"Wight. Chapter three." by James ´Jimbo Fett ´ Inwood

The two men loaded their gun’s with powder from deep within the forest’s undergrowth that overlooked the beaten dirt path. They were both mounted on horses each wearing hooded cloaks, complete with masks to obscure their wanted faces from the ever watchful eyes of the law. They were criminals doing what they did best - roadside robbery.

It had been an uneventful night hardly anyone had came by their patch, but something else concerned them. It was unusually quiet: the regular sounds of the nocturnal forest fauna had strangely disappeared, and both horses were jumpy at the slightest noise.

The biggest of the two bandits raised himself slightly from his white and black speckled horse. They finally noticed a stranger walking down the path that they were watching from the wooded hillside. He didn’t appear to be with anyone else from what they could tell. In fact both of them noticed that he was travelling completely alone with no weapons of any kind.

“If anyone’s asking for it, it’s him.” Grinned the smallest one.

“Yes. Let’s conduct a little business.” Chuckled the other.

They cantered slowly down the hillside towards the unsuspecting traveller.

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The traveller was staggering slightly as he was not quite used to walking, in fact he couldn’t remember when he had last walked, so it was not surprising that he had mud and dirt all up his front, from were he had repeatedly fallen. But he had finally learnt now how to walk, if not rather ungracefully - he still tottered about like a toddler.

The woods were strangely familiar to him but he got the feeling that this place had changed since he had slept. But the question that remained in his mind, was how long he had slept?

Suddenly he heard a rustling in the undergrowth, a horseman had rode out of the forested hill side and stopped right in front of him. He looked at the horse’s side which was right in front of him. It’s a lovely beast he thought. He then looked up at the owner who was pointing a strange object at him.

“Hand over your money stranger!” Barked the horseman.

He looked at him from down below, what is that thing pointing at him? It was small, yet bigger than a dagger, with a mahogany handle and a hollow iron tube sticking out of it. It couldn’t be a dagger he reasoned, as daggers are not blunt.

“There’s an easy way of doing this friend! Give us your money or we take your life”

snarled the horseman.

This time he paid closer attention to this mysterious horseman that was rudely demanding money of him, the arrogance of him he thought. He would either offer him the money, which he didn’t want to, or tell him to leave.

For the second time of his awakening, he had felt anger, this time he felt something else. Something which made his gut churn and his skin moisten.

It was fear.

He looked up and simply shook his head.

“No?” Said the horseman incredulously.

The wight looked again and smiled; for the first time since his death (whenever that was,) he spoke. Even though his voice was strangely foreign to him, for reasons he didn’t know.

“No.” Rasped the Wight.

He heard a bang and felt something hot sear his flesh and burrow into his forehead, his vision bled into a fiery red, as his legs lost the strength to support him. He collapsed onto the earthen floor, blood gushing from the wound.

The second horseman was hiding in the undergrowth further behind the victim. He trotted out onto the path over to the dead man.

The larger bandit had already began to search the body for loot; he was disappointed at the amount, only a small bag of old coins and nothing more.

“Not worth much. Was expecting a larger cop tonight.” He said to his equally disappointed partner.

“Aye. Most likely a loony. We going to bury him?” The smaller one asked as he dismounted from his horse.

“Pointless if he is a loony, no one will care. Besides, not much people come down here, we’ll be long gone before anyone else comes.”

“As for the loot, tis only a bag of coins.”

“What of it?” He inquired.

“Half shares remember; we agreed that long ago.”

“Ah, yes of course, but I suspect we may have other prey travelling the roads further up. Lets wait till morning before we divide the spoils.” Said the larger horseman, who sensed trouble.

“No! Give me my share now!” Demanded the smaller horseman.

“Oh hush up!”

The smaller horseman drew his pistol on his larger, more experienced accomplice and fired. The second shot of the night echoed throughout the forest and it ended the targets life, piercing his chest, puncturing his right lung.

He fell backwards onto the path dropping the bag of coins which his “friend” had killed him for. Before he died he realised he had made the mistake of underestimating his accomplice’s greed.

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The Wight had heard another shot which had roused him from death’s reassuring embrace, he felt the blood trickling from his head wound. Sensing the life leaving him he made one last attempt to regain more….

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With his pistol smoking, the bag of coins in his pocket, he left his dead accomplice and mounted his horse, which he had always fancied owning. He took one last look at his dead partner-in-crime and grinned.

“He always did think I was a poor shot!”

Spurring his horse onwards he was dreaming on what he would do with tonight’s spoils. Should he stay and rob more travellers? Or should he travel to the nearest hamlet and spend it on ale and good company?

He was about to go with the latter of the two options, when his horse suddenly began to slow to an almost worrying pace. Snarling in frustration, he kicked the animal with his spurred boots hoping to speed it up. It didn’t, it staggered a couple of metres until it finally collapsed on its side.

The highwayman with quick reactions, trained from years of avoiding the law, got up fast and almost fainted on the spot. In front of him lay the horse: it’s face was a deathly shade of white, which stared at him with milky pupiless eyes; he also could have swore the body of the animal had been bleached as well.

Looking at the animals legs he noticed something that almost made him scream. Attached to the leg was the man that they had killed a minute ago; holding on to the unfortunate animals ankle by one of his claw-like hands.

The highwayman got his pistol out, took aim and shot. But his trembling hands couldn’t steady the pistol, causing him to merely clip the wight’s shoulder. He winced slightly and before he could take a second shot he was face to face with him. Staring into his grey eyes, he noticed that his shoulder wound was rapidly closing and the wound was healing.

His hands were quivering so much he dropped the pistol.

He felt the sides of head sized by the Wight’s hands. He felt tired and cold, and all colour drained from his vision.

“Actually.” The Wight said “You ARE a rather poor shot.”

He twisted the highwayman’s head sharply to the right until it snapped, and let him drop to the floor.