I still lived—if one could call it that—could still grieve, and despite the horrific fall, my body was quite well and whole. The dark forces to which I had sold myself nearly a century past would not allow anything so simple as physical pain to distract me from the unbearable ache within my heart. As for death… well, that was the First thing that had been taken away, trapping me here forever.

  I, Strahd von Zarovich, the great lord of Barovia, was also its prisoner.

  ***

  After much procrastination, I finally got to my feet and began walking away from the village toward Castle Ravenloft. The burdens of the present, of what had gone wrong and how to avoid the same errors in the future, I would only consider much later in the sanctuary of my study with the soothing company of my books about me and Tatyana's portrait to look upon. She would come again, I was sure. My studies in the Art were such that I understood there were always patterns to events and this one would repeat itself… must repeat itself.

  A turn to the south and I was nearing the meager line that was the road. It was overgrown with grass in some places for lack of regular use. People tended to keep to their own villages and towns or places of shelter that could be reached within a day's walking or riding. I was the sole exception to that rule.

  From the position of the moon and stars I had many hours of travel ahead before the dawn. True, I could have taken to the air and on swift wings flown straight to my castle in a fraction of the time, but I wanted to hold to my man's form and walk. I was in no particular hurry, and held the hope that the physical effort might numb me from thinking too much on recent events.

  I also hungered.

  I had supped lightly during my time in the village, taking pains not to kill anyone while Lord Vasili was a guest, keeping my normal hunting activities as unobtrusive as possible lest it indirectly invite some fool to harm Tatyana, as had happened before. But I had not fed deeply in a very long time and the constant raw ache of it had to be eased—and soon.

  There was a shepherd's croft not too far away. If the spring lambing was still going on he would not have moved his flock up into the foothills yet, and I might find myself in luck.

  A mile's trek over the rolling turf of this lowland area and I heard the sheep in his care, their bleating constant and mournful. Half a mile on from the top of a gentle rise I saw them, milling nervously about the low stone circle of their fold. As the soft wind was against me, I knew they were not reacting specifically to my presence and wondered what had them so agitated.

  Inhaling, I picked up the unmistakable scent of blood.

  Animal blood to be sure, and as useless to me for nourishment as salt water is to quench any other man's thirst, but it did initiate in me a number of intense reactions. I had to stop a moment and get myself under control. A successful hunter does not barge recklessly in on his prey lest he risk losing it. I managed to calm myself enough to be able to study what lay ahead; the only sign of my inner anticipation was my corner teeth, which stubbornly refused to return to their normal length.

  The croft was a modest stone structure, hardly large enough to be a minor shed within the curtain wall of my castle, but apparently sufficient for one shepherd's use. The shutters on the small window I saw from this side were wide open, an unheard-of thing to do at night in Barovia. Had the fellow gone mad?

  I made a wide circle to get around front, using the sheepfold as cover. The little croft's door was also open and two men stood by the threshold, smoking their short-stemmed pipes and talking in a most unconcerned way. They did not look to be shepherds from their gear or their manner.

  Their clothing was not typical of traditional Barovian style. Where they should have been clad in long white shirts with sheepskin vests, their full trousers tucked into low boots, these two were in short leather jerkins and what looked to be trunk hose, something I had only seen as drawings in history books. Their boots were so high as to come up over their knees and trimmed in metal disks on the sides. Everything about them was foreign, from the kind of swords they carried to the way they braided their thick pale hair into tufts that stood out all over their heads.

  And above all they were not afraid of the night.

  My ears were sharp enough to hear their conversation, but it was difficult to follow due to their strange dialect. A few words here and there sounded familiar, if strangely spoken, but I could put no meaning to them. I could have easily cast a spell enabling me to understand them, but deemed it unimportant for the time. Once captured, I could question them at my leisure. One of them made a jest of some sort and the other laughed rather unpleasantly. This apparently inspired them to action, for they pushed away from the door and strolled around to the far side of the croft, where I perceived the glow of a substantial fire.

  At fifty feet I was sufficiently distanced from their limited night sight as to be invisible, and clad, as usual, head-to-toe in black. The only thing white about me was my face, so I concealed most of it by pulling my cloak up and left the shelter of the fold—the sheep were even more restive for my close presence—paralleling the men.

  It was a large cooking fire for a large group of men; I counted fifteen. All seemed to be from the same tribe or country by their strange dress and speech, and all were fit and of an age for most armies. Their horses were tethered fairly close, but fortunately had not yet caught my scent, else they might have alerted their masters.

  The smell of blood came from the slaughter of perhaps a half dozen spring lambs, whose dressed carcasses were presently being roasted on spits over the fire. My interest in such provender ended nearly a century ago, but it struck me as being foolishly wasteful. Two or three lambs at the most should have sufficed them all for the evening's meal.

  Then I saw the shepherd.

  Two long poles imbedded in the earth with a cross-piece on top normally served as a slaughtering area for the sheep. The idea was to throw a rope over the crosspiece and lift the sheep carcass up, making it easier to clean and carve. These interlopers had tied a rope around the shepherd's ankles, and he was presently hanging upside down from the framework like one of his sheep. Occasionally someone would give him a kick and set him to swinging, which was a source of great hilarity to them. As his hands were lashed tight to his sides, he could not prevent himself from bumping into the support posts.

