Prologue
Marcus had been one of few who could stand boorish Old Man Ricker, but it had been duty rather than friendship that had drawn him on this occasion to the remote homestead where the miser dwelt. For some years, Marcus had been the sheriff of Dormis. So it was that he was one of three present to see to the old man's last rites, such as they were. Antonius Ricker had always profaned the gods - in his mind, the Lords Above were such as had not seen fit to grant him a wife or a strong son to carry on his legacy and therefore were worthy of no praise. And so, even on his deathbed, Ricker would have no priest come but wanted only for someone to take his last words in confidence. Marcus stood in silence, dressed in such formal attire as he had - his armored vest, with the brass shield that was his badge of office affixed to the lapel - as the old man twitched and moaned in a feverous trance.
All in attendance knew that Ricker, profuse with sweat and skin hanging from his bones, was not long for this world. The apothecary, one Marianna Tomasic, had paid several visits to the old man in the early days of his sickness, but Ricker held no truck with her herbs or her lore and so he paid her no mind, choosing - perhaps unwisely - to instead to make liberal use of his traditional family remedy: corn liquor. So it was that the room was now ripe with the smell of corn liquor and filth. The old man was pitched into a delirium from which there seemed to be little hope of retrieving him.
Several empty ceramic jugs lay scattered about the room, in keeping with the general disarray which even in times of health characterized the Ricker homestead. Whether it was his burning fever, the liquor, or both in equal measure that was causing his fit of delirium, not even the apothecary could say. It was only in an apparent moment of lucidity that Ricker had earlier sent up a signal of black smoke by the burning of green boughs - the traditional call for aid, in these parts - and so brought to his deathbed sheriff Marcus, Maria the apothecary, and Herbert the woodcutter, the latter of whom had happened to be nearby harvesting lumber for the new barn that was then being put up on the Larkin homestead.
Marcus stood at the foot of Ricker's bed, arms folded, distressed by these goings-on, and suddenly the old man mumbled something in a dry whisper. Marcus drew closer, a red kerchief tied around his nose and mouth, and crouched by the old man's side.
"What is it, Antonius?" The sheriff said calmly. Ricker slowly turned his head around and some of the mad light of delirium had left his eyes for a time. His hands, naught but skin and bone, clawed the bed as if searching for something.
"No more..," Ricker croaked. Beneath his bandanna, Marcus frowned in worry. Cantankerous and unpleasant as he had been, there was no denying the old man had ever been filled with life - choleric, hateful life, perhaps, but he had been proud and defiantly alive nonetheless. It pained Marcus to see the proud old man brought so low. Maria, the apothecary, had her eyes closed, and was humming a prayer of healing, though Marcus did not suspect it would do the old blasphemer much good. The woodcutter bowed his head alongside her. Marcus sighed and grabbed the old man's bony hand.
"I'm here, Antonius," He hesitated, uncertain if the old man in his fever would be accepting of the fact that his time had come. "...to perform your last rites. I've brought no priest, in deference to your wishes. What would you say to me on this, your final hour?" For a moment the old man tossed and turned, and his eyelids fluttered feverishly. Then Ricker's lids snapped open and locked upon his, and his grip became like iron on the sheriff's hand.
"Marcus," His voice was little more than a hoarse whisper, but for the moment the old man seemed clear and lucid. Indeed, there was a cold light in his stare that put Marcus in mind of the old man's better days, when he came to market in the village square seemingly just to cause trouble and curse at folks he didn't like - which was just about everybody. As then, his features were now set in a cold glare, his lip perpetually curled in disgust and ready to spit an insult or curse at a moment's notice. The old man's flesh was thin and translucent, it seemed to Marcus, like the castoff skin of a rattlesnake. Ricker's burning eyes were yellowed and bloodshot as they regarded the figures before the old man's deathbed.
