited again, all patience, staring down at a dirty corner windowpane through his thin lenses.

A long, whiplike branch swayed gently into view, pushed by the cold wind and lit by the white moon. The briar swung close, then struck the windowpane with a faint tap.

Lord Godefroy reached for the briar. His right hand and ruffled sleeve, colorless as the moon's rays, slipped through the dirty pane of glass to seize the branch. He felt the thorns but no pain from their pricking, felt the wind but not the bitter cold. He was long beyond that now.

"Suffer now, dear wretch," he whispered with bared teeth to the briar in his hand, then willed his words to happen.

The briar writhed with the jolt of the Touch and tried to curl away from him, but too late. It withered and broke apart into rotting dust before it could escape his grip, reduced to blackened debris. Lord Godefroy fancied the briar even gave out a cry of agony like an animal as it did, though in a voice too small to be heard.

The entire briar bush then collapsed, its shattered stems and leaves scattering out of sight. It was dead to its last root, a ruin that would feed no worm.

Lord Godefroy pulled his hand back through the old, streaked glass. The satisfaction he felt at the briar's demise was a cold glow inside him, new snow where his heart had been. To his discomfort, though, the emotion passed quickly and left him feeling hollow, useless. Lord Godefroy squinted out the window at the empty space where the briar had grown. His teeth clenched together in frustration.

The briar's death was not enough anymore to satisfy. It was far too easy most times to dominate and punish. His Touch would age any living being by decades in mere seconds; plants and small animals suffered and died too rapidly for him to take a lasting pleasure in their agonized struggles. People were different — their deaths were more satisfying by far. One gained a sense of genuine accomplishment in hewing them down, the treacherous and ungrateful mongrels. Humans were like waste matter, vile trash to be disposed of in vile ways. Abruptly, almost unwillingly, Lord Godefroy remembered the feel of the mattock in his hands, the smell of manure and blood, the sound as the mattock bit into her soft flesh —

Something creaked overhead. Startled, Lord Godefroy blinked and looked up at the vaulted ceiling. Only motionless shadows gathered there.

What had he just been thinking of? The powerful images had fled. He strained for the memory but caught nothing. Was he becoming senile even in this form? He looked down at the window and remembered the briar, but nothing else. Nothing moved on the lawn outside in the moonlight. Reminiscing, perhaps. .

With a slow look around, Lord Godefroy left the corridor. He looked behind him twice before entering the study again, then closed the double doors with a thump of finality.

Back in his study, Lord Godefroy stopped by the tea table next to his favorite chair and stared down at his book. It was no use to pick up his reading; his mood was spoiled by the interruption. Perhaps tomorrow night there would be time. He lifted the old brown tome in his hands and headed reluctantly for a bookcase.

I've done this before, he thought, too many times before. Each time he wanted to relax and take a few moments to himself, something ruined it. Something would pay with its life for the interruption, but then he wouldn't be in the mood for his favorite book, for which he had paid so much to that leech, Marian Attwood. Served the old mongrel right to be run down by his own horse, laid up in bed a cripple and a pauper when he died at last.

That wouldn't happen to me now, thought Lord Godefroy. He paused before the bookcase, looking up to locate the space among the books from which he'd pulled his favorite history. Five shelves up, only three feet beyond his reach.

He willed himself up, his slippered feet leaving the faded red carpet. Not a sound, he marveled; not a sound. Flying was the easiest thing. He came to a stop at eye level with the shelf he wanted, then glanced over his shoulder and saw how small the rest of the room looked as he hovered above it, so near the ceiling.

Lord Godefroy almost smiled. Though his frame was still bent and his face furrowed with three-and-a-half score years, the aches and creakings of his once-rotting body were gone. He felt no pain now, none at all. And he could fly, fly like a leaf from a dead tree, fly like smoke from ashes.

And he had the Touch now, too. A handy thing, that Touch.

The oil lamp's flame flickered in its glass prison. Something moved in the shadows to Lord Godefroy's right. He flinched, almost dropping his book, and threw up a hand to shield his face from a blow.

No blow came. Slowly, he lowered his arm. It was just a shadow, a shadow on the wall over the coat rack. It flickered in the light as he stared at it, then was gone. A flaw in the lamp's glass, or a cobweb, perhaps.

Lord Godefroy realized he was breathing very quickly,

almost panting. Mortified, he stopped it at once. He didn't need to breathe. It was a weakness. He had no weaknesses now. Humans were weak, but not him.

