The Curse
A Fantasy One Shot
A dark fantasy for your joyful morning. Merry Christmas!
Everywhere he trod there was nought but beasts. The towns he frequented were overrun. The roads were abandoned. The cities were derelict. Of the few sane he met none would meet him for fear of becoming a beast or being seen by a beast. And so Hodvik continued on to the next searching for survivors, searching for beasts.
The overgrown roads led Hodvik to a town by the sea, with crisp air and muted golden sand. White stone cottages lined the shore, their doors opening onto the sand with the sea lapping no more than a few yards away. Taller buildings crowded the centre of town, a half-mile from the sea, the one in the centre had a bell in its tower, a sure sign of faith though Hodvik was unsure as to which. He had travelled so far over many years he no longer knew where he was. The sun shone across the sea, illuminating the cresting waves in brilliant white and catching the ivy snaking the church tower. Moss grew plentiful on the rooves of every home and outhouse, no smoke rose from the multitude of chimneys. Hodvik ventured down the cliffside overlooking the beach, his boots, crusted with mud and blood, crunched into the damp sand as the waves lapped up the shore in a one-two rhythm.
The fading sun blinded a cottage facing the sea, its door lolling in the breeze. Hodvik meandered towards that first beachside cottage with hope and fear mingling in his heart. His hand drifted to the serrated sword on his belt, more butcher's tool than warrior's weapon. The time of warriors had passed, the time of hunters had come.
Hodvik stood in the doorway, the last of the sun's rays billowing by to illuminate the little home, a home frozen in time. Dust sat thick upon a sturdy table and benches, old furs draped across a rocking chair were filled with moth holes, and the wax from burnt out candles dripped over the mantle piece into a cone on the floor. All was still. He turned back towards the setting sun, his hopes for the town simmering to nothing. A floorboard creaked.
'The Master will want to see you,' a woman wheezed.
Hodvik stepped out onto the sand, his hand clutched to his butcher's tool. 'Where is The Master?'
'Near the centre of town,' the voice came from the darkness. A beam of evening sun caught on the woman's all white eyes. 'He will call you when you get close enough,' she cackled and sank back into the darkness of her cottage.
Hodvik headed towards the bell tower, crossing from sandy beach to stony shore and over a sand bank of reeds and grasses. Small fishermen' huts lay rotting beyond the dunes, rods and tackles gathering lichen and moss. The dune gave was to soil and that gave way to walkways of setts and cobbles. His boots clipped the stones while the sea breeze whistled over the sand bank. Dust milled about him, a golden brown shimmer that built up in doorways and along the cracks. The sun was setting and while there was no-one about he could feel eyes watching him.
Hodvik wondered what kept him going in search of people free from the Curse. There had been a name for it, long ago, when it afflicted few but as the years wore on it became the only disease that mattered. The physicians were certain it was not a disease. The philosophers were certain it was. The priests claimed it was a punishment for sin or the weapon of an antagonistic god. The sophists were keen to investigate but made no claims. The Curse spread anyway and wherever Hodvik went he found it and either terrified people or beasts. Beasts were simple, people were difficult, and nowhere was safe.
The bell tower gleamed in the last of the sun, the bronze bell high above free of moss and vine, though not for lack of trying. Ivy claimed the west side of the tower and moss had claimed the slates. Windows had been smashed and the main doorway stood ajar. The walkway split and encircled the church in the centre of the town, two or three storey buildings surrounded it, all facing inward.
All at once the doors flew open. Men and women stood at each, their tattered clothes rippling in the breeze. 'The Master will see you now,' they all said in unison. 'The Master will see you now. The Master will see you now,' the men and women all raised a hand to the north, to a building beyond the church and its bell tower. They continued to speak with one monotone voice.
Hodvik crossed beneath the shadow of the tower. The bell rang out twice and then fell silent once again. The sun had set. He continued in the direction the people of the town pointed, more emerged from homes and cottages, repeating the same words and gesturing the same direction. None bore signs of the Curse but all bore signs of starvation and dehydration. He carried on up to a house on a hill bearing a wide tree lined approach used to seeing opulent carriages, weathered statues of forgotten heroes and maidens lined the driveway. As he neared the staircase leading up to the house the doors opened themselves. A final gust form the sea carried him up and inside, between fluted columns.
