Litany of Light and Shadow - Vandryn Carro

[Famous Seamus]

Litany of Light and Shadow: Prayers and Paths in the Mists (775 - )

Vandryn Carro, depicted as Prelate of Christ's Church of Barovia, c. Mars 777

(Art by Theresa Klokkeblomst.)

“Walk in the Light, Vanny.”

- Edea to her son, Vandryn Carro

[Famous Seamus]

CHAPTER ONE: AWAKENING

FEELING: The garden unchanged, the silence unbroken:
None may wake there but One who shall be woken.

THE ANGEL GABRIEL: Wake.

- W. H. Auden, For the Time Being: A Christmas Oratorio

AVRIL 775

Ta-thump.

Vandryn Carro sat in the candlelight of the foreign chapel, his heartbeat quickening in his chest. Thomas and Lorick, seated on either side of him, took turns explaining the faith and doctrine. Compassion. Love. Atonement. Mercy. Righteousness. Service. It was all he’d sought since the bloodied night in the warehouses and the day after, when the garda had denied him execution—self-martyrdom—and the Tormite elder had said penance was unnecessary: arrogance was armor against evil.

The three corpses, among them two folk he’d offered to protect, would disagree.

Ta-thump. Was it fear or anticipation?

The half-elf’s thoughts raced as he listened. It had been weeks since he arrived here, yet the mistakes had already accumulated. Could it be true that atonement and forgiveness could be his? What of his guilt? And if he failed here too? Was failure possible? What was he doing? Back home, praying to Ao—much less his son, as Hypatia said this patron was—was anathema. Certainly, Thomas and Lorick were friends and allies, but…

Ta-thump.

In the breadth of a moment, his mind quieted. He straightened at the table, resolute.

I have sinned greatly and acknowledge my flaws. I beg forgiveness and seek your love. Be merciful to me, if you’re willing. I acknowledge your power and wish to serve you with all of my being and for all of my days.

No voice answered him. No light suddenly burst in to illuminate the chapel. No winged messenger split the clouds pouring the seemingly endless Barovian rain outside. But there was something, perhaps imaginary, perhaps a mistake: a faint feeling in his chest, a strange warmth.

Ta-thump.

Vandryn Carro sensed the beat of his heart.

[Famous Seamus]

CHAPTER TWO: A DIVINE VIRTUE

“Let no one despise you for your youth, but set the believers an example in speech, in conduct, in love, in faith, in purity.”

- 1 Timothy 4:12

JUIN 775

Vandryn tugged at the hem of his tabard. The white cloth, a brilliant red cross emblazoned on the front, had gone crooked again. It was common for knights to fight in these, but by the heavens, how did they do it?

The soft whisk of footsteps in the grass drew his attention from the garment. Through the visor of the winged helmet, the half-elf’s eyes picked out the hooded halfling approaching him in the dark of the Barovian night. In short order, the small figure joined him at the edge of the cobbled road across from the Lady’s Resting Place.

“Oi, paladin.” The halfling, terse as ever, gave a slight nod. Beneath the folds of his hooded cloak, he sported a tabard identical to Vandryn’s in all but size.

“Squire Ander.” Vandryn dipped his head to his friend. “Would it kill you to call me ‘squire’?”

Ander grunted. “Yuh got news?”

“I’m told the piss ale is terrible as ever.” The reply came without hesitation, a grin forming inside the helmet. “What of yourself?”

“Nuh.”

Vandryn let out a soft sigh. This was squirehood? It was an honor, certainly—and the path he would have walked, albeit in a different faith, if he’d been able to finish his acolyte training in Toril—yet devilishly difficult. His mind kept returning to the idea that something was missing. He and Ander had spent the few weeks since their baptism and admission as squires training together, learning to be knights and standing watch on behalf of the Templars.

But it felt like things should be happening. There were night-creatures about that needed opposing. By the heavens, calamity had befallen his own mentor. Ser Lorick, despite being five year’s Vandryn’s junior, was already proving himself to be the knight the young half-elf yearned to be himself. He of all folk deserved action and justice. Yet how could a squire act with nothing to act on? Where would one begin when they’ve only just begun?

The silence stretched between the half-elf and halfling at the roadside, both watching, considering. Thomas’ words seized the opportunity to echo inside Vandryn’s head.

Keep out of trouble. Set an example.

Ser Lorick’s own exhortations toward patience and piety followed on the admonition’s heels. Vandryn scrambled to recall a scripture he’d read in his budding studies. What was it…?

Be still, and know that I am the Creator.

He shifted on his feet, fighting the urge to move, yet his boots remained rooted to the ground. He would be patient and train under his knight. Action would come in the Lord’s own time.

But this was a hard path, indeed.

