Aelfread’s Tale by Noah Canniff

Aelfread’s Tale by Noah Canniff

The wavering light of the autumn sun glistened through the canopy of the trees above, showering the ground with a weak orange light that complimented the brilliantly colored leaves of the aging trees as though they were lit by fire. It was through this spectacular scene that Aelfread walked on foot along an old stone road, built by the Romans long forgotten. Dried fallen leaves almost entirely blanketed this road, disturbed only by the stray passing animal or wayfarer. Aelfread was no wayfarer, however, he was a brigand- an outlaw.

It had all gone wrong so quickly, and he knew there would be dire consequences if he was caught. He would be arrested, and then promptly drawn and quartered. He was no angel, and he had no qualms with killing soldiers, but needlessly slaughtering serfs was just depraved and malevolent. This last job was the last time he would take a job with a gang he didn’t know. When he had been hired, he had been told they were just going to steal horses from the lord of the land, but was mortified when the men he was with began slaying anyone in sight. He had already been paid in advance, so he slipped away and ran as far as he could from the stud farm. He was lucky with the moment he chose to run, for the retinue of the lord who owned the stud farm had just arrived. And so, down this ancient road he traveled, looking for a place to lay his head, for he was beleaguered by paralyzing fatigue from his flight northward to the lands of Northumberland.

By the time the sun’s brilliant orange radiance had almost faded from the sky completely- like a candle at the end of its wick. He still had not found a good place to rest for the night, and he feared what could happen if he did not find shelter. The crisp air of the autumn breeze had transformed as the waning day grew darker, for a stench of sulfur and rotting flesh now permeated the air and infected everything it touched, like death himself had graced the forest with his presence. As soon as he caught a whiff of the stench, the hairs on the back of his neck stood upright; For there was nothing natural about the smell. The fear filling his heart forced him to quicken his pace.

Further ahead the road took a sharp uninviting and unnatural bend, and he knew as soon as he turned the corner he would be met by something horrible. There was no way around whatever lay in front of him, for when the Romans built the highway, they had dug two great ditches on either side of the way. These ditches had been put in place to discourage banditry and avoiding tolls, but now they fenced Aelfread in. His stomach sunk to his feet like a bag or rocks in water as he forced himself to round the corner.

As he turned the corner he was met by the corpses of three heavily mutilated men-at-arms. The men lay in front of a way off the road and into what once was countryside, but now was overgrown by forest. Despite having seen his fair share of corpses in his time, the sight made him retch. They were still wearing their armor, and their weapons were close at hand. Two of the men were wearing only gambesons, but one wore a maille shirt over his. However, the eyes of the men had been plucked from their skulls and were nowhere to be seen, and many great chunks of flesh were missing from their now bloated and rotting bodies. Most of these missing chunks were too neatly cut to have been eaten by animals. They reminded him of the way a butcher would hack off cuts of meat to sell. He now realized he had not heard the cries of the wolves for a number of days now.

How and why would a person do this? He turned his thoughts towards the Britons who still dwelt in the nearby woods. The Britons who lived nearby had no reason to not bear arms against their Saxon overlords. Aelfread, and his father before him, had both been born in wessex, just a few miles from the ruins of Londinium, but his grandfather was born in far away saxony. His grandfather had been a member of a warband, making his livelihood raiding Brythonic lands before settling down and becoming a farmer. But if it was Britons why did they still have their equipment?

The maille shirt one of the soldiers was wearing caught his eye. Such a piece of equipment was completely out of reach financially for those of lower social standing. These shirts took an armorer many months to complete, and once done they were worth more than an entire year’s wages for the average soldier. This shirt was beautifully ornate, with a trim along its edges that appeared to be made from brass. But there it was just sitting on the corpse, and it was torn to shreds. The gashes that ran along the shirt went straight through the gambeson below and deep into the flesh. No sword could cut through a mail shirt like that, a spear could pierce one, but not even the finest of swords could do that. He needed to leave, and as quickly as he possibly could. It was at that moment that a great guttural screaming cry came from the trees aside the road, as though the forest itself was releasing a painful scream of loneliness and utter dread.

A mountainous shambling figure made its appearance in his vision. Its skeletal frame stood upright, wreathed in thick sheets of cloth that reflected no light, while its rotting muscles and tendons hung from its visible bones. Like some kind of mask it wore the skull of an ox upon its head, with deep, black pits for eyes. It stood on the path that led in from the forest, like a shadow in a door frame. The sounds of the birds and other animals had fallen eerily silent, and for a few moments it stood there merely observing him. He wondered if it had just caught sight of him or if he had been pursued by this thing.

Alas it chose to break the standoff that had started, and now it was moving towards him, its intent made clear by the broken corpses at his feet. The warmth that was still in the air was quickly fading, and now he could see his very breath as it edged closer to him. This thing did not have hands like a person might; instead on each hand it had three long bony claw-like digits stained red by blood. It wore a necklace made from the eyes and tongues of dead men. He took his sword from his scabbard and prepared for the fight of his life.

His hands were becoming near frostbitten by the cold that was now sweeping over him however, and the cold made its way deep into his heart. He began to back away from the abomination approaching him, his thoughts of courageous actions had almost gone completely quiet. All he could force himself to do was weakly strike a guard position with his sword in light of its approach. Without realizing it he found himself falling over the body closest to him, dropping his sword in the process. He had never been this cold before in his short and miserable life. He realized this was how he would die- there would be no great fight that ended him, and nobody would even remember his name. It now stood above him, and he found that the abyss behind the sockets of the skull to be without limit.

* * * * THE END * * * *
Copyright Noah Canniff 2025