by Joshua Turner
in Issue 110, March 2021
The shrill whine of the opening door woke Kella from her uneasy slumber.
“Alder? Why are you home?” She asked, rolling over in the bed to face the source of the noise, expecting to see her husband removing his boots and cloak. There was no one, however, in the puddle of gray moonlight that had spilled onto the wooden floor. Only a handful of skittering leaves, brown and desiccated from the cold, entered in.
“…Alder?” Kella whispered her question, sitting up with her blanket still draped across her shoulders.
She scanned the single room of her home, searching for whatever might have intruded, hoping all the while that her uninvited guest was merely a blustering gust of wind. Her eyes adjusted to the darkness at an oozing pace, feeding the trepidation growing within. Kella noted the outline of the woodpile and the hearth, assuring herself nothing was out of place, and confirmed the table and chairs were where they belonged. Her gaze continued its sweep, resting on the large, wooden chest across the room where she and her husband kept their clothes. Kella’s heart leaped to her throat where it stifled the scream that desperately tried to escape. The chest’s latch was undone, lid ajar, and a pair of icy eyes, dark and hollow, leered through her. Kella’s body froze and she was forced to helplessly watch the horror emerge from the chest. The wretched thing was impossibly tall, forced to stoop to fit beneath the roof, and as gaunt as a famine. Tattered, moth-eaten rags covered every inch of the creature’s form save its cruel eyes. The beast was upon her before a single, gasping breath could escape Kella’s mouth. She closed her eyes as claws, black and slick like oil and long as a reaper’s scythe came down upon her. She heard the horrid sound of tearing flesh and smattering blood but felt no pain. Opening her eyes, Kella found herself looking down upon the grisly scene as if she were floating on a breeze. Her sheets were dyed and dripping crimson and pieces of her were strewn about the room. The dark figure loomed over the massacre, basking in its glorious carnage. Suddenly, the devil’s head snapped up to meet her eyes and she felt herself being drawn toward the demon; toward the darkness with it.
Kella managed a scream, though it was muffled and distant like the sound of a night’s breeze moaning through the corpses of summer leaves. She screamed until blackness overtook her. That’s when the pain started.
* * * * * * *
A gust of sharp, autumn wind cut through the tavern’s cozy warmth as the knight stepped in from the moonlight.
“Forgive me,” the warrior said when all eyes turned to regard him. “I did not mean for the cold to enter with me.”
The knight took a seat by the door, throwing back his mail coif, revealing a head devoid of hair, and removing his scarred gauntlets. He was all too aware of the eyes that lingered too long.
“What can I get you, sir?” asked a timid, young serving girl. “Will you require a stable for your horse?”
“No, thank you,” the knight replied. “just ale and whatever is on the spit. And warm bread if you’ve got any.”
The knight watched the girl scurry back towards the kitchen and saw how the other patrons whispered and cast nervous glances his way. The air was heavy with more than just smoke; something wicked swirled above their heads.
“What’s happened here?” the knight asked when the serving girl returned with his ale and meat. “What is everyone trembling about?”
“Your bread will be ready soon, sir,” giving a quick bow of her head before darting off once more.
The warrior took a generous swallow of the sweet, earthy brew and then rose to his feet. “I am Sir Harkin, knight of the House of Sarx!” he announced boldly, arms crossed before his breastplate. “What sort of mischief is afoot here in this sleepy town of Grimhold?”
A hush spilled across the tavern, and all the once curious eyes now cast their gaze at anything but the knight. Finally, a single man, wizened and stooped, turned in his chair to answer Harkin, “There is a darkness that has taken us in its grasp here in Grimhold, Sir Harkin. You’d best rest and be on your way.”
“What is your name?”
“I am Maximillian Gorm, prefect here in Grimhold.”
Sir Harkin grabbed a nearby empty chair and took a seat next to the elder, “Tell me of this darkness, Prefect Gorm.”
The prefect traded glances with the men sitting next to him who nodded solemnly for him to continue, “It’s been this way for a couple of years now, Sir Harkin. There’s a devil, a stalker in the night, reaping the blood of the innocent here in town. We call it the ‘Harvestman’.”
