David Wise - Tales of Ravenloft

"It was the headless horseman," said Anatole "He came out of the moonlight on a horse blacker than the night! And he had a silver sickle — "

But his words were drowned out by gales of laughter.

"The headless horseman of Hanover?" guffawed a serving wench. "Idiot, can't ya lie better 'n that?"

Another shouted," And he attacked you in the middle of a field? Poppycock!"

"Even a child knows he can't leave da road," growled an elderly man in soldier's livery. "Ya dang fool."

Anatole's eyes flicked from one disbelieving face to another. "But it's true! And there was a road! It just appeared under us and the horseman killed everyone!"

"But not you," spoke the city constable from the mezzanine above the room. The tavern quieted as the blubbery man waddled down the steps, tucking in his shirt. A gale of feminine laughter came from upstairs and was quickly cut off by the closing of a pink door.

Three times his size, Brad Thalmeyer stood before the hermit and scowled. "You say the headless horseman came and killed three armed men, but not you."

"Yes!"

"Why? "

"I. ."

"Well? "

"I don't know," Anatole said softly, lowering his head. Rough hands grabbed his clothing, tearing it from his body.

"Aye, but we know!" stormed Constable Thalmeyer. "Those three went to hang you for that gypsy killing. Now you return with this witless tale of galloping monsters and claim they be dead! If so, then you did it, not some children's ghost!"

"I swear!" began the hermit, but a hairy fist punched him to the floor. Something banged off his forehead, and ale splashed over his face, washing the wooden planks beneath him clear of sawdust. "Hold him," stated the constable, grinding a fist into the palm of his other hand. Til find the mayor and get us a writ of execution!"

"And a rope!" cried somebody else. "Truth, 'tis high time we got rid of this. . abomination!" stated the school teacher, adjusting his spectacles.

"Who'll come with me, lads?" called the constable standing in the doorway, one great hand on the metal latch. "To help protect me from the horseman?"

A scribe rose from his table and laughingly joined the constable. "Here, Brad! I'll even help the mayor sign it, if need be!"

"Aye!"

As the double doors closed behind the laughing men, the tavern once more turned its attention to their captive. "What shall we do to make sure he don't escape us, lads?" called out a lanky herdsman, undoing a bullwhip from about his waist.

Cruelly, the crowd roared suggestions, but Anatole went still when he saw that the breath of the herdsman was foggy here in the warm tavern. Others noticed a sudden chill, too, and many shivered, drawing their clothes tighter about them. "It's him!" cried Anatole, cowering on the floor. "Gods, save us!"

The table lanterns died. The overhead candles puffed out. The blaze in the fireplace dropped to a low crackle of icy blue flame.

Outside the tavern, the constable and his companion cried out in surprise and fear; a sudden pounding of iron hooves filled the air like winter thunder, the steady, savage pounding of a racing warhorse. Then a large shadow eclipsed the window beside the door. The two men screamed in terror, screams cut horribly short.

Then the sound of the hooves faded away.

Silence reigned for several minutes, until the flames in the fireplace blazed up to full fury once more, making everyone gasp and recoil, dropping whatever they were holding. But no one moved to relight the candles or lanterns. All eyes stayed on the closed front door, and the only sounds were muttered prayers and hard, rasping breath.

Then some thick reddish liquid began to flow underneath the door and into the tavern. Knives were drawn by a dozen men; women pulled amulets into view. With slow, hesitant steps, the bartender lifted an ancient battle mace into view from behind the counter and moved past the patrons to place a gnarled hand on the latch of the front door. He pulled it open, and two headless corpses fell onto the dirty sawdust. The rest of their remains stayed outside in the middle of the street, black lumps half-hidden by blessed moonshadow.

Women screamed in terror, men cursed, chairs were overturned, and the trembling hermit released. The bartender backed against the wall and splayed his arms as if seeking support. Somebody started to cry, and another began to retch.

Levering himself to his feet, Anatole said nothing, but he winced as he moved his wrenched right arm. In response, a young barmaid wordlessly drew a fresh blackjack of ale and placed it before the shuddering hermit. Anatole watched the action, not understanding for a moment. He glanced upward at her, and she shied her lovely face away, but made a wiggling motion with her fingers. Eagerly, he took the mug in both hands and carefully drank the frothy brew. It was wonderful, fresh from the barrel, not the bitter dregs he usually stole from the drained barrels in the alleyway. Still cold from the cellar, the ale chilled his empty stomach, and he shivered violently.

On impulse, he placed the empty on the counter and pushed it toward the woman. Without comment, she refilled the mug and slid it back to him. Reveling in his good fortune, Anatole sipped his drink and watched as the people in the tavern whispered to themselves and moved away from him.

Over the leather rim of his blackjack, Anatole saw it in their eyes. In the faces of every man and woman present. A new emotion. Not disgust, not contempt. But something he had never seen before. Fear. Fear of him!

Hmm.

A few hours later, the mechanical clock in the church tower struck midnight, the reverberations of the great bronze bells rolling in somber majesty over the little village. Everywhere, in every house and store, hushed voices spoke of the bizarre events that had occurred. Most prayed that the night of terror was over. Surely five dead was a bountiful enough harvest for any hellish minion. But a scant handful believed differently, and they gathered in secret at the house of the mayor, clustered around a hand-hewn table of forest oak to speak of death. And life.

"The two of them are obviously linked," growled Mayor Ceccion, pouring dollops into the glasses of his guests. The three men sipped the vintage, taking courage from the sweet English brandy made of cider and molasses.

"Some sort of weird connection here," added Franklin. Rising from his chair, the stonemason glanced nervously out the side window of the second-story room. The brick street, well lit by torches, was deserted. He allowed the lacy curtain to drop back into place. "That swamp freak with his bastard face and this monster without a head. Ye, gods! No head!"

"And five good men dead," added Hecthorpe. The fat cooper frowned at the full glass on the table before him. One sip had been enough. Wretched stuff. "Two in the very heart of our town!"

At the head of the table, a tall, lanky man removed his ancient fisherman's cap and stuffed it into a back pocket of his weathered pants. "Aye, but what be this thing wanting?" demanded Captain Emett, tossing off the homemade brandy as if it were weak tea. He took the bottle and gave himself a proper refill. "Tribute? Revenge? "

"The dead hate the living," said the mayor softly, over the crackling of the fire," because we can still hope and laugh. No other reason is necessary."

In silence, the men listened to the beating of their hearts and acknowledged the wisdom of the statement.

"Accepted. So, how do we stop this bedamned spook?" asked Franklin, rubbing his aching right wrist. The arthritis there usually pained him only with the coming of winter. "Can we kill the undead with pikes and axes? "

"Is he really a ghost?" pondered Hecthorpe, heavy brows lowered in thought. "Mayhaps it's only a magician's trick. A black bag over his head, something like that."