He lowered himself to the floor and straightened his posture, sniffed abruptly, then turned to a wall mirror to smooth his high-necked shirt and long black coat sleeves. He glanced up at the space over the coat rack as he did. Nothing. He sniffed again and regarded his reflection severely. His behavior did not become the lord of Mordent, master of the Gryphon Hill and Weathermay estates. If he was now a god in his own domain — as he surely was — then he should act the part.

Perhaps it was time to look at his mail. It would have been delivered around noon, while he was out walking the borders of his property. He nodded to himself in the mirror and left for the dining room.

The mail came once a week, delivered by some means that Lord Godefroy had never bothered to divine. It merely appeared on the dining room table, neatly stacked to the side of his empty teacup and saucer. Though his appetite was long gone, he insisted on retaining the cup and saucer. Any manor lord would have done it. Old habits never died without good reason.

He made his way to the dining room, pausing only once to brush fingertips along a dusty tabletop. He had arranged for the house to be kept clean with the magical assistance of a minor spirit or two, something a business associate had arranged for him in the old days. The spirits weren't doing their jobs well, though, and being unalive were immune to punishment from the Touch. Lord Godefroy grimaced as he rubbed his dirtied fingers together.

At the doorway to the candle-lit dining hall, he nodded with satisfaction as his gaze fell upon the long, clothdraped table. As hoped, the week's mail awaited him.

With a sigh of relief, he settled into his dining chair, adjusting his pince-nez. Perhaps now he would have the time he was cheated of earlier with his history book.

Woe to that which disturbed him now, he thought to himself. He would have his due and more.

Thin, translucent fingers plucked the first of three letters from the stack. Behind Lord Godefroy, more candles came alight, attended to by the spirits who silently looked after Gryphon Hill and its master.

"Schupert," he whispered, glancing at the envelope. He knew the spidery handwriting well. He slid a long, gnarled fingernail under the back flap, breaking the wax seal, then pulled the thin page from the envelope and read quietly.

Comings and goings, plots and plans — the usual web. Schupert was too smart to say much, too unwise to say nothing. As was his habit, the old wizard's letter was so cryptic as to be virtually meaningless, nothing more than an acknowledgment of the receiver's existence and a request for any tidbits of information that the lord might have heard. Lord Godefroy set the letter aside, only half read. He knew of no rumors for the withered fool's ear, but he would have passed none along if he had. Schupert could burn for all he cared, and with the old wizard's constant meddling in the affairs of domain lords, his burning would not be long delayed.

Lord Godefroy cleared his mind and selected the second letter, noted the handwriting. His frown faded, evidencing less disappointment than usual.

"Narvis," he murmured. "My dear Narvis. "It was the first good turn his evening had taken.

Narvisek Grellar was someone Lord Godefroy understood. Dear, twisted, betrayed Narvis. His wife Viola, soft and heavy and stupid as a cow, had objected to Narvis's taste for vivisection. How like a little boy Narvis was, restless and curious, eager to see the inner workings of a still-living creature whose flesh had been entirely removed. Viola, Lord Godefroy had heard from other sources, had threatened to expose Narvis as a monster. Dear Narvis couldn't have that, so soft Viola became his next vivisection subject, right on their own kitchen table. Narvis never spoke of Viola's fate, but someday Lord Godefroy would have to ask how long it took for soft, stupid Viola to die. He would have loved to have seen her in her last moments on the table, every nerve and muscle open and burning, a red thing no longer human.

A twisted thumbnail broke the seal on the letter, and he held two scrawl-covered pages aloft in the candlelight. Not much on his experiments this time — only reports of bad weather and his fears that he was falling ill again. Narvis was obviously preoccupied, the letter scratched off in a hurry.

Lord Godefroy finished his reading in bitter disappointment. He had hoped for an accounting of a recent experiment, an exciting one with a human subject. Narvis had a lovely gift for detail and understatement, though his script and grammar stank. The letter was set aside with a sneer of disapproval. Narvis was capable of much better.

In an ill humor, Lord Godefroy picked up the last envelope. His narrow gaze fell on the cursive handwriting on the cover.

Wilfred.

Time stopped.

Wilfred.

The name filled his eyes and head. It was all he saw and thought.

Wilfred.

No one living called him Wilfred now. No one ever had.

No one but Estelle.

