"Identify yourself," the dead ordered monotonously.
"I am Rudolph van Richten."
Another corpse joined the pair from behind — this one a female, with her throat torn open. "I know you," claimed all their flayed lips together, some with a hiss, others with a croak. "You are a physician of Rivalis."
"Yes, Lord Azalin. Thank the gods you are here!" exclaimed Van Richten, fighting down the rush of bile in his mouth at the sight of scrolling eyes and air-dried bones.
"Do not rejoice, Van Richten. There is no mercy for those who defy curfew. Only one thing stays your death: curiosity. What are the Vistani to you?" Another zombie shuffled up and joined the chorus. Van Richten stared dumbly at the ribboned stumps of its fingers, worn away from digging free of the earth.
"Speak! What are the Vistani to you?" they all asked in sepulchral tones.
The man's gaze sank to the ground as the story formed in his head. "They came yesterday, to my house in Rivalis, and demanded that I treat one of their tribe: Radovan Radanavich — that man there. "Van Richten pointed a trembling finger at the raven-haired Vistana, who lay in a heap beside Tasha's scored, crimsoned haunches. "But he was too sick. I couldn't save him."
Van Richten's throat constricted as the memories focused. "He was the son of their leader. She accused me of letting him die, and she threatened to curse me. I told them they could have anything of mine if they would withhold their terrible powers. And when I awoke this morning, I found that they had chosen to take my son!" The doctor halted, swallowing his rage like a shard of broken glass.
"Old Belandolf — my neighbor — saw them go west," he finally growled. "I've chased them all day, but they're faster than I expected. "More zombies lumbered into the simmering circle of faerie fire, which now outshone the dwindling embers of cloth on the torch, and he could hear the graceless shuffle of even more approaching.
"The Vistani do not travel the roads," intoned the raspy chorus. "They travel the Mists. Most likely they are in Barovia by now, for they are Strahd von Zarovich's toadies, and he grants them asylum."
"Barovia? But that must be four or five days'ride from here."
"For them it is not an hour's walk."
"Then my son is lost!" moaned Van Richten.
"Most certainly," returned the manifold voice of Azalin. "So, how would you avenge yourself, if you could? "
"I — "He paused, unprepared. "I don't know, but I'd figure something out."
"Would you. . murder them? "
"I am a doctor. I don't know how to kill anything! I. . I hoped to simply steal back my son. I may have seen more than forty winters, but I can still move quite stealthily."
"You cannot even follow the Vistani at a distance, let alone approach them unnoticed," retorted the undead assembly. Still others were arriving; there must be twenty or thirty of them now.
Van Richten felt a prickle of irritation. "How can I know what to do when I haven't done something before. Without knowledge, one can learn only through experience — "
"And thus are foolish mages killed."
"I'm not a fool, I'm a desperate father! Besides, Lord, I learn quickly, and as a doctor I am sure that knowledge is power."
The forest echoed with the throaty laughter of desiccated vocal cords; the doctor felt spiny icicles form in the pit of his stomach. "Indeed, Van Richten, it is the purest power, but one must wield it only when one has acquired it."
Van Richten blustered with ill-acted bravado and claimed, "I am here, after all!"
"Well said. I am of a mind to help you to your revenge, for I cannot tolerate the devil Strahd's gypsy poachers in my lands. Besides, it will be interesting to see if this dead Vistana of yours can guide you through the Mists."
"You can restore his life?" cried the doctor with sudden hope and awe. "That would be perfect! Surely the Vistani will return my boy if Radovan is returned to them!"
"I did not say I would restore his life. . "
The chorus began to whisper, first in unison and then in dizzying counter-rhythms that blended into an acidic hiss. Ebony coils of smoke belched from their mouths and slithered across the ground, coalescing into a shiny, scaly cord that wormed its way into Radovan's mouth in search of his unbeating heart. When the ebony tip curled and sank between his lips, the chanting subsided and Radovan's eyes fluttered open. He wobbled to his feet and stood crookedly, for his spine had snapped when Tasha had fallen. The youth's slack-jawed, listing face was flushed with chalky blue, and his chestnut eyes rolled back, white, while his swollen tongue punched between his teeth and waved in the air as if it were lapping at the remains of the inky smoke that had animated him.
"Fetch the bridle of the horse," commanded Azalin's multitude.
Too numb to question, Van Richten stumbled to Tasha and knelt beside her still head. Her icy blue eye lay open wide in motionless terror. He stroked her jaw, shot with oozing sockets, and mumbled," I'm sorry, girl." A pang of guilt stabbed him as his hand caressed the velvety lip. Gently he unstrapped the bridle and slipped it off her muzzle.
"Put the bit into the mouth of the Vistana," ordered the voices.
Van Richten looked at Radovan, perplexed. "You want me to put the bridle on him? "
"Correct."
". . Will he not attack me? "
"By my will, no unliving thing may touch you this night." Van Richten squinted at Radovan, then at the mortified congregation. Finally, he scanned the darkness around him. "And what about the ghoulies in the bushes? "
"Your perceptions are sharp, Doctor. The blood hunters are indeed not undead. But all things in Darken, living or otherwise, are at my command and will not accost you. Now, obey me!"
"You have even that much power, Lord Azalin?" uttered Van Richten, stricken by the thought. "How do mortals possess such omnipotence? "
"Obey me!" commanded the multitude.
"Yes, Lord." Van Richten stood before Radovan and searched the lolling, dark irises; they returned his gaze in a cadence of movements, but no glimmer of sentience shimmered behind them — nothing except perhaps some instinctive craving for some forgotten thing, long gone. Gingerly, the doctor reached out, grasped Radovan's cold chin, and forced the bit of the bridle between his crusty lips, pinning back the wagging tongue. He slipped the muzzle strap over the top of Radovan's head and cinched it behind, letting the rest of the harness and reins dangle to the ground.
The deathly voice of Azalin instructed," Obey me! Hold this minion's reins and he will heed your commands. Learn if he can guide you through the Mists. Report to me, Van Richten, if you return."
Dr. Van Richten reluctantly took up the reins. "Radovan?" he whispered, but the gypsy made no reply.
"Radovan," he repeated, louder. "Take me to your people."
The zombie lingered a moment longer, then turned its back on the doctor and paused again.
"Radovan! Damn you, take me to your mother!" With that, the bridled, emaciated scout staggered forward, and as one, the undead mob turned and followed. Gray tentacles of mist embraced and drew them all into a blind fog, leaving the netherworld of faerie fire and blood hunters behind. Van Richten's walk among the dead stretched into a time-trapped phantasm, a shuffling nightmare in which his leaden feet slavishly ignored the constant, desperate urge to flee. There was little to see as he trudged squeamishly behind his ghoulish beast of burden, and all he could hear was the funereal shuffle of the lifeless herd, so he stared glumly at Radovan's broken back, unwillingly reliving the Vistana's last moments of life.
"I didn't kill you, Vistana," Van Richten asserted.
"Blood on my hands washes clean! Find your people," he growled. "Find them now?”