The doors slammed behind him and sconces along the hallway lit themselves. A plush runner ran the length of the hallway and only one of the many doors off it stood open. Hodvik continued on.
His hand rested on his serrated blade as he neared the open door, candle light flickering inside. Laughter echoed out too along with a soft melody played on a harpsichord. Hodvik stepped inside, his mud and blood encrusted boots staining the carpet, his tattered greatcoat laden with smoke. A feast sat on the dining table, the food steaming while the plates lay empty. Carafes of wine sat half drunk.
'Our guest of honour,' a man at the head of the table said. The dozen other guests all fell silent, turning as one to face Hodvik. Each was finely dressed, plump in the face, and sipping wine from blue glass.
'The Master?' Hodvik said. The Master had a man's head but that was the last resemblance to a man. His neck was a bulge of flesh that sank under the table. He had no arms that Hodvik could see and no chair beneath him.
'A pleasure to make your acquaintance. These are my favourite twelve, please, make introductions,' The Master spoke with a growl that he coughed away.
A dapper gentleman approached Hodvik, hand outstretched, 'Torval, good to meet you.' His hand was damp and the skin on his top lip shimmered.
'Hodvik,' he accepted Torval's hand surprised to hear a name from his homeland. 'How did you find yourself so far from home?'
'Circumstance,' Torval answered and turned back to his previous conversation partners, an older man and a young woman. Neither introduced themselves.
Hodvik stepped further into the room expecting a servant or guest to stop him or ask for his weapon. Nothing of the sort occurred. A fire roared on the wall to his left while the stars glistened through the windows to the right. The harpsichord sat in the starlight playing itself. Hodvik prowled one length of the dining table, aware of The Master's eyes following him. The food was rotten. The wine mouldy. The candles were spent and the plates were full to the brim, never touched. Hodvik maintained composure until he caught a glimpse of The Master. A mound of flesh lay at the top of the table with a human head. Rippling flesh far beyond that of mere fat it was as if he were a bulging pink slug made the size of a cow. Hodvik had questions, questions he knew he would not hear answers too.
'Do not rest on ceremony, we have eaten already and there is plenty to go around,' The Master said.
Hodvik said nothing, his thoughts preoccupied by The Master's image and those of his favourites. The Curse took many forms but the victims were called beasts for a reason, often they resembled rabid animals in one way or another, in that nameless town, the Curse had taken a different form. Hodvik could smell it. He smelt it on Torval, he smelt it on the laughter of the other guests, he heard it in the music and in The Master's voice, the Curse had seeped into the carpet, into the walls, into the food, and the people. The town was drenched in it, whether the people were beasts yet or not. It didn't matter, they soon would be if it was left to fester. The beasts needed killing.
In a fluid motion Hodvik drew his serrated sword and carved into The Master's voluminous flesh. No blood came forth and the flesh sealed as quick as Hodvik cut it. He spun and decapitated the woman behind him. Torval screamed and tossed his blue glass at Hodvik, catching the man on the forehead. He staggered backwards.
'The beast reveals himself,' The Master slurred.
'You are the beast here,' Hodvik retorted. The Master's favourites slowly stalked after him, Torval at the lead, with his own serrated blade.
'I have become what I must to keep us alive, what have you done?'
'Survived,' Hodvik launched himself at Torval. The older man he had been conversing with leapt in the way and was cut down, black ichor bursting from his skin as a flood of maggots and moths escaped his skull. Hodvik fell back, flinching from the foul stench carried on the cloud of insects. The other favourites charged him, grabbing Hodvik and digging into his flesh with their nails and teeth. He flailed and kicked, swung and headbutted. One by one the beasts fell, their skin parting like tissue paper, a plethora of insects bursting out from within their sacks of flesh. The harpsichord continued to play.
'Torval, do something,' The Master watched on.
Hodvik's tribesman came at him with red eyed furor.
