Page 41 of Saved By the Headless Horseman
Voices float along the wind, growing louder.Flattening myself against the base of the tree, I hold my breath, not daring to move.The rattling of armor steals my attention up the path.Two soldiers come into view armed to the teeth.They glance towards me, but see nothing in the thick fog.
Both unstrap their sword belts and toss them atop a crumbling statue before pulling down their trousers and beginning to piss.Both blissfully unaware of my presence, I don’t make a sound.The taller one on the left with a scar running along his cheek stretches his neck back.
“What do you think the earl is doing with thatthing?”he asks.
The other one merely shrugs, concentrating on his own bodily functions.
“No idea.The only thing I know is he paid a sorceress a small fortune for those shackles to bind him.”The shorter guard huffs a laugh.“Keeps that creature as weak as a babe.”
“I couldn’t believe it when I saw it.A pumpkin for a head?”The taller man huffs a laugh.“That headless horseman story is just an old wives’ tale.”
“Clearly not.”
My heart pounds unevenly in my chest.I place a hand over my mouth to keep from crying out.Krane is here—captured—and at the mercy of my father.I have to get to him, but I have to be smart about it.While my heart urges me into action, my brain tells me to calm down and think rationally.If I get captured, I will be in no position to save him.
Both men retie their trousers but make no move to return to their patrol.They cross their arms over their massive chests.My eyes land on their discarded weapons.Clinging to the mist, I travel on silent feet until they are only a few feet away.I’ll have to break from the treeline and not falter if I wish to remain unseen.
“Whatever Earl Richard is doing to that thing, it won’t stop screaming.I can hear its fucking wails all the way inside my tent.”Each word drips with disgust.“How long are we meant to remain stationed here?”
With both men’s focus on each other, I sink into the tall, damp grass.My gown clings to me as I crawl towards their weapons.The breeze whips above me, hopefully concealing any sounds I’m making.The weapons are just in view when a voice rises above the wind.
“The king has tasked us with keeping him safe.With Duke Marc and his son dead, the king has ordered Earl Richard to be elevated to Duke of Broken Cliff.We are to keep him safe until the royal decree arrives.”
Taking a steady breath, I grip the handle of the nearest dagger—the smooth hilt glides against my palm.I unsheath it slowly, the silver blade glinting in the moonlight.I hold it to my chest, glancing over my shoulder, expecting to be discovered.The two guards are still locked in conversation, their bodies drifting closer to the woods.
Glancing back, I see the crumbling remnants of the statue below.A fist-sized piece of marble catches my eye.Lifting it into my palm, I act before I can think better of it.Hurtling it into the dark, the stone echoes off the trunks of several trees before landing with a thud deep inside the woods.
“What was that?”one of the guards snaps.
“No idea, let’s?—”
I don’t stick around to hear the rest of their conversation.Rising on trembling knees, I lift my skirts and take off in a sprint.The night wind tongue at me as my destination looms above.No one is better at sneaking into this home unseen than I.I watched the patrols long enough to gauge when one would overlap with the other.
A brief window presented itself, enough for me to crest the hill and slip in through the side unseen.The familiar brick alcove looms, and I throw myself against it.Panting silently, I collapse behind an old, worn barrel and wait.A handful of seconds later, the sound of clanking armor rattles towards me, the second half of the patrol making their rounds.
No cry of alarm is raised.I’ve made it nearly there unseen.I thank my lucky stars as I wait for the king’s guards to pass.My mind wanders to Krane.I brace myself for the condition I’ll find him in.With him weakened by whatever shackles my father procured, I can only imagine the torture he’s endured.
With the guards out of earshot, I prowl along the side of the house and quickly unlatch the kitchen door.I hold it until it gently shuts, praying for the hinges to remain silent.Once it is closed and latched, and I hear no sound of approaching guards, I take a breath.Turning into the dark room, the kitchen is bare.
No loaves of fresh bread have been left to cool on the counters.The shelves and cupboards look empty, save for a singular bottle of brandy.It is eerily quiet, making the manor feel more like a tomb than ever.I no longer fear the ghosts that once called this manor home.
There are worse evils to fear here than those of phantoms.
My stomach sinks as I walk along the stone floor.If Krane is here, there is only one place my father is keeping him.The dungeon was never used when I was growing up here.The rusted iron hinges of the door leading deep into the bowels of Crow’s Claw Manor are a testament to how rarely this room was opened.
I swallow, my trembling hands pulling on the chain.The door groans open.The loud echo cannot be helped.I need to move fast if I want to get Krane out of here.I say a silent prayer that I’m not walking into a trap set by my father.
The wooden stairs are quiet against my slippered feet.Gripping the handle, I glide down them quickly.The scent of death nearly chokes me.Dank and rot permeate the air the deeper I go.Once at the bottom, I can make out a roaring fireplace.
Orange flames lick along the stone mantle.In the center of the room, metal chains hang from the ceiling.There is a row of cells along the far wall, too dark inside for me to make anything out.A wooden bench is coated in all manner of grime and dark blood.Deadly sharp blades and a still steaming poke rest beside it.Vomit swims up my throat, but I choke it back down.I feel light-headed.Bracing my hand against the stone wall, I try to get my bearings as best I can.
A sharp, ragged wheezing echoes from the middle cell.I hurry over to it, lighting the torch beside it as quickly as I can.
“Krane,” I call into the darkness.
I can only see the glistening tips of his leather boots.
“Krane,” I repeat.“It’s me.”