  A raiding party, but from no land I recognized. Brigands, thieves, and probably worse who had somehow crossed through the misty boundary of my prison and entered Barovia. I never welcomed such ilk troubling my land and its people, but in this case I would make an exception.

  As there was no reason why I should not get some pleasure out of this hunt, I stepped several yards farther back into the darkness and summoned the unique power within me that would alter my very form. The shape I chose was that of a wolf, albeit an unnaturally large one, with a smoke black coat of thick fur magically replacing my clothing. Though magic was certainly involved it was of a different sort than the arcane Art I practiced, for this was an ability innate with me and my changed condition, requiring no study, only a concentration of desire.

  The dark transformation complete, I took a moment to give my mind a chance to adjust to the alteration of my senses. Hearing and smell were the most dramatically effected, the latter improving more than a hundredfold over what I knew in human form. I became aware of the contrast between old winter turf and the fresh spring growth between my paws, and that there was a burrow of rabbits nearby. One of them had just been along here in the last few minutes, closely followed by a grass weasel.

  My hearing was very focused depending where I swiveled my ears. I could concentrate on any two directions at once, before and behind, if I chose. I heard the men very clearly, picking out each of their voices as that of an individual rather than as a muddle of low sound, from the grumbling rasp of the group's apparent leader to the querulous snivel of the youngest ranking youth. Elsewhere I picked up on the muttering of their horses, hobbled for the night and grazing in peace, and the rustle of that grass weasel who was now sniffing at the rabbits' hole.

  I padded cautiously around toward the sheepfold, knowing my scent would send them mad. They set up a panicked row, and a few jumped the low stone barrier and fled, leaving the others to restlessly mill about bleating with terror. It was enough to draw the attention of the men. Their leader sent someone to take a look.

  Slung across their backs many of them had very strangely shaped bows, exotic curved things, short, and with arrows that looked too long to use. I harbored no doubt that they were quite deadly, though. The man who stepped clear of the others to investigate was thus armed. He brought his bow around and nocked an arrow into place almost faster than I could follow. In this form my eyesight was somewhat distorted and rather washed out of all color, but otherwise excellent.

  The archer worked his way around the sheepfold, peering impotently into the darkness. It would take some time before his eyes adjusted and even then would be nowhere nearly as good as mine.

  I made a yipping sound and whined a bit, hoping to be taken for a herding dog. The man visibly relaxed, calling back the news to his friends, and if I correctly understood through his dialect, his intent was to add me to their night's provender. Dog meat, it would seem, was a favorite delicacy to them, and he got the leader's wholehearted approval for his quest.

  Now that was something decidedly different: me ending up as someone's supper. What a pity to disappoint them.

  He whistled in a friendly way, and I encouraged him with yips, small barks, and whines, luring him from his friends until the croft was concealed from sight by a small rise in the land. In this way I hoped any sound would not be carried back to them.

  Not that I intended to make much of it.

  He grew impatient with my canine game and his friendly calls were acquiring an edge in their tone. I was impatient, as well, for he was not the only one who hungered, but I had to be cautious. The arrow was, after all, a wooden shaft—suitable substitute for a stake. As much as I desired death at times, my preference was to meet it on my own terms and not at the hands of some dishonorable thief.

  When he started down the rise I caused myself to change once more, this time taking the form of a low-lying ground mist. A common enough thing, but the weather conditions were wrong for it. I was counting on him being too occupied with finding the dog to notice right away.

  It worked. The fool walked right though my amorphous form. As soon as he had passed, I rose up from the ground, assuming my natural shape again.

  I was on him before he could turn, seizing him from behind, lifting his feet clear of the earth. One arm snaked around his chest; my other hand clamped his jaw shut like a vice and pulled his head to one side, exposing his neck. The nectar within was gloriously sweet and warm as I discovered when my teeth tore through his skin, opening the vein beneath. His struggles did not last very long, for I was famished.

  It was the best feeding I'd enjoyed in many a month, and I felt much refreshed. There is nothing quite like the hot, red power of living blood for me. The closest comparison might be during my days of command in battle, when the fever of the fight was upon me. How my own blood would sing in response to the sheer joy of killing, but that was as nothing to what seized me now when I let myself lose control and truly feed.

  Ecstasy for me, and death for him.

  I had to take care not to indulge my appetite too often. If I allowed myself, I would sup this way every night, and the temptation to do so was ever there, but it was by necessity a pleasure in which I only rarely partook. Giving in to that temptation too regularly would be disastrous; Barovia's population was not all that large. I would feed well for a few years, but not for hundreds. Better to always endure a measure of self-restraint than live to regret its lack.

  Sated for the moment, my next move now would be to find a way of taking as many of his friends alive as possible. Not from any motives of mercy—make no mistake, they were all dead from the moment they invaded my land with their thieving ways. I despise thieves. I wanted them alive to serve me later. With so many of them they might last for years in my dungeons, sparing me for a time from constantly having to leave the castle to hunt afar for food.