[Famous Seamus]

CHAPTER THREE: THE WHITE KNIGHT

“Finally, be strong in the Lord and in the strength of his might. Put on the whole armor of God, that you may be able to stand against the schemes of the devil.”

- Ephesians 6:10–11

JUIN 28, 775

Rise, knights of Christ!

Vandryn opened his eyes at the knight commander’s bellow. Slowly, almost uncertain, he turned his face from the floor, up toward Ser Wold and Ser Lorick. The two white-clad figures, knight commander and knight-mentor, stood before the cross above him, smiling.

Biting back a smile of his own, half in disbelief, the auburn-haired half-elf spared a furtive glance to the halfling kneeling beside him. Ander—Ser Ander—met his gaze. In unison, the pair drew themselves up from their knees and stood.

“Turn around and let everyone see how different you look.” Still grinning, Lorick nudged Vandryn and Ander, the youth’s spirit emerging in the moment of jubilation. “This is a good jest, yes?”

Taking places between Wold and Lorick, Vandryn and his closest friend—and fellow squire until moments ago—turned to face the small crowd gathered in the chapel. The room erupted into cheers.

Knighthood. Ser Vandryn’s smile finally broke through, a hand going to the small golden crucifix Wold had hung about his neck.

With a few more words of congratulations, the celebration began in earnest. Friends and “family” filled every chair at the chapel’s table, where bowls filled with the Templars’ signature garlic soup sat arrayed at each place. The horrors of Barovia and cares of the world momentarily ceased to be.

Yet as was the way of the Core, the peace was short-lived. There was business.

Knights and dames, are you prepared to test the aspiring squires?

Ser Ander rose from the table and drew aside the first supplicant from the gathering: a lively half-elf with black hair that fell neatly past his shoulders. Vandryn kept his distance from the privacy of the test, occasionally studying his own assigned supplicant. He’d known the young Scotsman for some weeks now and, alongside the others administering the test tonight, would be a deciding voice in the man’s future with the Order.

As he waited in the now-familiar candlelight of the chapel, Vandryn reached for the belt pouch where he kept the ivory chessman that Mishandra had given him. She hadn’t been able to attend tonight, but the token and her words were more than enough.

This is you: the white knight…

At a mere twenty-three winters old, his dream had come to be. The half-elf closed his eyes.

Father, grant me wisdom tonight. Guide my path ahead.

And don’t let me fail.

[Famous Seamus]

CHAPTER FOUR: DARKER THAN MIDNIGHT

“What shall we say about were-wolves? for there are were-wolves which run about the villages devouring men and children. As men say about them, they run about full gallop, injuring men, and are called ber-wölff, or wer-wölff.”

- Dr. Johann Geiler von Keysersperg, Die Emeis, trans. by the Rev. Sabine Baring-Gould in The Book of Were-Wolves: Being an Account of Terrible Superstition

JULIET 775

Ta-THUMP.

Ser Vandryn’s heart hammered in his chest as the battle raged in the Barovian night. Sweat streamed down his forehead and stung his eyes within his helmet, while his body ached from the blows he’d taken. Ser Ander was somewhere in the fray, but Vandryn was afforded no time to look.

All about him and his comrades—perhaps a dozen in total—packs of beasts continued to pour from the darkened woodlands.

Vandryn swung his silvered greatsword wide, swatting aside a claw with the flat of his blade. The divine fire burning along its length did little against his lupine opponent, but the illumination was of some aid in the gloom.

His costly maneuver spared him only one blow. The heavy weapon was too slow in returning to its central position, the were-beast’s other claw driving home between the armor plates on Vandryn’s exposed torso.

Foolish! The half-elf gasped for breath as blood spurted from the wound. He’d been training diligently with his new weapon for weeks, but his form remained inelegant and untidy.

Ta-THUMP.

Swaying on his feet now, Vandryn swung the blade downward to bite deep into his opponent’s hirsute shoulder. The beast snarled and raked a claw across the knight’s arm. His vision beginning to cloud, Vandryn struggled to free his sword. His foe seized the opportunity to slash into the gap between helmet and platemail.

Vandryn surrendered to the blackness and toppled to the ground.

Ta-thump.

A familiar warmth flooded his body. An astounding amount of pain gone, the knight began to pick himself up.

“On your feet, Templar!”

Vandryn drew in a deep breath and spared Kelira a swift, grateful nod as he retrieved his greatsword from where it had fallen. Another swing brought it crashing back into the werewolf. He drove his boot into the crumpling figure and kicked off to pry the weapon free, using the momentum from the maneuver to spin and strike at another beast to his left. His comrades were doing splendid work: the creatures’ ranks had begun to thin, and someone was calling for the company to regroup on higher ground.

