The rains of spring had come early that year. A darkened sky poured forth a torrent of hail and rain. Trudging through the downpour and wrapped in a heavy cloak, Pike weathered the storm, offered no shelter by the great stones that littered the land. Moss covered boulders lay sprawled all over the grassy uplands, some standing upright like gargantuan shadows in the rainy gloom.
He had heard the stories about the Cairnsmoor, stories about giants hurling those stones at each other in some ancient battle. Now, few living creatures could be found among the rocks. It was a haunted place, they said. It would be easy to look upon one of those standing stones, shrouded in fog, and see the shade of a giant, or hear the whispers of the damned in the wind. The Cairnsmoor was indeed an eerie place. Feared, shunned, and avoided by all.
A perfect place, for the Red Cap to hide away.
Pike paused for a moment, raising a wineskin and drinking greedily until he could feel his head spin. He told himself that the wine was to keep his blood warm against the cold. But in truth, there was not a week that went by, where Pike did not need a little liquid courage.
Lowering the skin, Pike glanced around, his hood shading his eyes against the rain. In the corner of his grey eye, he glimpsed a shape, like a figure wrapped in a heavy cloak, standing atop a rock. But when he turned his gaze there, the figure was gone. Pike grunted, and raised the wineskin again.
Often he would see such strange things, shapes and faces that were there one moment and gone the next. It seemed to only get worse on the Cairnsmoor. A life of danger, surviving alone in wild places, had forced Pike to always be on the alert. And he had no doubt that such a life had started playing tricks on his mind, seeing enemies where there were none. All he needed was a little drink to dull his senses, and to calm his nerves, and the visions would simply stop.
Draining the last of the thick wine, Pike tried to shake out the last few drops before giving up. “Damn it,” he spluttered. “Should’ve bought more. I’ll be stone sober now. Like you lot.” He pointed at the boulders around him. “Because you are stones. It’s funny!”
Chuckling, he stumbled forward in the rain with the occasional hiccup, the heavy bronze sword slapping against his back. He rubbed at his left eye, the one that Pike thought he had lost forever, but had somehow recovered. He remembered the fight from the other day, in which he had taken the eye of that stupid looking paladin.
“That’s right,” Pike mumbled. “I don’t have any bloody money. Just this…” He fished around in his pocket, and pulled out the silver ring with its emerald. He could have sold the ring in Palsgrave, but it would be a cold day in Hell before Pike exchanged it for less than the promised bounty.
Pike looked around, and saw on one standing stone the faint image of what looked like a dragon, the engraved image nearly worn away by the wind and rain. Pike held up the ring to the carving’s monstrous head.
“You like gems, don’t you? One treasure hoard is all I ask.” The ring slipped through Pike’s numb fingers, and he struggled to retrieve it from the sodden grass. He glowered back up at the image.
“Fine. Be like that,” he sniffed, and turned away. He wondered what dragon meat would taste like. Surely it would be like snake meat, he thought, suddenly eager to get out of the rain and into some food.
The rugged land began to slope gently upward. Rising out of the mist, a solitary hill stood above the stones, its grassy slopes unblemished by the stones that lay in all the land below it. Crowing this low hill, was a great barrow, its ancient stones long grown over with grass. Upon the island of Morn, many such barrows could still be seen, while others had simply become unrecognisable from the surrounding countryside, housing treasures yet to be found. Of the ancient lords that had once been interred in those barrows, nothing was now remembered. Not even stories were told of them, lest such rumours somehow awaken their vengeful spirits. With the occasional hiccup, Pike stumbled up the hill, and straight towards the barrow.
Pike found the entrance to the mound, a low tunnel support by stone slabs. Grumbling to himself, he got on his hands and knees, and crawled into the dark belly of the barrow. He sniffed the air, making sure that no animal had entered the place since he left. But he never had cause to worry, for he had never known any kind of beast to come so deep into the Cairnsmoor. If the barrow had once held any kind of treasure, it had long ago been taken, along with any interest the outside world had in the place. Who would even dream, that a man would choose to live inside such a haunted place?
