The Fiend of the Past

The sound of thunder exploded overhead as a flash of lightning turned night into day, revealing a ghoulish graveyard replete with wet, broken headstones and consuming ivy. The horseman and his horse kept their composure, though the man did consider if he would ever be buried in a grave, or if there would be anything left of him to bury once his enemies found him. 

The man’s horse - a veteran of Europe’s battlefields - was used to volleys of musket fire and the boom of cannons, so it also kept its self-control... although the equine did begin to tread more lightly. 

The rider pulled his greatcoat closer around himself as the light faded and the rain continued its deluge upon him. He was already soaked through: his long hair matted against his skin. The man shivered from the wet clothes and howling wind. More flashes of lightning in the distance and the traveler could see the ruins of a castle on a distant hill. 

“Well, boy, a ruin is better than out here in this forsaken graveyard.”  

As if replying to him the horse nickered softly. A nudge of his riding boots and horse and rider set off slowly and carefully towards the ruins. The rider was uncertain of where he even was now. Somewhere in the woods of Austria, he could tell... not that that helped much. 

The road became steeper and steeper until horse and rider slipped through the partially demolished castle wall. Another bright flash and the rider could see his surroundings more clearly: once a formidable fortress, the castle was now but a ruin - rendered obsolete by gunpowder and cannon. 

The wind whistled against the weathered stone like the cry of a lost soul, the rider dismounted and led his four legged companion to a section of the tower - of which only the base and part of the roof were still standing - which provided some protection from the wind and rain.

“What happened here? Did age take this place, or did it fall in war?” the wanderer asked aloud. 

The man shivered - from cold or a sense of dread, he could not say for certain. There was another lightning flash and the man’s eyes widened in alarm at what he saw sprawled against the stone and mud.  

A body.

The wanderer pulled his saber from its sheath, not bothering with either of his flintlock pistols, which probably would not fire in these wet conditions. The man gazed upon the curved blade before making his way towards the body. The saber itself was a fine sword - any king would be proud to wear it - yet there it was: in the hands of a seemingly common vagrant. 

A nudge of his boot confirmed the man was at least unconscious, if not dead. Returning to his horse the traveler fashioned a torch and then returned to the body. Rain hissed upon the flames as the horseman examined the dead man, for he was indeed dead. His eyes stared vacantly up at the deluge-filled the sky, his mouth open in an eternal scream. Next to the man, just next to his hand, a wood cutter’s axe lay.   

The strangest part about the corpse was the throat, light shining off a damp slit that had been cut in him, going from ear to ear. Upon closer inspection, there was definitely a long cut, but the light was reflecting off something silvery... No sign of blood anywhere nearby.

Frowning, the wayfarer wandered a bit more around the ruined castle grounds. He could see more now: discarded picks and tools along with bits of rope and  stone from the castle itself. This worksite was not anything left from a bygone era: it was all new. 

“Seems there’s more to this castle than I thought, perhaps I’m meant to be here then,” the traveler sighed. 

Shutting the dead man’s eyes, he looked out from the crumbling castle walls. The man’s own eyes narrowed as he could see the cheery lights of a village down below, some ways away from the castle. 

Dragging the dead man away, the wanderer heaved him onto his horse with some effort. It was still raining, and his horse was a little confused at the extra passenger.

“Whoa boy,” he said as he finally stabilized the body. “Back into the storm.” the man sighed as he put heels to his horse. 

A long ride through the wind and rain, lit by the occasional flash of lightning, and he finally found himself in the village. The houses were a mix of wood and stone, and slowly a suspicion began to form in the wanderer’s mind. The horseman squinted as he read the German signs, until he found the one he was looking for. 

‘Bestatter’: undertaker. 

The traveler banged on the door eyeing the coffins leaning against the wall. After a few sounds of motion inside, the door opened slightly and the traveler was greeted by an old man with red eyes and a scowl set in his face.

“Ja?”

The wanderer paused before he replied in the native tongue.

“I found a deadman at the castle ruins, is he one of your number?” 

The old man’s eyes widened, followed by the door itself. “Truly? Let me have a look.” 

Moving closer the old man nodded. “Ach! Poor Ulrich… I warned them not to tread upon that castle.” 

The swordsman was intrigued. “Why? What of it?” 

“Never mind,” the undertaker said quickly. “Help an old man with a bad back would you? I can’t move him myself, and my apprentice is not here.”