Ta-THUMP.

The half-elf awoke on his bedroll in the Morninglordians’ church. A sheen of sweat coated his forehead. His back ached from where the chipped and broken flagstones pressed him while he slept.

He sat up and rubbed his face. It wasn’t a nightmare. It wasn’t a nightmare.

The company had stood in battle merely a few nights past. The retreat to higher ground. The regrouping as the faithful muttered hasty prayers and the magicians refocused their energies. The wave after wave of werewolves that had come—and the agony of the felled defenders. The rescue by the elves of Degannwy and the scramble to collect the fallen and reach the safety of the gates of the Grove.

The massive werewolf, darker than the shadows, that had tried to open the gate and withstood the volleys of arrows his comrades and the sentries fired into it.

It had laughed at their attempt, departing with a soul-ripping howl.

Miraculously, the fallen had all been restored to life. The Lord truly was merciful beyond understanding.

The company had dispersed after dawn arrived. Ser Ander returned to Vallaki. Vandryn had tarried to speak with the kin of his kin and sit with Squire Feanor and Giles. The three rested on the soft leaves carpeting the Grove, chatting long into the day.

“Do not fear those who kill the body but cannot kill the soul,” Vandryn had reminded them in the tradition of his new faith.

Ta-thump.

And yet now, sitting on sanctified ground, why was he sweating? The beast was concerning—but terrifying? Barovia was a land of terrors that required swift acclimation.

His friends and comrades laying lifeless on the ground, however…

Ta-thump.

The novice knight shifted forward onto his knees and clasped his hands before him.

Fortify my heart, Father. What can I do?

[Famous Seamus]

CHAPTER FIVE: BEARING THE CROSS

“Bring me a cross of gold as my talisman.”

- Jethro Tull, “Broadsword”

JULIET 775

One hand clasped the golden crucifix strung around his neck. The other held the larger symbol he was accustomed to carrying on his belt. Vandryn knelt on the dais of the sanctuary, staring at the brassy cross splayed across his palm. The humble, unpolished metal dully caught the torchlight from the braziers nearby. Scratches from being brandished several times had begun to cover its bottom limb.

The beast hadn’t fled from it. Vandryn had held it a mere span from its face, but the black-armored figure refused to give a step in retreat.

Yet another had. Weeks before, squire at his side, Vandryn had driven one off the darkened streets of Vallaki with nothing but the crucifix. The night-creature had staggered backward at the sight before vanishing in a cloud of shadow.

What were they, exactly? His mentors had said that they were demons, hellspawn possessing the corpses of the departed in a mockery of who they were in life. Their hellish origin was the source of their weaknesses.

You believe that the Creator is one; you do well. Even the demons believe—and shudder!

And yet the black-armored one had held its ground. Surely a fiend or evil spirit would have recoiled? Or…

Did my faith falter? Did the Overgod's power waver?

Vandryn closed his eyes, jaw clenching and brow furrowing as he struggled to banish the blasphemy from his mind. This was no season to be having such thoughts. The Order had named him Knight Warden of Vallaki and tasked him with leading the knights' defense of the city. His squire required training. And something was looming.

Only days before, he’d stood alongside the likes of Sir Roland and some of Vallaki’s greatest heroes against the darkness of a great evil. Three mighty vampires had been sent to greet eternity that night. By any means, it was a staggering victory, yet something beyond the remaining night-creatures—an unease, the flicker of a distant shadow—lingered.

Eyes still firmly shut, Vandryn drew the metal symbol close to his chest, his other hand still locked around his necklace.

Father, I believe. Help my unbelief.

[Famous Seamus]

CHAPTER SIX: SOMEONE’S SON

“Rescue those who are being taken away to death;
Hold back those who are stumbling to the slaughter.”

- Proverbs 24:11

AOUT 775

Vandryn strode toward the gate, his white cloak fluttering behind him. Recent days had made it more ragged. Even now, it caught some of the muck as its wearer bustled down the street.

The jade-eyed half-elf didn't notice. His stare was trained on some invisible point in the distance. The pools of mud and offal splattered along Vallaki’s rough-hewn flagstones may as well have been halfway across the Core.

The past weeks had changed much. Another vampire had been slain. Many of the Templars had departed on journeys or pilgrimages, Ser Ander among them. Vandryn’s own squire had resolved to suspend his training: the Scottish youth had cloistered himself away in prayer.

What had he been thinking, taking a squire so early into his career—and his walk in this faith, for that matter? To teach when he was still a student himself…

Vandryn splashed through another slurry of water, mud, and filth. Perhaps their parting was best for the time being. Christ forgive him, he was almost relieved to have the responsibility laid aside.