“A devil? Have you contacted the college?”
Gorm spat onto the scuffed and splintered floor, “Those spirit-talkers, those intellectuals, are nothing but cowards who disturb the graves of poor, slumbering souls and turn them into hateful revenants!”
Sir Harkin shrugged and took another sip of his ale, “They may be able to at least tell you what it is you’re dealing with.”
“We know well enough what it is,” replied Prefect Gorm.
“Tell me about this devil then,” Sir Harkin said. “Have any of you seen it?”
“Aye,” replied the prefect, pointing to a man seated beside him. “poor Alexander here lost his only son to the demon not two weeks ago.”
Sir Harkin looked to the man the prefect had indicated; a weather worn and hard-faced farmer from the looks of it.
“Well, Alexander?” the prefect asked. “Can you tell the good knight what you saw?”
Alexander looked down into his mug as if the words he needed were floating in his brew. He heaved a quivering sigh and began his tale, “He took my son when he was workin’ the fields. Saw it with my own eyes. He was a hauntin’ creature to behold; tall and gaunt with long, graspin’ arms, and wrapped in dark linens coverin’ all but his eyes that burned colder and blacker than any winter’s night. Wherever it went, the shadows followed, swirlin’ about him like a cloak in the wind.
“When he comes for you, there is no hope, only fear and blood. All that remains in his wake are tatters of flesh and a message, always the same, carved into wood nearby: ‘The season of the harvest is upon us…’”
“It’s those damned cults and covens!” the prefect hissed, rising in such a fury that his chair toppled to the floor. “They summon these demons as their playthings and then set them loose once they grow bored. Damn them all!”
“Look me in the eyes,” Sir Harkin said, weighing the farmer with his gaze. Alexander lifted his eyes to meet Sir Harkin’s, and the knight could see there was no deceit within them, only grief and fear.
“I ain’t tellin’ lies, Sir Knight.”
Sir Harkin nodded, “I believe you.”
“Charms and wards do not affect the beast,” continued Prefect Gorm as he stooped to right his chair. “Ingots of iron from Layruin, sacred wood from U’ssar, even silver chimes from Vynnland…we’ve tried them all.”
“What about steel?” asked Harkin, putting a hand on the hilt of his blade.
“Who can say? None have gotten close enough to try. Once the Harvestman kills, he vanishes like smoke in the night.”
“Who rules these lands? Lord Morbin Ghez, correct?”
“That is correct, sir,” the prefect answered.
“Has he knowledge of this…Harvestman?”
The prefect nodded, “I’ve gone to him myself on more than one occasion to ask for aid. This bloody war has his mind elsewhere.”
“Yes,” agreed Sir Harkin. “this war has been bloody.”
“You look as if you’ve seen that blood firsthand, Sir Harkin,” Gorm pulled on his thin, gray beard as he spoke. “Are you good with that blade?”
“Good enough, against men and beast. I’ve not tested myself against a spirit before.”
“Are you up for it? We will pay you handsomely. Anything.”
“I lost my squire during the sack of Blackwater; my horse too. My shield was splintered by a brigand I met on the road, and he knocked my helm into the river during our scuffle. I might as well be half of a knight at this point, Prefect Gorm…”
“Your bread, Sir Knight,” the serving girl said, placing a loaf of bread before him.
Sir Harkin lifted the bread to his nose, letting its sweet odor waft into his lungs, before tearing out a mouthful. It was warm, but far from fresh.
“I wouldn’t care if you came to us addled and naked,” the prefect said, arms crossed over his chest. “Will you slay the Harvestman?”
Sir Harkin mulled over what the villagers had told him about this beast as he chewed, debating whether he had any chance of success, “I can make no promises,” he said around a full mouth. ” but I will do my utmost to slay this devil for you, Maximillian Gorm, and bring peace to you and your townsfolk.”
Maximillian heaved a mighty sigh and fell back into his chair while the rest of the tavern erupted into a clamor of cheers and slamming tankards, “Bless you, Sir Harkin Sarx! A thousand boons upon your house!”
