The Dark Lord Cecil

by Wade Adrian

  The day had grown long in the tooth, the world drawn over with long shadows. They had arrived at Dire Hill, though the farmstead was still up the hill a ways along a winding path. The remnants of an old gate stood just ahead. More a post on either side now and only the merest hint of a sign that had hung between them.

  Lightning struck the top of the hill. Thunder boomed.

  There weren’t really that many clouds. And yet, lighting.

  Huh.

  It wasn’t… ominous or anything. It was a farm, right? It could use some rain. Certainly. Positive thinking. Positive thinking was important.

  4

  Cecil could just make out the outline of a house up there, lost in the dark shapes of trees and rocks. The lightning had painted it brighter for a moment. It would still be a half hour or so of travel to get up there as things had been going. Stupid winding rocky paths. Stupid hill.

  Reginald was staring up at the place with wide eyes.

  Cecil scratched at his chin. “So, the farmstead is on the top?”

  “What?” Reginald stammered. “Right. The farmstead. Yes.” He nodded. “Up top. Certainly. Too rocky to grow here…” his voice trailed off as he stared at the top of the hill once again.

  A cold wind picked up. Cecil pulled his coat tighter and was glad he had worn it as his hair whipped his face. Reginald didn’t move. He kept on staring. Of course, there wasn’t much hair on his head to whip his face.

  The wind moving through the rocks and trees made whistling noises. It sounded a little bit like voices crying out in fear and pain. It wasn’t, of course. That would be ridiculous. Absolutely ridiculous.

  Reginald looked a shade paler than he had on the trip thus far.

  “So, I think I can follow the trail from here.” Cecil shrugged. It seemed like the man was a tad superstitious for this sort of thing. Just some poor weather and a bit of wind. If he trimmed the trees properly the noise would probably stop.

  “Yes…” Reginald nodded, his eyes transfixed on the house at the top of the hill. “I think you’re right. I have a lot of work to get back to. Office won’t take care of itself.”

  “And you’re short staffed.”

  “And I’m short staffed! I had all but forgotten. This has been a very long day, indeed.” Reginald’s horse was turned around in record time and practically on the spot. “Yes, yes. Work to do. Need to be going. I’ll send those men along with tools and whatnot in a few days. A week at most. Or two. We’ll see.” He mumbled under his breath. “And maybe a priest…”

  A week or two. Lovely. Well, he intended to climb down again tonight anyway. A house that old sitting empty so long probably wouldn’t keep any impending rain off of him or the bevy of insects and rodents that no doubt called it home. “Well, thanks for everything.” Cecil held out his hand.

  Reginald gave it one light shake as he rode by. “Best of luck, come by and let me know how it goes, yes? I’ll tell my staff to admit you if you happen by before the workmen arrive. If you don’t, I’ll assume good things. Oh, and I’ll send someone to let your family know not to worry.” His voice was hard to make out as he rode away as fast as the horse dared on the winding path back down.

  Cecil watched him go. Strange that a man so many years his elder was scared of a little wind. Then again not everyone had his upbringing. Calder Kyne didn’t brook such nonsense in his offspring. There were no ghosts, no goblins, and no monsters under their beds, because that would have meant they were in the kitchen.

  He shook his head as he started Winston walking up the trail. The horse didn’t seem bothered by the ambiance. Of course not. It was a Kyne horse. No time for nonsense. Work to be done.

  The twisting path became rockier by the step. Some sections seemed to be pure stone shelfs, practically a staircase. The horse had a bit of trouble, but he soldiered on. It might be dangerous to head back down if it got much darker… well, worst case he’d find somewhere to spend the night, even if he had to share a stable stall with Winston.

  Not because he was scared and wanted the company or anything… that would be silly. The house was undoubtedly shoddy. Probably full of rotting junk. And even if it wasn’t, it was decades out of style. The furniture was most likely dreadfully uncomfortable. Unacceptable.