Father, I didn’t mean—Father, show me—Father, I—

The foundering prayer buckled and fractured under a barrage of thoughts. The Knight Warden of Vallaki passed into the shadow of the city’s gates as the sun slipped behind the horizon before him.

Ser Ander’s former squire had completed his training, at least, knighted for valor on Vandryn’s recommendation for his aid against the Blackpaw.

Any emotion the thought may have conjured was hidden as Vandryn slipped on his winged helmet. Some of his friends milled about in the twilight settling over the outskirts. Eos, Sola, and Rosemary called over. Sorren stammered a greeting. Tum nodded. Vandryn offered a distracted nod and a metal-muffled “Greetings” to the lot of them.

The Blackpaw, the great were-beast he’d witnessed outside Degannwy, had been slain days ago. He and Squire Feanor were among the expedition that saw it defeated. Vandryn had been stationed in the middle of the party alongside others of faith, lending healing and mending as the warriors cut their way through the monster’s caverns, but even the healers had been called to draw steel and fight in the final onslaught.

He had witnessed the bloodied were-creature falter and shift back into a man. He’d watched the life leave him. He’d seen the bodies of the beast’s victims piled around the chamber and helped Sir Marcus line them up to be carried out.

Vandryn’s path through the outskirts brought him to the end of the cobbled road. His training taking over, he began the litany as he always did, a steady Elvish chant invoking the Overgod’s blessings on himself. Upon finishing, the Knight Warden folded his hands behind his back.

“On watch again tonight, Vandryn?” someone called over. A few others moved to join his side.

“Indeed.”

With the great black wolf gone, the night promised to be more peaceful than many of the past month. Vandryn’s half-blooded vision had little trouble piercing the darkness of the first watch, yet the knight didn’t see the trees clustered about or the Old Svalich stretching westward into the distance.

He saw the lifeless, bloodied figure strewn on the cavern floor days earlier—and heard the words of his comrade standing over the man who had been Blackpaw.

He was someone’s son, once…

[Famous Seamus]

CHAPTER SEVEN: A FEAT LIKE THIS

“Remember the wondrous works that he has done,
his miracles and the judgments he uttered…”

- 1 Chronicles 16:12

AOUT 775

Vandryn swung his greatsword at the spectral figure, desperately trying to land a meaningful strike. The acrid smell of ash mingled with a blistering heat in the darkness of the subterranean corridor. Embers still smoldered on his chitin mail, tabard, and cloak where the fabric and fittings had caught ablaze in the firestorms moments before.

He struck again, nicking the spirit with the divine fire burning along the length of his silvered blade. The being’s ectoplasmic fringe wavered but withstood, the assault a far cry from what was necessary to send such an abomination to its eternal rest.

A second blade swiftly hacked into the figure, cleaving a gash in the ectoplasm and drawing a hiss from the creature. Through the slit in his visor, Vandryn, eyes burning, managed to make out its wielder: the female knight fighting at his side. They’d met only perhaps an hour earlier, though she claimed to have known his brethren for some time.

A spectral talon slicing through the air called Vandryn’s attention back to the battle. Too slow, he tried to duck, instead bringing his helmet level with the strike. The buffet slammed into the steel shell encasing his head.

The half-elf staggered. Are we going to die?

Already, the rest of the company was unconscious on the scorched flagstones behind them, succumbed to the firestorms. He and the knight had managed to hold the spirit for now, she even wounding it. But it wasn’t enough: as near as they could tell, their opponent was far from destruction, and every moment threatened to carry victory farther from their grasp.

Vandryn shook his head and grappled with his reeling wits. Desperation mounting, he closed his eyes and extended his palm toward the spirit. It was a final gambit—certainly not strong enough to end the fight, but perhaps potent enough to turn the odds back in their favor. Sucking in a deep, painful breath, he tried to still his own spirit, gather his faith, and recall the prayer of healing. He let the breath out slowly.

A shriek rent the corridor. Then came silence, the only sounds the labored breathing of the two knights and their felled friends.

Vandryn opened his eyes, blinking at the sting from the fervid air.

The spirit was gone. Ectoplasm pooled on the floor.

He gaped at his palm before renewed urgency—the wounded—broke the moment of rapture. Patting out the final few embers on their clothing, he and the knight turned to tend to the fallen.

They were going to live—all of them.

Nothing had changed. Nothing had felt different.

But there were miracles, even in a place such as this.

[Famous Seamus]

CHAPTER EIGHT: BRAVADO

“Pride goes before destruction,
and a haughty spirit before a fall.”

- Proverbs 16:18

AOUT 775

His skin hadn’t healed. Even after a month and several blessings of healing from Lizuca, others, and his own hand, the white scar from the burning magicks still twisted across much of his torso in an edifice to his arrogance.