Lord Godefroy clutched the letter like a serpent's neck and saw her again, the earlier memory now in full bloom:

The wide, dark eyes on her pleading face. Hair like oily black smoke. His open hands and the red explosions on her pale skin. The dancing shadows in the barn, the frightened horses. Her white blouse. She had looked at another man. Her upraised left arm, fingers splayed. Black strands of hair thrown violently across her face. She had looked at another man and wanted him. The mattock by the hay bale. Wilfred, dear gods above, no, Wilfred, no. The mattock's swing like the flash of an insect's wing. The red on her blouse. Screaming, the screaming — Wilfred, Wilfred. The mattock high again. She had wanted another man. Wanted another man.

The mattock's swing an endless blur, the blouse all red, all red, all red, all.

Wilfred, said the envelope.

An automaton, he opened the seal. He pulled the single scrap of paper from within it and held it to the light.

A moment later, he flung it away with a hideous cry, unaware of the strength with which he threw himself back from the table. His chair was dashed to the floor. Candles throughout the room flickered; some went out. The scrap of parchment lay on the tablecloth beneath a wavering candle. Its words were clear even from a distance in dim light.

What became of the lord when they caught him at last?

"No!" Lord Godefroy roared at the room. "You are — it is not — not possible!" He struggled with the words as he wrung his hands, ridding them of the feel of the letter. "You are not alive! You cannot do this to me, you filthy whore! You damned whore!"

But he knew there was no reason she couldn't do it.

What was good for the gander was good for the goose.

He fled so quickly that one of his shoulders passed entirely through a door frame. It wasn't proper, but he never noticed.

The candles in the dining hall swayed with his flight.

Then, one by one, they began to go out.

He regained control of himself at the foot of the grand staircase. He was breathing again with rapid, shallow breaths. Stop it, he ordered himself, clasping the post and railing. Stop it at once. I am the lord of Gryphon Hill. I am the master of Mordentshire, sovereign of life and death. Nothing can take that away from me. Nothing can take anything away from me. No power in this world or beyond. She cannot even hurt me, much less kill me.

Lord Godefroy broke into high, brittle laughter. He had killed her, not the other way around! She had no power over him, even if she had come back from the grave herself. He was being a fool. She could not kill him now.

His pale hands clutched the stair railing until they resembled white crab claws. With an effort, he loosened his grip, slowed his breathing, and, coughing loudly, forced himself to stop breathing altogether. Then he settled back on the stairs to regain his composure.

Well, so she was back. If she was back, maybe. .maybe Amanda was back, too. It wasn't unreasonable, though the reason for the miserable child's return was beyond him. Amanda had counted for nothing in his life. A girl erroneously born in the place of the boy who should have slipped from Estelle's womb. Amanda had betrayed him by her very existence. He remembered her, too — not as clearly as Estelle, but he remembered the face in the background, the bowed head, her whimpers as he beat her with his belt, time and again. A worthless child, though beating her did bring pleasure, after a fashion.

Amanda had been there in the barn, too, hiding. Screaming. She had rushed him. He'd fallen back, surprised, while the child cradled her mother. Her hair was like strands of gold in the lantern light. He even recalled her last words — I hate you, I hate you, you evil old man. She threw something at him while he was still holding the mattock. I hate you, she screamed, clutching the body of her mother on the dirt floor of the barn as the shadows danced.

It was strange that he didn't remember actually killing her. There was nothing to it, not even passion. Afterward, he had covered up her death as he had Estelle's: the bodies dragged into the stall, the pistol fired by the stallion's head, the great horse dancing in fear on the wet bodies. Shooting his best horse was the only way out. No one had argued over it; everyone knew his temper and his grip on power. Case closed. He lived alone after that. It was better than living with a whore and a whore's worthless daughter.

Lord Godefroy put a withered hand over his face, as if to cover his eyes from a light. His pince-nez fell and dangled from their ghostly white chain.

There was something more. Something more had happened.

It would not come to him now.

He flung his hand down and in a rage stood up on the stairs. His mind was playing tricks on him. He was still lord of Gryphon Hill. He would be its lord forever. If Estelle wished to confront him, by the Mists of this cursed land, he would give her what she wished.

He had the Touch.

Perhaps it would work on the dead as well as the living. Perhaps he should find out. It might be worthwhile.

The master of Gryphon Hill set his pince-nez in place, then set out for the stables, teeth clenched. Let the little trollop frighten him now. She had started it all. She had looked at a stable hand, looked at him with undisguised lust. She had betrayed her lord and husband. The whore had started it all. Now her lord would finish it.