“Of course,” the traveler said before helping to bring the body in and resting it on a long slab in a back room. After their exertion, the undertaker brought his new guest in.

“There’s a stable and a tavern just up the road,” the undertaker said, stretching his newly muddy shirt out in hopes of it drying. “I imagine you’d want a place to stay.” 

“I would,” the wanderer said, frowning in contemplation, “but, er, what was it you were saying about the castle?” 

The old man waved off the inquiry yet again. “Just local folklore, pay it no mind.”

The undertaker was not going to be of much help, it seemed. Taking his leave the stranger had his horse stabled before he opened the inn door. The lively folk tune died out as he entered, every head turned to regard him and then the whispers started. 

“Who is that?” 

“A stranger, at this hour?” 

“And in this storm?”

The man ignored the reception and made his way to a table by the fire. The two men by the table vacated it - whether from courtesy at seeing his soaked appearance or fear, he couldn’t say. Regardless, he was grateful for the warmth of the fire as he removed his greatcoat and hung it near the fire to dry. His saber and pair of pistols were on full display then.

Ignoring the stares, he sank into the chair. Uneasily the patrons went back to their revelry, a few excused themselves. A blonde barmaid finally made her way to the traveler. 

“Can I offer you anything?” 

“Would you happen to have rum?” the traveler asked.

“Nein, only beer.” 

“That will do then. A pint if you please.” 

The barmaid blinked. “Your accent, where are you from?” 

The traveler smiled. “Originally? Wales.” 

The barmaid inclined her head before hurrying away to fetch his order. 

“Are you a sailor?” A voice at a neighboring table asked. “You are a long way from the sea.” 

Turning to see a man with a dark bushy beard, the traveler shook his head. “I have been a sailor on more than one occasion, but I am merely a wanderer now.” 

The bearded man crossed his arms. “And what brings you here, wanderer?” 

“Simply passing through.”

The man scrutinized the traveler before stretching out a hand. “Otto.” 

“Just call me Fortune.” 

Otto frowned, retracting his hand after a strong handshake. “What sort of a name is that?” 

Fortune chuckled. “I get that all the time.” He didn’t elaborate further.

“You’re strange, aren’t you?” Otto asked as his other friends at the table chuckled.

Fortune simply shrugged as his beer was brought to him. 

“Why are you so heavily armed?” Otto asked. 

Fortune eyed him and gave a simple reply before sipping his drink. “Bandits.”

Otto looked like he had another remark when the door was flung open and a terrified man stood in the doorway. 

“Mein Gott! They’re after us!”  

There was a clamor in the tavern as a blast of icy wind snuffed out every flame in the building - even the fireplace. Startled cries rose up as the common room was plunged into darkness. 

An eerie silver glow began to replace the darkness as the newcomer slammed the door shut, and Otto slid a table against the door. It did no good as a shimmering silver mass phased through the door as the patrons screamed. 

The shape shifted and formed into something else, a spectral human skull leered at the room, it’s eyes hollow. The head of the specter was encased in the remnant mail, its body in a tattered surcoat of years gone by. A straight bladed arming sword was gripped in the bony grasp of the apparition that it pointed at the newcomer who cowered on the floor. 

The apparition struck down with its ghostly blade only for the sword to be stopped. Fortune stood between the ghost and its quarry, his saber was now burning with hot white flames. 

“Away spirit!” Fortune commanded. 

The jaw on the long dead medieval soldier twitched: the only indication of emotion it gave. It seemed puzzled by being confronted, and that its weapon was actually deflected. 

A head tilt as the apparition struck again aiming a chop for Fortune’s head, the swordsman blocked the ghostly blade again and retaliated with a swipe of his own, the flames of his saber roaring. 

The ghost floated back. There was another twitch of the jaw as if the long dead warrior was remembering something: The old fire of battle - of blades crossed and helms shattered in the name of his lord. 

The specter raised its sword in salute before thrusting for Fortune. 

“Have it your way then,” Fortune replied as he parried. 

The tavern goers either looked on in fascination, hid under the tables, or scrambled to get away. The two strange duelists fought on, the ghost sword clashing against the fiery saber in showers of sparks. 

Fortune slashed and missed the specter, the saber crashed against a table, though a chunk of wood split off the table did not catch fire. The two fought on, living against the dead, the pale silver against the white flames. 

Fortune grit his teeth as he finally slashed through the specter, the fiend opened its mouth in a silent scream before it faded away, and with it the flames of the sword vanished and warmth returned to the room. 