Pike emerged out of the tunnel, and into the wide space within the mound. Even a little drunk, he knew the place well enough in the total darkness. His sense of smell and hearing were keen, and they told him that his macabre home had no unexpected visitors. Producing his tinderbox, he expertly struck flint against the edge of his dagger, letting the sparks fall into the box and lighting the dry tinder fungus inside. With a burning match, and a store of firewood, Pike lit a fire in the hearth that he himself had hacked out of the old stonework. The red blaze of light cut through the darkness, within the barrow that was never meant to know light again.
The inside of the treasure-less mound had been hollowed out, as much as Pike cared to, the bones of its previous occupant having been evicted, now replaced with the bones of fowl from meals past. Pike had long ago stopped fearing ghosts, so long as he couldn’t see them.
What few belongings the Red Cap owned were strewn haphazardly over the floor, spare clothes, knives, dishes, empty bottles, and other useless bits of bric-a-brac. Pike unslung the bronze great-sword and laid it on a pile of musty animal skins, before gathering what little food he had, mostly nuts, a piece of dry mutton and stale bread. Sat before his little fire, Pike chewed slowly, listening to the rain outside his strange, lonely little home, and wishing that he had more drink.
After his meagre dinner, Pike puffed thoughtfully on his pipe, watching the thin smoke waft up to the low stone roof. So strange, he thought to himself, to build such a sturdy home for a dead man. He yawned, and stretched himself out on a pile of old blankets. Ghosts or no ghosts, the hollow mound was the only place where Pike could sleep soundly, far away from unfriendly eyes. He could not rest long. He would have to awake after a day or two, and find some proper food. But for now, he was warm, dry, and content. The sound of embers cracking in the fire, and the dull patter of rain outside, at last, lulled the Red Cap to sleep.
But he did not sleep long. A chill crept into his flesh, and he awoke with a shiver to find that the fire had died in the hearth. Unable to ignore the cold, Pike tossed and turned for a while, before getting up with a grumble. He shuffled to the hearth and poked the fire back to life. Once again, the flickering light washed over Pike’s home.
And revealed the other person, watching him silently.
Pike glimpsed the figure out of the corner of his eye, and immediately his hand shot out towards a small knife close by. With his back against the wall, and knife poised, he glared at the shape, squatting at the far end of the barrow, its bony limbs peeking through the rags draped over it.
“Who the hell are you?” Pike hissed, angry at having been startled by such a frail looking creature. “Out with it, or I’ll flay the skin off you and wear it.”
A pair of milky, blind eyes flashed out from a leathery face, and the intruder gave a toothless smile. One gnarled hand clutched at its robes, while the other was held up in a token of peace.
“Oh… kindly master, lordly master,” croaked the old woman. “I beg thee, be kind to this poor wretch. Please spare this old skin from your harsh words.”
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Pike sneered and lowered the knife, but he did not take his eyes off the stranger. “If you’ve come to beg, I’ve got nothing to give. No food at least…”
“Nay sir…” the crone’s voiced rattled of the stone walls and echoed irritably. “Who would spare bread for these creaking bones?”
“Hold on,” Pike’s eyes narrowed. “You’re a spy, aren’t you? Who would come out all this way just to beg?”
The crone shivered and shook her head. “Nay… nay… this poor creature can do neither. One foot in the grave… they would say. If you cannot climb up, best fall in. Where better to rest, than with one’s own kind? Out on the moor, where the ancients lie. These eyes are little good to spy, if they cannot see the light of the sun. But I hear, and feel the rain, and smell the fire on the wind. The sun’s gentle touch cannot reach through this chill mist. One would like to feel even a little warmth, out in this cold place.”
“You want to share my fire?” His face showed his disgust at the thought. He rolled the knife in his hand, having no intention of letting this beggar live, not after discovering his secret place. And if Pike was feeling merciful, he would have thought it a greater mercy to put the hag out of her misery, then and there.
“Who…” the crone said, suddenly, “are you?”
