The Enemy Within Read online

  “A Byronesque combination of tormented hero, a particularly loathsome super-villain, and increasingly gruesome horror, The Enemy Within reveals Christie Golden as a young writer with mature thoughts—a rarity in American genre literature.”

  Marvin Kaye

  Author of Fantastique and

  Editor of Masterpieces of Terror and the Unknown

  “Christie Golden has blended the suspenseful essence of a crime drama with the classical elements of Gothic horror. The Enemy Within, like Ravenloft itself, draws you into its world whether or not you wish to go.”

  Adrienne Reynolds

  Editor of Gateways

  Ravenloft is a netherworld of evil, a place of darkness that can be reached from any world—escape is a different matter entirely. The unlucky who stumble into the Dark Domains find themselves trapped in lands filled with vampires, werebeasts, zombies, and worse.

  Each novel in the series is a complete story in itself, revealing the chilling tales of the beleaguered heroes and powerful evil lords who populate the Dark Domains.

  The Enemy Within

  Christie Golden

  Mordenheim

  Chet Williams

  Tales of Ravenloft

  Edited by Brian Thomsen

  The Screaming Tower

  James Lowder

  THE ENEMY WITHIN

  © 1994 TSR, Inc.

  All characters in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  This book is protected under the copyright laws of the United States of America. Any reproduction or unauthorized use of the material or artwork contained herein is prohibited without the express written permission of Wizards of the Coast LLC.

  Published by Wizards of the Coast LLC. Hasbro SA, represented by Hasbro Europe, Stockley Park, UB11 1AZ. UK.

  RAVENLOFT, TSR, Inc., D&D, Wizards of the Coast, and their respective logos are trademarks of Wizards of the Coast LLC in the U.S.A. and other countries.

  All Wizards of the Coast characters and their distinctive likenesses are property of Wizards of the Coast LLC.

  Cover art by: Paul Jaquays

  eISBN: 978-0-7869-6181-8

  640-51428000-001-EN

  For customer service, contact:

  U.S., Canada, Asia Pacific, & Latin America: Wizards of the Coast LLC, P.O. Box 707, Renton, WA 98057-0707, +1-800-324-6496, www.wizards.com/customerservice

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  Visit our websites at www.wizards.com

  www.DungeonsandDragons.com

  v3.1

  This book is dedicated

  to my husband, Michael:

  My love, best friend, and head cheerleader.

  I couldn’t have done it without you.

  And third’s a charm—

  As ever, thanks to my editor, Jim Lowder,

  for keeping the faith.

  Contents

  Cover

  Ravenloft Books

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  About the Author

  Thunder rumbled in the distance. Frowning, Sir Tristan Hiregaard closed the shutters against the approaching storm. The change in weather was morbidly appropriate, he thought, as if the land itself were mourning its dying king.

  “Let’s get a little light in here, gentlemen,” he ordered in the voice of one accustomed to being obeyed. Tristan was tall, still muscular and handsome although his curly blond hair was now more gray than gold. His tanned face was lined, but he had earned every wrinkle, and now he was adding a few new ones to his brow. Few members of the royalty had the privilege of dying in private; Tristan was merely one of several keeping vigil beside King Kethmaar’s deathbed. He shared this unhappy honor with four other noblemen and several servants.

  Tense and relieved to have something, anything, to do, the servants hastened to light candles and bring in lamps. The thunder rumbled again, closer now, but Tristan no longer paid it any heed. Another sound had full claim on his attention—the harsh, gurgling rattle in his dying friend’s throat. The only thing worse than that awful noise, thought Tristan, would be its sudden silencing.