“What the hell was that?!” Otto exclaimed. 

“A ghost -” Fortune replied, “- more specifically, a wraith.” 

“You killed a ghost?” the barmaid questioned. 

Fortune shook his head. “No, merely dissipated it. It will be back by sundown tomorrow, though, and shall return again and again - but each time it returns it will be sooner than the last.” 

“Gott en hemmel,” Otto cursed. 

Fortune continued. “There’s only one way to stop such a spirit. Put it back to rest. You all did something to earn its ire.” 

There was nervous shuffling. 

“The stones,” a voice said. 

Fortune nodded having made the observation upon his arrival. “You took stones from the ruined castle to make new dwellings. Oh, I understand, that castles not doing much but crumble, why not put it to good use? But you forgot something didn’t you?” 

Otto spoke then. “What would you have us do? Tear down our new dwellings?” 

Fortune took out a pipe and lit it. “That might be for the best.”

Otto scowled.

Fortune continued. “Those stones saw much bloodshed: certain things have become... attached to them,” he said mysteriously. “When did the attack first start? Perhaps it was a particular bit of stone you took.” 

The man that had run in started to speak. “I think it was…”

“Quiet!” Otta countered, gesturing to Fortune. “Why should we trust this man?”

The nervous man wrung his hands. “Well… he does seem to be the expert here.” 

Fortune merely continued puffing his pipe and ran a hand through his brown hair - that was finally starting to dry - before he spoke.

“Frankly, it’s either trust me or take your chances. I’ve seen what happens when the dead aren’t respected, though.” He looked distant at the relit flames around the tavern, looking quite old instead of youthful in the dull orange lights. “Things I wouldn’t wish on anyone.”  

More murmurs amongst the crowd as thunder rumbled. Fortune stretched. 

“You have until sunset tomorrow to make a decision. I’d advise not waiting that long, though.” 

“How can we trust you, stranger?” Otto asked, a little more gently this time. The rest of the tavern had grown quiet.

“He got between me and a ghost blade,” the nervous man interjected. Otto merely gulped and nodded.

Fortune sighed. “I can’t offer much to make you trust me. The way I see it, you don’t have many other options. No rewards necessary. I’ll await your answer tomorrow.”   

The town held a meeting that very night, in the middle of the storm and the tavern. From his room, he could hear the raucous debate from below his room - mostly concerning where they would live from then on, or if they could persuade the stranger to take care of their ghoul problems for them.

Finally the morning came. It was still rainy outside, but at least it was slightly lighter. As he was eating his sausages and eggs, Otto sheepishly walked up to him.

“We think we know which stone it was that…. Caused all of this,” Otto informed him.

“Very well,” Fortune said putting his fork down. “I should like to see, if that’s all right.”

Otto nodded and led him out into the drizzle and mud. Past a corner and the stables where his faithful horse was staying, they saw a lone clocktower in the town’s dilapidated square. 

It seemed an insignificant thing, a chunk of rubble from the castle. 

“It is the pride of our little town, sir Fortune,” Otto said.

Fortune examined the clocktower. “You made some renovations recently?” It didn’t match the rest of the town: it stood straight and seemed more modern. Presently, some of Otto’s friends and neighbors from the previous night joined the pair, ready with picks, axes, and hammers.

“Ja,” Otto said as he adjusted his cap. “We suffered damages from when the French attacked. Sadly, the stone is set into the base of the tower: it was the first.” 

Fortune sighed. “We had best hurry: it’s possible I can expel the spirit clinging to the stone.” 

Fortune grabbed a hammer as the mayor stepped forward with a gilded key and opened the door of the handsome tower with a sad sigh of his own. In the basement they could see a silver glow growing brighter by the minute. 

Time dragged on as the clock ticked on, every hour closer to doom as they worked agonizingly slow to recover the stone. Raising his now burning blade fortune set it against the stone. 

“I cast thee out!” Fortune shouted.

There was a bright flash and a shriek before the fire in his blade faded. Fortune sighed.  

“Quickly, return the stone. I’d advise leaving that castle be. I can’t always be here.” 

Otto and another man - also burly and hairy - lifted the huge stone with a simultaneous grunt and carried it to a horse and cart waiting outside. Watching the citizens of the small village haul it up the hill to the dismal castle, Fortune mounted his own horse. 

Best he was moving again: never a good idea to stay in one place for too long. Hopefully they had learned a lesson on disturbing ancient places and those that dwelt within.