Ser Vandryn frowned and tugged on his tunic and arming jacket. It had been a foolish idea, hadn’t it? Challenging the avatar of death itself. Its spell had struck him so hard he’d nearly been unmade. Yet his rank and station demanded it. His lot was to combat evil, first with the heart, then—failing that—with the blade.

The first shafts of dawn lanced through the window of his room. The half-elf lifted his red and white tabard over his head. It was what a knight did, wasn’t it?

People look up to you, Vandryn. His friends’ words came to reassure him. They trust you.

He reached for his belt and fastened it around his waist, his frown fading at the thought. He was a knight, by the heavens. Misadventures aside, his successes had mounted, some mighty foes falling before his blade in the weeks of relative peace after the Blackpaw’s demise. This new path—the path of the Christ, of purity and humility—would carry the day. Evil and good alike had and would see the Light. The avatar of death and its ilk would know soon enough.

Vandryn’s gaze turned from straightening his garb to the small ivory chessman on the stand beside his bed. He gingerly picked up the knight. Mishandra…

“This is you: the white knight. Noble, brave, erratic at times, moderately strong, and likely to be sacrificed in the mid-game for the greater good.”

He closed his eyes. He would sacrifice, if necessary, but his strength was growing. He wouldn’t make the past’s arrogant mistakes again. He’d protect the innocent and put the darkness to flight.

It was what a knight did.

Father, you have my thanks for making me your knight. Shape me into the paragon you wish me to be, and may the praise I’ve received from friends, allies, and onlookers be yours.

Concluding the prayer, Vandryn tucked the figurine into a pouch on his belt. He paused before the looking glass to muss up his auburn hair just so before turning toward the door.

The praise was the Lord’s, indeed. . . . But it’s splendid to receive it.

He smiled. It would be a fine day.

After all, there were folk to inspire.

[Famous Seamus]

CHAPTER NINE: CAPTIVE

“No sound broke the death-like stillness of the dark forest which reared starkly about him; yet he sensed that Something was coming down the shadowy trail.”

- Robert E. Howard, “Death’s Black Riders”

SEPTEMBRE 5, 775

He needed a bath. He needed five baths.

Vandryn rubbed his wrist, the skin still reddened and chafed from where the metal of the manacles had scraped against it. He sat on the cold bench among the large throng that had gathered in the Morninglordians’ sanctuary. The stench of sweat pervaded the closeness of the chapel’s air this night.

Two vampires in the southern caverns. We were captured but managed to secure our release, only being bound. . . . He’d said his piece and been asked to take a seat.

Captured—by vampires! The night-creatures and their squadron of armored spawn had paraded him and his companions, shackled, back to the outskirts to make their triumphant speech. They’d managed to begin their remarks before the Nine Hells had broken loose in a melee. The creatures fled after a brief skirmish, their spawn cut down in the street. Everyone with sense had filed into the sanctuary after that.

Vandryn looked up from his wrists, a hand going to his neck. Thankfully, they hadn’t fed, though that comfort did little to quiet his thoughts.

The one didn’t flee from the crucifix, either. She’d even tried to tear it from his hand. By some miracle, he’d kept his grip on the battered metal in the tug-of-war, she finally hissing in pain and staggering back after her hand began to burn. Was it faith, fortune, or fate?

He and his companions had held their ground after that, too, but was their success and survival the result of assuredness or arrogance?

The half-elf glanced around the chapel, reflexively rubbing his throat before letting his hand drop back to his lap. Seneschal Mori, clad in armor and the white and red of the Order, sat at his side. Concern weighed heavily on the hardy Scotswoman’s features as she listened to the accounts of the day’s events, but compassion reflected in her eyes. At the front, Sir Roland, Sir Darion, and Giles stood on either side of Lizuca and addressed those gathered.

Murmurs among the crowd punctuated the speeches. The pair of vampires weren’t simply beasts and enemies. They were former friends, fallen to the curse.

One had even remembered the time they’d had tea with Giles. Vandryn scowled. They were supposed to be demons or fiends, spawn from the hells merely possessing the body. A demon could have manipulated and maneuvered its way into seizing those memories, certainly, but to accomplish it so thoroughly? How was it not her?

Armor and leather scuffed and scratched on stone. The speeches had ended. All about the sanctuary, folk were rising and making for the door, though no light fell through the fogged stained glass lining the sides of the dilapidated nave. Vandryn drew in a breath and pushed himself off the bench, hastening to join the others without waiting for Mori. His superior stepped alongside him a moment later. She was silent, yet her gaze, keen as ever, said they would speak soon.

The two shuffled out into the damp Barovian night as the crowds began to disperse. The veterans were already striking out, but the towering Tyrran stopped and turned to face the pair of Templars. He spared them only a moment’s glance, but his proclamation against the Night cut the air.

