Chapter 32

The Martikov’s Plea

With their guard lowered the Martikov's returned to their business around the camp, giving the man and three adventurers space to talk. He reached out his hand and introduced himself as Adrian Martikov, eldest son of Davian, who they assumed to be the one-eyed hunchback still skulking about within earshot. Adrian explained that they were the owners and operators of the Wizard of Wines winery for generations and while boasting of their old family's resilience and survivability over the decades, he made it clear they were not fighters. Years of uneasy peace with the neighboring forest folk to the south had been broken with their seemingly unprovoked attack on the winery several weeks ago, and while the family had kept them at bay for a time, they were soon driven from the winery to take refuge nearby. In the grove they bided their time, arguing about what next to do, and when they heard travelers approaching Adrian attempted to warn them of the dangers ahead, for despite not knowing the forest folk's motive, it was clear they remained in the winery still. It was then that Adrian arrived at his request, for the adventurers to clear out the winery of forest folk and return it to the Martikov's care. Because the three had come to this very place in search of Kresk's missing wine, and returning without it would mean not advancing their quest or saving their friend, they knew in their hearts that they must accept and succeed. Fabian met Adrian's hand with her own and a calm smile of relief washed over his tired face, but she had a few questions herself. She asked after the history of the winery, and any slights the Martikov's had given their neighbors in the past, but Adrian was vague, saying the winery had belonged to the Martikov's for countless years, since Strahd himself entered the valley, and that no direct confrontation with the forest folk had occurred in his or his father's lifetime's. The cause of the winery's fertility was undoubtedly magic in nature, and to this question Adrian didn't deny, saying that some wizard had cast a spell on the land so many years ago, but despite the magic the grapes still needed more conventional care and if another week went by without them the entire crop could be lost.

In the chill autumn breeze, Erros pulled his cloak up to his ears and felt himself begin to dose off. His body ached, the wound under his arm the most and he worried that he'd fall asleep and leave his party vulnerable. Hoping down from the wagon, a rush of dizziness threatened to drop him to the ground, but he tossed an arm around Patches and the feeling passed. Suddenly his knees strengthened and his swaying stopped. The fever was breaking, and he convinced himself the stretching was doing him good. The swopping of a black raven weaving between the trees caught his eye as it disappeared into the grove his friends had just entered, and the curiosity of what they had found got the better of them. Telling Patches to keep an eye out for him, he marched off to join them, his confidence renewed by his newfound strength.

Emerging into the grove, Erros saw first the peculiar sight of the stone monolith and the dozens of sqwaking ravens perched above, then he saw the alarmed faces of his companions and many others he didn't know. The three adventurers lowered their weapons quickly enough to signal to Adrian and the rest that he wasn't a foe, though as he approached, Fabian saw that something had changed in him. His eyes, already a light hazel, had shifted gold with flecks of pale green. Adrian must have seen something too and asked after the man's health, Erros merely brushing the question aside. His friends caught him up to speed and he asked after the monolith, and where the forest folk lived, where exactly had they come from. Adrian maintained an inquisitive look and studied Erros like one who feels they know someone's face but fail to place it, and only half attentive replied that the monolith was old, that dozens of them dot Barovia from a time when the forest folk lived throughout the valley, and that they currently resided far to the south in villages never seen by a true Barovian. They did however have a holy sight, known to the Martikov's as Yester hill, just a few miles away at the northern edge of their territory, and they traveled there often for what Adrian could only guess were religious rituals.