His glare softened somewhat as a look of recognition came across his fever-hazed eyes. "Marcus," He said with something like relief. "I'm glad you have come,"
Marcus too was relieved, to hear the old man himself again. He gripped the bony claw that still held tight to his own hand and spoke, trying to sound reassuring. "It's good to see you, friend, though I wish it were under happier circumstances,"
Ricker looked confused for a moment, and his eyes cast about the room, seeing the apothecary and the woodcutter bowed in their prayers, and the bottles scattered about. His nostrils flared and he seemed to become aware of the stench of decay which permeated the room. He looked down at his hand, the skin of which was practically transparent with emaciation. "I see..," He croaked in a dry rasp. "Now it comes back...I called to you," Marcus nodded, and the realization that he had called to another for aid seemed to pain Ricker more than his sickness ever could, prideful as he was. Ricker closed his eyes and was still, and for a moment Marcus feared the old man had suddenly died, but then he exhaled a long sigh and looked again into Marcus' eyes, a mixture of sorrow and anger rictusing his gaunt features.
"You've come for my last rites. I thank you for not bringing Falmer from the steeplehouse. I would sooner not distract him from his busy work..," Here he collapsed into a fit of retched coughing, and Marcus sat silently until he had finished. "...His busy work browning his nose, for surely it's a waste of his most holy time, blessing a sinner when he could have his face buried in the skirts of heaven. May his precious icons fall down on his head when next he kneels at the altar!" Ricker made his best effort to spit on the floor in spite, though this earned him only another fit of wheezing coughs. Marcus grimaced at the old man's blasphemy, but he said no prayer asking for the gods to forgive Ricker, for that would only bring the old man's ire on him. It was said - by Gareth Falmer, in fact - that the gods would help no man who spited them. In truth, Ricker's curse was somewhat comforting to hear, blasphemous as it was, for some of his old energy returned to him as he cursed the priest, and he was like himself for a time longer.
"But all that besides..," Ricker continued after his coughing fit subsided. "I do have ought to say to you, sheriff, if you would bear witness of my final hour. To all of Dormis I say thus, and I charge you to bear these, my final words," There was a strange light in Ricker's eyes as Marcus met them. The old man spoke and his voice was a fell hiss. "Do you accept this task, Marcus, son of Leto? I would have you swear it, upon ought that you hold dear. If you are the fair man I know, you will do this thing for me, so that I might know some measure of peace hereafter,"
The abominable tension in the air seemed to Marcus nigh unbearable. The old man's crazed eyes seemed almost to exert a physical pressure on him. Marcus was not a superstitious man, and yet he paled before the gaze of the dying miser, who was so intent no doubt to deliver one last spiteful word to all of those he saw as his enemies. In truth, the villagers by and large pitied the old man, though if Ricker had known this, it would have made him all the more vengeful.
Marcus heard the apothecary praying fervently and in rote, and the woodcutter repeating her words. Hearing this, he knew that they were not listening, and that his task fell to him alone. Ricker had called to him, and charged him by name. Marcus steeled himself and held the old man's gaze, prepared for the worst bile Ricker could summon, such as he was.
"I accept your charge, Antonius Ricker," He said firmly, and hesitating, he drew his pistol. The heavy revolver's bright metal glittered in the dull light, and Marcus placed Ricker's hand over it before clasping it with his own. He solemnly intoned an oath to the dying miser.
"As you hold no truck with the gods, I will not swear before them, for such would hold no value to you, in my reckoning," Ricker nodded, satisfied that Marcus respected his wishes.
Marcus clasped the wooden handle of the pistol and continued. "I do swear, by this gun of my father, that I will carry your words as you bid me, that all might hear them and know your final will and testament. Be these words foul, venomous, or cruel, I will bear them nonetheless to the people of Dormis without censor or amendment. Such is your right, as it is the right of every citizen of this land, be they godly or no,"
In this, the old man seemed to gain some final satisfaction, and in his gaunt features Marcus saw what might have passed for a smile. "Ever you were good and fair to me, Marcus - Sheriff, I should rather say, for is it not duty that brings you here today? - though others were not so fair. Know ye now that nothing I say hence shall fall upon you and yours. I wish no ill upon you, Marcus, son of Leto, and you have my leave to come and go as you please from my lands, should you wish to do so. Now listen well,"
The old man paused to gather his thoughts. At these ominous words, Marcus thought that he had been correct, and Ricker was preparing one last defiant jab, to spit from the grave upon all those he hated in life. What followed was as he expected, in part, but more spiteful still. The old man made to clear his throat, and went into another and worse fit of coughing, and this time blood frothed at Ricker's lips. Marcus winced in sympathy and made to speak, but Ricker raised a hand and with an effort of will choked down his coughs, forcing the words out in an abominable and defiant rasp.