“This means war.”

The weeks of relative peace were dead. The distant shadow had arrived.

[Famous Seamus]

CHAPTER TEN: WAR AND DÉTENTE

“And who knows whether you have not come to the kingdom for such a time as this?”

- Esther 4:14b

SEPTEMBRE 775

She had threatened the children. Of all the things the corpse-demon could have done, this was among the most astounding—and the most despicable.

Ser Vandryn picked his way along the narrow cavern, wending his way around the glyphs and etchings that filled the path. The dampness clung close, but the crescendo of echoes from his footfalls told him he neared his destination. Ahead, his eyes picked out the barricade and loaded ballista pointed at him: near indeed.

The half-elven knight carefully sidestepped the siege weaponry and rounded a corner, where the cavern gave way to a larger chamber. In the center, painted by the glow of torches seething against the shadow, sat a table encircled with chairs. Boxes of equipment, armaments, and provisions had been arrayed to the side, a large board adorned with parchments, diagrams, and notes only a few paces away.

Headquarters. Vandryn paused in the torchlight before entering, the silence broken only by his breathing and the staccato of droplets plummeting from stalactites into subterranean pools. He peered around the corner, down the cavern from whence he’d come. Satisfied he wasn’t followed, he drew back his hood, straightened his jerkin, and stepped into the chamber.

He hadn’t dared to wear his tabard here. This was war against undeath, and as far as the vampires were concerned, his part was to appear as passive as possible. It was a battle of stealth just as much as steel. The knight’s oaths forbade lying. They said nothing of espionage and misdirection.

“A fight can be fought without ever drawing a blade.”

Brother Artemesius. Vandryn’s fingers drummed against the side of his satchel. What would his old mentor, the gentle, calculating Tormite, think of this business? Speaking with vampires rather than smiting them outright—fighting them with words and posturing rather than weaponry?

The stakes were already too high. Allies had been banished, slain, and assaulted. The Light was hard-pressed in the face of the Shadow, and now the children were in danger if the vampire’s unreasonable demands went unanswered.

He was where he needed to be. Vandryn opened the satchel and sifted through to the wax-coated pouch where he kept his parchments. If the vampires were content to see him as nonthreatening, let them. He would defend the children with his dying breath if needed, but perhaps his presence—his cordialness—might persuade the one to leave them in peace.

The creatures wouldn’t dare to harm him. That would be their mistake.

The knight withdrew a single parchment and stepped up to affix it to the board. The allies would see the lone, neatly scribed line of scripture next they visited.

“And who knows whether you have not come to the kingdom for such a time as this?”

Vandryn smiled and retreated to the dampness of the serpentine cavern. The Shadow was long, the days were evil, and hope was distant, but this was why they were here. All had their parts to play, and all would strike in due time.

Victory awaited.

[Famous Seamus]

CHAPTER ELEVEN: FIRST AND GREATEST

“And he said to him, ‘You shall love the Lord your God with all your heart and with all your soul and with all your mind. This is the great and first commandment. And a second is like it: You shall love your neighbor as yourself.’”

- Matthew 22:37–39

SEPTEMBRE 775

A breeze tousled Ser Vandryn’s hair as he trudged toward the building, a sack slung over his shoulder. Children cavorted and played in the yard some paces away, their giggles winning a warm smile from the half-elven youth. Reaching the recessed door, he noted with some satisfaction that the garlands of garlic and etchings in charcoal hadn’t been disturbed. The work of others and—at blessed times—him had held for today, at least. She may have threatened the children, but she’d gain no purchase tonight.

He turned the smile to the yard’s occupants once more before pushing the oaken door open and stepping into the corridor that served as the structure’s entryway.

“Why do you do what you do, Vandryn? Watching and fighting—why?” The memory of the dark-clad figure—and his accusations—came unbidden.

“It’s love, friend. I have felt the Overgod’s love, I love him, and I feel compelled to love those about me.”

Vandryn shifted the sack on his shoulder and closed the door behind him. He nodded to the elderly gentleman standing in the light of a nearby window. Boots and stirrups thudded and jangled on the floorboards in accompaniment to his short trip to the kitchen.

“Oh, yes. I’m sure you love those werewolves and vampires you fight. I’m sure it makes your god happy. Do you love them, or do you love killing them?” The memory returned again.

“I love the folk we defend, and I love the memory of the folk the beasts you speak of once were. Loving them means fighting when it’s required, even if it’s painful.”

“Please.” The dark-clad figure scoffed.