  Kethmaar lay faceup on the canopied bed, oblivious to the presence of his concerned friends. The war with his own body had ravaged him. The bed’s silken sheets and gilt-edged wood frame seemed to swallow Kethmaar’s wasted form, and sharp cheekbones jutted through parchment-pale cheeks. He looked decades older than his fifty-one years—one year younger than Tristan. The royal seal on his garments huddled in the sunken chest of its shriveled owner. Catching a wayward flicker of candlelight, the gem in the seal’s center winked with an inappropriate cheerfulness. Watching, Tristan felt suddenly, absurdly offended by that sparkle. Nothing should shine, he thought with a quick burst of impotent anger. In the presence of death, nothing should be bright.

  Tristan directed his piercing gaze to Torval, the court physician. “Where is Othmar?” asked Tristan.

  “My lord, His Royal Highness is—exercising his mare,” stammered Torval. Tristan frowned, his normally open face going cold and angry as the physician continued. “I told him he would be well advised to remain for this meeting, but …” Torval’s voice died, gutted by embarrassment. His pale blue eyes beseeched Tristan, who cleared his throat. The huddle of waiting men turned toward him.

  “My lords,” Tristan began in the sonorous voice that had won a thousand debates, “we shall proceed without being graced by the presence of our prince. King Kethmaar summoned us here to discuss the future of the royal line. I had hoped that he would be able to convey his wishes to us himself, but …” His throat closed unexpectedly, and the four other incipient members of the council of regents waited with sympathy while Tristan regained his composure. All five nobles—Tristan, Osric Laars, the mayor of Kantora; Lord Hadwin Hadwinsson, the chief advisor; the landed baronets Lord Adal Keirin and Lord Bevis of Blacktower Heights—had known the king well enough to call him friend. But among them all, only Tristan had been close enough to call Kethmaar brother.

  “His Majesty left us a statement,” Tristan went on, motioning to the court scribe. Berwin waddled forward, unrolling a scroll as he came. Tristan took it from him. “With everyone’s permission, I—”

  “We are still king,” came a thin voice that, for an instant, quivered with humor and not weakness. Murmuring in pleased surprise, everyone turned to the pale figure on the bed. “Just because you have the tongue of an angel, Tris, doesn’t mean you can speak for us … not yet. Soon enough, we will—” A sudden attack of coughing overtook Kethmaar, and he convulsed with the effort.

  Tristan rushed to him, holding his friend as the paroxysms racked the frail frame. Frothy blood flew from the withered lips to spot the white bed linens. The men averted their eyes, embarrassed. Gently, Tristan wiped his liege lord
’s mouth with his handkerchief. Kethmaar nodded his thanks and resumed.

  “You five are to be Prince Othmar’s regents until he reaches the age of twenty-five.” Eyes flew open wide and a few men muttered under their breaths. Berwin cursed softly. He hastened to the desk, grabbed a quill, and dipped it hurriedly in a pot of ink. Mouthing the words to himself, he scratched out something on the parchment, then wrote in the new number.

  “Aye, we know,” Kethmaar continued, “eight years longer than tradition dictates. But we know our boy, and we want him to be under your guidance for as long as possible.” A sudden smile briefly lit his pale face. “We would have you be regents until his sixtieth birthday, truth be told.”

  Answering chuckles came from the regents, and the tension eased ever so slightly. “Tris, pour us—” But Tristan had already filled the crystal goblet half full of ruby-hued wine and was in the process of cutting it with water. Their eyes met for an instant as the king took the glass, then Tristan had to look away. He had no desire to embarrass his friend with his emotions; dying was difficult enough. Kethmaar sipped the liquid, then continued.

  “We have done our best. Now, he’ll have five fathers. Tristan, we are afraid this means an end to your traveling for a while. Othmar will need your diplomacy in hearty portions.”

  “I’ll leave traveling to the younger men. How better to serve my ruler than to be at his side?” Tristan assured him.