The applause was short-lived, for within seconds of Sir Harkin’s proclamation the tavern door burst open and the captain of the town watch, pale-faced and red-eyed, stumbled in, “It took her!” he wailed, leaning on his spear for support. “That demon Harvestman took my Kella from me!”
“Help him to a chair!” Prefect Maximillian shouted at his companions.
Sir Harkin watched through sorry eyes as the captain stumbled and sobbed over his words. “Nothing left of my Kella but blood and ribbons! Why? Oh, why?!”
“Take me to this poor man’s home,” said Sir Harkin, turning to face the prefect. “I need to see what I am up against.”
Red. It was everywhere. The floor, walls, ceiling; nothing was untainted by the streaks and puddles of blood. Sir Harkin had seen battle on more than one occasion, fields of thickened blood and rotten flesh, but the brutality that was displayed before him was of a different kind of horror. *What kind of vile, hateful creature could do such a thing to a poor woman? *
“Sweet Kella,” the old prefect moaned. “Such a kind and caring woman.”
“Is it always this…grisly?” Sir Harkin asked, averting his eyes from the scene of slaughter.
Prefect Gorm simply nodded.
“Where is the nearest branch of the College of Ephemeral Oration?” demanded Sir Harkin. “You may not trust the spirit-talkers, but if I am to slay this wretched thing, I will need all the help I can get.”
“Ghastarn would be the closest. You could get there in a day’s ride if you pushed a horse to near death.”
“And you’ve no one in Grimhold with any college training?”
The prefect looked down at his bloodstained shoes and sighed, “Well, we have a young woman here who spent a year at study…though she didn’t have the aptitude to continue and was expelled.”
“I’ll take what I can get. Take me to this woman.”
* * * * * * *
An urgent knocking at the door jolted Tilia from her murky dreams. She rubbed the sleep from her eyes and squinted to better see in the gray, predawn light.
“Tilia! It’s Prefect Gorm!” she heard a voice say from outside.
“One moment!” she shouted back, throwing a heavy cloak over her nightgown before scurrying towards the smoldering hearth to collect her slippers. The frigid stone floor pierced her bare feet like ice, but the soft fur of her slippers, warmed overnight by the low-burning fire, quickly melted away the discomfort.
Pulling her cloak tightly about her, Tilia unlocked and opened the heavy oak door. She was surprised to see an unfamiliar figure, a hard-faced knight by the looks of his dark gray plate armor, waiting outside with the prefect. She brushed her ruddy hair from her eyes, “How can I help you, sirs?”
“Forgive me for waking you so early, Tilia,” began the old man. “but we have urgent need of your knowledge. This is Sir Harkin Sarx, a passing knight who has offered to slay the Harvestman for us. He wishes to speak with you regarding the demon in hopes that you can help him vanquish it.”
Tilia blinked heavily as if to force the lingering slumber from her head, “Yes, of course,” she almost stepped aside to allow the men in, but then remembered the sorry state of affairs her home was in. Her textbooks and notes were strewn across the table, and various plants, elixirs, and alembics cluttered the floor. “Allow me a moment to dress and I will join you outside. I’ve been in the throes of study as of late, you see, and my home is in no condition to host a knight.”
The Knight smiled and nodded, “Very well.”
“I’ll leave you to it,” she heard the prefect say through the door. “Best of luck, Sir Harkin.”
Sir Harkin walked down Grimhold’s main thoroughfare beside Tilia. The morning sun had driven off the cold and gray, and the air was sweet with the scent of rotting leaves, “The folk here don’t seem very fond of scholars of your like,” he said with a grin. “Must make living here difficult.”
Tilia shook her head, “They leave me well enough alone. And I cannot blame their mistrust; not long ago a small group of students from Ghastarn defiled a number of graves in the town’s cemetery. There were a dozen or more hauntings all over Grimhold for months before the college sent someone to put them to rest.”
Sir Harkin grunted in disgust, “Such irreverence.”
“Indeed,” Tilia agreed, her soft features tightening in anger.
“What do you know about this ‘Harvestman’? Have you seen it?”
Mention of the demon seemed to put to flight the color from Tilia’s already pale face, “I have not, though I’ve seen its work and felt its haunting presence.”
