After a few moments during which the sound of chewing filled the room, Alishai leaned in. “Look, a free bed has its place, and the food is plentiful, but does anyone else feel like we might do better in the village? If what we really want is to find a way home, I don’t think we’re going to discover it here.”
“But our host has offered me use of his atlas,” Rotrog exclaimed. “I just need to find it—”
Alishai aimed her fork at him. “That’s just it! Who can’t find an atlas? Has anyone offered us any help at all, or are we all having horrible dreams and fighting strange monsters and getting stuck in secret rooms? This is some kind of—I don’t know. Nightmare? It feels all wrong.”
“The village will at least have a road that goes to a bigger city,” Chivarion pointed out. “And likely a coach delivering people and mail. Any tavern keeper worth their salt should be able to point us toward Baldur’s Gate.”
“The ruler of a bit of land should be able to do that, too,” Alishai noted. “Does this Strahd not send letters? Or ship off to a bigger city for artisans or a change of clothes? Any landowner knows how to find a bigger road.”
“Well, I wish to stay.” Rotrog dabbed at his lips with a napkin. “This place suits me fine in every particular, and my studies are not yet complete.”
Alishai rolled her eyes at him. “Your main area of study is kissing the count’s rump. Anyway. All in favor of slipping out to the village to ask about travel routes, raise your hand.”
Four hands went up: everyone but Rotrog. Although Strahd had been nothing but kind to her, Fielle was uneasy and off-kilter. Ever since she’d arrived in the castle, it felt as if she were floating through a dream, or perhaps drifting in and out of a fever. Time was as flimsy as a dandelion puff, and space no longer followed the proper rules. At least in the monster-filled butcher shop, she’d felt like . . . herself.
“Rotrog, feel free to stay. We’re going down to the village. If we find out anything more, we’ll send word. Right?” Alishai looked around, and everyone nodded.
“And the word we’ll send will be: bye.” Chivarion waved at Rotrog like he was an infant and stood to stretch. “Out the same way we came in?”
Fielle gathered her strength and stood. She noticed Kah dumping pastries into her cloak’s pockets and Chivarion nodding in appreciation and swiping yet more food into his own bag. If only she still had her skirt of many pockets and her bandoliers and pouches. The dress she wore now was heavy and cumbersome, the waist tight enough to make breathing a challenge. Her rib cage felt crowded. Hopefully they wouldn’t run into any trouble on the long walk down the mountain. Hopefully she could actually make the long walk down the mountain.
Alishai went first, then Kah, Fielle, and Chivarion and his tressym. The beefy drow’s presence there was a comfort to Fielle. If she faltered, he had quick reflexes and was likely to catch her before she fell and hit her head. They took a left out of the dining room and into a hall guarded by a suit of armor. The metal gleamed in the candlelight, and Fielle would’ve sworn someone watched her from the eye slits in the closed helmet.
But the moment Alishai set foot in the entryway, the sound of cracking stone echoed down the hall. Fielle watched in horror as all eight gargoyles perched around the ceiling came loose from their moorings, twisting their hideous heads and spreading their bat-like wings. As the first gargoyle launched itself into the air, Alishai pulled out her glaive. It swooped toward her, and she shouted and swung the silver blade. Thunder filled the room as her weapon connected with the stone monstrosity, knocking it to the ground. Behind Fielle, Chivarion already had his sword drawn and was beginning to shake with rage, and in front of her, Kah was praying as she clutched her mace. The air was full of swooping creatures screeching and gibbering, and then the gusts caused by their wings snuffed out every torch and candelabra, leaving Fielle in complete darkness.
She was without her potions and magic, without any defenses at all. She couldn’t see, and she’d gotten so turned around that she didn’t know where the doors were.
“Fielle, duck!” Chivarion called.
Dropping to her knees, she landed roughly on the stone and felt air whoosh by overhead. The heavy thud of metal striking something like stone made her grimace, and she buried her head under her hands. She didn’t know where to go, didn’t know what the others were doing, where their weapons were. The darkness all around her was alive with fighting, spells, muttering, slashes, sick thuds. The drow snorted like an angry bull. Kah called out a prayer, and light filled the room, giving Fielle the brief and terrible gift of sight. Everywhere she looked was a leering gargoyle. One saw her; its slitted eyes lit with fiendish glee as it charged at her, and Chivarion’s pet tressym used her back as a springboard to launch her leathery body right at the beast, her claws digging into Fielle’s flesh even through the thick dress.
“No, no,” Fielle muttered from the floor, tears streaming down her face. She didn’t even have the energy to stand. “Please help.” Somehow, impossibly, it felt as if cold fingers caressed her cheek in apology.
But then the ground right beside her shook with a mighty crack, and hard stone claws latched around both of her upper arms. The gargoyle snickered as it pulled her up from the floor, its fingers bruising her ribs. Fielle fought with everything she had, writhed and kicked and spit, but the gargoyle’s grip was as hard as stone—was stone—and she had never been so weak in her life. She felt a sick pop as something terrible happened in her shoulder and that entire arm went numb. As the gargoyle began to drag her away into the darkness, Fielle did the only thing she could.
She went unconscious.
