The village of Windshire sits between brooding mountains to the north and a limp moor to the south. There isn't much to say about its cobble foundations and thatched roofs. Some cattle are kept out in the fields. A small stream turns the mill on the east flank. Oh, and today dozens of gallows have been erected around town. Already, many are filled with their heavy and silent loads. Glassy eyes and slack jaws sway on the tired breeze.
Baron Hess eats his breakfast out on his balcony, high above the village proper. He gazes out across his charge, lit by the bleary sun, and sups his milky tea, content. The annual witch hunt puts the plebs in a good mood. Puts a lid on their constant yammering about 'rights' and 'justice'.
Already the mob has been hard at work through the night. They might have to erect more gallows. Baron Hess hasn't seen any actual witchcraft practised in Windshire since he was a wee lad. Not that it matters. The peasants need something to be angry about.
Yes, Baron Hess is a happy man this morning. He thinks that he may take the horses for a ride while the witch hunt reaches its peak through the afternoon. There will be a lot of burning and extolling of sacred texts. Cornwell can take care of the details while the Baron rides. He'll be back for the evening feast, to close out the ceremony until next year.
The smile is taken from his face when the screaming begins.
Minutes later, Baron Hess stands before the largest set of gallows in the centre of the village. The corpses are animated and screaming, probably about their circumstances. The anxious secretary, Cornwell, is flicking through a huge ledger behind the Baron.
‘Cornwell?’
‘Yes, sire.’
‘Why are the witches screaming?’
‘Because…’ Cornwell staggers the answer while he thinks, frantically skimming the pages of the ledger. ‘...because - uh - we hung them?’
‘Yes Cornwell, we did,’ says Baron Hess, dangerously still. ‘But usually, when they die, they stay dead.’
The whole village is out and covering their ears against the ghoulish cacophony. At least fifty witches; dead, animated and screaming. They’re looking at each other and the Baron for answers. Is this a curse? The Baron thinks it might be. But then he sees something.
‘Cornwell…’ says the Baron. ‘Who are they?’
Cornwell, who has his sights rested on a single entry in the ledger, looks up and follows the Baron’s finger to a long procession of hooded people slowly making their way into the centre of the village. They carry various bone chimes and effigies on their dark vestments. Cornwell’s stomach sinks as the penny drops.
‘Ah,’ says Cornwell. ‘That would be the Society of Northern Necromancers, making their way to their annual convention at the corn exchange.’
The Baron turns and fixes Cornwell with a lethal stare. ‘Cornwell…’
‘We, uh, agreed to it last year, sire.’ Cornwell scratches his head and closes the ledger. ‘I think we must have double-booked it.’
Baron Hess sighs and rubs his temples, as the chanting of the necromancers rises to join the screams across Windshire. ‘Go get me a paladin, Conwell. And a bloody mary.’
Paddy Dobson
15th August 2020