Tales of the Hanged Man: The Hundred Bones



  THE HANGED MAN: THE HUNDRED BONES

  By Mark Gelineau

  Copyright © 2014 Mark Gelineau

  Published by Pro Se Press

  I

  Dead Man Walking.

  The rain poured down hard. The hood of his cloak was up, but even still, the swirling wind brought fat drops splashing against his face. Gray mist seemed to rise up from the ground itself, making an almost seamless transition from the stones that pocked the green hills to the threatening sky above.

  It made him miss feeling cold.

  Despite the shrieking wind coming over the rocky coast, despite the icy rain, he still felt nothing. Sensation was for the living, and William Rhys had not been counted among that number since the day he had been hanged.

  Once he had been a man. Once he had a family, brothers and sisters and nieces and nephews. Once he had loved a woman named Mary and she had loved him back. But when her husband, the cruel lord of the land, had discovered their love, everything changed. His family had been murdered by the knights of Lord de Brious, and William had been hung. He died gasping and twitching on a length of coiled rope under a cold sky.

  And then he had come back.

  He remembered nothing of what had come in between, just the feeling of cold earth over him and clawing his way out of his own grave, the hangman's noose still dangling from his neck. He had returned from death, but there was no life left for him, for his dear Mary had been killed soon after his own death. All that remained for him was vengeance, and he took it mercilessly, hunting down the men responsible for the deaths of his loved ones, until finally he stood before de Brious himself.

  The Hanged Man produced the noose from his cloak and held it out before de Brious. The Lord whimpered and flinched at the sight of it.

  As he moved resolutely forward, the Hanged Man began to speak. "Lord de Brious. You stand accused of the murder of thirteen men, women, and children, and the death of your own wife, the Lady Mary. The penalty for these crimes is death. Do you have any last words?"

  De Brious began to laugh. It started small, growing to a roaring cackle utterly devoid of any and all sanity. The Hanged Man placed the noose over his head and tightened the knot. As the rope began to grow tighter on his throat, a mad light came into de Brious's eyes and he stopped his laughter. "I did not kill her," he said in a hoarse whisper.

  Shaking his head, the Hanged Man stopped tightening the rope. "Your lies will not work on me. Though you told everyone it was a fever that took her, I know it was your own vile rage that killed her." He began tightening the rope again.

  The Lord simply looked at him and smiled. "Death would have been too easy for her. Would have put her together with you," he gasped, barely able to form words now. "She lives, but I am sure she wishes every day she did not." He locked his mad eyes onto the blood tinted gaze of the Hanged Man. "She lives and you will never find her," he croaked.

  "If she lives, I will find her," the Hanged Man said. "And when I do, I will tell her how you died." With cold fury, the Hanged Man tightened the noose and took his vengeance.

  Those final words from the mouth of a dying murderer though would not leave his mind. Mary, alive. He knew he had to search for her. But as the months had grown to a full year, and still no sign or trace of her, his hope had begun to dim, like the embers of an abandoned fire growing ever colder. Perhaps she truly was gone, lost to him for all time.

  Worse still, since the day he had died, he had begun to change. At first, he had been so consumed with his own quest for revenge that he had not given much thought to the nature of his own miraculous resurrection. But in the year since, he could not deny that he was no longer the man he once had been. There was less of William left inside him now, and more pieces of him eroded away with each day. In their place was simply the Hanged Man.

  And the Hanged Man's return from death had come at a cost. Deep inside him now, something pulled him like a lodestone seeking cold iron. Something that would not be denied, a cold purpose that consumed him.

  The wrongful dead, those who had died from violence and cried out for revenge, gave voice to their pain, and the Hanged Man heard them. He was compelled to act as their emissary of vengeance, drawn from place to place by the phantom cries of the dead. This compulsion had drawn him north, from the empty halls of Swansea Castle, where he had wrought his own vengeance upon the foul Lord de Brious, through the darkened woods of Blackpool. And now, to the side of the roaring sea in the land of the Scot. Where his heart had once beat, now there was only a hollow throbbing that urged him ever forward, always pushing him toward the wronged, the suffering.

  Day after day, the call of the victimized grew louder, and the hope of finding Mary grew fainter and fainter. While the spirit of William Rhys searched for his lost love, the dark hunger inside him sought those who cried out for justice. For he was the Hanged Man, and he would be their instrument of vengeance. Whether he wanted to or not.

  Now, to the coast in the rocky north, he had come, following this purpose. He had been hearing the whispers for the last mile. He knew he was getting close.