The halls passed. The kitchen. The drawing room on the right. The back entry hall. Candles lit at his approach. Damn those magical bastards, they had better move when he appeared. He was the lord of Mordentshire, the colossus of Gryphon Hill. He did not wait to open the door at the end of the hall. He strode right through it.

"Light!" he roared, entering the stables. Light sprang up from a lantern ahead of him, shedding a weak radiance over the remains of the stables. Gray wood stalls, dirt and rotting hay underfoot, bridles and ropes disintegrating on their pegs on the wall.

He saw the mattock against the wall, seized it, and swung it high with the strength of a young titan.

"Estelle!"

Quick echoes answered him. Scampering noises came from all directions. Only field rats.

"Estelle!" Louder now. The walls rang.

Nothing. No one.

"You dirty whore, come out! I command you as your lord and husband! Estelle, you crawling slut, come face me!"

The scampering faded. Nothing else was heard.

He whirled. No one appeared.

He held the mattock high over his head for several minutes more, until he slowly lowered it and held it in front of him.

Nothing came.

He kicked at the stall doors. Rotten hay. Dried manure. A hoofprint. Nothing.

Silence.

The mattock swung at his side, in one hand.

"Bitch," he said under his breath. It was just like her.

But. .

Maybe it hadn't been Estelle after all.

He considered this, standing by the dim lantern. There was no Estelle here, no Amanda, no trace of either of them. Had the letter been a trick itself? Had someone, another power in this land, made him a fool? Or was a darker motive in store — a power play? A takeover? Gryphon Hill was not undefended; the lord of Mordentshire was hardly weak.

He didn't know.

He would have to go back and look at the letter. He knew Estelle's handwriting. He'd been a fool and worse not to have checked it.

He hefted the mattock in his thin-boned fingers, looked around at the wreck of the stables, then set the tool aside where he'd found it. She wouldn't come back where the mattock was kept, anyway. She knew it all too well, much too well, he was sure.

Lord Godefroy drew himself up. He checked his shoes, even knowing it was unnecessary, then went back inside the house. He opened the door this time, too. Old habits.

In the stillness of the stables, the lantern's flame faded away. It grew very, very cold.

The candles came to life in the dining hall as he came through the doorway. He walked up to the table where the paper and envelope lay and reached down for them with a quick hand.

He froze. Ashes. The candle by the letter had fallen over as it had melted. The flame had consumed the paper, lightly scorching the tablecloth below. The letter was just ashes now.

He stared, then touched the ashes with a pale fingertip. They crumbled.

That was that, then. He'd never know. Still. .

He left the hall, walking thoughtfully toward his study. He knew what he had to do. As is given, so return. Repay a blow in equal coin. Look for a gift in the market where a giver found his gift for you. Lord Godefroy's study held dozens of papers and letters collected over the years of his new life at Gryphon Hill. It would be simple to find the guilty party with logic and deduction. It could be anyone. But he had the time for the hunt. He had lots of time.

He passed a window looking out over his estate, gave it a glance as he slowed. Moonlight fell across the grounds, the leafless trees lost in frigid autumn, the low hill not far away.

He looked at the hilltop. No sign of the cemetery. No trace of where Estelle and Amanda's coffins lay, their contents long devoured by worms, returned to the filth from which they'd been born. Not even the moon would shine there. All was right with the world.

He walked through the double doors to his study, knowing they were locked and lacking the patience just now to be proper. The lantern was lit. All was still. He walked to his desk and quickly began to shuffle through a sheaf of old papers he pulled from a drawer. He turned around with the papers in his hand and saw the history book on the tea table, fallen open.

Forgot to put it up, he thought, then remembered that he had.

He looked up at the bookshelf beyond in the lantern light. The space where he had placed the book was empty. But there had been the shadow, and he had not finished the job.

Something moved in the corner of his eye.

"What. . "he said, and spun on his heel to see if something had crept up behind him. With a mixture of rage and dread, his dark eyes searched the room. The papers were clutched to his breast like a shield.

It was nothing. The whore and her daughter were back, perhaps. But he was still the lord of his estate.

He put his papers aside and reached out for his book. His eyes fell on the open pages, looked down at the passage there.

. . Before he breathe last, the Squire speak of the great Screams that break the Darkness as the Daemons begin their work on the Lord, in the lonely Halls of his own Castle. And of these Screams the Squire hear no end, even in his Dreams. .

