DEATH CAME RIDING
(a All Hallow's Tale)

Aodh Hammerhelm

A keen wind heralds the wheel of the seasons. Leaves dance and swirl, seemingly in time to snatches of music seeping under the doorways of the taverns, along the main street. High above the city a Harvest-Moon, haloed and eerie like some malevolent eye, rides the scudding, racing clouds. Ęfenleoht - twilight; the summer has gone and autumn comes a-knocking.

On the corners, braziers lit against the chill, a few street merchants and farmers peddle their wares and produce to those stout enough to brave the autumnal night. Such folk are few and the pickings lean. On such a night the citizens of Rohan are mostly indoors, the night locked out by stout doors and shutters; the cold repelled by roaring fires, good ale and thick pelts.

A lone Rider enters through the main gate. The entrance to Edoras is unbarred, gates wide open. No threat of war or rumour of malcontent threatens the Kingdom and the watchman, wrapped in furs, snores contentedly by a fire. The Rider dismounts’, swinging easily from the saddle, then leads his horse up the street. By the fire the watchman, as if troubled by some deep, dark dream; stirs and mumbles. His hand finds the reassuring comfort of his sword hilt and he slips once more into sleep.

On a table, laid out between mugs and ale spills - piles of coins, some sheep knuckle bones and a worn ash hręštafl board. Three Riders sit around the table gazing at the board intently. All are careworn and clad in faded, patched garments beneath grimy cloaks.
 
“Come Helmberend,” mutters one, a finely bearded fellow of about thirty summers, “by the time you make your move it will be cockcrow.”
“Aye, Ęgelblowan,” laughs another, a grizzled man with a scar running through an empty eye socket, “old Helm is ever cautious, especially if there is a wager to boot.”
”Caution is no bad thing, Eagemon,” mutters Helmberend, cocking him a surly look, “It has saved me and you clods on many an occasion. I warrant I’ll sit till the season’s wheel again before I make a rash move. Now make yourself useful and get more ale to the table.”

Eagemon stands and struts over to the bar. He casts an eye around the room; he and his companions are its only occupants. A foul night it be if none would venture out for a cup, I deem. Now where is that cur of a barkeep? He bangs the bar counter loudly with his empty mug and calls, “Come slawthswin you have customers and they seek succour!”

A wizened and harried little man emerges from behind a curtain at the rear of the bar. Wringing his hands and sweating slightly he approaches Eagemon, years in the trade have taught him to recognise trouble and the man at the bar, and his companions, exude trouble like the black breath.
”What be your favour?” he asks nervously.
”Whatever’s cheapest and bring it in plenty,” Eagemon says. “Scratch the owings in your tally book, we’ll settle up after Harvest-tide.”
”But sire, your tally is six months unpaid, I must have some token, before I can oblige.”
”Token!” roars Helmberend leaping up from the table. “You’ve broken my concentration and goodwill fellow, bring us the drink and scribe down the owings or I’ll hand you several tokens you’ll regret most dearly.”
”Best heed him,” smiles Eagemon, “ale aplenty will soothe the savage beast and you’ll awake hale and hearty on the morrow.”
The barkeep bows and begins filling mugs, “I will bring it over at once!”
”At once it had better be cully,” Eagemon titters, “If you value your look and limb,” then swaggers back over to his companions.

A minute or so later the inn keeper lays a huge tray of foaming tankards on their table. Helm and Ęgelblowan snatch a mug each and began quaffing greedily.
“What still here cully?” asks Eagemon.
“Aye noble sire, I would cry your pardon with a favour. Could you leave once you tray is emptied?”
“But the night is still young,” Eagemon growls. “Have you errands to run in the morn or better things to do than to keep us company?”
“Nay master, I would be locked up and away home and off the streets before twelfth bell. The night is bitter and the wind speaks ill-omens. I’d sooner be behind locked door before Hallows Eve breaks.”
“Ghosts and phantoms, tales to frighten brats and the witless!” bellows Helm. “Get you hence before I smite you to your senses.”
But the barkeep holds his ground. “Pardon sire, you may have nought to fear but I dread the time when vengeful spirits abound. Do you not pay heed that on All Hallows Eve oft return the aggrieved dead to wreck vengeance on the living?” 
“Stuff and nonsense!” roars Helm. “The dead breathe not and return not to life in this World or any other. Not even the Elven folk return from the grave! Away now your chattering maddens me.”
The barkeep slinks away to the bar area and begins cleaning glasses and restocking the rude shelves. At the table Eagemon shifts and leans in closer to Helm and Ęgelblowan.

“We’d be doomed men tonight if the dead returned. Have we not robbed many men of their very lives to enrich our own? Why, this very board before us was wrested from the hand of one we slew for a few coins.”
“Aye, Ęge,” grins Helm malevolently. “And I say again, the dead do not return from the grave! The maggots are loath to release them; the vultures will not expel them from their craws. And even if, by some sorcery, they did return we would smite them back to the netherworld from whence they came.”

Ęgelblowan chuckles mightily at this. “Truly Helm, you speak for me. We need fear nothing us three, living or dead, for we are heartless, ruthless and bold. We take what pleases us - and if it be the life of another so what? Life is for the taking as much as anything else in this world. In any case, the old wives tales tell that the dead can only come amongst those who invite them. But come there are more important things to worry the mind, the board is waiting and I have a large pot for the taking.”

