Gauntfield and the Boggy Men

By TomOctober 31, 2020

The chatter of many black crows resounded across the small, marshy field. Here poor souls had eked a meager living out of the fields by constant work to drain off the encroaching bog before the greybeard’s evil deeds brought the justice of the kingsmen. Now the peasants were no more, spirited away or worse by the warlock. Scant signs of their existence were left; low walls built of uneven rocks, mud-filled drainage ditches, a smattering of bug-chewed, unharvested plants and a delapitated scarecrow standing sentinel through it all.

Many moons had passed since men had been here, having caught up to the enchanter at last. The battle had been fierce and fraught. The scarecrow had borne silent witness to the carnage, neither kingsmen nor conjurer giving any quarter. Ironclad men with ironclad hearts wielding swords and axes against the shadowy nightmare beings summoned by the sorcerer. Kingsman after kingsman falling but the remaining few refusing to yield the day. The desperate men pressing the attack until the summoner himself at last fell mortally wounded at the scarecrow’s feet, a deathly curse on his dying breath, his ebbing lifeblood soaking into the ground. Their quest complete, the few remaining kingsmen broke at last, fleeing in the face of the unearthly nightmares. In the end, the bog claimed them all.

Taller than a man, made of wicker and sticks, a rough-woven bag of straw for a head, draped in worn out clothing, the scarecrow had stood like it always did. It watched, unmoving, as the crows feasted on the fallen lying at it’s feet, picking the bones clean. All through the fallow seasons it stood there, a silent sentinel watching the slow decay of it’s domain.

The scarecrow had been reduced to an ignoble perch; long since ceasing to inspire any fright in the ever present crows. They had grown fat and many as the feast had presented itself. Now the times had grown meager again. Still they lingered in the vain hope another feast might appear, and spent their days squabbling for room on the perch.

The threat of winter approaching hung in the air as one dark night the perch finally no longer could bear the weight of all the many crows, and with a loud snap collapsed into a heap over the bones of the warlock. As the startled birds scattered, the bagged straw head of the scarecrow rolled into the pointy hat of the dark arts. At once a clap of thunder sounded, a multi-pronged flash of dark lightning reached out to touch the frantic birds, dropping many of the closest lifeless from the sky.

A muted voice, like an old man talking with a mouth full of cloth, could be heard from the heap. After a while, the heap stirred, moved, rearranged itself, righted itself. The scarecrow -no longer just made of sticks and straw, but also the skeletal remains of the wizard- stood up on it’s own two feet. The bog had gone completely silent, as if holding it’s breath.

The scarecrow moved stiffly, jerkily about the field. Bending over the remains of the kingsmen one by one, it picked up bones, skulls, bits and pieces and put them in it’s bag.

«You who fought me in life will now serve me in death!»