Before he could continue , the old man Davian had crossed the grove and walked right up to Erros and with one piercing silver eye glared him down. In a gravely voice he demanded to know where the travelers were from, but when he replied Vallaki, he waved his hands and said they looked nothing like Vallaki. In her best attempt to deflect the growing suspicion of her friend, Fabian added that they were only passing through on their way to Krezk, but had heard tale of werewolves attacking the roads. She had assumed it was werewolves also waylaying the winery, but Adrian quickly added that the werewolves of the northern Svalich woods had not crossed the Raven in many years and kept away from humans for nearly as long, though the rumors of their renewed aggression had reached his ears too. Davian grabbed his son's arm and pulled him aside and whispered in a harsh tone behind turned back. Unaware that they were speaking inaudibly, and as the rest of the group looked on and waited, Erros heard their words plain and clear. "I think he's one of them, about to turn." Adrian reaproached, while Davian remained, and with the conversation quite clearly commuted the group asked him permission to stay the night in the grove and assault the winery in the morning. With Davian staring daggers into his son, and clearly not without his son's notice, Adrian apologetically refused, stating the urgency of retaking the winery as a euphemistic replacement for what seemed to be the true reasoning. The group got the hint and cordially bid the family goodbye for now. Adrian told the rest of his family their plan to drive the forest folk from their home, and as the group left the family thanked them joyously and wished them the absolute best of luck.

With Pieron seated comfortably at the reins the group continued south along the road into the vineyard. Her growing knack for horse driving made the ride a great deal more comfortable than walking, but still an uneasyness gripped them as the clouds above darkened and a chill wind blew in from the west. They hoped any rain the afternoon seemed to threaten would hold off until their business at the winery was done, but here in Barovia they knew better than to count on that. A quarter mile down the road they came upon the edge of the vineyard, behind a small fence eight-foot-tall lattices were woven thick with lush vines, fully laden with grapes. It was a peculiar sight, and they stopped for a moment to taste a handful of the sour fruits. Though the winery was now hidden behind the tops of the thick rows, they'd spied it earlier on a hill in the midst of the fields so they pressed on along the edge of the vineyard to the winding road that led up to it's doors. They were unsure if their approach had been noticed, so with weapons drawn they dismounted their wagon quietly and proceeded up the hill on foot in the hopes of extending their secrecy as long as they could. From here they saw that the southern region of the vineyard, roughly a third of the total acerage, lie long dead, vines shriveled to husks on leaning and broken lattice, the dirt choked with grass and weeds, and just a row over from healthy and abundant growth.

But suddenly a strange movement caught the corner of Erros's eye from far off into the fields, and he beckoned everyone to raise their guard and stay vigilant as they pressed on. They scanned the rolling rows and crept forward, until Pieron spied a shape shift in the vines, this time closer and on their left. The winery was in sight now, a few hundred feet ahead as the first mistings of an autumn shower wet their hair, and Fabian saw another movement to their right. Their pace quickened and Dyson, unable to see over above the vines and just trying to keep up, glanced over his shoulder in time to catch a glimpse of a man wrapped in vines and leaves darting across the path behind them to disappear amongst the grape vines it so perfectly resembled. They'd been seen and already surrounded. He whiped about and spoke a harsh word to his group to make for the winery, just as a stray gust of wind seemed to sweep through the vines about them, except there was no wind, and the vines writhed and swayed as dozens of forms emerged from their disguised lookouts, animated blights out of the natural flora. Fighting was not an option, the horde swelled to ten, fiften, twenty to a man and the group knew they must make a dash for the building ahead. A snarling face and two gangly arms lunged at Fabian from it's hiding place a few paces from her side and the four broke into a dead sprint. The path ahead was already filled with the plant-like creatures, so they darted down an open row parallel to the hill. They kept low and shrugged off the groping arms of blights that tried to ensnare them, then dove beneath the lattice and clawed their way through the rows. At each turn they faced another group of them, scouring the vineyard to halt all escape, until at last they reached the base of the hill and pulled through the final row. Already the horde had spilled out from the road and was surrounding the winery, and shield raised Fabian rushed to the front door and slammed into it with all her might. It shifted but didn't open, barred from within, and the blights loosed a volley of dart-like needles that punctured and irritated the flesh. They encircled the house for cover and came upon another door, locked just the same but now the swarm of blights descended upon them. Dyson and Fabian beat at the lock with all of their might while Pieron raised her fist and blasted the hinges with a ray of frost. Brittle, they gave way and the door swung wide into a workshop, just as another volley of needles swept across them. With moments left they searched frantically for something to bar the shattered door, until Erros planted his feet and kicked the remainder of the door free from it's frozen fasteners. Looking on in horror, the group watched the blights reach the now open doorway, as Erros grabbed a peculiar patch from his robe and ripped it free. A great iron door unfolded in his hand and he slammed it into place, melding it with the wood into an impenetrable barrier. The wave of twig and wooden needle crashed against it futilely, and a tense moment later they seemed to subside. They'd made it, and together they took a moment to catch their breath, for there would surely be more danger ahead.