The sound of the door and a blast of cold air on his back cause Eagemon to turn. A Rider stands framed in the doorway; his face hidden deep in the shadow of a stained riding cloak, his boots and britches splashed with mud. Helm and Ęgelblowan turn from their game and eye him cautiously.

”Come friend, the night bites ill, step in and close yon door before all good cheer evaporates from this dismal place,” Eagemon calls.

The Rider glances over at him then swings the door shut and steps over to the fireplace where he stands, steam rising from his sodden clothing.

”Yon cully, could enrich the pot,” grins Ęgelblowan to his companions.
“You speak true,” smiles Helm. “Call your new frin, over Eagemon.”
“Three’s company, fours an éored,” answers Eagemon. “Let us keep the game amongst ourselves, finish our ale and then depart.”
“Barkeep put the wind up you?” cackles Helm, spraying ale across the table. “I never counted you as one for moonshine and bogeys, yet here you are nervous as maiden on her troth night.”
Ęgelblowan howls at this, slapping Eagemon on the back, “And he blushes like one too, when you strike the secret of his heart!” He blows a mocking kiss at Eagemon then calls out to the stranger. “Will you join us friend? We have good ale and game at this table. Come chase away the night chills with us.”

The Rider nods in acknowledgement and approaches the table. He takes a stool opposite them and sits gazing at the board. “This is beautiful,” he whispers, fingering the board lightly. “I had one like to this an age ago. But come let us play and what is the wager?”
 “A silver giėldan on each throw” says Helm, “And we play till one is left with the entire pot.”
 
The Rider sweeps back his hood. He had an open and handsome face; though a cruel scar bisects it in a diagonal swathe from the right of his hairline to his left earlobe. “Those close to me call me Awrźcan but I am known by friends as Węlfus, and I deem we be friends if we share the joys of ale and the hręštafl board.”

Grinning Helm, Ęgelblowan and Eagemon stretch out their hands and take his in turn. “Westu Waelfus hal,” they smile.

The night wears on; clocked by the roll of the die, the refilling of tankards and the scratch of the pieces on the board. With every round the pile of coins in front of Węlfus grows steadily. The three companions begin shifting and scratching in agitation, since Węlfus has joined them their luck has run amiss; neither can remember winning a throw in the last few hours. The fire has shrunk to a few low flames, the candle on the table now a guttering, withered nub. Through the windows of the tavern the first cold light of dawn begins to seep.

The clatter of the die on the table breaks the expectant silence as Węlfus throws again. In intake of breath from the others, then Helm slams a fist on the table in frustration.
“Helm’s Beard!” he roars, “three sixes again.” and watches helplessly as Węlfus removes his remaining pieces from the board, then sweeps up the last of his coins.
”I deem that be the game,” smiles Węlfus. “A goodly one for sure, but then all good things come to an end so they say.”

Eagemon and Ęgelblowan mutter something and Węlfus gazes at them calmly. “Something amiss frins min?” he asks.
”They mutter what I’d say aloud,” growls Helm. “Your luck is too good, mayhap there’s more to it than the flick of your wrist?”
Węlfus frowns slightly, “Suggest you frin I’d be so bold as to cheat you?”
”Nay cully, I suggest it not, I say it straight and true!”
”Come frin,” smiles Węlfus, “too long a night and too much ale has clouded your judgement. I will make you an offer; your coins back for yon board?”
”A cheat is no man to call for boon or bargain,” splutters Helm in a rage. “You have no claim on this board!” and stands flicking his cloak aside and drawing a notched and wicked blade. Ęgelblowan and Eagemon mimic his move - from the bar a squeak of terror from the innkeeper.

The three lunge at Węlfus but he is up from his seat in a flash and their blades strike thin air. They circle him, grinning wickedly, as he stands in the centre of the floor, a sword held lazily in his hand.

“Come frins, a fair offer I give you, let me have the board and we can call an end to this madness.”

”We’ll call an end to this when you’re cut down to size cur!” roars Helm striking at him. A clash of steel and blur of movement as Ęgelblowan and Eagemon press their attack.

Węlfus bobs and weaves and throws a flurry of deft and decisive strokes. The three drop to the floor and lie motionless. Węlfus walks towards the door, pausing for a thrice at the table, then exits the tavern in a flurry of wind and leaf. Somewhere without a cock crows. A silence descends on the tavern punctuated by the anxious panting of the barkeep.

“Ęgelblowan, Eagemon and their leader Helmberend,” muses the Maegisterwigend aloud, as he studies the wounds on the throats of the three at his feet. “All dead and no loss to the Mark; long where these curs at mischief in our borders and long we sought to bring then to justice and failed. Yet here it has found them and all for a game of chance, so you say master inn keeper?”

”Aye, sire, they were at it all night over the hręštafl board then all of a sudden they began cursing and scrapping. I know not what sparked their murderous rage, but such is the way of such brigands I deem, to deal out death; even to their own, when the ale and their baser instincts prevail. So they fought until none were left standing. I summonsed the town guard as soon as the fray was over.”

The Maegisterwigend sighs. Other witnesses would make his report simpler - would wrap this all up nicely and save him much parchment scraping later. He walks over to the table and studies it carefully.

“Hręštafl you say master? Pray come here for a while.”

The barkeep approaches the table and gasps. On the rough wooden surface he sees empty tankards, ales spills, a slew of scattered coins and some sheep’s knuckles.

There is no hręštafl board. The hairs on his neck stand aloft.

”It was there,” he breathes, “It was there! I saw it each time I served yon hapless three.”

(The curtain falls)

© 2005 Aodh Hammerhelm