05/27/2026: The Watchers on the Hill

The Watchers on the Hill

The gate rolls open and Krelldutt’s company spills into Vallaki. Unlike the Order of the Feather members who arrived an hour earlier, Krelldutt’s group is road-worn rather than windblown. Their horses are lathered and they carry the particular silence of people who have a difficult task before them. Blinsky dismounts, swinging down to blink at the crowd of guards and knights inside the Sunset Gate. From a side street, Father Lucian and Dunlar emerge to greet them before they have cleared the threshold. Friedrich, at Krelldutt’s heels, wags his tail. The dog, at least, seems relieved to be back in Vallaki despite the circumstances.

Krelldutt, pointedly, avoids looking at Komzin. Instead, he gives his attention to his horse, his dog, the priest, Dunlar. Anyone save Komzin.

But the knight is already in the street on his way to the tortle, striding away from four of the five operational catapults the city has prepared. He crosses toward Krelldutt with deliberate steps, his face set and unreadable, his shoulders carrying the set of someone with something to say.

What follows is not a warm reunion.

Krelldutt’s accusations about Ireena hang between them, venomous. “How can you not be in jail, Komzin? You betrayed her.”

“My presence outside of jail is required, my friend, given the recent circumstances. In the past, I had allied myself with Count Strahd, and this has proved to be the biggest mistake of my life. If I could take it back, I certainly would.”*

Krelldutt demands, “Are you going to apologize?”

“Of course,” sputters Komzin, “with all of my heart. I swear.”

Father Lucian interposes himself before it can come to anything worse, spreading his hands in the broad gesture of a man accustomed to ending arguments. “Forgiveness,” he lectures Krelldutt, “is the first principle of the Morning Lord.” The priest looks directly at the tortle when he says it. “This man is a true Barovian. He would never let Vallaki fall. Never let harm come to any of her people.”

Krelldutt says nothing. Komzin and Dunlar have the decency to look embarrassed.

⚔

A raven arrives at the Sunset Gate just before noon. Elvir Martikov drops from raven form long enough to deliver his report: Wintersplinter is crouching behind the settlement atop a hill to the southwest, out of sight of Vallaki’s walls. The people on that hill look like Vistani — possibly Strahd’s people. The creature appears to be waiting.

Torgan does not wait for the full council. He picks up his axe, ready to start now.

Komzin volunteers to go to the hill. “I know Strahd’s Vistani, or I once did. If there is still enough credit left in my former allegiance with the vampire lord, I might be able to buy Vallaki some mercy, or at least some time.”

Torgan will go as escort. Elvir will follow in raven form, tree to tree, nearly invisible in the dense fog.

Father Lucian lays a hand on Torgan’s arm and asks if he requires healing. He does. In his turn, the priest requires one gold piece for his blessing. For the orphans. Father Lucian pockets the coin.

⚔

As they thread their way down the road to the south, the fog thickens, causing them to move more slowly than they would like. An hour in, they come upon three Vistani men lounging upon a horseless wagon. “Stop, friends — oh, wait, I know this one!” one of the men calls into the fog. He rolls off the wagon and straightens, hand resting on the butt of his scimitar. His two companions titter mirthlessly. One pushes himself to a seated posture, pulling a heavy crossbow into his lap. Another ceases cleaning his nails with a dagger, but does not re-sheath it.

The standing Vistana grins. “It is Komzin, no? A loyal friend of Count Strahd!” The word loyal lands with an intentional sting.

“Yes,” Komzin begins, “Lord Strahd sends me to check on your work here.” His lie does not land as he would like.

The Vistani’s dark brows rise, incredulous. “In truth?” The sarcasm in the man’s voice is not hidden.

Weapons from Komzin and Torgan go onto the back of the wagon, between the snickering, seated men — all but one of them. Torgan argues briefly for keeping his hand axe, claiming it was a gift from Strahd himself. The Vistana guard reaches over and tries to take it from Torgan’s belt.

“You wouldn’t want Lord Strahd to know I was parted from his gift to me.” Torgan steps away to avoid the man, his voice carrying an edge.

“Your axe stays here,” the guard responds, “or else you can stay here with your axe.”

Torgan slips the axe back into his belt. He stands without blades or javelins — nothing beyond the hand ax, other than his boots and his temper — watching as Komzin is brought up the hill.

⚔

At the top stands the oldest living man Komzin has seen outside of Ravenloft. The venerable Casimir leans on a cane, his eyes clouded, his cheeks hollowed in, likely missing more teeth than not. He looks a thousand years old, perhaps more. He sips from a steaming wooden cup and does not invite the knight to sit by the fire.

His escort touches the ancient elf’s elbow, and their two heads come together to whisper.