Pike was caught off-guard by the question. His confusion quickly turned to annoyance. “What does that matter to you?”
“Who you are…” she continued, “the person of the keeper of this house, will decide the fate of this poor, weary soul. Life or death, it is in your hands, great master.”
Pike turned his nose up at the beggar. “I…” he said with, with a dramatic pause, “am Pike.”
“Oh… good sir, that is a goodly name. But it is only a name. That is not who your are. Please, who are you?”
“What do you mean? Who am I? I am Pike. What more needs to be said?”
“A name is not a person,” the crone said. “You are more than a name, much more…”
“Bossy old bag,” Pike scoffed. “Barge into my place, and you expect me to give my life story?”
The crone gave a rasping laugh. “Yes… a story…” she said her head shaking slightly. “All life is a story… and I know many. Do you like stories… kind master?”
Pike said nothing.
“If you would only share your fire,” she rattled on, “then I shall tell you a story. Yes? And mayhaps, you can tell your story.”
Pike’s brows furrowed. He was tired, had a headache, and did not look forward to having to lug this boney invader’s corpse out of his home. She did look harmless, and more able warriors had tried to sneak up on Pike before, and failed. And, he did like to hear stories. He shrugged his shoulders, turned away, and lurched back to his makeshift bed.
“Why not,” he yawned. “Keep your distance, and you can stay here for a little, and tell your story.”
“I am grateful…” the crone said, “kind stranger…”
“Just don’t drop dead in here,” snapped Pike, stretching himself out on the blankets like a cat. “Go outside and find a hole if you feel like dying.”
The crone’s blind eyes flashed with a mischievous smile. “As you wish…” she shuffled closer to the fire and sat there, seemingly staring into it. “I know a story… of a great warrior,” she said. “Would that be to your liking, Mister Pike?”
Pike nodded. “Go on, get on with it.”
“This story…” said the crone, her voice becoming clearer, and deeper, as though she were reciting an ancient rhyme, “begins in a quiet forest, in a valley far away, tucked away from the world.”
Outside the barrow, the rumble of thunder rolled across the land.
“In this wood, there lived a small family of charcoal burners, the last descendants of a great tribe, who are now gone from the earth.”
“I thought this was a story about a great warrior?” Pike interjected, but the crone ignored him.
“One night, a terrible storm blew over the valley. The wind tore trees up by the roots, and thunder scarred the land. That night, while the others of her clan her cowering in fear of the Heavens, a charcoal burner’s wife, heavy with child, gave birth. As the storm raged over their heads, the husband, and an old grandmother, helped bring the babe into the world. When the babe’s head emerged, the first thing they saw, was its shock of white hair…”
Pike, whose attention was lapsing, frowned thoughtfully, and scratched his head.
“Even amidst the storm,” the crone continued, “they heard no cry from the babe. It was completely silent. They feared the worst, that the child was stillborn. But then, they saw its eyes, which were wide open, and staring. And then, the baby boy, silent and staring, opened its mouth, and they saw a full set of teeth within.
“They knew then, to their horror, that they had brought a Changeling into the world, the spawn of the Devil himself. As the babe lay in its cradle, the man and wife wept bitter tears, knowing what they must be done. With a heavy heart, the man took the babe out into the forest, out into the storm. Still the babe did not cry, even as his father left abandoned him in the woods, to be prey for wild beasts…”
Pike was silent, but he was paying attention now, suddenly unable to sleep.
“But the boy, the changeling, did not die, by some strange will of Heaven’s, or by dark magic. The boy lived, until he was found by a lone man, an outlaw. The outlaw had a wife, and both were grieved over the loss of their own baby son. And so when the outlaw found the changeling, alone and shivering in the rain, he took it for a miracle, and took the boy for his own son.
“I don’t like this story,” Pike interrupted. “Tell me something else.”
“Oh… but it is a very interesting tale,” said the crone. “And not one often told.”
Pike scowled. “Fine, but hurry it up. Get to something with battles.”
