Author: Michelle Franklin, Word Count: 666
Featured in Spooky Archaeological Tales: Live Stream – BonFire Night 2022
The horse titupped across the country, its burning hooves lighting the way, the armour having little idea what was happening, hearing the wind whistle through its hollows. It seemed gleeful, the breeze tickling the inside of its breastplate, its horse making delightful clops.
The flaming skull under its arm was also smiling, but having no skin or muscles to do otherwise, this was its default setting.
A mist draped over the stars. The full moon donned its fauld of plenilunary light, and a blanket of low clouds blotted out the sky, making the countryside darker than usual. The night felt old without the moon, the dullahan carving a path westward, but the sentient armour caught a glimpse of the sea southward and paused. It tugged the horse’s mane, and it stopped along the road. The dullahan marvelled in the view, the abysmal oblivion, the black sea swallocking against the sand.
In the realm of the undead and having nowhere to store its memory, the dullahan suddenly forgot what it was doing. It understood the sea, but then looked down at its horse as though it had no idea why it was there. It had the sudden feeling they should ask for directions, and looked at the skull as though asking it which way to go.
“The horse was the one leading the way,” said the skull, trying to shrug without shoulders to do it. “The master only gave me the ability to laugh and berate you for being a dunnard.”
The armour’s empty bevor wilted slightly, its hinges making metallic accordion noises.
A sudden gleam below caught the dullahan’s notice. It bent down and saw what looked like a large golden brooch in the grass, its centre pin stuck through the ground. It was prettily worked, its penannular frame in garnet, its terminals fashioned into wolves, each head looking away from the other. The dullahan bent to take it up, but when it reached down, a strange pain shot through its arm.
“I wouldn’t, if I were you,” the skull clacked.
The skull realized it was the dullahan and tried to roll its eyes. It realized this was impossible and sulked in silence.
The brooch was curious. It looked as though it might belong to royalty; gold that fine would only be worn by a lord, but the more the dullahan was drawn to it, the more an unsettling feeling overtook him.
They were being watched.
Two amber eyes winked open from behind a copse of trees, blazing against the night’s canvas. They fixed on the dullahan and narrowed.
The dullahan whirled round, but there was only the copse behind it; an enormous gap and a lack of breeze sat where the eyes had been.
Something neared and growled low, a giant weight moving in the darkness. The ground rumbled in terror.
There was something behind the dullahan. It spoke in a horrible voice: “THAT BELONGS TO ME.”
The dullahan straightened, too anxious to turn. A shadow from behind swallowed the ground, the road ahead vanishing under an umbral pool. Something was standing up, was lurching over its horse, was reaching down—the dullahan clapped a gauntlet over the skull’s eyes.
“Don’t blind me!” the skull clattered.
The skull tried to blow the gauntlet away, but caught a glimpse of a colossal hand with claws reaching beneath the horse. The skull gasped, its blue flame belching from its mouth, and sat still.
The giant hand moved away, and the brooch was gone. The long shadow receded, the horrible voice said a “THANK YOU,” and with a gust that almost knocked the dullahan down, the presence was gone, leaping into the trees and away from the road with unnatural speed.
The skull looked up at its steel counterpart. “Perhaps we should be going?”
The armour made no reply; it only bid the horse to go on and never looked back.
When death comes, it never leaves wanting, unless there is something worse waiting in the trees nearby.
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