"No more!" He spat. "No more will I be forced to suffer you fools of Dormis, who mock me behind your closed doors and insult me with your prayers on my behalf. And the better for it! Falmer would have it that my soul will go now to the gods and be judged, my heart weighed that I might find what peace as suits me in the world beyond. But I spit upon the gods!"
And he did spit, and it was bloody and black and smelled of decay. Marcus slid back in disgust, and Ricker dragged himself up by the bed post, the feverish light in his eyes growing stronger. The apothecary and the woodcutter took notice, and their prayers were interrupted, though soon they redoubled them, plugging their ears against the old miser's blasphemies. The old man stared at Marcus with the light of his cold eyes, and the sheriff felt that they looked upon the very depths of his soul. Ricker continued, ranting.
"I have taken no wife and sired no heirs, for none would have me. What say the gods? They who cursed me to this life of solitude, that I might toil on the earth and sleep alone each night, and in doing so know that none shall honor me hereafter when I die unmourned from some desultory malady of the body? Fie on the gods, I say! And fie upon you, people of Dormis, who look jealously on my ancestral homestead, where my forefathers have toiled ere your fathers ever came out of the hills to despoil what was rightfully our land.
"If as the holy men say, a man may imperil his soul as he wills; if my spirit is mine to do with as I see fit, then here I lay claim to it. It is mine and mine alone, and I defy the gods to take it into their domain, though I should rather wander these lands as a revenant for all time. The better for it, I say, for sooner I would remain in the lands of my fathers, in the house of Ricker where there are no shrines and no gods but only men. A pox, say I, on any who would pray for my soul's redemption," Here the apothecary and the woodcutter again ceased their prayers and looked at the old man with fear and disgust. Ricker grew increasingly fervent until he was practically shouting in his foul rasp of a voice. Marcus was at a loss of words, but he had accepted the spiteful old man's charge, and so he hung on every syllable.
Bloody spittle frothed and flew from his lips as Ricker ranted and raved. "Still worse I wish on any who would trespass my lands. If in life I suffered no one to come hither without my leave, in death I curse any who would come to these lands hereafter, for they belong to me and no other! If my spirit is not torn forcefully from this earthly domain, I shall be as a plague upon any who dare encroach on what is mine. This is a warning and a dread promise; if it is within the my power to spurn the embrace of the heavens, this thing I shall do, and woe betide any who defy me then!"
The hair on Marcus' nape stood on end and the horrible tension in the air had grown to new heights until the sheriff felt it pounding at his temples. He was rife with despair to hear the mad ravings of a man he had once called friend. Surely this was all a result of the fever and the liquor at work on Ricker's spite-addled mind, or did the man truly think himself some abominable witch, to curse his lands and himself so? Marcus remained silent, for the old man seemed to be winding down, though his bitterness grew no lesser for it.
"Again I will say that I spite the gods, may they keep their eternal bliss for themselves. For as I prospered not from them during life, I will not deign to do so now, and I will continue to dwell on here in solitude, until such time as Dormis falls to havoc and flame and my spirit, laughing in rancorous mirth, perishes in the fires of this land's ending, and I cease to be. Then alone shall I know peace,"
Ricker's eyes now seemed to look past Marcus, as though he gazed far away. "So I now foretell it to be, with what vision a man may have who sits knocking at death's door. I see it before my eyes now, may it be the truth that I gaze upon, and not merely my own fancy. How pretty the flames are! They dance gaily among the cast-down ruins where once dwelt those who loathe me. The mirth of the flames is mine, their crackle my echoing laughter, their heat my blistering hate! With whatever power a man may possess in death, I bid you be cursed, people of Dormis, and know despair forever more!"
He seemed to be finished, and the malevolent light in his eyes began to fade. Ricker's lips parted for a final time as he fell back upon the bed. His malice spent, an unexpected softness came into his features as he gazed once more at Marcus, his eyes no longer blinded by fury.
