A Cursed Land

Another Strange Tale by Gordon Brewer

“I’m so thirsty,” the knight mumbled to himself.

As he limped along the narrow trail amid the dark forest, the weary man looked ahead. The pines appeared unusual, with their limbs pointed upward over the trail. Majestic and inspiring, with the light of the dying sun peaking through the dull gray sky. It gave him the same sense of holiness he remembered from the cathedral.

Wait, what was the name of that holy place?

The knight shook his head, then scratched his cheek. Dark flakes fell off on the back of his hand. It looked like dried blood.

What happened?

For some reason, the man could not remember what happened before he got on the trail. But the raging thirst drove him forward. He believed a stream or river must lie ahead. It had to. The knight believed before long that he would drink from the first mud puddle he found to soothe his parched throat.

As he walked, he adjusted his belt while he inspected his chainmail and clothing. The golden breastplate he wore appeared nearly black from the grime and tarnish. Automatically, he pulled his sword, shocked to find the ragged edge and corrosion on the metal. He condemned himself for letting it go, then he stopped.

A knight never lets his weapon turn into such a sorry state!

Convinced he must have stumbled upon the sword, he nodded to himself while sliding it back into the scabbard.

“Edward, isn’t it time to leave this world?”

The knight looked around for the voice and a chill ran up his spine. The first thing he noticed was the fact he stopped by the wooden gate of a small cemetery. In the middle of the graveyard, a large crypt sat with freshly dug mounds around it. The shallow graves had a rotting hand or a foot sticking out of the ground. He knew the sight of hasty burials given on sanctified ground.

Plague?

“Don’t you wish to join us?”

He looked at what he thought was a statue standing on top of the crypt. But the figure moved, sliding down to sit on the edge of the marble vault. Instantly, the knight backed away from the grim reaper who held a scythe in one hand. While the stranger’s face remained hidden in the shadow of his black hood, Edward had no doubts.

The creature pointed his scythe at the knight as he continued to back away.

“There’s no rest for the condemned. Join me. Only I can save you.”

“No—no, you’re not getting me!”

The knight turned and ran away. Stumbling across the trail, he pushed his way through a line of trees. As he entered the forest, he didn’t see the reaper shrug his shoulders before the figure disappeared.

Edward finally came through the trees into an open meadow. Out of breath, he looked back, relieved to see the reaper did not follow him. As he drifted into the field, the memory of his name came back to him.

Edward de Morley, that’s my name. I’m the 4th Baron Morley!

Visibly relieved at the insight, the man glanced back occasionally but remained alone as he walked. With each step, pieces of his memories came back, flashes of images mixed with fear and anger. Edward slowed as the field soon showed him. He was not alone.

Piles of rotting bodies lay in the thick, knee-high grass. The smell of decay and blood filled the air around him as he encountered more and more of the corpses. Still, the fleeting glimpses in his mind drove him forward until the knight came upon a single tree. Partially hidden under the shade, he looked down at a body. The dead knight sat propped up against the tree trunk. His thin nose and angular face looked familiar, but Edward had no name for him. Whatever identity the knight once had meant nothing anymore. The arrows sticking out of his chainmail and his cleaved skull made him nothing more than a memory to his loved ones.

 “My dear friend, I’m sorry that I could not save you this day,” Edward addressed the corpse as he kneeled in front of him. “Once I remember your name, I’ll light a candle during prayers for you.”

Rising, the knight looked around, uneasy about the scene.

“Judging by the decay, your death occurred weeks ago,” he said, mostly to himself. “The army must be heading north to the port.”

He ran his hand through his long hair.