Something scratched at a windowpane behind him.

He whirled and saw the closed double doors.

The scratching came again, fainter now. From the hall beyond.

Lord Godefroy slowly closed the book, without looking down at it. He frowned in silence at the doors.

This had all happened before. More than once. It seemed that it was dreadfully important to him that he remember why it kept happening.

He left the book lying on the table by his chair. Adhering to tradition, he walked over, still staring at the doors. He carefully unlocked and opened them.

The dark hall beyond was empty. Moonlight crept in through the tall, old windows.

The scratching sound, from the same window as before.

It would seem that he hadn't finished the job of killing the briar. He was getting senile after all, even in this new sort of life that wasn't quite life, in a body that wasn't quite a body.

But he was still lord of Gryphon Hill. He still had the Touch.

As was proper, he walked down the hallway to the window, peered out until he saw a pale branch swing close, then stepped forward and put his hand through the streaked glass window. He caught the branch.

It was not a branch. It was an arm like ice.

Something white floated into view behind the glass and fluttered in the moonlight. He let go — too late.

Freezing cold hands clamped down on his wrist and drove nails of ice into his now-solid flesh.

He screamed with the shock of pain he had not felt in years uncounted. He flailed his arm to dislodge the clawed apparition. White fingers gripped his arm, fingers attached to bare, translucent arms.

A face came up to the window.

The face was dead. Its wide eyes were frozen open, and its black hair crackled as it pressed against the dirty glass, as if it had been walking a long time in the cold on its way down the low hill where the moonlight never fell.

Lord Godefroy howled like a wild animal. He fell back, staggering, and struck the far wall of the hallway.

He pulled the face and the body behind it through the window as he did. Its claws dug into the bones of his arm. Its wide, frozen eyes silently drank him in as the mouth opened, a black wound on a face like a snowfield.

Wilfred, said the face as he screamed.

He threw himself forward, trying to push it all back through the window. He beat at the fingers that gripped him. He swung his arm to knock the fingers off against the windowpanes. His other arm passed close by the windowpanes.

Something grabbed that other arm, the iron grip tearing old flesh. Something pulled itself into the hall as he struggled back, placed blue lips to Lord Godefroy's ear.

I hate you, it said. Its cold breath blew worms and grave rot over Lord Godefroy's fine black jacket and ruffled shirt. The lord of Gryphon Hill saw its white eyes next to his own, set in a face of cold blue stone, and he screamed and screamed and screamed, until his screaming was all there was in the universe.

Wilfred. One pulled him toward his study.

I hate you. The other pushed.

He was in his study. Four cold arms brought him to his chair. His limbs flailed. He kicked his feet at them, striking nothing, helpless as wood in a vice. Their touch made him solid. His new body was just like his old. It couldn't fly. It couldn't fade through the chair. It ached. It bruised. It was cold, cold, cold. And his Touch was gone.

They forced him down in his chair. The small, dead blue face mouthed words as it levered his right arm down against the arm of his favorite chair. Only one word issued from the black mouth of the dead white face as it pressed his other arm down as well. It was terribly easy. They had done this many times before.

In the depths of madness, Lord Godefroy now remembered the first time this had happened, ages ago, the night he had killed his wife and child. Then it all happened again, the night after that, then all the nights after that, on forever, until he escaped them at last by drinking bitter herbs he bought from the apothecary, falling into his last sleep in this very chair. The next day he had his new body and new powers while the powerless old body was buried far, far away, and he came back to Gryphon Hill to rule again. He had been free, free, free!

That freedom had lasted one day.

Estelle and Amanda came back that night, unstoppable. And they were back the night after that. And the night after that. It was too much to live with, even in death, and his mind was gone from trying to block it out.

A cold, foul breeze brushed his face. He opened his eyes for a moment. It was the wrong thing to do.

The dead faces were against his own. Their breath washed over him, suffocating him with rot. He was beyond remembering that he didn't need to breathe.

But he did remember what came next. He always did.

His mind fled. He screamed. It was a new sound, a great magnitude louder than before. It was not the scream of a lord or master or god. It was an animal's scream when it knows of an unspeakable thing and is joined to that thing forever, without end, without escape.

Dead lips touched the skin on his face. Cold teeth would touch next.

Estelle and Amanda had missed dinner ages ago.

With sightless, hungry eyes, they again began to eat.