"If ever I have prayed in this life, let it be now that my plea is heard by what gods may be prying upon our words, spying upon us always such as the holy men tell of them. I pray now that such calamity as I would bring down on Dormis does not fall on your house, son of Leto, so long as you complete this task with which I charge you as sheriff of these lands...and as the only man alive that I would I call friend,"
He seemed to reach the end of his strength and faltered, now that the purpose to which he had clung in his last moments was fulfilled. His eyes closed and he croaked out fragile words. "My time is upon me now, I feel. This is the end,"
Marcus hesitated and his heart was heavy, but he gripped Ricker's thin hand tightly and spoke. "Tarry a moment longer, if you can. I yet have some final words for you,"
Ricker's yellow eye cracked open and looked half-seeing at the sheriff. Marcus continued. "As I have sworn, I will carry your oath back to the people. But now hear my oath, Antonius Ricker, though you know it already: I am the shield of Dormis, its sole warden. And I will protect her against all foes, be they man or beast, living or dead. Whatever wrath you call upon Dormis, know that if it is within my power, I will stand willingly between my people and whatever perdition imperils them, though you pray I be sheltered from it. This I swear before gods and men both: as I live, no threat to Dormis will stand unchallenged,"
His voice was hard as iron and he matched Ricker's cold gaze with his own. His grip slackened and the softness returned to his features as he finished. Through his strained and weary expression, something like a smile graced Ricker's aged countenance.
"Fair enough," He said with something like the rasping chuckle of a sand snake. "Farewell, Marcus," Choking out this final farewell, the words failed in his throat. With this last wish, Antonius Ricker died, with what passed for a look of contentment on his hollow face. Marcus stood and holstered the pistol by which he had sworn this oath. The apothecary and the woodcutter gaped at him, and their faces held a mixture of reverence and revulsion for what had just occurred. In truth, Marcus shared their feelings, though his face was more somber.
None of them dared now, as would normally be the custom, to pray for the dearly departed soul of Antonius Ricker. Dearly it was, for dearly would they have prayed for the departing of Ricker's malevolent soul from the earth, if they dared defy his dying will. As it was, they were merely agape with horror and at a loss for words. Marcus draped the bed linens respectfully over Ricker's prostrate form and then, after a reverential silence, he somberly spoke. "Fetch a shovel, Herb. It is ours to bury him and depart swiftly,"
The two nodded their unspoken agreement and the woodcutter gratefully stepped outside of the cottage. Marcus spoke now, to the apothecary.
"Marianna," He knew the middle-aged woman, though they were not close, but he used her given name to soften his speech. "I apologize for all that you have heard. I should have asked you to leave us when he gave his final confession, if only to delay your hearing of such foul portents until I announce them to the town upon our return. It must be difficult for a healer to endure such misery and spite,"
The apothecary spoke, and her voice was steady, though a slight tension told Marcus that she was holding her composure with an effort of will. "That is kind of you to say, sheriff, but it is oft the healer's lot to watch over the pained and the miserable. Many times I have called on this house, and many times I have been cursed and reviled for a charlatan and cast away, my help unwanted and my advice unheeded. What weighs heaviest on my heart is that I could have cured him of the fever and spared us this misery, had he but let me.
"But tell me, surely you do not truly mean to bring this vile curse back to the village? I have heard such things before from Ricker's mouth, and Herbert is a simple, pious mind who like as not paid his words no heed, but such things are not meant for the ears of the innocent, to which they will inevitably come if you announce them to the village,"
Marcus nodded somberly. "It is mine as sheriff and as his last confidant to be the bearer of Ricker's last testament, though it be a damnable curse upon all our people. It is the right of all men, come the hour of their death, to be heeded. Such do the priests tell us, and even for lack of godliness, I will not see Antonius Ricker forgotten in this. Now pay heed, apothecary, for you must prepare the body for burial,"
His face was grim as he pronounced her duty. She grimaced, but nodded and took from her pack the implements she had brought for this purpose, having known of Ricker's deteriorating condition. They set to work, reverentially as befitted a burial preparation, but also swiftly, for none wished to tarry long in the loathsome and accursed place. Thereafter, few dared to tread those lands, in fear of the threats Ricker had laid at the feet of any would-be trespassers. The people of Dormis were a superstitious lot, who saw no wisdom in tempting fate, whether or not they thought the old man had any real power. Such curses had until then been known only in the colorful folklore of those lands, which often told of witches, monsters, and other abominable things.
Marcus would later reflect to himself in the comfort of his home that he did not believe in magic or curses anyway, and so in the peace of the coming years, he paid no mind to the fate hung over their heads by the old man.
