The heavy tread of armored boots echoes up the stairway and into the second-floor hallway. Duster holds his breath as the footsteps stop directly outside his door. An unseen hand rattles the door handle, testing it. The furniture Duster has wedged against the entrance holds firm, and after a moment, the knight moves on. Through the wall, Duster hears the next door crash open, followed by the violent sounds of furniture being overturned and thrown about as the guard searches for “Rictavio.”
Working quickly, Duster slides one of the dressers aside with painstaking care. Each movement is calculated to avoid the smallest scrape of wood against floorboards. He eases the door open just wide enough to slip through, then steps onto the gallery overlooking the taproom below.
Danika stands at one of the tables, cloth in hand, wiping down its scarred surface. Some instinct makes her pause and look up. Her eyes find Duster immediately. He presses a single finger to his beak in warning. She gives the barest nod in response.
Duster swings himself over the gallery railing and descends using the rough wooden paneling and support beams as handholds, his clawed feet finding purchase in the gaps between boards. He drops the last few feet to land silently on the taproom floor.
“Step into the entryway,” Danika says quietly, tilting her head toward the front of the inn. “The red knight might not spot you there when he finishes his search upstairs.”
Bray, her youngest son, stands nearby watching with wide eyes. He points up at the gallery. “Papa never lets us do that!”
Duster bobs his head and echoes back in the boy’s own voice: “Don’t do that!”
The child’s face lights up with delight.
Danika’s expression remains carefully neutral as she asks, “Will you be joining Krelldutt and myself in the Village of Barovia in a few days?”
Duster nods. “Meeting you there.”
“Krelldutt will be glad to have a hero such as you. ” A genuine warmth touches her smile. Then she turns to her younger son. “Brom,” she says quietly, “go tell the guard in the kitchen that you’ve seen someone going into our barn.”
The boy darts away. Within moments, shouting erupts from the kitchen. From upstairs, the thunder of armored boots toward the outside staircase. Through the taproom window, Duster and Danika watch the red knight race around toward the back of the inn.
“Mr. Duster, you might slip out while the guards are occupied,” Danika says. “I’ll make sure to tell Krelldutt you’ll be joining us in Barovia.”
Duster shakes his head sharply. “Don’t tell Krelldutt until I leave the city.”
Danika grows very still, pushing her remaining son gently behind her skirts. The silence stretches between them for a long moment. When Duster meets her gaze, he thinks her eyes have grown suspicious.
“Bray,” she says over her shoulder, “go find your brother.” Her voice is barely above a whisper.
After the boy leaves, she confronts the kenku. “Why don’t you want Krelldutt to know, Mr. Duster?”
Duster weighs how much to share with this woman. “I returned Urwin from Ravenloft,” he tells her finally. “I need to kill Deprimer.”
Shock registers plainly across Danika’s features. “Why kill the Burgomaster? Mr. Deprimer is doing only good things for Vallaki!” Her voice rises slightly before she catches herself. “And I thought Deprimer was your friend.”
“Not friend.” Duster’s tone is flat. “I was dead but witch fix me. Now kill Deprimer or I am dead again.”
“A witch returned you from the dead, and in exchange she wants you to kill the Burgomaster?”
“Not because Burgomaster. Only because Deprimer.”
Danika processes this for several beats. Her expression hardens. “You need to leave now, Mr. Duster. I owe you a debt for Urwin’s life. I repay you by returning yours to you. I will not share what you have told me about Deprimer.” She pauses. “Yet.”
Duster flees from the Blue Water Inn.
⚔
Komzin can feel the werewolf struggling beneath the murky water in the flooded cell block. The creature’s strength is immense, its claws raking at his arms even as he holds it down.
“Bayleaf!” Rakthe calls out. “The sword that dropped in the water is magical. It will hurt this creature more than your weapon!”
Rakthe strides forward and drives their enchanted fiery trident deep into the submerged werewolf. The creature convulses with each strike, its struggles growing more desperate.
Bayleaf plunges his hands into the fetid water, feeling blindly until his fingers close around the hilt of Rakthe’s sword. He wades closer and slashes downward with the magical blade. The weapon bites deep into fur and flesh. The spray of blood floats around the thrashing werewolf.
Komzin continues to hold the creature beneath the surface. The werewolf’s struggling gradually weakens. Through his grip, fingers entwined in sodden fur, Komzin feels the body suddenly become pliant. He releases his hold as the body changes under his hands.
The corpse that flips over and bobs upward is no longer wolfish but a man. Emil Toranescu’s bloodless face stares sightlessly at the vaulted ceiling above. Komzin gives the body a push, and it drifts away through the muddy water to join Doru’s corpse bobbing gently against the bars of one of the cells.
