David Wise - Tales of Ravenloft

In somber ritual, the phantasmal rider raised the lethal sickle, perfectly blotting out the slim sliver of moon, casting the small group of men and dogs in a freezing shadow of doom.

And then he was amid them.

Frantic, the dogs went under the charging stallion and were ruthlessly trampled by the great hooves, helpless as wheat before a thresher. The horse and rider exploded between the shaking men, the deadly sickle swinging back and forth with the rhythm of a clock pendulum. Shivering in his bloody rags, Anatole heard a whistling pass and saw red-tainted silver flash in the harsh moonlight. The freak stared agape, drooling upon his lopsided chin, as the heads and bodies of his tormentors dropped separately to the roadway.

Now the slayer was upon him, and the hermit closed his mismatched eyes, throwing a perfect arm before his hated face. There was only a scant meter of road between them. Yet the pounding hooves seemed to take forever to reach him, the deafening noise growing until it shook the universe. His stomach heaved as, large and powerful, the sickle swept past him with tingling nearness. Braced for death, Anatole dementedly imagined that several somethings flew past him, moving all around him, brushing near enough to disturb his matted hair and tug on his tattered clothes.

But nothing else happened. As the nerve-wracking seconds wore on, the hoofbeats receded and the sounds of the forest slowly came again. Crickets. An owl hooting. The rustle of leaves. Fearful of what new horrors might assail him, Anatole managed to force his one good eye open a crack.

There was nobody in sight. Even the mist was gone. The trembling hermit stood alone in a grassy field surrounding by lush forest greenery. Collapsing to the dirt, Anatole wept, his body shaking with exhaustion and the sheer joy of living. Alive. He was still alive! Gods above, had it been only a dream? Some wild fever vision brought on by near starvation? Or perhaps he had been beaten insane by the villagers. Yes, that must be the answer.

But shakily rising to his feet, Anatole the Freak noticed dark shapes lying motionless in the green grass: the horribly mutilated dogs, the fresh human corpses. The scene telescoped before him, filling his mind, almost smashing his sanity, and in that instant of crystallized reality, deep in his heart, a new type of fear was born.

Shivering again in spite of the muggy summer warmth, Anatole lurched away from the dead watchmen, forcing himself to stumble toward the dirt road. Once on relatively flat ground, the hermit sprinted through the fearful darkness, heading for the village. The mayor must be told. The people warned! This had not been a dream, but a living nightmare. The dreaded headless horseman of myth had come to their valley! What could they do? How could any of them hope to survive?

And most importantly. . why had he?

Running. Running. A light flashed between the tree branches, then disappeared as the road rose and swept downward. A distant call of laughter was heard through the darkness, then the dirt road curved, and crackling torchlight washed over the panting hermit. Surrounded by a tall stone-block wall, the gates of the city stood wide and inviting, as if there were nothing to fear. The fools!

Dashing inside, Anatole glanced wildly about at the dim houses, their facades illuminated by the flickering of street torches. Who first? Anyone? A city guard? The mayor! Turning right at the fountain, the hermit scrambled down the brick side street.

Every shadow seemed to reach out for him; the sound of a passing horse and wagon almost made him scream; a bare tree branch swiped at him like a giant hand; eyes seemed to peer from every eave. Clutching his throbbing head in both hands, Anatole spun about in a mad circle, wasting precious minutes as sanity returned. Imagination. It was all in his mind. He hoped.

The wooden outline of a shoe hanging from an iron post marked a cobbler's house. Anatole rushed to the door and banged furiously on it, then yanked the cord for the upstairs bell. He could hear it clang within, but no one came and no lights appeared. Despite the summer warmth, cold sweat poured down his back. Anatole spun and started to bolt, but paused midstep. Where next? The city alarm bell for fires? Where was it? He had rarely come this far into town.

Memories of screaming women, laughing men, and children with stones rose to memory, but he forced those phantasms down. They all hated him for his ugliness. Mocked him! But it was still his village, his home, and he must warn them. A breeze scented with freshbaked bread wafted along the street, and the clouds parted, allowing the silvery light of the moon to bathe the city in an unearthly blue. Wiping his mouth with the back of a hand, Anatole thought of other nights, other midnight beatings. The city constable, of course! But he would be on his rounds, checking doors and locks. Was there no place where he could find. . the Dog 'n Bull. Yes! Perfect!

His lungs heaving for breath, the hermit once more lurched off and began racing deeper into the village. He passed a dog rooting in some garbage, and it stared curiously at him. A loving couple, arm in arm, strolled eastward as he went west crossing a small bridge, but they paid him no mind. Turning at the half-built library, Anatole saw a brightly lit section of street, illumination streaming from the windows of the Dog 'n Bull. Accordion music sounded from within, mixed with laughter and pounding boots. As he approached, the double doors burst open, and out staggered a singing man who walked as if on a storm-tossed ship. The hermit passed him, and the fellow doffed a hat he was not wearing and started to say something, then went pale and backed away, white-faced and trembling.

The oak doors were warm and smooth beneath his fingers as Anatole shoved them open. Bright light and music washed over him, and he blinked, tilting his head away from the smoke-filled air to protect his bad eye. Tables jammed with laughing people filled the central room, a wooden wheel made into a chandelier hung from the ceiling, and half a pig was roasting in the huge fireplace. He shuffled inside and across the sawduststrewn floor.

"Hey, stranger!" called out a man behind the bar, sliding a tankard of ale down the countertop to a waiting customer. "Welcome to the Dog 'n Bull! What can I. . good gods above!"

"It's the freak!" shrieked a woman, and the music stopped. In ragged stages, all talking ceased and every head turned to stare. More than one person spit upon the floor, and several drew their belt knives.

"The mayor," wheezed Anatole, his throat bone dry from panting. "I need to find. . "A half-filled container of ale was on a table near him, and impulsively the hermit grabbed the blackjack and drank deeply. The leather was warm to his touch. and the tar lining gave the ale a flavorful tang. Then the mug was painfully slapped from his grasp.

"Aye, and we don't want you drinking from our mugs!" cried the bartender, towering above the cringing man. "I'll have to burn the thing now. That's nine coppers you owe me, freak!"

Shoving aside their chairs, men moved toward the hermit, their faces menacing scowls.

"They're dead!" he shouted over the growing rumble. "I saw it! They're all dead!"

The mass advance stopped.

"Who's dead, ya murdling goon," barked a squat shepherd, shaking his blackjack until it sloshed over.

Fear tightening his belly, Anatole spoke fast. "Hans, Emile, and Angelo. He killed them all. Cut off their heads. I saw it! In the fields by the waterfall."

Cries of outrage and confusion.

"Cut off their heads? "

"Who did it? "

"Dead, ya say? "

"The horseman," he said, his voice a whisper.

The village tax collector pushed his way through the crowd, strode closer, and stood before the hermit, his thumbs jammed inside his wide leather belt. A belt Anatole's scarred back knew far too well. "What horseman? Speak fast, freak," growled the clerk.