Marcus had been one of few who could stand boorish Old Man Ricker, but it had been duty rather than friendship that had drawn him on this occasion to the remote homestead where the miser dwelt. For some years, Marcus had been the sheriff of Dormis. So it was that he was one of three present to see to the old man's last rites, such as they were. Antonius Ricker had always profaned the gods - in his mind, the Lords Above were such as had not seen fit to grant him a wife or a strong son to carry on his legacy and therefore were worthy of no praise. And so, even on his deathbed, Ricker would have no priest come but wanted only for someone to take his last words in confidence. Marcus stood in silence, dressed in such formal attire as he had - his armored vest, with the brass shield that was his badge of office affixed to the lapel - as the old man twitched and moaned in a feverous trance.
All in attendance knew that Ricker, profuse with sweat and skin hanging from his bones, was not long for this world. The apothecary, one Marianna Tomasic, had paid several visits to the old man in the early days of his sickness, but Ricker held no truck with her herbs or her lore and so he paid her no mind, choosing - perhaps unwisely - to instead to make liberal use of his traditional family remedy: corn liquor. So it was that the room was now ripe with the smell of corn liquor and filth. The old man was pitched into a delirium from which there seemed to be little hope of retrieving him.
Several empty ceramic jugs lay scattered about the room, in keeping with the general disarray which even in times of health characterized the Ricker homestead. Whether it was his burning fever, the liquor, or both in equal measure that was causing his fit of delirium, not even the apothecary could say. It was only in an apparent moment of lucidity that Ricker had earlier sent up a signal of black smoke by the burning of green boughs - the traditional call for aid, in these parts - and so brought to his deathbed sheriff Marcus, Maria the apothecary, and Herbert the woodcutter, the latter of whom had happened to be nearby harvesting lumber for the new barn that was then being put up on the Larkin homestead.
Marcus stood at the foot of Ricker's bed, arms folded, distressed by these goings-on, and suddenly the old man mumbled something in a dry whisper. Marcus drew closer, a red kerchief tied around his nose and mouth, and crouched by the old man's side.
"What is it, Antonius?" The sheriff said calmly. Ricker slowly turned his head around and some of the mad light of delirium had left his eyes for a time. His hands, naught but skin and bone, clawed the bed as if searching for something.
"No more..," Ricker croaked. Beneath his bandanna, Marcus frowned in worry. Cantankerous and unpleasant as he had been, there was no denying the old man had ever been filled with life - choleric, hateful life, perhaps, but he had been proud and defiantly alive nonetheless. It pained Marcus to see the proud old man brought so low. Maria, the apothecary, had her eyes closed, and was humming a prayer of healing, though Marcus did not suspect it would do the old blasphemer much good. The woodcutter bowed his head alongside her. Marcus sighed and grabbed the old man's bony hand.
"I'm here, Antonius," He hesitated, uncertain if the old man in his fever would be accepting of the fact that his time had come. "...to perform your last rites. I've brought no priest, in deference to your wishes. What would you say to me on this, your final hour?" For a moment the old man tossed and turned, and his eyelids fluttered feverishly. Then Ricker's lids snapped open and locked upon his, and his grip became like iron on the sheriff's hand.
"Marcus," His voice was little more than a hoarse whisper, but for the moment the old man seemed clear and lucid. Indeed, there was a cold light in his stare that put Marcus in mind of the old man's better days, when he came to market in the village square seemingly just to cause trouble and curse at folks he didn't like - which was just about everybody. As then, his features were now set in a cold glare, his lip perpetually curled in disgust and ready to spit an insult or curse at a moment's notice. The old man's flesh was thin and translucent, it seemed to Marcus, like the castoff skin of a rattlesnake. Ricker's burning eyes were yellowed and bloodshot as they regarded the figures before the old man's deathbed.