  The last light of day held up as he reached the top. It leveled out… mostly. The house was on a little rise of its own while the, ahem, “fields” where spread about beneath it on the top of the hill. A few garden spots were higher or lower, the land leveled to accommodate them where possible.

  If it had all been in good shape, it probably would have been quite the enchanting place. As it stood, all that was growing was decades worth of weeds and wild plants.

  Cecil shook his head. “And I’m supposed to get this place up and running? Pah.”

  The house had undoubtedly been nice… once. It looked to have two floors and a tall attic. The roof was still up there, though even from the ground he could see missing shingles. Place was probably full of mold and mushrooms. Ugh.

  A little stable was set up behind the house. Cecil walked Winston that way, around the structure. The wood was some strange shade between green and black. Probably more from the weather than intention, but it added to the whole… air of the place. It all seemed unwholesome somehow.

  The stables had nothing in the way of feed or straw, but the place had plenty of grass. Winston seemed content to graze as Cecil climbed down from the saddle and removed the bag of seed.

  “From the looks of things, I won’t need this for weeks.” He set it in the stables beside some old rusted tools and his jar of preserves. “It all just keeps getting better.”

  It was purely out of curiosity that he picked up a rusty old pitchfork as he wandered out of the stables. He tried to shut the door, but it came loose in his hands. He stood it upright anyway. It only needed to convince Winston to stay inside for now.

  The house creaked in the wind as he stared at it. Logical as he might pride himself on being, the place was just creepy.

  A cold droplet hitting his face woke him from his thoughts.

  “Ugh. No time for this.” He shook his head and wandered around front, pitchfork casually resting on his shoulder as he stepped over rocks, weeds, and bits of debris. “Huh, well at least I found the missing shingles. Needed some good news.”

  He ascended the little porch on the front of the house. It groaned out soft notes with each step as he made his way to the door. There was a mat so old it no longer welcomed him. Fitting, given he didn’t feel particularly welcome.

  The door stood tall, shut tight. He lifted a hand to knock before he frowned at it. There was no way anyone was home. Well, not anyone that was supposed to be here…

  Pitchfork in hand, he tried the knob. It turned. The door didn’t open, though. He wiggled the handle back and forth before it came off in his hand. He sighed as he held it up. “Certainly a fixer-upper.”

  A liberal application of his shoulder got the door open. Whether it would ever close again was a matter for another time. Maybe about the time his shoulder stopped hurting.

  The interior was decorated in early falling the hell apart. Half the windows were missing, the drapes that were left were tatters, and the furniture looked like someone had taken a mallet to it. A few decorations held onto the walls, but the stuffed animal heads had rotted or been gnawed on to the point of showing bone, and every painting was either bleached by the sun or torn. Or both.

  Other than that? Nice place. Big. Lots of elbow room.

  He shouldered his pitchfork as he took a tour. On the main level he found a sitting room, a kitchen, a dining room, a staircase leading up to the second floor, and a door to the basement beside them. He wasn’t about to go down there without a torch or something, and a nagging voice in the back of his head made him shove a broken old cupboard in front of the door as a precaution.

  He was just doing it to be silly, of course. There was nothing down there. Well, maybe a few spiders. Or rats. The
odd axe murderer or two. Maybe a couple shallow graves.

  Up the rickety stairs he found bedrooms and the remnants of a little office. All the books and papers were practically dust at this point.

  Everything was in a similar state of brokenness, so he wandered back down. The attic could wait, too. Probably infested with quail or something.

  He scratched at the top of his head as he let the door shut behind him again. The sun was setting in earnest now, and light was giving out even up so high as this. But he had a moment or two. He started for the fields.

  It looked more like a big yard nobody cared about. Random trees growing this way and that, weeds as tall as they dared to grow, vines wrapping up and around both. One poor scarecrow was all the scarier for being wrapped up like a plant monster. Probably all that was holding the thing together.

