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.