His glare softened somewhat as a look of recognition came across his fever-hazed eyes. "Marcus," He said with something like relief. "I'm glad you have come,"
Marcus too was relieved, to hear the old man himself again. He gripped the bony claw that still held tight to his own hand and spoke, trying to sound reassuring. "It's good to see you, friend, though I wish it were under happier circumstances,"
Ricker looked confused for a moment, and his eyes cast about the room, seeing the apothecary and the woodcutter bowed in their prayers, and the bottles scattered about. His nostrils flared and he seemed to become aware of the stench of decay which permeated the room. He looked down at his hand, the skin of which was practically transparent with emaciation. "I see..," He croaked in a dry rasp. "Now it comes back...I called to you," Marcus nodded, and the realization that he had called to another for aid seemed to pain Ricker more than his sickness ever could, prideful as he was. Ricker closed his eyes and was still, and for a moment Marcus feared the old man had suddenly died, but then he exhaled a long sigh and looked again into Marcus' eyes, a mixture of sorrow and anger rictusing his gaunt features.
"You've come for my last rites. I thank you for not bringing Falmer from the steeplehouse. I would sooner not distract him from his busy work..," Here he collapsed into a fit of retched coughing, and Marcus sat silently until he had finished. "...His busy work browning his nose, for surely it's a waste of his most holy time, blessing a sinner when he could have his face buried in the skirts of heaven. May his precious icons fall down on his head when next he kneels at the altar!" Ricker made his best effort to spit on the floor in spite, though this earned him only another fit of wheezing coughs. Marcus grimaced at the old man's blasphemy, but he said no prayer asking for the gods to forgive Ricker, for that would only bring the old man's ire on him. It was said - by Gareth Falmer, in fact - that the gods would help no man who spited them. In truth, Ricker's curse was somewhat comforting to hear, blasphemous as it was, for some of his old energy returned to him as he cursed the priest, and he was like himself for a time longer.
"But all that besides..," Ricker continued after his coughing fit subsided. "I do have ought to say to you, sheriff, if you would bear witness of my final hour. To all of Dormis I say thus, and I charge you to bear these, my final words," There was a strange light in Ricker's eyes as Marcus met them. The old man spoke and his voice was a fell hiss. "Do you accept this task, Marcus, son of Leto? I would have you swear it, upon ought that you hold dear. If you are the fair man I know, you will do this thing for me, so that I might know some measure of peace hereafter,"
The abominable tension in the air seemed to Marcus nigh unbearable. The old man's crazed eyes seemed almost to exert a physical pressure on him. Marcus was not a superstitious man, and yet he paled before the gaze of the dying miser, who was so intent no doubt to deliver one last spiteful word to all of those he saw as his enemies. In truth, the villagers by and large pitied the old man, though if Ricker had known this, it would have made him all the more vengeful.
Marcus heard the apothecary praying fervently and in rote, and the woodcutter repeating her words. Hearing this, he knew that they were not listening, and that his task fell to him alone. Ricker had called to him, and charged him by name. Marcus steeled himself and held the old man's gaze, prepared for the worst bile Ricker could summon, such as he was.
"I accept your charge, Antonius Ricker," He said firmly, and hesitating, he drew his pistol. The heavy revolver's bright metal glittered in the dull light, and Marcus placed Ricker's hand over it before clasping it with his own. He solemnly intoned an oath to the dying miser.
"As you hold no truck with the gods, I will not swear before them, for such would hold no value to you, in my reckoning," Ricker nodded, satisfied that Marcus respected his wishes.
Marcus clasped the wooden handle of the pistol and continued. "I do swear, by this gun of my father, that I will carry your words as you bid me, that all might hear them and know your final will and testament. Be these words foul, venomous, or cruel, I will bear them nonetheless to the people of Dormis without censor or amendment. Such is your right, as it is the right of every citizen of this land, be they godly or no,"
In this, the old man seemed to gain some final satisfaction, and in his gaunt features Marcus saw what might have passed for a smile. "Ever you were good and fair to me, Marcus - Sheriff, I should rather say, for is it not duty that brings you here today? - though others were not so fair. Know ye now that nothing I say hence shall fall upon you and yours. I wish no ill upon you, Marcus, son of Leto, and you have my leave to come and go as you please from my lands, should you wish to do so. Now listen well,"
The old man paused to gather his thoughts. At these ominous words, Marcus thought that he had been correct, and Ricker was preparing one last defiant jab, to spit from the grave upon all those he hated in life. What followed was as he expected, in part, but more spiteful still. The old man made to clear his throat, and went into another and worse fit of coughing, and this time blood frothed at Ricker's lips. Marcus winced in sympathy and made to speak, but Ricker raised a hand and with an effort of will choked down his coughs, forcing the words out in an abominable and defiant rasp.
