Great Arcana

XIII - Death

Sidhaiel's tomb was an eerie place in the forest, not far outside the town walls. It was a low burial mound on which little would grow but thick grass and thistles, and the vines and mosses which had largely overgrown the stone entrance.

The townsfolk avoided it. They said it was haunted, cursed by the lingering spirit of the man who lay buried there. He was a sorcerer, a prince of the Elves, an ally of the Great Daemons who had torn the world asunder.

They did not know exactly how old the tomb was, or why it was so far removed from the great kingdoms of the Elves, but one only needed to come within sight of it to know of the evil inhumed there. It was a menacing place by day, and few were brave enough to venture near it at night.

Those who did go were never seen again, or they returned as madmen, speaking only of fearsome creatures dancing to the music of a stringless fiddle, or the cloaked horseman whose head was a faceless shadow adorned with a kingly crown. Some spoke of the living dead, others only of an all-encompassing shadow which had taken all their memories.

None of them lived long. In most cases the unfortunate soul died before a year had passed; most often they were found hanging from a tree, sometimes they cast themselves into the roaring waters of the river, which passed through a deep gorge barely four feet wide not ten minutes away from the town. Those who fell in were sucked down by the force of the fluvial waters and died as they were swept from hidden cavern to hidden cavern, their bodies breaking on the rocks if they had not already drowned.

The town elders forbade people to go near the mound, warning all of the certain death brought on from the curse. For the most part this warning was heeded, but once every few decades someone would be foolish enough to take the risk.

John Hart was one such man. One night he swore he would do anything for his love, anything at all, if she would marry him. She challenged him to go to the burial site and fetch her a posy of Dead Man's Thistles. He emboldened himself with boasts that the curse was little more than old wives' tales, and set out.

He had expected the forest to be quiet and ominous at night, and was surprised to find it very much alive. There was hooting and chirping, and the rustling of leaves. There was howling in the distance, and the sound of beating drums. He did not let it unsettle him and he made his way to the mound, stubbornly ignoring the sounds and strange little lights in the darkness, gripping his torch firmly.

The clearing was bathed in moonlight. It was well-lit and for a moment John did not think it frightening at all- he was actually a little disappointed to find it devoid of anything remotely wicked.

Then he saw the rider. He was clad entirely in dark robes; cloaked and hooded in garb as black as night. Underneath the hood was a faint gleam of some polished metal, and in his gloved hand the rider held a sword. His steed was large and pale, and had bright and fiery eyes.

The rider went down the mound and disappeared at the far side, where the entrance was. John could not say with certainty if he had ever been there at all, and reassured himself with the notion that he had only imagined it. He took a deep breath and entered the clearing, determined to get the posy for his lady.

A strange compulsion moved him as he approached the mound. Rather than going up it for its thistles, he found himself going around it to the far side of it, to where the rider had gone. The sound of drums was a little louder here, but it only fuelled his urge to go on.

The entrance was open. The inside of the mound was dark, but the light of John's torch revealed smooth stone steps leading down inside. He hesitated for a moment, remembering a song his mother had sung to him when he was still a child:

Beware thee of the Shadow King
He is a wicked, evil thing
A dark shade in the dead of night
and wielder of demonic might
Equipped with brandished sword and crown
death he brings to every town

He looked over his shoulder, but there was no one there. He gripped his torch more firmly and went inside.

He had expected there to be no more than a few steps and then a chamber, but the steps were many and kept going down and down. Before long he could not see the pale moonlight outside the entrance anymore. There were whispers in the darkness around him, and he was certain now that the drumming came from below.

Eventually there was light ahead of him; a dim red glow not unlike that of a furnace. He reached the bottom of the steps and found himself in a long and narrow corridor, of which the very walls gave off its strange light. He could hear drumming beyond them. Terror took him then, but he could not turn back. His legs kept taking him further in spite of his racing heart.

At last he came to a cast iron door which opened easily when he pushed against it. It was warm to the touch and stank of sulphur and decay, but still John kept  going. He came into a large cavern, the far end of which he could not even see. Along the walls were strange man-like creatures, moving in a trance-like manner to the beat of the invisible drums. Their golden anklets clanged melodically, and the crystal bells fastened to their wrists gave a pleasant chime.

In what he assumed to be the centre of the cavern was a great stone slab not unlike a primeval offering stone. Behind it stood the rider, unhooded now and faceless. There was only darkness where his head should have been, and his majestic crown seemed held up only by a thick black smoke. He held his sword upwards before him, standing still as a statue.

John moved forward and heard the door slamming behind him, its boom sounding through the cavern like a gong of some impending doom. The dancers approached with every step he took, forming a ring around him and the stone table. When he reached it, they were an uninterrupted circle.

The Shadow King's words were a harsh, guttural sound only present in his mind, promising him wealth and life eternal if he would only lie down on the stone. John felt sudden fatigue wash over him, and he clambered onto the smooth surface, never realising the peril he was in. The Shadow King raised his sword and the dancers were already reaching for their share of the sacrifice.

The townspeople found him not long after dawn, lying atop Sidhaiel's tomb. His eyes were closed and he was not breathing, but there were no marks on his body to explain his death; only a posy of thistles in his left hand, held close to his heart.