  “Silk tongue,” said Kethmaar affectionately, smiling a little. He turned his watering gaze to the other men of the council. “Osric, Kantora is your city, even though it’s the capital. We have made allowances for you to override Othmar’s decrees on occasion, if he gets a bit overzealous. Hadwin—had we listened to your advice more, we would be a happier man today. We pray our son will. Adal, Bevis—you know your parts of the country, your people … what they want. Speak to Othmar of them when you deem it necessary. We have—”

  Kethmaar began coughing again, this time unable to control himself. Blood flew, and his hands reached to claw his chest, as if he could tear out the illness that clogged his lungs. He gagged, his body tensing as Tristan reached for him, then went limp, his life escaping with his last hacking cough.

  The horrible silence that Tristan had so dreaded now filled the room. Gently, Tristan reached an unsteady hand toward his friend’s still face and closed the eyes. He picked up Kethmaar’s limp hands. There was a saying in Nova Vaasa, The hands of a king are the hands of a healer. But this king had been unable to heal himself. Tristan folded the thin hands with their many rings over the dead ruler’s sunken chest and bowed his own head in silent mourning.

  A door slammed sharply open. Prince Othmar entered. He was tall for his fourteen years, and thick, dark hair curled rambunctiously over his milky brow. His fine clothes were dusty and smelled of horse sweat, and he still carried a riding crop in one hand. The boy glanced around, his hazel eyes taking in the somber faces. He strode to his father’s bedside, and Tristan stepped aside.

  For a long moment, Othmar stared at the corpse of his father. One muscle near the corner of his mouth twitched. Then he glanced up at Tristan, his eyes gleaming.

  “When’s my coronation?”

  For a heartbeat, there was a shocked silence, then Osric Laars choked on an oath.

  Before he could recover and give the arrogant youth the scathing words he deserved, Tristan stepped in. “Your Highness, regretfully, there will be no coronation for some time.” Out of the corner of his eye, Tristan saw the pudgy mayor begin to smile like a tiger.

  Othmar gaped, then exploded furiously, “What? My father’s dead! Of course I’m going to be king! I’m fourteen now and I—”

  “That was not what your father wished.” Tristan indicated Berwin, whose jowls paled as the young royal fixed his outraged gaze upon the hapless scribe. “Just before he died, His Majesty stipulated that you would not claim your full title until the age of—” he paused for effect, taking a shameful glee in thwarting Othmar “—twenty-five.”

  Othmar swore savagely, lashing with his riding crop at the crystal decanter of wine that sat on the bedside table. It fell to the marble floor and shattered with a musical crash. Wine splattered everywhere.

  “Violence will not bring your coronation any sooner, Your Highness,” Tristan observed mildly. As Othmar took a menacing step toward him, Tristan swiftly brought his hands up and closed them with steely strength on the boy’s slender wrists. “As captain of the royal guards, I have the power to put even you in prison if you don’t calm down.” His voice hadn’t changed, but his blue eyes flashed a warning. Othmar read it. When he felt the tension ebb slightly from the boy’s frame, Tristan released him. Othmar glared sullenly at the floor, his left hand massaging his reddened right wrist.

  “That’s better,” Tristan approved.

  Othmar shot him a venomous look. “Play the good father with me, now that mine’s cold? Ivaar doesn’t think you’ve done so good a job, does he?” With that he stormed out of the room, head high.

  There was an embarrassed silence. The regents were friends of Tristan and knew that father and son did not get along well at all. The relationship—or lack of one—was, to say the least, a delicate subject with Tristan. Tristan flushed at the public accusation, but turned a carefully expressionless face to his fellow regents as he reached for the scroll. “Let us continue, gentlemen.”

  Outside, the storm clouds roiled.

  Tristan’s sorrel gelding galloped smoothly across the grassy plains, leaving Kantora and its dead king behind. Mount and rider cast no shadow, as the sun was hidden behind the lowering clouds. To Tristan, even the horse’s hoofbeats on the earth seemed muffled to the ear.