“How do you recommend I go about slaying him?”
“The Harvestman is no common ghost; it is a being forged of pure wickedness called forth from the depths of primal malice. A simple thrust of your blade will not do to vanquish it, no, we will need a powerful blessing to make this phantasm vulnerable to your sword.”
“What do you need for such a blessing?”
Tilia stopped in the center of the cobblestone road, gazing up at the cloudless, blue sky with a finger to her chin, “I have the proper materials: somberglove, asphodelus, and oil of cedar. What we need is a way to find the devil and lure him to us. We need bait.”
“Bait…as in, a willing victim?”
“Yes, indeed,” Tilia replied with grim confidence. “Though I have not yet determined how the monster chooses its victims. Perhaps you can help shed some light on the matter. I’ve a list of the known victims back home.”
Sir Harkin nodded and cast his gaze across Grimhold’s thatched roofs and drowsy gables, “In the light of day, one would think this town a place of peace.”
“Hopefully it will be by the time we’re finished.”
Sir Harkin read the names on Tilia’s list, nearly two dozen in total, with quiet reverence, “And these are the ones lost just this year?”
Tilia replied with a nod while she flicked through the pages of a large tome, “I’ve been trying to identify what classification of spirit the Harvestman is, but nothing in my texts meet its exact behavior and description.”
“What comes closest?”
“Well, it is violent, similar to a malevolent, but it only haunts one location as if it were a chained-one.”
“There doesn’t appear to be a pattern to the victims it targets. Perhaps it is some new type of spirit?”
“Perhaps, but unlikely. I will need to get close to it, somehow feel its energy, to be sure.”
Sir Harkin’s face turned grim, “That will be dangerous.”
“I know,” Tilia agreed. “but I have an alternative that is…slightly less dangerous…”
“What alternative?”
Tilia opened a cabinet and withdrew a small vial of dark brown liquid, “The elixir of thorns. The black seeds of the thorn apple contain a high amount of toxins, but if decocted properly, one can see beyond their mortal eyes.”
“I see. Have you ever tried this before?”
“Once.”
Sir Harkin was silent for a moment, “And?”
“And I did not properly leach the seeds and the toxicity of the elixir was too great. I was wracked with nightmares for hours and then vomited.”
“Oh.”
“Fear not, Sir Knight,” Tilia said, grinning while lighting sticks of incense. “I’m certain I’ve done it properly this time.”
“What should I do while you dream?”
Tilia settled down onto her bed. Sweet-smelling smoke with hints of cinnamon and evergreen filled the room, “You may see me move,” explained Tilia while she adjusted her pillow. “I may even speak. That is normal. If I start to cry or scream you need to wake me up immediately with the salammoniac salts.” She indicated a small leather pouch on her bedside table.
Sir Harkin opened the pouch and instantly recoiled, “Father’s Fury! What an awful stench!”
“Stay vigilant, Sir Harkin,” said Tilia, draining the vial containing the elixir of thorns. “I am off to the world of dreams.”
As soon as her head hit the pillow, Tilia found herself in cold darkness surrounded by trees. Shafts of young moonlight cast a silver glow across the forest around her and the chill wind growled in the sky above. What a wicked night. Channeling all her focus, Tilia reached out into the night with tendrils of extrasensory perception. Like extensions of her very body, her energy wound its way through the trees and pastures in search of any phantom presence. She felt the touch of numerous souls that roamed aimless across the ethereal plane. Some even spoke to her, but she had not the time to listen. It wasn’t long before a sensation of dread passed through one of her strings, coming and going in a single breath.
“It’s in the woods…coming into town…” she said, hoping that Sir Harkin, waiting in the waking world, heard her warning. “I’m…following…”
Tilia weaved all her perception into a web surrounding the location where she had felt the foul presence, like a spider waiting for a fly. There was another tug at her strings; longer and fiercer. Instantly she felt empty and soulless. The moonlight had become shrouded, and she was completely alone in a choking blackness. The void sapped every emotion, every thought from her, threatening to leave her little more than a mindless husk. Tilia fought against the draw of the abyss with all her might.