  I drew my victim's sword from its highly decorated scabbard and checked the sharpness of the edge. Like a razor. Well and good. It spared me from putting too much effort into it when I brought the blade down fast and severed his head. There was not much blood—little wonder at that—just a little oozing easily sopped up by the grass. Taking the dripping head by the braided hair, I strode in a wide circle around the croft to see how things were faring at the cooking fire.

  Their feast was apparently ready, the leader already sitting down to his roasted lamb. I assumed he was such since he was older and a bit wider than the rest, wearing a large number of gold medals and necklaces. An ornate painted baton swung from his waist. He also had the loudest voice, and the others showed a certain deference to him.

  Putting down the severed head, I resumed wolf form and settled in the grass to wait. They fulfilled my expectations soon, calling into the empty night for their scout to return, but it was only at the end of their meal that they thought to send anyone out to find him. Two men took it upon themselves to go look.

  Putting all four sturdy legs to good use I loped back to where I'd left the body so as to be there to greet them. I ambushed them in much the same way, assuming a mist form, until they were past me, then taking them out from behind. A sharp crack with a fist against each of their skulls just behind the ear was sufficient to render them tractable, and I took myself back to await their friends' next move.

  After a quarter hour two more were dispatched, both calling loudly. They were more on guard; one had his bow ready to shoot, the other his sword out—not that either weapon proved to be of significant benefit in their defense.

  Five down, ten to go. When enough time passed for them to become nervous, they sent another party to go look. Suspicions were high, and six of them went together, taking along brands from the fire to light their way. The new moon had set, and the land around was ominously black. The thin starlight was not much help to their dull vision.

  They followed the scant trail the others left until they came upon the bodies. None of their friends could be roused, which alarmed them, but they became positively incensed upon discovering the headless corpse. The uproar was not unexpectedly loud and full of much fury, and they proceeded to go off in all directions trying to find the perpetrator. Only two had the intelligence to stay together and futilely called to the others to do the same.

  It's a poor commander who does not exploit his enemy's weaknesses. I made what effort I could, appearing suddenly from the darkness to knock them senseless one at a time. For this I was able to remain in man form. My clothing hid me well so long as I kept low to the ground and did not move. At night the eye is better at perceiving motion than anything else, and I could hold very, very still if necessary. Once, as I lay flat on the turf, face pressed to the moist ground to hide its revealing whiteness, hands covered by my spread cloak, one of the men actually did stop and stand on my right hand for a time. I was hard pressed to hold in my laughter as he diligently searched about for their common threat.

  As soon as he moved, though, I dispatched him to a state of unconsciousness like the rest. The two who kept together proved to be no more trouble than the others. Ten down, five to go.

  The remaining ones held close to the fire. They called in vain for their friends to reply. Their leader summarily ordered them into the shepherd's croft. They left the door and shutters open to see out, for all the good it would serve them. One of the younger men in the group pointed toward the shepherd, and I caught the word krothka several times. I overheard some discussion—apparently having to do with whether or not to bring in the krothka "shepherd." This was dismissed by the leader, who seemed to be of the opinion the fellow might act as bait to whatever was outside.

  Just to excite things a bit I plucked up some stones and began tossing them in a high arc so they landed with a rousing thump on the slate roof. I did this from many directions, so they could not pinpoint exactly where I was. Then, while they were all looking out the door I came close enough to toss the severed head squarely through the window.

  That made for quite a stir.

  They finally saw the wisdom of closing the door and shutters and did so lest more repulsive missiles invade their shelter. By then they were worked up into a state where making mistakes is nigh on impossible to avoid. It is amazing what a little darkness and a few thrown stones (and a severed head) from an unknown foe can achieve.

  While they were busy debating what was to be done, I hurried around to the fire, borrowed a skinning knife someone had left behind, and cut the hapless shepherd down. He had heard the thumps and thuds of the stones, the constant frightened bleating of the sheep, the nervous horses that had now sensed my presence, and the shouts and wails of his captors. Add in the fact that he was a native Barovian who would rather slice off one of his own fingers than be caught outside after dark, and I had a quite terrified man on my hands. As soon as he saw me looming over him with the knife he set up such a screaming row you would have thought I was killing him instead of saving him. There was no time to explain, nor was it my desire to do so—I simply knocked him out and left him there on the ground until I could return to question him later.

  Doubtless his full-throated and heartfelt shrieks, so abruptly silenced, did not improve the morale of the men in the croft. The horses liked it no better; they had snapped their long tether lines and were gradually putting distance between themselves and their luckless masters. That was the deciding factor for two of the men, who broke free, dashing toward the retreating animals.

  The men would be much more difficult to catch once they were in the saddle. I headed them off, grabbing one while he was in the process of throwing a leg over his animal's back. As I dragged him down, the horse panicked and squealed as it fell, hampered by the restraints on its legs. The man screamed not unlike the sheep which had finally broken their paralysis and were disappearing into the night. I knocked him out with a quick, sharp blow to the base of his skull.