Brushing aside the curtain marking the entry to the kitchen, Vandryn entered the dimly lit space, his smile fading. A tawny-haired lad busied himself among the shelves and boxes in the pantry, while an older woman, an apron wrapped around her dress, tended to a pot bubbling in the fireplace. The smell of cooked vegetables grew stronger with each step into the room.

“Now see here!” The memory bellowed at the dark-clad figure. “Evil can be destroyed with the heart and with the blade. Those we can save from destruction by reaching the heart, we do, and those we must oppose with the blade, we do, but love guides it all.”

“Then you’re a fool.”

“Don’t believe for a moment that I enjoy what I do, because I don’t. If I could put up my blade and never draw it again, I’d do so gladly, but until that day comes, the fight continues—and love will be the chief weapon.”

Vandryn cleared his throat, managing to find his smile again. The woman at the fireplace turned to regard the armored half-elf invading her kitchen. It was impossible to tell if her dull stare was the result of annoyance at his presence or simply weariness from her matronly labors.

“Supplies for the children, milady,” Vandryn dipped his head and carefully lowered the sack to the floor, doing his best to look nonthreatening. “I won’t trouble you further. Walk in the Light.”

He turned for the curtain but stopped, his path partially blocked. The lad had come away from the supplies and now stood behind him, peering up curiously. Vandryn smiled down at the youth and stretched out a hand to gently muss his hair.

“Don’t be afraid, friend. So many folk love you.”

[Famous Seamus]

CHAPTER TWELVE: IN DUE TIME

“The war of words is done;
The red-lipped cannon speak;
The battle has begun.”

- John Davidson, “Battle”

SEPTEMBRE 775

Time was against them.

Delay, distract, and waylay. Perhaps a chat until dawn approached—or a duel, if needed. The illusion of passivity would need to be broken if the Lord and circumstance demanded it.

A few moments of scrambling through wretched, filth-filled tunnels and crepuscular alleyways brought Ser Vandryn to the foot of the tower set in the city wall. The door to the stairwell hung ajar, the dimness within gaping up toward the battlements. He took a breath, unfastened the maul strapped to the back of his jerkin, and climbed to the top.

The city was different from his new vantage: larger, older, more dilapidated and simultaneously more astounding. Cluster after cluster of slanted and spired rooftops stretched into the distance. The night was still—and dark. Apart from the words of the poised, pale figure garbed in black—her—and the outbursts of challenge from below, not a sound stirred in the shadows.

There was nothing to betray the bands of spies and warriors mustering a few alleyways away. She wasn’t their quarry this night, but if she by chance or misfortune heard or discovered them, their efforts against her sister would be for nothing. That was what had brought him here.

The half-elf drew back his hood with his free hand and muttered the prayer to remove the invisibility that had been draped over his frame. He stepped across the battlements, his boots clicking on the stone.

She turned to face him and spoke. Mutters came from below.

What now? Diplomacy, scripture, oaths, and warfare crashed about in his head. Will you do what’s required in due time?

Jade eyes locked with hers. Vandryn widened his stance and hefted the maul. “Shall we?”

The pale figure studied him curiously, almost bemused, then faded into shadow.

Blast! He pounded down the stairs and across the cracked flagstones and muck of the Old Svalich. The road was empty in the stillness of the night. She’d gone. Drawing his hood up again—for what little good the ruined disguise now did—he hastened to where the allies were gathered.

“What were you thinking?!” Eos roared, shoving him as he returned.

Vandryn stepped back and raised a hand defensively, trying to placate his friend. “I distracted her, at least. I believe I could have defeated her.”

The spirited elf didn’t shove again, but the mixture of concern and indignation in his glare carried no less passion. “She’s killed others!”

“I could manage. I doubt she would have slain me—nor will she.”

Yet the illusion was shattered.

[Famous Seamus]

CHAPTER THIRTEEN: THE ILLUSION SHATTERED

“Darker and darker
The black shadows fall;
Sleep and oblivion
Reign over all.”

- Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, “Curfew”

SEPTEMBRE 26, 775

Ta-thump.

Ser Vandryn’s chest heaved, his lungs scrambling for air as his soul returned to his body.

Splayed out on the ground, he tried to recall what happened. He’d been standing outside the orphanage with Ser Calian, Rick, and Quinton, the four of them united in the oppressive dark of the Barovian night to guard the building. That much was easy to remember. It was to be the final day of the period she had said she might launch her assault. Had they taken the first watch or the second?

Eyes still closed, Vandryn took another breath and prepared to pick himself up off the floor. Something felt amiss. Even through the chitin plates armoring his torso, he could feel the stone beneath him was nothing like the cracked and uneven flagstones of the sanctuary where Lizuca had raised him many times before. The air was closer and lacked the pungency of the unwashed travelers that sheltered there. Judging by the sound, something was flowing and sloshing close by.

