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.

I heard a shout behind me and turned in time to see the second man. He looked quite mad: wild-eyed, sword out, and ready to chop me in half.

He had the one chance.

The curved blade sliced right through my body, barely meeting any resistance at all. I felt a decided tugging as it ruined my clothes, but nothing more harmful than that. Unfortunately-for him-I am not so vulnerable to sword cuts as I once was.

Where he expected me to fall over in a bloody mess I still stood unharmed, quite dumbfounding him, until I compelled him to take a nap next his friend.

Three remained, huddled in the little croft. Though what had specifically happened to their friends would be beyond their ken, they would understand that whatever prowled here was more than capable of attacking them with the same success. They were trapped in a small and frail shelter against the whole of the night embodied in something that they had not even glimpsed, something that had, in a remarkably short time, disposed of a dozen well armed men. I could not expect them to be anything less than utterly desperate, which might prove troublesome. Desperate men generally do not think clearly, making them unpredictable and considerably more dangerous.

Since my clothing was in shreds thanks to my delayed reaction, I discarded the cloak, outer coat, embroidered vest, and what had once been a very fine black linen shirt. My gold neck chain with the Von Zarovich ruby on its pendant was undamaged. It would take much more than a sword stroke to remove it from my person. My pale torso, still bearing scars I had acquired before my change, would be an easier-to-see target at night, though my personal safety was of little concern to me. I wanted only to make sure the remaining men did not injure themselves when I went for them.

The croft was sealed shut now, with no glimmer of light from any chink in the door or shutters. The men were crouched in the dark, probably tensed and ready for anything. I crept close, braced myself, and gave the brittle wood a mighty kick, then moved to dodge clear.

I did not get that far. Some tangible-at first I thought it an arrow-but unseen force hurled from the opening and caught me squarely, pinning me in place.

The stale air shot forth from my dormant lungs and my legs turned to water. A vast hand seemed to hold me in place an instant, then slammed me flat to the ground. I lay stunned, both by the force of it and the sheer surprise of anything being powerful enough to affect me.

The brigands were chanting. Their deep voices rose and fell in a strange, oddly rhythmic tongue. The words pounded at me like hammer blows. Some kind of spell…

Not a spell… prayer. A plea to one of their alien gods. Whether their deity from beyond the Mists was able to hear them mattered little; their faith alone was strong enough to render me helpless. When swords fail, men turn to their gods, and this lot had the kind of true faith I hadn't faced in a very long time. It battened me down like a hunting hawk, its talons ripping into my shoulders and back. I tried to scrabble free, but was utterly trapped in its grasp.

The leader led the chant, his rasping voice knifing through my skull. I writhed from the pain, the sound alone seemed to burn my flesh. One of the men stepped forward, his sword raised. I saw the faint green glow of magic streaming from its cruel blade. As I had done to his comrade so he would do to me and cut off my head.

Desperate men generally do not think clearly, making them unpredictable and considerably more dangerous. I was desperate enough to blurt out a spell for my defense, the first to pop into my head. Had I been thinking I would have conjured something much less destructive. As it was, a flash of lightning completely obliterated the dark for a long moment and the deafening crack of its passage blotted out the leader's voice. I took that blessed respite to roll clear before the blade came down to deliver me to death.

No need.

By the time my eyes recovered from the flare it was all over except for the smoke, much of which steamed from three charred corpses. I was unharmed, but the three brigands were flat on their backs in three different directions. The leader had been thrown right through the rear wall of the croft.

The bolt had impacted the earth exactly in their midst, leaving a crater a foot deep. The grass was singed away, of course, and the exposed earth had irregular veins of cooling glass running out from the center where the heat had been very great. As for the men… well, the eleven I had would have to suffice for my needs; these fellows were quite beyond any use in the culinary sense. It was probably for the better. The last thing I needed in my dungeons was some wretched holy man working away at me with his foul prayers. I knew his sort: the worse the conditions in which he found himself the greater power he would be able to call forth.

A waste, but not one I would mourn over much. I could still find some use for the dead ones as servants. Once I had recovered a bit and put the proper spells into effect, the whole lot of them could walk themselves to Castle Ravenloft. The living would be compelled down into the dungeons, and the dead to one of my work areas where I could make a proper and permanent change in them so they would be suitable guards.

Their path of travel would take them right through the village of Barovia at the foot of the castle, a sight to cause the population some little stir. By this would they know their lord was keeping the peace in the land and perhaps be better inspired to maintain it themselves.

I put myself in order and retrieved the lot of them to commence the work, being quite recovered now from the chanting attack. Before another hour passed, they were all under my control and slowly marching west, even the one without the head-he carried that in his lifeless hands-and the three with blackened and cracked skin. By dawn they would all be in their proper places, serving me in such a way as they could never have otherwise hoped-or remotely imagined-to achieve.

An excerpt from the private commentary notebooks of Azalin, salvaged and translated by Lord Strahd after the necromancer's disappearance in the year 579. 543 Barovian Calendar, Barovia

Here Von Zarovich exhibits a sampling of his ongoing obsession with the woman Tatyana. She is his blind spot and is certainly something that might be exploited in my intention to supplant him. He has noticed the pattern of her continuing birth, death, and re-birth in his land, so the idea of introducing a false Tatyana at a time inconvenient to him and advantageous to me is worth consideration. The difficulty is finding a substitute convincing enough to deceive him. Though gullible on some points, he is keenly attuned to the workings of magic and sensitive to all manner of spellwork. A simple illusion will not suffice. Something far more subtle is required for such a subterfuge to succeed.