  He did not understand what was the whip that drove him to seek these poor souls, just as he was ignorant of the nature of his own resurrection. But he felt the pull toward them. It was his purpose, and it would not be denied. And as he drew closer, he would hear their whispered pleas for justice, for vengeance. And the hangman's rope coiled around his arm would writhe like an angry serpent.

  As he crested the top of the last hill, he saw a large building, gray stone outlined against the dark gray sky. It sat just off the road, square and stout, the rain washing down the cold stone of the walls. Beside it was a fairly large wooden enclosure that could easily house a half dozen horses. A good sized inn. The wooden sign outside swung back and forth in the biting wind with a rearing stag painted on it in bright red and gold. The paint on the sign was recently done, and the place was well cared for. And yet, for all of that, there was no smoke trailing from the tall chimney. No bright light coming from inside. No hearty laughter.

  The only sounds coming from the place were the whispers of the dead that only the Hanged Man could hear.

  In stark contrast to the well maintained building, the heavy wooden door that had once secured the entrance was broken and splintered. The dark iron of the heavy bar that had secured it lay twisted on the floor beneath. The Hanged Man's grim frown deepened as he pushed the wreckage of the door aside and stepped into the building.

  The interior of the inn was lit only by the cold gray light of the storm through the windows. Heavy shadows clung to the corners of the common room, but in the faltering light, the disrupted state of the inn was clear. All around, wooden tables and chairs had been tossed to the floor. Discarded tankards lay strewn about, and over on the cold hearth, a heavy iron pot was scored and caked with the burnt remains of what once had been a stew cooking on the fire. It was cold evidence of tranquility interrupted by chaos and violence.

  Dead Man.

  The whispers came once more, this time louder and from above him. As he craned his neck back, he saw them. Dangling from the wooden beams of the rafters were two bodies, a man and a woman. A noose was stretched tight around each of their necks, the ropes leading up into the shadows of the high ceiling. At the sight, the rope coiled around his own neck began to constrict.

  Both of the bodies opened their eyes and stared down upon him.

  Dead Man, the innkeeper said, his lifeless lips still, but his eyes focused on the Hanged Man.

  Dead Man, the innkeeper's wife intoned.

  You came to me.

  You must listen to me.


  Each of them spoke to him now in their disembodied whispering voices. Each was unaware of the other, alone in death, as they called out to him for vengeance.

  They killed me, Dead Man. They killed me while my husband watched.

  I watched my wife die, Dead Man. Then they hung me beside her.

  He stared up at them and nodded. "What do you want from me?" he asked in his ragged, ruined voice. They ignored him. Although he could hear their plaintive murmurs, the spirits of the wronged were always deaf to his own words.

  The innkeeper continued on, his whispered words a litany of his grief and sorrow at the horror of watching his wife die before his eyes. The human part that remained William Rhys felt the stirrings of sympathy inside him, like the smoldering ashes of a long extinguished fire. But when the wife's corpse spoke again, it caught the Hanged Man's attention fully.

  This land is cursed, Dead Man. Monsters own the night. They take men. Long has it been this way.

  My wife. They killed her, the innkeeper droned on

  The red eyes of the innkeeper's wife, so much like the Hanged Man's own, stared down at him. Monsters hunt man in this land, and yet it was we who were blamed for the crime. They broke the door before the sun rose. The men of the village. Our friends. Our neighbors. They came and they killed me. They killed me while my husband watched and wept.

  The innkeeper's whispers grew more forlorn and fainter, mingling with the howl of the wind outside. His spirit was fading away, lost in his grief. But his wife beside him began to twitch, dead muscles moving with a sound like meat being butchered. With a wrenching pop she tore one arm free from the bonds that held her hands behind her back. The motion sent her body swaying back and forth, and rotted flesh rained down from her as she raised the arm high and pointed with the mangled ruin of her hand.

  North.

  This land is cursed. Monsters own the night, Dead Man. All know this. And yet we were blamed. We were punished. We were innocent. We were murdered. Her outstretched arm twitched emphatically with each word. Avenge us, Dead Man. Bring us justice, Dead Man.

  The Hanged Man nodded once, and then turned away from the murdered couple, the innkeeper still moaning his loss into the winds of eternity, and the wife whispering her cry for vengeance. He turned from them and walked from the lonely inn, and out into the driving rain once more. He set his boots upon the muddy path and turned toward the North.

  The Hanged Man walked in the rain, seeking a town full of murderers.