By then the rain truly began, an even pattering on the roof above their heads was the only sound they heard in the eerily quiet winery, though they knew that didn't mean the fight was won. Erros slowly pushed open the door from the workshop to spy on the next room, seeing before him a two story fermentation room that took up a good portion of the total building. Four large vats, each holding hundreds of gallons, stood in the center of the room, a wooden walkway constructed above and several doors leading along the walls leading to other sections of the winery. Beside the vats, a troupe of gnome sized twig creatures, woven wicker men just two feet tall, picked aimlessly at the stone floor and chattered amongst themselves in a strange language. Erros looked to his companions, and with arms at the ready they nodded back to him. He pulled open the door and rushed forward to the center of the room. The twigs rose to attack almost automatically and from the center he could see that not only were there several more packs of twig blights hidden in the shadows of the room, but a lone man in deer hides stood atop the walkway over the open vats of wine, surprised to see an enemy past their extensive perimeter defenses. Behind him charged Fabian, sword and shield in hand, as the twig blights overwhelmed them both, crawling up their legs, searching for openings in their armor. They tried their best to slash at each other's assailants, but for each that they cast down to sticks on the stone floor, another took it's place. Pieron emerged amidst two duplicates of herself, mirroring her movements in a strange illusion that was as surprising to Fabian and Erros as it was to the forest folk ahead, and conjuring twin flaming orbs she hurled them into the clusters of blights incinerating a dozen in a single instant. Tucked against the western wall, another group of twig blights rushed through the open door, and as Dyson prepared himself to charge as well they filled the doorway and forced their way in. Dyson thrashed about with his heavy maul, destroying blight and building alike. Amidst the fighting Erros spied the forest folk overlooking it all prepare a spell, weaving their hands through the air. He watched as small buds of vines emerged from the wood around them and he feared they would be ensnared if he didn't do something quick. Recalling the first terrifying thing he could think of, he conjured the illusion of an armor clad Rhahadin on the platform near the forest folk, great curved warblade in hand, arm outstretched. The moment he saw Erros's conjuration he dropped low, his eyes grew wide, and the spell dissipated. The look of true recognition mingled with the terror on the poor man's face, and after a stunned moment he ran full speed from the room. It wasn't long before they scattered the last of the creatures lifeless across the floor, having quickly seen the effectiveness of arcane fire on these plant-based conjurations, Pieron's spells proved invaluable. Without hesitation, they ran past the still towering depiction of Strahd's lieutenant from that funeral in the rain so many days ago, and burst through the door the wild man had scrambled through. It led to a room on the second floor with a strange hoisting contraption and a large hole in the center of the floor. Beneath they saw a cart laden with casks, but before the contraption the man they'd followed was on his knees pleading with another in a language they did not understand. Their hair was long and braided beneath a large headress wrought of deer antlers that extended far enough to cover their face. In their hand they held a fell black staff of gnarled wood that seemed to weep red blood. Pieron called out in question of the folk's motives in elvish, their best guess at a common language, but the leader only lifted the staff and proclaimed in their indecipherable tongue words of warning and intimidation. Two globs of black ink bubbled up from the staff and oozed to the floor, where several throny hands pulled themselves up from the wood and rose as newly birthed blights. The army outside made a bit more sense, and with that the leader lept through the hole and made to flee. Without another word, Fabian jumped after them, and the rest prepared for another fight.