  He sighed, already trying to figure out what he was going to tell Reginald. This place wasn’t going to be a functional farm again any time soon, despite its lack of ghosts. It was a wreck, and that was problem enough.

  The sound of hooves caught his ear.

  Well, good. He’d be able to tell Reginald sooner rather than later. He couldn’t fathom why the man would have turned around and come back this late, given his fear of the place, but maybe his fear of Lord Thorn was greater. Or he didn’t think he’d find another roof before the storm started.

  The useful thing about being on top of a hill was that it wasn’t terribly difficult to find a vantage point. Not far from the house he found a place he could lean against an old tree and look down over the side.

  It was getting dark, and shadows painted that side of the hill, but he could just make out a horse clopping along down there. And yet… it was going down the hill, not up to him. Moving at a good clip, too. Well, maybe Reginald’s newfound courage hadn’t lasted.

  Maybe he would try again tomorrow in the morning. Or at noon, to make sure there were minimal shadows.

  Well, the distraction had given him his answer. It was too dark to make his own way back down tonight. He didn’t want to risk Winston’s wellbeing, or his own. Just his luck to get a parcel of land only to snap his neck riding the same day.

  The house was out, simple as that. He didn’t like it. Its ugly furniture, its hideous decorations, its creepy basement and attic… nope. Nope nope nope. Just a rotting old pile of nope. The stables would do fine. Winston was perfectly good company, an old steadfast family friend in these dire times that served to test his resolve and courage.

  The door to the stable was lying on the ground when he got there.

  It was empty.

  He blinked a few times.

  It hadn’t been Reginald at all. Winston had wandered off. Back down to nicer places.

  “You two faced fink!” Cecil roared over the side, leaning against the same tree. “Steadfast family friend, indeed!” He shook his fist in the air for a moment before sighing. His shoulders slumped. “Well, I think there might be a lesson to learn here about ones reach exceeding their grasp.” He nodded as he addressed the tree. “My pride got the better of me, and now I’m paying for it.” He sat down. “I am humbled. But I am also resolved. I won’t let this get the better of me. I won’t let myself down. Or Reginald either, even if he’d do it to me. Twice if the money was good.”

  He stood back up, nodding at the last traces of light off on the distant horizon. “Tomorrow I make this a farm. But tonight… I sleep in the stables because they’re less creepy.”

  His steps seemed very loud as his feet crunched in the dirt. Just knowing he was alone up here was… unsettling.

  He stopped beside a small well. He could use a bit of cool water after the long ride and the… tour. He needed to know if it worked anyway. Bringing water up any other way would be one heck of a chore. A bucket tied to a winch above the well looked sound enough. He dropped it in and listened.

  There was no splash.

  He grabbed the handle of the winch to lower the bucket further.

  It was stuck.

  He gritted his teeth and let out a little growl.

  No. Nothing else was going wrong today. Not one thing.

  He shoved on the handle with all his might.

  It broke off. And so did the side of the well he was leaning on.

  The last shreds of daylight were lost as he tumbled down into darkness.

  5

  He groped for the rope in the dark. He could feel it scraping against his arm time and again. A heavy thump against his chest stopped him. He held onto the bucket for dear life. He couldn’t see a thing, but he could feel himself spinning.

  And he could hear the rope stretching.

  “It will hold. It has to hold. I’ll climb up. Somehow. Nothing else can go wrong toda-”

  The rope snapped.

  Falling. Weightless. Blind in the dark. He didn’t even have time to get a breath to scream before pain washed over him.

  Cold. Hard ground. He lay stunned for what seemed like hours before he groaned and rolled onto his back. His arm hurt.

  It took a few moments for him to realize he wasn’t drowning. At least something had gone his way. Sort of.

  He blinked his eyes open to find a tiny bright pinpoint of light far overhead. It wasn’t enough to hurt his eyes. Unfortunately that meant it was probably pretty far away.