'Traitor,' Hodvik hissed. Blood dribbled from his ear, his ring and fore finger of his left hand were broken, and a chunk had been torn from his leg, yet all the other favourite's lay dead before his feet like a sea of leather and filth.
Torval ignored the barb and swung hard. The swords met, the teeth interlocking with a ear splitting screech. Torval was the stronger, somehow, and he forced Hodvik to his knees, the serrated blade carving into Hodvik's scalp. It was Hodvik's turn to scream as the rusty blade bit into his skull. Hodvik kicked out, catching Torval in the shin. The man lost his balance and Hodvik rolled out from under his assault. Torval swung wildly left, missing Hodvik by an inch. Blood sluiced over Hodvik's eyes. He felt the heat of the fire and turned to face Torval, The Master grimacing behind his fellow tribesman. Torval charged. Hodvik feinted a block and then dodged. Torval careened into the fire, the flames engulfing his body in seconds. Torval screamed for a moment and then fell silent, his frail body cracking and smoking, the skin bursting with black ooze and burning maggots.
The Master fumed. A vein in his head bulged as his cheeks became redder and redder. He thrashed. The table bounced, the rotten food and mouldy wine flying into the air, the table splintering. Six legs, or arms, Hodvik was uncertain, emerged from beneath the table cloth and The Master quaked as he stood. 'Others like you have come here and I have put them down, I will put you down too, you beast.'
Hodvik cuffed the blood from his eyes and trusted in his butcher's tool. He sprinted at The Master. An arm snapped out and Hodvik jumped over it. Another thrust for his neck and Hodvik ducked. A third slammed into his side and Hodvik was sent sprawling all the way to the door.
'Fool,' The Master hissed, staggering across the room. His mountain of flesh lumbered on, dragged across the carpet leaving a trail of foul smelling ooze. The harpsichord continued to play on its own.
Hodvik struggled to his feet, wheezing and losing blood. The Master rampaged his way across the room, smashing the remaining length of table into pieces and crushing dinner plates under hand, foot, and girth. Hodvik ran to meet the beast and slashed thrice. Rubbery skin parted and sealed itself. The Master laughed and crashed into Hodvik with four of his six limbs. Ribs cracked under the strain and Hodvik was thrown across the room once more, landing in a pile underneath the star lit window.
'Surrender and I will make you my new favourite,' The Master said. 'I cannot be killed, it is futile to try.'
'Everything can be killed,' Hodvik found his feet. He wheezed, each breath sending a sharp pain down his left side.
The Master laughed and dragged himself toward Hodvik.
Hodvik knew what he had to do and scolded himself for having not done it when he had the chance, he would need to go for the head. Yet The Master stood almost ten foot tall, his massive bald pate scraping the chandelier. Hodvik ran, feinting a slash on The Master's body, only to hack at a limb and leap up onto the mountain of flesh. The limb came away, the long frail bone snapping under the vicious swing. The Master yelped, a tumult of moths fleeing the stump. There was no blood, no maggots. Hodvik had no time to look and leapt from lumpy flesh to mound of flesh, hacking with his sword to gain purchase. Finally he reached the necessary height and buried his blade into The Master's neck. The blade jammed halfway through. Hodvik began to saw.
The Master screamed and gurgled, his flesh desperately knitting together as Hodvik sawed but it was not enough. Hodvik cut and as soon as he finished he swung again from the other side and sawed again, each time the flesh knitted slower than the last and on the third attempt maggots came forth. Maggots coated in thick black ichor. The Master's head came free, rolling and bouncing to the carpet. The mountain of flesh sank and shrank, turning a dark leathery brown beneath Hodvik's boots. The ichor mingled with the mud and blood to form a new crust. The Master's head sighed, his jaw slack, eyes bloodshot. The harpsichord ceased playing.
Hodvik stumbled out of the house on the hill. The people of that nameless town remained in their doorways, wide eyed and open mouthed. None approached, none spoke. Hodvik followed the road out of town, never once checking over his shoulder, and continued his search for a town free of The Curse.
Merry Christmas to you all and a hearty thank you for reading!