“There is…nothing…nothingness…” she groaned, feeling her teeth clench in the waking world. “It…calls to me…I must resist!”
The darkness around her thickened, took on a form of its own and pressed in on her. A pair of baleful eyes, two chips of ethereal ice, appeared in the nothingness and pierced her with a haunting gaze. Panic swelled within Tilia, tearing the breath from her lungs, and setting her bones to trembling. She felt her essence, her very being, being ripped from her and dragged towards the wicked presence.
“Sir Harkin!” she cried as her very soul screamed in pain. “The salts, Sir Harkin! Wake me!”
Awareness struck Tilia like a hand strikes a drum, and with it came nausea and a splitting headache. The light in her home was dim, its only source coming from a small fire in the hearth. Night had fallen. How long did I dream?
“Tilia, are you well?” Harkin asked, setting aside the odious pouch. Concern danced in his gray eyes like a flame. “What did you see?”
“I…I’m not sure…but I know what it wants,” answered Tilia, rising slowly from her bed and crossing to her worktable. “Souls.”
“…Souls.” Harkin repeated beneath his breath.
“I’ll be blessing your blade with essence of sage and cat oil,” Tilia said, rolling up the sleeves of her tan blouse as she lit a small burner to start boiling a strange liquid. “That, and the surprise I will have for the creature, should allow you to slay it like you would any mortal beast.”
“Surprise?”
“Yes. A mixture of holy salt from the western coast, iron shavings blessed by a vicar, and various sacred herbs. I will throw this at the Harvestman when it comes for me, further weakening it.”
“You plan to use yourself for the bait?”
“I’m as good as any.”
“This is a brave thing you are doing, Tilia.”
A shudder passed through Tilia, and she crossed her arms as if to warm herself from some otherworldly chill, “I hope I don’t miss…and I hope it works.”
“You seem to have a firm grasp on these ethereal things,” Sir Harkin observed. “but the prefect mentioned you spent only a year at the college.”
“The things that interested me did not necessarily line up with what was required by my instructors. I suppose I wanted something different from my education.”
“Ah, a shame,” Sir Harkin paced the small home, hand to chin and deep in thought. He admired the woman’s courage, her willingness to stand before such evil, but knew there had to be a safer way. He just had to figure it out. He had to admit he wasn’t the most cunning man he knew, but he’d hunted in the family woods many a time and was familiar with the thinking of animals. This Harvestman may possess an intelligence, but it is still a beast…a simple trap should suffice.
“The concoction is ready, Sir Harkin,” said Tilia, lifting the vessel from the burner with a pair of tongs. “Place your blade on the table.”
Sir Harkin obeyed, drawing his blade from its sheath, and laying it before her. It was far from an ornate weapon, with an unadorned hilt wrapped in leather, and plain, steel quillons. He cringed when he saw the numerous nicks along the blade’s edge. Poor thing has seen its share of battle. He watched silently as Tilia coated the blade in the queer substance, using a quill to sketch strange characters with the viscous fluid. Her hand was deft and quick.
“Once we’re in position you must hide nearby. If this spirit is ancient enough it may be able to sense the power on your sword if you are too close,” Tilia said, holding out the sword to Sir Harkin hilt first. “Here. Hold it over the fire.”
Carefully, Sir Harkin approached the low flames of the hearth. Almost instantly, the oil hissed and snapped and the runes Tilia had written glowed a fiery orange, “What do the symbols mean?”
“There are theories, but no one knows for sure. The language expert at the college claimed it roughly translated to ‘banish all evil’.”
“Fitting,” said Sir Harkin, lifting the shimmering steel before him. “Ready for a hunt?”
Sir Harkin concealed himself behind a stooped and gnarled oak tree, his eyes hunting through the branches and leaves for any movement in the forest. He kept a hand on the hilt of his blade, ready to tear it from its sheath at any moment. Not far from him stood Tilia, her pale skin almost luminous in the moonlight. She was motionless, frozen, her small hands clutching a string of agate prayer beads. Harkin thought he saw her lips moving in silent prayer, though it could have been a trick of the darkness. Though not much of a praying man, he sent a few words heavenward for good measure.
