"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."
"A possibility," muttered Ceccion, taking his clay pipe from the mantle and lighting it from a candle. Now within a cloud of brackish smoke, he added," But anyone who can slay men faster than reaping wheat is still a problem we need to solve quickly."
"No living man can behead others from the back of a striding horse," snorted the stonemason. "It be impossible! Not even I am that strong!" To make his point, the bricklayer flexed his arms and chest, the seams of his shirt threatening to burst apart.
"Agreed," puffed the mayor dourly. "So that brings us back to why this monster is attacking our town. The freak?"
Muttered agreements. There seemed little doubt on that point.
"So what do we do? "
"Kill him," said Hecthorpe grimly. "We have five dead on account of that misshapen man-thing."
Captain Emett slammed his glass down. "Aye! Keelhaul the creature!" snapped the fisherman. "Draw and quarter him!"
"Burn him alive is probably best," advised Hecthorpe, scratching his cheek. "That way his screams will tell the world of his death."
"And with him gone, that headless horseman should leave also!"
"Aye."
"Makes sense."
Tapping out his pipe, the mayor warned caution. "We shall handle the killing ourselves, with no help from others. Speed and secrecy are our best chance. Remember, the last men who tried to hang that abomination are being buried even as we speak," he intoned, the breath fogging from his mouth.
All conversation abruptly stopped as a wave of arctic cold washed over the large room. In heart-pounding fear, the men glanced about and saw that the table and chairs where they gathered were no longer in the den of the mayor's house, but now in the middle of a dark forest. Mountains rose on each side, forming a valley for the starry night overhead. And beneath them the decorative carpet was gone, replaced by a gravel road that stretched from horizon to horizon, from crescent moon to sea.