It was an hour after dark. A young lady was hurrying home, avoiding the puddles on the village streets as she flitted silently through the shadows between the street lamps on their poles, her cloak swinging loose about her. It had stormed earlier, and though it was early summer, a thick fog was growing up from out of the moist ground.
The people of Falcon’s Rest frowned upon young ladies dallying late, but it was considered their parents’ problem; the village constable rarely interfered. So while unnoticed eyes observed her, she went her way undisturbed … until she flitted into Wolf Alley.
Now, this young woman knew better. Like everyone in the village, she knew that many a tragedy and mystery had started in Wolf Alley. Ghosts inhabited it, and they were restless in the dark hours. Later in the year, when the harvest was over and winter’s cold and dark were threatening, young boys would prove their bravery by daring and double daring each other to walk through the alley at night. But young ladies never, ever went there after dark.
Old Mrs. Bunic knew that, and so she was surprised and watched attentively as the girl flitted her way far into the alley. She recognized her as Kristina Lackov, whose family had celebrated her eighteenth birthday just the previous week with a lavish village-wide party. Most oldsters felt that Tina had too much of her father’s love of adventure, but to Mrs. Bunic she brightened the village.
In the darkest part of the alley, where Mrs. Bunic could see little more than the motion of the girl’s cloak, a second cloaked figure started out from a doorway and swooped down on the hapless girl like a great owl of the forest. There was but a brief struggle, a few soft cries of distress, and the girl was subdued. Swiftly the cloaked figure bound her, heaved her over its shoulder, and carried her through an archway.
Mrs. Bunic stood aghast. The street was empty and there was no one to call for aid. Cautiously, she ventured into the mouth of the alley. Then she heard the sound of a horse’s hooves.
A large black stallion burst out of the archway and into the alley, his iron-shod hooves sparking furiously on the cobblestones as the rider spurred him to a reckless gallop, only to abruptly rein him in at the mouth of the alley. The rider was Baron Iglacias Rostov, a corpulent man who seemed in his early forties, though Mrs. Bunic knew he was even older than she was. The wizard had not been seen in the village for years, which the village had come to consider a blessing. In the saddle before him Tina sat, still bound and now gagged. The Baron’s icy stare stilled all motion in the old woman’s quivering, fearful body.
“You will say nothing of what you’ve seen, crone!” The Baron spoke to her in a queerly deep and penetrating voice, and made a mystic sign with his right hand. Mrs. Bunic gasped and fell to her knees, covering her face with her hands, as all strength drained from her body and the man rode off into the fog with his captive.
For many minutes, Mrs. Bunic remained slumped motionless. When she began to recover her senses, she moaned quietly, unable to raise her voice and call for help. The first passersby paid her no mind. It was well known that Mrs. Bunic enjoyed a good night at the tavern, and more than once she had been seen singing happily to herself in an alleyway. But when young Jak Turkov came along, he sensed her distress.
“Mrs. Bunic, what’s happened?” exclaimed Jak, helping her up.
She tried to tell him, but hindered by the wizard’s spell, she could only grunt and moan.
Jak helped her into the nearby tavern, where a bit of the landlord’s brew revived her. It also seemed to counteract the Baron’s hold on her, for the more she drank the more she spoke. As the skeptics noted, that was what always happened when Mrs. Bunic drank. But this time her tale proved both interesting and convincing and she soon had the ear of all in the tavern.
Among the men listening at the bar were Stefan Josifov, a steely-eyed soldier just returned from the foreign wars, and Fedor Zrinski, a flush-faced farmer. The soldier fingered the hilt of his sword as he listened quietly. The farmer, a noisy braggart, grew noisier and nastier than usual as he listened. Finally he clambered onto a table and bellowed, “We must put the Baron in his place!”
Everyone in the tavern knew it was the drink making Fedor combative, and expected that soon he’d settle down to drinking himself under the table. But this time, Captain Josifov leapt onto the table beside him, put his arm around the farmer’s shoulders, and added his voice. With that encouragement, a mob began to form. For reasons of his own, Jak was eager to join it.