  It took some effort, but he sat up. Everything was sore but nothing seemed to be broken. He’d probably end up with some nasty bruises from where the bucket had hit him, but at least it had kept him from falling the whole way in one go. He might not have endured that so well.

  As his eyes adjusted he realized he was in a cave. The point of light up above was falling through a narrow passage that broke into the larger one. Had all of this been full of water? It would have taken ages for that much water to leave, and it would have had to come from somewhere. There were a few cracks in the walls here and there, but by and large it looked to be a single chamber with no tunnels large enough for him to use.

  The well above was off to one side though. If he could climb a bit, maybe get a hold up there, then he could climb up the narrow well…

  His feet and legs ached as he wandered over and placed his hands against the stone face. It was cold to the touch but there were bits sticking out he could get a hold of. Minutes later he was a few feet off the ground.

  “Plant my boot there… grab that outcrop there…”

  The rock came free in his hand.

  He collided with the ground once more in a less than ceremonious heap.

  A sigh escaped him as he lay face down. “Oww.” He scraped his hands and feet across the ground, forcing himself back to a seated posture. “Well, at least I’m out of the weather.”

  He was trying not to think about silly things like not having any food, or even enough water to drink at the bottom of the stupid well. Or about Winston running off like a jackanape. Or the fact that there was no one coming to check on him for weeks. He’d be the only ghost this place really had by then.

  “Stupid horse.”

  He climbed back to his feet and made the climb once more. The rock that had come free had left a solid foot hold. “Ha! Take that, rock. Showed you.”

  He was almost close enough to the narrow well cavern above to touch it…

  When he fell again.

  There was no telling how long he stayed there in a crumbled heap. It hurt to move. He wondered if it would hurt to starve.

  No. Positive thoughts.

  He worked his way to his feet once more, a little hunched over and with a few rocks in his boots. “I’m not staying here, because I don’t want to. I don’t care for it. It’s cold and damp.”

  Unfortunately the sun wasn’t cooperating. The last light faded from the top of the well while he wandered the extent of the cave looking for a better way out. His eyes adjusted to the dim light slowly, not that there was much to see.

  Rocks.

  The odd puddle.

  More rocks.

  Some white
sticks.

  He sighed and sat down in a pool of soft light falling into the cave from the well. It must be a full moon up there. He hadn’t been keeping track. He’d been entirely preoccupied with his trip to town for weeks now.

  Fat lot of good that had turned out to be.

  The soft white light playing in a puddle was rather pretty, really.

  It was something.

  A sharp glint in the twisting light caught his eye. He leaned closer.

  There was something shiny at the bottom of the puddle. He reached into the cold water. Something solid, smooth… and heavy.

  His hand returned from the water holding a ring of metal with long pointy bits on the top. It looked to have shiny rocks set into the sides at intervals…

  It was a crown.

  He blinked at it.

  “What in the world are you doing here?” He inquired of it.

  It gave no reply.

  The light wasn’t great, but he cleaned it off as best he could with his coat. The metal still looked dark, but the gems set into it had a red tint and sparkled when the light hit them. Maybe falling down here had been a stroke of luck. It was probably an old relic. Fetch a pretty penny to the right buyer. Maybe enough to get the farm over his head running faster than Reginald would spring for. Get him out of here and into a better place.

  Treasure in hand, Cecil found a new drive to climb. He slipped it over his arm like a giant bracelet before setting his feet and hands in the proper places where he had made progress before. “I’ve got this. I can do this.” He muttered to himself as his feet left the floor for a third time.

  The pointy bits of the crown jabbed into his arm as he climbed.

  Sharp points of pain as he climbed was rather distracting.

  The ground wasn’t any softer when he landed again.

  He didn’t stay down long, though. He spun the crown in his hands. “Being silly about this. Crowns go on heads.” It was a little big, and the cold metal didn’t exactly feel comfortable against his forehead, but after shaking his head a few times he was convinced it would stay on… short of falling down again.