"No more!" He spat. "No more will I be forced to suffer you fools of Dormis, who mock me behind your closed doors and insult me with your prayers on my behalf. And the better for it! Falmer would have it that my soul will go now to the gods and be judged, my heart weighed that I might find what peace as suits me in the world beyond. But I spit upon the gods!"
And he did spit, and it was bloody and black and smelled of decay. Marcus slid back in disgust, and Ricker dragged himself up by the bed post, the feverish light in his eyes growing stronger. The apothecary and the woodcutter took notice, and their prayers were interrupted, though soon they redoubled them, plugging their ears against the old miser's blasphemies. The old man stared at Marcus with the light of his cold eyes, and the sheriff felt that they looked upon the very depths of his soul. Ricker continued, ranting.
"I have taken no wife and sired no heirs, for none would have me. What say the gods? They who cursed me to this life of solitude, that I might toil on the earth and sleep alone each night, and in doing so know that none shall honor me hereafter when I die unmourned from some desultory malady of the body? Fie on the gods, I say! And fie upon you, people of Dormis, who look jealously on my ancestral homestead, where my forefathers have toiled ere your fathers ever came out of the hills to despoil what was rightfully our land.
"If as the holy men say, a man may imperil his soul as he wills; if my spirit is mine to do with as I see fit, then here I lay claim to it. It is mine and mine alone, and I defy the gods to take it into their domain, though I should rather wander these lands as a revenant for all time. The better for it, I say, for sooner I would remain in the lands of my fathers, in the house of Ricker where there are no shrines and no gods but only men. A pox, say I, on any who would pray for my soul's redemption," Here the apothecary and the woodcutter again ceased their prayers and looked at the old man with fear and disgust. Ricker grew increasingly fervent until he was practically shouting in his foul rasp of a voice. Marcus was at a loss of words, but he had accepted the spiteful old man's charge, and so he hung on every syllable.
Bloody spittle frothed and flew from his lips as Ricker ranted and raved. "Still worse I wish on any who would trespass my lands. If in life I suffered no one to come hither without my leave, in death I curse any who would come to these lands hereafter, for they belong to me and no other! If my spirit is not torn forcefully from this earthly domain, I shall be as a plague upon any who dare encroach on what is mine. This is a warning and a dread promise; if it is within the my power to spurn the embrace of the heavens, this thing I shall do, and woe betide any who defy me then!"
The hair on Marcus' nape stood on end and the horrible tension in the air had grown to new heights until the sheriff felt it pounding at his temples. He was rife with despair to hear the mad ravings of a man he had once called friend. Surely this was all a result of the fever and the liquor at work on Ricker's spite-addled mind, or did the man truly think himself some abominable witch, to curse his lands and himself so? Marcus remained silent, for the old man seemed to be winding down, though his bitterness grew no lesser for it.
"Again I will say that I spite the gods, may they keep their eternal bliss for themselves. For as I prospered not from them during life, I will not deign to do so now, and I will continue to dwell on here in solitude, until such time as Dormis falls to havoc and flame and my spirit, laughing in rancorous mirth, perishes in the fires of this land's ending, and I cease to be. Then alone shall I know peace,"
Ricker's eyes now seemed to look past Marcus, as though he gazed far away. "So I now foretell it to be, with what vision a man may have who sits knocking at death's door. I see it before my eyes now, may it be the truth that I gaze upon, and not merely my own fancy. How pretty the flames are! They dance gaily among the cast-down ruins where once dwelt those who loathe me. The mirth of the flames is mine, their crackle my echoing laughter, their heat my blistering hate! With whatever power a man may possess in death, I bid you be cursed, people of Dormis, and know despair forever more!"
He seemed to be finished, and the malevolent light in his eyes began to fade. Ricker's lips parted for a final time as he fell back upon the bed. His malice spent, an unexpected softness came into his features as he gazed once more at Marcus, his eyes no longer blinded by fury.