The group wades slowly from the cell block. Komzin spots what might be another body floating at the western end of the hallway. They discuss their options in hushed voices—continue down the hallway or ascend the spiral stairs—but Rakthe has been injured and needs tending. Ultimately, they decide to rest on the winding stairs while Bayleaf stands watch. The stone steps are damp but relatively dry compared to the flooded corridor.
Nearly an hour into their rest, a heavy door opens somewhere above them. The sound of bare feet descending reaches their ears. Bayleaf signals that he will meet whatever comes. Cautiously, he climbs the winding steps.
On the landing above, he surprises a short, squat creature with a foxlike face. It stands on two bandy legs that end in black, webbed feet like those of a swan. The creature snarls, baring sharp teeth. “Who are you? What are you doing here?”
Bayleaf’s hand moves to raise Rakthe’s blade. “I might ask you the same question.”
“I am Cyrus Bellevue, chef to the lord of Castle Ravenloft.” The creature step upward and back, away from the weapon before drawing itself up with what might be pride. “Are you here for the wedding?”
Bayleaf agrees that he is.
Cyrus pushes past him, swinging a wooden pail from one clawed hand close enough to Bayleaf’s knee to make him step back. The creature stumps down several steps and stops abruptly, blinking rapidly as it encounters Bayleaf’s resting companions.
“Komzin?” Cyrus’s vulpine eyes narrow in recognition. “Is that you? What are you doing here?” The creature doesn’t wait for an answer. “Invited to the wedding, I’ll wager. You know it’s been postponed…for now.”
Komzin nods, his expression carefully neutral. He thinks of the catatonic Ireena somewhere above in the castle, and wonders if she still rests in the coffin.
Cyrus pushes past without detecting the deception. He plunges his bucket into the fetid water and brings it up full and streaming.
“Cyrus,” Komzin says, “is there a way out of the castle that does not go through the main gatehouse?”
The creature straightens and regards the knight with narrowed eyes. “I can show you for gold. Much gold. If you choose to pay, come upstairs to the kitchens when you are done with your business here…one flight up, right across the hallway. I have food meant for a wedding that’s been postponed. The vampires eat little of my cooking.” He begins climbing the steps, the heavy pail sloshing water onto the already moist stone. “Think about my offer.”
Above, the heavy door shuts with a decisive bang that echoes through the fetid air. Soon only the sound of lapping water fills the spiral staircase.
The stink of mold and rotting flesh reasserts itself as the companions discuss their options in hushed voices. Down here in the undercroft of Ravenloft are vampire spawn, werewolves like the one they just killed, and the massive, unidentified evil entity that chased Rakthe and Komzin from the catacombs. Above them waits a potential encounter with Strahd himself.
Komzin suddenly holds up his hand. “Do you hear that?”
In the far distance, they can just make out the sounds of sloshing water, muttering groans, and low growling.
“Whatever it is,” Rakthe murmurs, “it’s getting closer.”
Soon they are able to both see and smell three vampire spawn shambling down the corridor toward them. The creatures move through the waist-deep water with an unnatural grace.
From behind, Bayleaf Blesses upon his companions before the oncoming attack. Rakthe meets the spawn in the narrow hallway, swinging their trident in a wide arc. But in the smothering darkness, the weapon strikes the stone wall with force enough to shatter their shield. They discard the broken pieces with a curse.
In the narrow space, Rakthe and Komzin engage the front two of the spawn. The creatures wear the simple clothes of farmers they may have been in life. Their eyes burn with feral hatred as they bare razor-sharp fangs. Dirt cakes their overgrown fingernails.
The third vampire spawn, uncertain at the back of the scrum, suddenly bolts up the wall. Spider-like, it scrambles across the rough stonework of the ceiling and hurls itself at Bayleaf, who still stands on the steps making sigils to channel his divinity’s power.
The spawn repels the blast of abjuration magic that Bayleaf attempts to engulf it with. Grimly, the elvish paladin swings Rakthe’s greatsword. His prayers have caused its blade to emit a radiance toxic to undead. Light flows from its edge into the deep slash it carves across the spawn’s chest and shoulder. Blackened sludge oozes from the wound, spattering the walls and ceiling. The creature tips back its head and shrieks in pain and fury.
Again handicapped by darkness, Rakthe strikes their trident full force against the wall. The weapon emits a sharp flash as three of its four prongs bend upward toward the handle, rendering it almost useless.
Bayleaf’s eyes flick between the three spawn. While the two creatures engaging Komzin and Rakthe heal from the wounds they suffer, his own opponent’s injuries remain open and seeping the foul dark ichor. The paladin presses his advantage, knowing this one, at least, cannot heal fully.
The battle continues in the fetid darkness of the flooded catacombs, the clash of weapons and the shrieks of undead echoing off ancient stone.
