David Wise - Tales of Ravenloft

They had found him. Now the panting hermit could clearly hear the loud crackling of the torches, the angry voices of his three hunters, the deadly pack of hounds — vicious, bloodthirsty brutes that liked to wound before eventually killing. The dogs were savage beasts, fit companions for the humans pursuing him. "There he is!" shouted the burly man, swinging his bare sword.

"Murdering freak!" screamed the tall one, brandishing an axe.

Bullwhip in left hand, rope in right, the fat man added," Sick 'im, boys!"

Anatole sprinted for the safety of the trees, but, released from their restraining ropes, the snarling dogs surged upon him in a instant. Seizing his bedraggled clothes in their teeth, they pulled the freak down to the ground, their great jaws snapping inches from fingers and eyes. Crying aloud in fear, Anatole covered his face with both hands, a meager protection from their lethal fangs.

"Why are you doing this?" he screamed in confusion. "I am innocent!"

"Liar!" stormed the overweight man, uncurling his weapon. In the darkness, his arm jerked, and a whip cracked across the back of the cowering recluse. His rag shirt split asunder under the stinging lash, and pain knifed into his flesh.

A shuddering gasp escaped his lips as the freak raised his hands in surrender. "Please!" Anatole begged, tears cascading down the twisted ravines of his cheeks. "I haven't left the swamp for weeks! I know nothing! Nothing! Tell me what was done. I'll prove my innocence!"

The bullwhip cracked again, and a sizzling and popping torch was thrust toward him, the flames nearly setting his stringy hair on fire.

"Shut up, monster!" screamed the man with the sword, flecks of foam staining his thick mouth. "We'll not listen to your lies anymore! You killed those people, and we know it!"

"Killed who?" he pleaded in bewilderment. "Who?"

Outraged by his refusal to confess, the workmen put weapons aside, and their fists pounded him mercilessly. Helpless beneath their iron blows, Anatole fell unconsciousness for awhile, lost in a red haze of pain. And when at last his mind cleared, he saw the three men standing tall above the slavering dogs, the rope leashes in their callused hands being knotted into a hangman's noose.

All the while screaming his innocence, the bloody hermit was kicked to his feet and shoved toward the woods. The night watchmen from the village had no intention of wasting time with a public trial or other legal foolishness. When the mayor and constable awoke in the morning, it would be over and done. A tree with a stout limb would be the judge tonight, and a dog's rope the jury.

Roughly, the laughing murderers hauled the weeping Anatole off the road. But as the stout boots of the killers stepped off the packed dirt, their leather soles crunched on loose gravel, the sound making the men pause. Lowering the torches, they saw an unknown road stretch out before them. What was this? The three men looked about in confusion. No other highway cut through the forest, and certainly none with crushed rock to stiffen the soil against the autumn rains. Theirs was but a poor village of farmers and fishermen.

With icy dread, the men watched thickening mists obscure the landscape, the ghostly fog moving with unnatural speed. A chill took them all as they saw a strange newborn cobblestone road physically stretch to the foggy horizon. And just below the crescent moon there loomed the black silhouette of a bizarre figure, the weird outline discernible by the complete lack of stars in the stygian sky.

At the sight, an awful hush engulfed the four, and even the dogs stopped panting in the eerie silence. It was as if all their ears had been stoppered shut with wax. Breath fogging from their open mouths, they saw the forest grow black as pitch, saw steaming mist rise from the ground everywhere. Rumbling storm clouds masked the moon, and a graveyard cold gripped them as, in growing horror, the would-be murderers realized that the far figure was coming their way at a full gallop.

Appearing and disappearing within the billowing tendrils of moving fog, the silhouette formed the familiar outline of a man on horseback, and the watchmen sighed in relief. . until the surging clouds parted and the shimmering moonlight bathed the oncoming rider with nightmarish clarity. A man on a horse, yes, but unlike any this side of hell.

The horrible horse was impossibly large, heavily muscled as if for war, and moving faster than any noble's racing steed. The flaring nostrils of the mighty beast emitted blasts of white steam into the cold air. Its hide was the shiny black of oiled metal, its eyes wild and white, its sharp teeth distended and bared in a hateful grin. A burning spray of bright sparks erupted from every loud strike of the powerful hooves on the stony road. It was a beast of the Apocalypse. Some dark and obscene thing from the very depths of the Abyss itself.

The rider, bent low against the wind, was dressed in elegant finery, the clean white shirt and spotless black velvet jacket of a rich nobleman. His fold-top boots were of an ancient style, long out of fashion, his ebony and scarlet cloak spreading out behind him to completely hide the road beyond, as if it no longer existed. Sparkling among the somber apparel were spurs and stirrups of gleaming, polished silver.

As the noble approached, the watchmen cried aloud: the evil figure possessed no head. None at all. His stiff white collar of fine starched linen encircled vacant air.

Misunderstanding, the watchmen waited for the newly dead body to fall from the saddle, waited for the victorious cry of the brigands who had slain him seconds ago beyond the rise. But with the reins held tight in his left glove, the decapitated man dutifully rode onward, ever onward with increasing speed. Then the empty shoulders turned a bit, and the stupefied villagers were pierced by the stare of eyes that were not there — or at least, eyes that were not in this land of the living.

In that same heartbeat, the ghastly rider drew a shining steel sickle from his voluminous cape. And in terrible clarity, the watchmen saw a single ruby-red droplet slide along the razor edge of the curved blade, cling to the needle-sharp tip, and then drop away, vanishing in the dark wind before striking the cold cobbles below.

The dogs cowering in terror, the would-be killers released their victim, who fell to his knees. Backing away, the watchmen moved with the restrained steps of shackled prisoners. The mounting cold had seized their joints with brutal force, congealing the blood that was so hot moments ago, making even the tiniest motion difficult. Panic-filled eyes were unwillingly pinned upon the approaching madness, this specter of death. Only their hearts moved freely, slamming inside their heaving chests.

"This. . is impossible," mouthed the portly owner of the whip, dropping his weapon from limp fingers. "Impossible!"

And with those soft words, their hearing violently returned. Strident thunder, like a never-ending avalanche, boomed from the maelstrom in the tumultuous sky, the concussions wildly shaking the bare winter trees. And yet the approaching hoofbeats overwhelmed the fury of nature, seeming to physically fill the frosty air. The fiery pounding hit their faces with stinging force like angry, invisible slaps.

No thought of battle occurred to the watchmen. Escape was their only wish. Flight and survival. But their will to act was as frozen as their shivering limbs. All they could do was stand trembling, helpless as children, and watch primordial death enter their world.

The leering horse looming larger, more solid than the surrounding granite peaks; the dire specter galloped straight toward them. The tall man with the axe attempted to throw himself backward, to fall off the cursed highway, but it was as if he was nailed into place. His magic charms and good luck pieces were still at home instead of in pockets where they might have done him good. He tried a desperate prayer to the gods, but none seemed to hear.