"Elrod, P N - I, Strahd 1 - Memoirs of a Vampire e-txt" - читать интересную книгу автора (Elrod P N)

discreet as possible.
The gypsies knew about him, of course; one couldn't enter or leave the place
without their help. He had paid them dearly for a guide to take him to the ring
of poisonous fog that surrounded Castle Ravenloft. The potion they'd sold him to
neutralize the poison had cost extra, but they'd only charged him half as much
for the second dosage—macabre indication that they did not expect him to return.
In the course of centuries, many bold explorers, well armed and highly magicked,
had gone in to deal with 'the devil Strahd,' as he was known locally. None had
ever come out—at least not in the same condition as they'd gone in. What hope
did a lone, middle-aged herbalist have?
None, he answered truthfully.
However, he did have knowledge, and upon that he was willing to gamble his life.
Indeed, more than his life. If he was wrong… well, there were much worse things
than dying, but he had a kind of escape prepared should it become an
eventuality. Not pleasant, but better than the alternative.
So the gypsies had been more than willing to take his money and leave him to his
fate. Van Richten had no doubt Strahd knew of his presence in the castle, but he
was certain Strahd would do nothing against him. Correction, Strahd could do
nothing against him.
It had taken Van Richten nearly a decade to guess the truth, and yet another
five years of waiting to be sure, and this day, this one midsummer day, he'd
proved it by simply walking unchallenged into Castle Ravenloft.
In those fifteen years the place had shown no sign of life. The merchants in the
village that lay in its shadow had not received any orders for goods in all that
time. The youngest of them even complained about the lack of custom. His father
had known something of prosperity, but these days? The man had thrown up his
hands in well-rehearsed despair for those lost profits. The others were silent
or grimly amused by him.
In fifteen years, Lord Strahd had not collected the taxes, though the taxes had
been dutifully compiled, the burgomaster proudly stated. There were many old
wives' tales about burgomasters who had failed in this task and had come to very
bad ends, indeed. Just wives' tales, to be sure, but sometimes there was truth
to be found in such fancies. Anyway, none of the villagers, let alone the
burgomaster, would risk complaint from their lord. The money, quite a lot of it
by now, was stored in a special stone house in the center of town. Thieves? No.
They had no fear of thieves. Even the gypsies would not dare to touch it.
Also in that time there had been few unexplained or unusual deaths, as had once
been common. Young girls in the prime of their looks no longer disappeared
without trace—unless they decided to elope with their lovers. Fifteen years of
relative peace, fifteen years of nights that were not so dark as before, fifteen
years that Strahd had… left them alone.
Some cautiously whispered that perhaps Death had caught up with him at last and
taken him away. But if so, then why was the poisoned wall of mist still thick
about the castle base? No one had a reply to that one, nor were any too curious
to find out. One could ask the gypsies: they knew everything. Aye, and told
everything. To Strahd. Best not to ask; you might not like the answer.
But Van Richten was sure he had the answer.
Strahd the Ancient, Strahd who was the Land, Strahd the great and awful Lord of
Barovia—genius, necromancer, ruthless killer—was now at his most vulnerable.
Strahd Von Zarovich, the vampire, was in hibernation.