A ghastly howl rent its way through the cold air, sending tendrils of frost dancing across Harkin’s skin. The very air seemed frigid and heavy like the world had become encased in ice. The Harvestman had taken the bait.
Every snap of twig and rustle of leaf had Harkin whirling his head to try and find the source of the sound. I must stay calm. Fear will only muddle my judgment and slow my reactions. Tilia’s prayers were no longer silent as she begged Father Death to shield her with His mighty hand and collect her soul another day.
Suddenly, Harkin saw something weaving through the trees; a shadow within a shadow slithering towards Tilia. He squinted, struggling to keep the figure in his sight, and leaned forward in anticipation. Wait. Wait for the trap to spring. Harkin could feel his heart pounding in his head, loud as a smith’s hammer, and his fingers trembling as they gripped his blade. The specter drew nearer, snapping through weak branches and leaving a trail of billowing leaves in its wake. Tilia turned to face the icy eyes of the coming evil, hand tight around the knife that would cut the cord and trap the wretch. Hopefully. Harkin pulled his blade halfway from its sheath, stole a glance to assure himself the runes still burned within the steel. With a swift swipe, Tilia cut the rope next to her which opened a large sack hanging in the boughs above. A mist of salt, iron shavings, and dried sage and somberglove rained down upon her, a shower of holy protection. The Harvestman, savage claws raised to come down upon Tilia, froze in place and emitted a pained roar that filled the night.
“Sir Harkin, now!” Tilia cried, stumbling back from the spirit.
Harkin, blade shimmering in the light of the moon, was upon the beast in five bounding steps. He buried his sword into the swirling tatters, drawing another screech of agony from the Harvestman. Black fog, like a putrid smoke, poured from the Harvestman’s wound, burning Harkin’s eyes and lungs. Coughing and rubbing his weeping eyes, Harkin staggered out of the choking fumes. The fresh air was cool to his lungs, but relief was short-lived as a sharp pain soon erupted from his right side. He looked down to see one of the Harvestman’s blades, coated in his blood, protruding from his flesh. With his left hand, Harkin grasped the claw to prevent the creature from escaping. The Harvestman writhed and hissed, struggled to flee, but the knight’s grip was sure.
“I’ve got you!” Harkin roared, whirling about and slicing the wretch in twain with a single blow.
A piercing wail cut through the night as the Harvestmen twitched, contorted, and finally burst into hundreds of blinding blue orbs. Harkin staggered back, covering his eyes from the powerful lights. He would have fallen had Tilia not steadied him.
“It is finished,” she said, lighting a bundle of sage and holding it above her head. The smoke from the holy plant melded with the vile vapor still belching forth from the Harvestman’s tatters, driving it away like oil from water.
“What are those lights?” asked Harkin, watching the blue orbs float up to the heavens.
“I…I think they’re the souls of those murdered by the spirit. They’re free now.”
“What did this wretch want with all those poor souls?”
Tilia shook her head, “I don’t know. Perhaps it was searching for something to fill the emptiness inside of it.”
“I believe I should see a healer,” Harkin croaked, leaning on his sword for support. He pulled his hand from his wound, found it slick with blood. “The bleeding isn’t terrible. I should pull through.”
Tilia threw the burning sage onto the Harvestman’s rags, setting them alight, and then put Harkin’s arm over her shoulders, “Keep pressure on it as best you can. I should be able to mend you once we get back to the village.”
“We work well together,” said Harkin, wincing with every step. “Are there any more spirits that need to be put to rest in these lands?”
“None that I’m aware of,” Tilia replied, gazing up at the orbs, now no larger than the many distant stars of the night sky. “But I’ve heard of sailors and fishermen turning up dead along the docks and shores surrounding Blacksalt Harbor. They say something sinister stalks in the night.”
“Well,” said Harkin with a smile. “I do love the sea.”
©March 2021, Joshua Turner
Joshua Turner started writing in high school and never really stopped. While he currently works as a radiology technologist, Joshua hopes to one day make a living telling his stories. When not writing, he enjoys hiking, gaming, and spending time with friends and family. His work has appeared previously in Swords & Sorcery Magazine.