Masks

Masks

         The radiant face of the sun was naught but a faint memory, its last feeble rays dwindling over the marshes. Soon enough, the land found itself shrouded in the deathly pall of the full moon, its luminous surface engulfing all in pale, silvery light. On this unhallowed night, no living creature stalked through the fens. All was silent. All was still.

*

         On this night, the Baron found himself surveying his lands from atop the High Tower of Castle Vaernheist. He was a grim man, and not prone to superstition. However, he did detect something peculiar in the night, something that had denied him of the peaceful rest that had all too readily gripped his servants. A lurking dread had gripped his soul, some primeval fear spawned from the darkest depths of mortal insecurity.

         From his vantage point, he had a clear view of the dilapidated village that housed the people of his fiefdom. It was a miserable place, filled with a ragged assortment of peasants and thatch-roofed hovels. The Baron held no sympathies for these wretched peons, seeing in them only the potential to carry out his wishes.

         How odd, he thought, that the rabble have ceased their merrymaking. Had not a wedding occurred previously that day? The celebrations usually carried on deep into the night . . .

         The man was instantly torn from his reverie by a blinding flash that lit up the sky, followed closely by a tremendous clap of thunder. The force of the thunderclap had reverberated throughout the castle, a testament to Nature’s wrath.

         Again, the Baron found himself pondering the situation at hand. The skies had been clear only moments before the sun had set . . . where had this storm risen from?

         In answer to his thought, another jagged bolt of lightning rent the sky asunder, briefly illuminating the decaying expanse below. Then he heard it. Just above the tempest winds, a lonely dirge seemed to be drifting up from the village. It was a mournful song, calling up memories of those long deceased.

         But where was it coming from? There hadn’t been any funerals that day, or that week, for that matter.

         The Baron was intrigued by this occurrence. Perhaps it was a wandering minstrel, whose songs would be able to lull him to sleep. He decided to travel down to the entry hall of his castle. If anything, the walk could possibly soothe his troubled mind.

         As he strode through the dank corridors of Castle Vaernheist, he noted a distinct chill in the air, causing his breath to fog before his eyes. He could not quite place it, but the creeping suspicion of malign encroachment had grown since he had left the High Tower. The stone statues that adorned the entry hall stood like fiendish monoliths. He felt their lifeless gaze, he knew that those cold eyes were piercing his very soul.

         With a shiver, he scurried across the tiled floor and cast open the great wooden doors that led to the outside world. He was immediately bathed in radiant moonlight as he stepped out into the night, temporarily forcing him to shield his eyes. As he lowered his hand, his blood froze in his veins.

         No longer was he alone. He now knew where the peasants had gone, for they were amassed before him. But these were not the same people that had once toiled beneath his iron reign. Each one of their faces was hidden behind a mask of wood, bare of any feature save two circular eyeholes. They made no noise, simply staring at him through those hellish masks.

         “What . . .” he stammered, “I demand you stand down!” However, the usual subservient nature of the peasants had long forsook them.

         Then, from within his own castle, came the spectral trill of some otherworldly flute. The sound that reached his ears was the same as that which he heard coming from the village. Wheeling around, he found himself facing a cloaked figure; clad in a mask similar to that of the peasants. The only difference in design was the addition of a mouth hole, through which no mouth was visible. This demonic entity radiated a malefic darkness, seemingly absorbing most of the moonlight that shown upon it.

         Again, it raised the flute to the hole in the mask, issuing forth an infernal sound so piercing that the Baron fell to his knees, hands clapped over his ears. To him, the noise was that of a thousand condemned souls, all crying out in unison. Just as he thought he could bear the noise no longer, the voices began.

         They filled his head, a multitude of harsh voices speaking as one.

         “Tyrant!” they wailed. “Murderer! Black-hearted scoundrel! You promised us safety from the usurpers, yet all we received was death beneath the lash of your soldiers!”

         “No! It wasn’t my fault!” the Baron screamed, trying to block out the voices.

         “Lier!” the voices screeched. “You will suffer for all that you have done to the people of this land!”

         The Baron searched wildly around him, but saw no means of egress. The masked villagers were closing in, their arms outstretched. Not a sound did they utter while they advanced. The cloaked figure continued its maddening dirge, filling the night with the music of the dead.

         There came one final scream, echoing far across the dismal wetlands, then all was silent.

*

         Faint rays of morning sunlight shown down upon the Castle and its surrounding lands. Two villagers, sent to the Castle to deliver a message to the Baron, came to a stop just in front of the entry hall doors. Before them lay the body of the man whom they had sought, crumpled in a twisted heap.

         Shrugging his shoulders, one of the men walked over and began to remove his valuables.

         “Strange,” he remarked, “not a mark on him.”