Ta-thump.

His memory sharpened into clarity in the half-moment before he stirred: A gale had blown in as they’d stood outside the orphanage. In its wake, silent and unexpected as death, had come a company of pale, armored warriors clad in black, as if they’d been the night’s own arrows loosed by the gusts. Steel had been drawn, and—the children!

Ta-THUMP.

Vandryn’s eyes flew open. The half-elf clambered to his feet. He had to hasten from wherever this was to wherever the battle might yet be! There were—

He stopped.

Blood was streaked across the floor on every side of him. He stood in the middle of a vicious scarlet web forming a pentagram, with a bloody, cautiously painted band wrapping the sigil together. A skull topped with a candle perched at the zenith of each of the points, the accursed flames releasing thin tendrils of black smoke into the shadows.

And she knelt at the edge, eyes closed, her head bowed and hands clasped as if in prayer.

Ta-THUMP.

Vandryn tensed, his hands balling into fists as he glowered down at the Von Khorvich.

“Where am I?”

The vampire remained statuesque, answering his question with silence. Vandryn tore his gaze from the loathsome creature long enough to survey their dim surroundings. He and the pentagram occupied the center of a tight, low-ceilinged chamber with eight sides. Fountains—the source of the sloshing—poured from the walls into a small pool on either side of him, while the remnants of some shrine sat along the wall behind him, nearly close enough for him to stretch out his arm and touch. A single corridor led from the space, with her directly in the path.

Vandryn reached over his shoulder to unsling his maul, but his hand grasped only air. Realizing he must have dropped the heavy weapon during the battle, he instead found the hilt of his silvered greatsword and freed the blade from its scabbard. As he brought it to bear, he could feel his chest hammering and his blood pounding in his ears. It was odd in a way he couldn’t place.

Something was indeed amiss.

Ta-THUMP.

“Answer me.” He held the blade upright, prepared to strike the moment the vampire took to her feet.

“Black hair suits you.” The Von Khorvich’s eyes remained shut, but she spoke at last.

Taken aback, Vandryn wavered, starting to lower his sword only briefly before he recomposed himself. “My hair is auburn.”

“Is it now?” She opened her eyes, her lips drawing into a mocking grin.

Ta-THUMP.

The half-elf felt his stone-faced glare begin to melt into misgiving. He quickly picked his way over the lines of blood to the fountain on his left. Keeping his weapon at the ready, he leaned over to study his reflection in the ripples of the murky pool.

Vandryn nearly dropped his sword.

Even in the age-old waters, it was unmistakable. His jade eyes, horrified, stared back beneath a crop of black hair, almost unnaturally dark. His skin, meanwhile, had become as pale as the cold, lifeless soldiers he’d battled outside the orphanage.

Ta-THUMP!

Vandryn’s throat went dry, yet strength surged through his body, newfound hatred spurring him on. He hefted his sword again and wheeled toward the vampire. The dark figure regarded him from where she knelt, her grin twisted into a wicked smile.

“What have you done to me?”

Standing, she began to laugh, though the sound was drowned by a boom echoing down the corridor, followed by the thunder of a host of boots striking stone. Voices rang out above the din: Ser Calian, Lady Arshtat, Vilde, and others. Both knight and vampire turned to see the company charge around a corner and into view.

“There they are!” a voice called from among the throng.

Surrounded, the Von Khorvich simply offered another soft, lilting chuckle. She turned back to the deathly pale half-elf. The candlelight danced as she produced a bloody, crimson object from somewhere on her person and placed it on the floor.

Ta-THUMP.

“It seems we’re finished here, but have a gift. It’s yours, after all.” She spoke again, glowing in triumph.

Vandryn’s stomach churned at the thought. He’d seen diagrams of the object during his medicinal apprenticeship. This couldn’t truly be it, could it? He tightened his grip on his sword and battled against his nausea as the others tried to persuade the vampire to abandon her path and find redemption in the dawn that was fast approaching.

Ta-THUMP.

Managing another breath, Vandryn steeled himself. He wrested his stare away from the fleshy object on the cold stone before him, facing the vampire once again. His muscles tensed in anticipation.

“No, this ends one way!” He sprang forward, his silvered blade beginning its arc through the air, but the vampire, smile still on her lips, simply faded into the shadows of the dying night.

Vandryn barely heard the bellows and rebukes coming from the others as their opponent vanished. He heaved out a cough and gasped for air, pain rippling through the center of his chest. Finding the wall, he braced himself against it and slid to the floor. The others paused, concern replacing any vexation they may have felt.

The half-elf’s eyes returned to the crimson object resting on the floor. He drew another wheezing breath.

“By the heavens. Is that . . . ? It can’t be…”

Ta-thump…