'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.
And then a silhouetted figure appeared on the distant, silvery ridge. A cloaked human without a head sitting on a great warhorse. . which was galloping toward them down a cobblestone roadway.
Struggling to rise from their chairs, the village councilmen found that even the slightest motion was difficult, as if invisible chains bound them to the spot. Forcing hands into pockets, three of the four clutched their good-luck charms, and the men wrenched free of the paralysis and stood. Moving with slow desperation, Mayor Ceccion went to the corner where his weapons cabinet should have stood, and he fondled and fingered the empty air, searching for the wall rack with its steel sword and crossbow. But nothing met his urgent touch. Impossible! This must merely be an illusion. It must!
The strident pounding of iron hooves filled the frigid air, and faintly the terrified men could hear the ghostly rattle of plates and glasses somewhere else, far off in another place. Another world.
Cursing loudly, the river captain knocked over the table as a shield and the stonemason brandished a chair in one hand. In his mighty grip, even that simple stool should be a deadly weapon. Unable to rouse himself, the sweating coopersmith sat motionless, darting eyes betraying his terror.
Thundering ever closer, the leviathan horse bared its teeth in a ghastly rictus, and the dire horseman raised his sickle high, the curved blade eclipsing the moon, casting them all in soul-freezing shadow.
A scream trapped in his throat, Hecthorpe twitched helplessly in his seat. Franklin threw the chair, and it missed both man and horse. Captain Emett drew a belt knife, but it tumbled from spasming fingers. Choking on his rising gore, Mayor Ceccion dropped to his knees, praying for divine rescue. But in the lurid nightmare of black and silver, they all knew death was but moments away. Nothing could save them. Nothing.
The pounding hooves deafened them. The crimsonlined cape flared wide like blood-soaked dawn, and in a heartbeat, the protean pair was among them. The silvery blade flashed downward. The hardwood table exploded into splinters. Cries of anger were horribly terminated, and three grisly thuds sounded on the cobblestone road.
Standing at the edge of the roadway, unable to move back another step because of some unseen barrier that resisted his best efforts, Mayor Ceccion closed his eyes against the slaughter, and felt a white-hot pinprick on his throat. Tiny as the pain was, it shattered his silence.
'Forgive me, Lord!' he managed without moving his taut neck. 'I beseech your mercy!'
Incredibly, astonishingly, he lived for another moment, two, three. The tiny prickling burned into his vulnerable flesh an impossibly long time. As painful seconds stretched into forever, all around him, Ceccion heard the gnashing and chattering of hundreds of teeth. The source of the feasting noise was unthinkable. Then the pressure of the sickle increased, warm blood trickled down his throat, and suddenly the mayor knew he was being asked a question. One for which the wrong answer meant instant death.
'On my honor,' he wailed, tears flowing beneath his closed eyelids. 'I swear none will be allowed to harm the f-frea. . Anatole!'
And miraculously, the stabbing agony was gone. Blessed relief washed over the man as he slumped to the gravel road. The stentorian hoofbeats faded away, along with the stomach-turning sounds of chewing.
A wave of warmth from the crackling fireplace shook him to the core, and, daring to open his eyes, the mayor saw that the room was in shambles. Everything was smashed and broken or splattered with fresh blood. Even the beheaded corpses of his friends, even their clothes, were torn to shreds as if wild dogs had savaged the bodies. Gingerly touching his stinging throat, Mayor Ceccion saw his fingertips were stained red. But he still lived. He lived!
Loud knocking on the door finally penetrated his joyous thoughts, and weakly he staggered across the wreckage to throw aside the locking bar. Instantly, his neighbors rushed in, almost knocking the mayor down. But then his well-intentioned rescuers jerked to a dead halt as they saw the brutal scene of murder. A man stuffed a fist into his mouth so as not to scream. Another backed out into the hallway and headed quickly for the stairs. A scarred young woman in soldier's livery scowled and tightened the grip on her sword pommel.
Weeping and sobbing, Ceccion told his tale to the dumbfounded villagers, and soon the story spread like wildfire throughout the no-longer-sleeping town. The horrid news went from house to house in frantic, fevered whispers. The shocking warning of the hysterical mayor galvanized the frightened citizenry, first in a panic, then in terrified immobility. The headless horseman had struck again. So if you wish to live. . do not harm the freak.
Sluggishly, Anatole stirred in his sleep, feeling oddly warm and comfortable. Something soft brushed his cheek, and the hermit sat upright in his bed to see that a nice new quilt of blue cloth and goose feathers was covering his rickety bedframe.
