It was midnight on a cool evening in early November. In the tiny, wooded
township of Winterhaven, all was quiet. The villagers were snug in their
homes, and their torches, lit so many hours before, were all either
dwindling or already extinguished. There was no movement, and no sound save
the steady chirp of crickets and the distant hooting of an owl. The sky was
clear and cloudless, and the soft, full moonlight shone down upon the
village, illuminating the empty streets and abandoned marketplace.
Steadily, although no one was awake to hear it, the sound of hoof beats emerged from the silence of the night. The sounds grew slowly louder until a tall, withered figure on a ragged, black steed appeared suddenly at the top of the squat bluff that overlooked the village green. The rider continued at a leisurely pace down into the township. He paused and dismounted at the edge of the buildings, then walked slowly but confidently through the silence of the empty town.
He reached the foot of the hill in the town center and began to climb. At the top of the hill was the manor of the lord of Winterhaven, but he did not live there anymore. The manor's windows were as dark as those in the shops and cottages below. In springtime, or summer, the windows of the manor would be open to welcome the warm breezes inside, but autumn was nearly gone and the bolted shutters told those who saw them that winter's chill winds had already arrived. Though there was no wind this night, the traveler pulled his thick cloak tighter about him.
He halted in front of the oak doors of the manor and rapped on one several times with his gloved fist. Presently, a shuffling sound emanated from within, followed by the sound of sliding metal. A tiny square at eye level on the door disappeared, replaced by the ancient visage of the caretaker.
"Who is it?" the caretaker whispered irritably.
"It is I," the traveler said. "I am here for the hammer."
The missing square slid back into place and a series of clicking sounds resounded. The great doors opened, and the traveler, gripping his cloak, stepped inside. The doors slammed shut behind him.
Inside, the caretaker motioned to a long and winding staircase. The traveler moved past him and began to climb, his cloak billowing behind him. He reached the top and paused for a moment, noting the thick layer of dust that covered everything. The stillness of the old house was deafening; whatever proud exterior it presented to the populace, the manor's insides were in serious disrepair. Dust and cobwebs covered everything in sight and most of the furniture lay broken or rotting. The caretaker lived alone on the first floor, and from the looks of things, the traveler guessed neither he nor anyone else had been upstairs in many years.
The traveler moved along, undaunted by the stench of decay and disuse. He knew the way by heart; it was he who, years before, had watched the carpenters and craftsmen reconstruct the old house when the previous one had collapsed. He reached the farthest room and stopped. There, beneath an ornately carved stone mantle, lay an immense wooden trunk. A gold latch, engraved with the seal of an eagle and four stars, was held in place by a silver lock. The caretaker, shuffling into the room behind the traveler, pulled a matching silver key from his robes and fitted it into the lock. The traveler bent and heaved the massive lid open.
There, in the bottom of the trunk, lay a huge wooden warhammer with a granite head. The traveler reached in and picked it up, accustoming himself to its weight in his hands. Then he turned and exited the room.
"Hey," the caretaker said, "you want me to close this back up?" The traveler stopped for a moment at the top of the stairs, then called back over his shoulder.
"Do as you wish," he said. "It's your house now. I'll not be coming back." Then he turned and went down the stairs.
***
Steadily, although no one was awake to hear it, the sound of hoof beats emerged from the silence of the night. The sounds grew slowly louder until a tall, withered figure on a ragged, black steed appeared suddenly at the top of the squat bluff that overlooked the village green. The rider continued at a leisurely pace down into the township. He paused and dismounted at the edge of the buildings, then walked slowly but confidently through the silence of the empty town.
He reached the foot of the hill in the town center and began to climb. At the top of the hill was the manor of the lord of Winterhaven, but he did not live there anymore. The manor's windows were as dark as those in the shops and cottages below. In springtime, or summer, the windows of the manor would be open to welcome the warm breezes inside, but autumn was nearly gone and the bolted shutters told those who saw them that winter's chill winds had already arrived. Though there was no wind this night, the traveler pulled his thick cloak tighter about him.
He halted in front of the oak doors of the manor and rapped on one several times with his gloved fist. Presently, a shuffling sound emanated from within, followed by the sound of sliding metal. A tiny square at eye level on the door disappeared, replaced by the ancient visage of the caretaker.
"Who is it?" the caretaker whispered irritably.
"It is I," the traveler said. "I am here for the hammer."
The missing square slid back into place and a series of clicking sounds resounded. The great doors opened, and the traveler, gripping his cloak, stepped inside. The doors slammed shut behind him.
Inside, the caretaker motioned to a long and winding staircase. The traveler moved past him and began to climb, his cloak billowing behind him. He reached the top and paused for a moment, noting the thick layer of dust that covered everything. The stillness of the old house was deafening; whatever proud exterior it presented to the populace, the manor's insides were in serious disrepair. Dust and cobwebs covered everything in sight and most of the furniture lay broken or rotting. The caretaker lived alone on the first floor, and from the looks of things, the traveler guessed neither he nor anyone else had been upstairs in many years.
The traveler moved along, undaunted by the stench of decay and disuse. He knew the way by heart; it was he who, years before, had watched the carpenters and craftsmen reconstruct the old house when the previous one had collapsed. He reached the farthest room and stopped. There, beneath an ornately carved stone mantle, lay an immense wooden trunk. A gold latch, engraved with the seal of an eagle and four stars, was held in place by a silver lock. The caretaker, shuffling into the room behind the traveler, pulled a matching silver key from his robes and fitted it into the lock. The traveler bent and heaved the massive lid open.
There, in the bottom of the trunk, lay a huge wooden warhammer with a granite head. The traveler reached in and picked it up, accustoming himself to its weight in his hands. Then he turned and exited the room.
"Hey," the caretaker said, "you want me to close this back up?" The traveler stopped for a moment at the top of the stairs, then called back over his shoulder.
"Do as you wish," he said. "It's your house now. I'll not be coming back." Then he turned and went down the stairs.
***