  Tristan sat easily in the saddle, one gloved hand clasping the reins while the other reached to pat Kal’s neck affectionately. The beast was an excellent mount, one of the proud, wild steeds that were Nova Vaasa’s prized commodity. Tristan kept the name the Vistani had given the horse, Kal n’Akarni, which meant “prince of the plains” in their tongue. It was considered an offense to the horse-taming Vistani to give a Nova Vaasan horse a different name. It was a small enough gesture, and besides, Tristan rather liked the sound of Kal n’Akarni.

  The twin mountains that stood sentinel over Tristan’s family estate, Faerhaaven, grew larger as horse and rider approached. Soon, the castle itself came into view, and Tristan felt the constriction in his chest ease slightly.

  Faerhaaven had been the Hiregaard family seat for generations, and it was perhaps the finest private residence that Tristan had ever seen. For unlike the impersonal fortress that was the royal palace, Faerhaaven bore the stamp of its owners. It sat regally alone on the empty flatland like—well, like a kal n’akarni. Four circular turrets soared proudly into the sky. The peak of the Central Tower reached so high as to almost pierce the lowering clouds. While the thick stone walls were strong and imposing to hostile eyes, what they protected was warmly personal and welcoming. Courtyards, private gardens, fully equipped guard towers and armories, suites to house the family and any visitor in gracious luxury—Faerhaaven was both stronghold and sanctuary.

  A slight breeze stirred the thick air, making the gaily colored pennants that decorated every possible peak flutter slightly. As Tristan neared, he watched the first two towers on the barbican lower their pennants. A few moments later, as grassy earth gave way to a paved road beneath Kal’s hooves, different pennants were raised. A golden griffin, flanked by two white roses, pranced against a sky-blue background. This was Tristan’s coat of arms. The vigilant guards, spotting his approach, had raised it to indicate that the master had returned home.

  Tristan eased Kal to a canter, then a trot. The portcullis was raised at this time of day. As Tristan watched, a mounted figure emerged from the main gate. Tristan grimaced as he recognized his son, but nonetheless raised a hand in welcome as he slowed Kal to a walk.

  Ivaar had just passed his twentieth birthday, but one wouldn’t have guessed it by his face. Thin and p
inched, his visage would better have suited a scholar of forty than a noble-bred youth. He had, unfortunately, not inherited his parents’ good looks. Ivaar’s attire, as usual, was plain and dull. He wore a simple leather vest over a muslin shirt. His black breeches were functional, but little more, and his boots were as worn as a foot soldier’s. As always, Ivaar averted his gaze when speaking with his father. It was an error, for Ivaar’s eyes were much like his mother’s, and the sight might have given Tristan more patience with his son.

  “There’s a storm coming soon. You shouldn’t be riding to Kantora now,” he told Ivaar.

  “I promised some … friends I’d meet them. I can take care of myself.” Ivaar’s tone was sullen.

  Tristan suddenly realized what garment the boy was lacking. “Where is your green?” Tristan demanded, indicating the bright green sash that he himself wore belted about his waist.

  “I—” began Ivaar.

  “I sent Squire Blayne ahead with the news of the king’s death. Where is your mourning band?” Ivaar stared at the ground. “Kethmaar was not only the king, Ivaar, but one of my dearest friends.”

  “The second I honor, Father, but the first—”

  “You don’t have to approve of a man’s politics to show a little respect,” Tristan said, his voice deceptively gentle. “You must have something green to wear, among your browns and grays and blacks.”

  “You know how I feel about kings. The Calpranian Council of Twelve—”

  “Is comprised totally of nobles, as I’ve told you before. I was ambassador to Calprania for five years, and believe me when I say that so-called people’s council was more corrupt than Kethmaar’s rule ever could have been.”

  “You didn’t raise me to be a hypocrite,” Ivaar began, his voice rising.

  “I didn’t raise you to be a slovenly, discourteous—” Tristan bit his lower lip. He continued, more calmly, “Ivaar, your country has lost its leader—whatever you may think of the office he represented—and your father has lost his best friend. You might at least put on the trappings of mourning, as a gesture to me if nothing else.”