Komzin’s keen ears pick up the brief exchange before he is formally received — Casimir leaning toward a Vistani attendant, his voice carrying just enough. “Not yet? We cannot lose them,” the old elf hisses. “They must be returned — quietly.”

Nodding, the Vistana replies: “They will be found. My best scouts are on it. But there is this man — Komzin — who claims to serve Strahd. His dwarf companion elected not to come up the hill. Boris is watching that one.” Komzin detects the very slight inclination of the attendant’s chin in his direction.

Casimir signals for Komzin to follow him into a tent, then makes him wait a full minute before speaking. His rheumy eyes track the room without precision, and Komzin is fairly certain the man is blind.

“What is it you want, Komzin of Ravenloft?”

“To share intelligence, Casimir,” Komzin begins. “Vallaki’s Sunset Gate is undefended. Practically unwatched. An excellent point of entry for anyone planning an assault on the city.”

The old man’s expression does not change. He spits on the floor at Komzin’s feet. His eyes are suddenly laser-focused. “So, the old man is not blind,” Komzin thinks.

“Mr. Komzin. Your very short life should be as painful as—”

Before Casimir can finish his threat, Komzin lunges.

But the attack does not land. Casimir Misty Steps out of the tent and his voice carries across the whole hillside: “He is a traitor. Kill him.”

From within the tent, Komzin can hear at least two pairs of feet racing toward the tent he stands in.

Then a piercing whistle cuts through the fog. Three short blasts. A pattern, like a shepherd calling directions to a herding dog. From somewhere behind the tent, down the hillside, the sound of wood groaning under its own weight rises through the fog.

Wintersplinter stands.

⚔

The ground shudders. The tent walls shiver. The shadow that suddenly falls across the opening is not the shadow of a person or even of a large animal — it is the shadow of a thing that has no category.

Komzin runs.

He does not make it far. Wintersplinter’s foot comes out of the mist above him and finds the knight. The impact empties air from Komzin’s lungs, and he can feel ribs break. The knight wrenches himself desperately away. The massive foot lifts and lands atop him a second time. Face-down, he can feel his plate armor bend, grinding into the flesh of his broad back, his shoulders, his legs. Mud squelches into the articulated joints of Komzin’s steel suit, chill against the crushing pain.

Wintersplinter does not stop to investigate. The vast creature is already moving over the hillside — toward the city — its footsteps receding into the fog.

⚔

Torgan, meanwhile, has been working his way counterclockwise around the base of the hill. He has retrieved his axes from the wagon, but the Vistani would not allow him his javelins.

“These stay with us,” one snarled.

“Please yourself,” Torgan growled back, and disappeared into the fog.

The dwarf treads quietly, following the treeline. He hears the commotion first — shouts, a whistle, the unmistakable groans and cracks of something enormous moving close by in the thick mist. He presses himself into the trees.

The heavy footsteps are punctuated by two violent blows, above on the hilltop.

Then Wintersplinter emerges. The fog thins momentarily to reveal what might be the top third of the creature, monstrously tall and expressionless. It passes him heading east — the direction of Vallaki — its heavy tread and crashing through the forest diminishes as it disappears into the fog.

As the quiet that reasserts itself, very close by, Torgan can hear a child weeping. A man’s voice, low and urgent: “Shh, my dear. It has missed us. Calm yourself. We will not be hurt. I will keep you safe.”

Torgan does not move. Whoever they are, they are not for him. Not now. He waits until the hillside searches begin — Casimir’s voice, thin and furious, ordering his people to fan out — then walks down the road toward Vallaki without looking back.

⚔

Elvir finds Dunlar at the Sunset Gate just as the grey light begins to fade. He lands, sheds his raven form, and delivers his report in a flat tone. Wintersplinter is heading toward Vallaki at a walking pace. It will arrive within the hour, tracking not toward the Sunset Gate but toward the southern wall — perhaps the Mourning Gate.

Then, lastly, the news about Komzin. Elvir’s voice carries a note of sympathy now. “Your man, Komzin. Do not expect him back. The tree creature killed him.”

Grim-faced, Dunlar takes in the news. It is a blow to lose a knight as seasoned as Komzin — whatever his failings. As provisional Burgomaster, his authority borrowed until the ring of office is located, he begins repositioning Vallaki’s forces. Catapults to other gates. Walkers to garrison the walls. The remaining force to hold the center of Vallaki and move where needed. The fog is extraordinary now, thick enough that Wintersplinter could be fifty feet out and invisible until it wasn’t.

Bayleaf takes up a position near the command line, melee weapons in hand, waiting. Krelldutt rests uneasily in the command post, waiting.

It is seven in the evening. Vallaki goes quiet, waiting for something to break.

Somewhere out in the darkness of the forest, at a distance that is impossible to judge, the sound of very large footsteps startles only birds and deer as it continues its patient approach.