"If ever I have prayed in this life, let it be now that my plea is heard by what gods may be prying upon our words, spying upon us always such as the holy men tell of them. I pray now that such calamity as I would bring down on Dormis does not fall on your house, son of Leto, so long as you complete this task with which I charge you as sheriff of these lands...and as the only man alive that I would I call friend,"
He seemed to reach the end of his strength and faltered, now that the purpose to which he had clung in his last moments was fulfilled. His eyes closed and he croaked out fragile words. "My time is upon me now, I feel. This is the end,"
Marcus hesitated and his heart was heavy, but he gripped Ricker's thin hand tightly and spoke. "Tarry a moment longer, if you can. I yet have some final words for you,"
Ricker's yellow eye cracked open and looked half-seeing at the sheriff. Marcus continued. "As I have sworn, I will carry your oath back to the people. But now hear my oath, Antonius Ricker, though you know it already: I am the shield of Dormis, its sole warden. And I will protect her against all foes, be they man or beast, living or dead. Whatever wrath you call upon Dormis, know that if it is within my power, I will stand willingly between my people and whatever perdition imperils them, though you pray I be sheltered from it. This I swear before gods and men both: as I live, no threat to Dormis will stand unchallenged,"
His voice was hard as iron and he matched Ricker's cold gaze with his own. His grip slackened and the softness returned to his features as he finished. Through his strained and weary expression, something like a smile graced Ricker's aged countenance.
"Fair enough," He said with something like the rasping chuckle of a sand snake. "Farewell, Marcus," Choking out this final farewell, the words failed in his throat. With this last wish, Antonius Ricker died, with what passed for a look of contentment on his hollow face. Marcus stood and holstered the pistol by which he had sworn this oath. The apothecary and the woodcutter gaped at him, and their faces held a mixture of reverence and revulsion for what had just occurred. In truth, Marcus shared their feelings, though his face was more somber.
None of them dared now, as would normally be the custom, to pray for the dearly departed soul of Antonius Ricker. Dearly it was, for dearly would they have prayed for the departing of Ricker's malevolent soul from the earth, if they dared defy his dying will. As it was, they were merely agape with horror and at a loss for words. Marcus draped the bed linens respectfully over Ricker's prostrate form and then, after a reverential silence, he somberly spoke. "Fetch a shovel, Herb. It is ours to bury him and depart swiftly,"
The two nodded their unspoken agreement and the woodcutter gratefully stepped outside of the cottage. Marcus spoke now, to the apothecary.
"Marianna," He knew the middle-aged woman, though they were not close, but he used her given name to soften his speech. "I apologize for all that you have heard. I should have asked you to leave us when he gave his final confession, if only to delay your hearing of such foul portents until I announce them to the town upon our return. It must be difficult for a healer to endure such misery and spite,"
The apothecary spoke, and her voice was steady, though a slight tension told Marcus that she was holding her composure with an effort of will. "That is kind of you to say, sheriff, but it is oft the healer's lot to watch over the pained and the miserable. Many times I have called on this house, and many times I have been cursed and reviled for a charlatan and cast away, my help unwanted and my advice unheeded. What weighs heaviest on my heart is that I could have cured him of the fever and spared us this misery, had he but let me.
"But tell me, surely you do not truly mean to bring this vile curse back to the village? I have heard such things before from Ricker's mouth, and Herbert is a simple, pious mind who like as not paid his words no heed, but such things are not meant for the ears of the innocent, to which they will inevitably come if you announce them to the village,"
Marcus nodded somberly. "It is mine as sheriff and as his last confidant to be the bearer of Ricker's last testament, though it be a damnable curse upon all our people. It is the right of all men, come the hour of their death, to be heeded. Such do the priests tell us, and even for lack of godliness, I will not see Antonius Ricker forgotten in this. Now pay heed, apothecary, for you must prepare the body for burial,"
His face was grim as he pronounced her duty. She grimaced, but nodded and took from her pack the implements she had brought for this purpose, having known of Ricker's deteriorating condition. They set to work, reverentially as befitted a burial preparation, but also swiftly, for none wished to tarry long in the loathsome and accursed place. Thereafter, few dared to tread those lands, in fear of the threats Ricker had laid at the feet of any would-be trespassers. The people of Dormis were a superstitious lot, who saw no wisdom in tempting fate, whether or not they thought the old man had any real power. Such curses had until then been known only in the colorful folklore of those lands, which often told of witches, monsters, and other abominable things.
Marcus would later reflect to himself in the comfort of his home that he did not believe in magic or curses anyway, and so in the peace of the coming years, he paid no mind to the fate hung over their heads by the old man.