The crone’s laugh rattled in her throat. “Very well, impetuous stranger. You’ll hear more about battles then you might wish. Now then, the boy grew up, a fey creature, strong and wise in the ways of wild things. He fought in many battles, and there was not a day when he did not have a sword by his side. In his way, he was happy with his life, amongst the outlaws.
“But outlaws are born under ill stars, and must suffer cruel deaths, or else become like terrible beasts, slayers of men, destroyers, devourers, demons…”
“I’ve had enough of stories,” Pike snapped. “Go away now.”
“The outlaws met their doom, by sword and shot. But the boy lived on, and grew up…”
“I said shut up, old hag!”
“And he became a terror. A dragon guised in human flesh. His eyes were as cold as death, the bite of his sword fiercer than the fires of Hell. He gathered about him a great band of killers and outcasts, and some say, even the wraiths of damned men. With his host, he fell upon the City of Knights, and laid waste to it. And then, he disappeared, and few now know the ending to the Witch-king’s story…” the crone looked up at Pike, and her eyes, once blind, now flashed grey. “Until now…”
Pike leapt to his feet. By his blankets was an axe, which he took up, and waved in the crone’s face, rage overtaking him.
“Who sent you!” he snarled. “Why are you here?”
“I came,” the stranger said, her voice no longer raspy, but deep and full of strength, “to learn the ending of the Witch-king’s story.”
Pike’s hands shook, overcome with rage, and something like fear. He hesitated for only a moment, before bring the axe down upon the crone’s head. The axe flashed, but instead of cleaving through skull and brains, it crashed into the stone floor, the steel head shattering into pieces. The crone sat there, unhurt, and staring icily at Pike.
Darkness overcome the hollow mound. The fire flickered, died, and burnt again with pale blue flames, glowing with a cold light. The shadow of the crone grew before Pike, looming over him. With the shattered axe-shaft in his hand, he could do little but stare in horror at the spectre before him. The stranger’s face was no longer old, but young and stern, like image of a goddess, terrible and wise. She loomed over Pike, black robes flowing about, tugged by an otherworldly wind. Her grey eyes, amidst her flowing silver hair, seemed to burn into his soul.
Pike staggered back, a fear he had no never chilling his heart.
“Changeling…Witch-king…” her hollow voice echoed, “Now I know who you are. And I pity you not. Come with me… you are not meant to walk under the sun.”
Pike said nothing, only staring, wide eyed and mouth agape, at the phantom before him. She raised a shimmering hand, which gripped a scythe that materialised out of nothing, its blade glowing silver like a crescent moon hovering above, with stars glimmering about it.
Animal instincts took over, Pike’s body wanting only to preserve itself. He went to dart away, to race for the barrow’s little entrance and scurry away. But the moment his muscles tensed, the terrible scythe came down. Pike howled as the scythe came down, its blade biting into his left collarbone and into his chest. Pike stumbled and fell forward. The icy pain had made his whole body numb in an instant, and his mind spun. But his body was still acting on its own. Though numbed with pain, and nearly unconscious, Pike’s body scrambled on its own accord, away from the horror and towards the outside world. He hardly heard the words of the phantom, trailing after him.
“Run, Witch-king, run… the Immortals are patient. Looking upon the waking world… one last time.”
Pike’s battered body crawled through the tunnel and out again. Headless of the rain, he stumbled and ran out onto the moor, clutching his shoulder. All around him, the stones loomed over, their shadows writhing, seeming to dance about him. Cold voices, angry voices, hissed and whispered all around him. Mocking him, howling at him. On he ran, desperate to run away from this dead world. Though he could not see it, a yellow light flickered at some point ahead, warm and inviting. Safety was there, surely, and his instincts wanted nothing more than to claw its way to that light.
At some point, he did not know when, Pike stumbled and fell. His vision returned, and strange shapes bend over him, muttering strange and alien words. Pike might have felt fear, but his mind, and body, had reached their limit. The last thing’s Pike’s eyes saw, was the golden face appearing over him, and he knew no more.