The Barrow downs

The Barrow-downs, nestled deep in the upper reaches of the Willow River, was a place long forgotten by time and forsaken by most who still walked under the sun.

Following the hand-drawn map Tom had gifted him, Sylas made his way upstream, tracing the winding path of the river until he reached its quiet source. The air here was still, the water clear as glass, untouched by the dark mists that clung to the hills beyond.

This valley, cradled at the heart of the Barrow-downs, remained a rare haven of purity, perhaps due to Goldberry's presence. As the River-daughter, some whispered she was the spirit-keeper of the Willow River itself. Her grace might have protected this place from the shadows that ruled the land beyond.

Sylas paused for a short rest at the river's edge, letting the cold water run over his fingers. He knew what lay ahead. Just beyond this valley loomed the haunted tombs, the resting place of ancient kings and the dwelling of the Barrow-wights.

After a sip of water and a whispered spell of focus, he rose and pressed on.

Though it was day, no sun pierced the heavy clouds hanging low above the Barrow-downs. The mist curled and clung to the hills like ghostly fingers. There were no birds in the sky, no chirp of insects—only silence.

Even if the Barrow-wights rarely appeared in daylight, Sylas remained cautious. With a flick of his wand, he cast a Protego Totalum, a wide-reaching shield charm. Empowered by his wand, the protective spell shimmered faintly around him, forming a translucent dome that could withstand physical and magical attacks alike.

He stepped forward with steady resolve. Even if he did disturb the dead, he would not do so unprepared.

The hills were littered with broken ruins, stone walls shattered by centuries of war and weather, moss-covered fragments of towers long forgotten. Sylas passed them quietly, knowing he walked through the echoes of a fallen kingdom.

Once, long ago in the Second Age, Númenor had fallen beneath the sea, and the survivors led by Elendil had come to these shores. Here, in the northern lands of Eriador, they founded the kingdom of Arnor, the Northern Realm of the Dúnedain.

But in time, even great kingdoms fracture.

In the year 861 of the Third Age, Arnor split into three realms: Arthedain, Rhudaur, and Cardolan. The Barrow-downs had once served as the proud capital of Cardolan.

That pride was short-lived.

In 1409, the Witch-king of Angmar led a brutal campaign across the north. Cardolan fell. Its prince died in battle. Soon after, plague swept the land. The Barrow-downs became a land of tombs, and the Witch-king twisted its slumbering dead into servants of darkness.

So it remained for over a thousand years. Travelers steered clear of the Barrow-downs. Even the boldest adventurers rarely ventured into its mists, and never at night.

Now, Sylas stood where few had dared tread. After walking for nearly two hours, he reached the edge of what the map had marked as the Tomb-field.

All around him rose ancient burial mounds, huge, grass-covered barrows of stone and earth. Though time had worn them down, the dignity of their builders lingered. These were the resting places of princes and nobles of the Northern Dúnedain.

Most of the tombs were plain and solemn, built not for glory but remembrance.

The tombs were cloaked in thick mist, worn and crumbling from centuries of decay. A chilling aura clung to the air.

As Sylas stepped cautiously between the moss-covered barrows, the fog began to shift.

It swirled unnaturally, as though breathing.

A warning chill ran down his spine. He tightened his grip on his wand.

Without warning, the mist thickened, and from within its depths, a dark shape lunged.

BANG!

The creature slammed into an invisible wall. The force of the impact hurled it backward, sending it crashing into the damp grass.

Sylas spun around, wand raised.

Through the thinning mist, he finally saw it.

It stood tall, wrapped in ancient, rotting armor that clung to its withered frame like funeral wrappings. Eyes like dying embers glowed from within its sunken skull. Its skin, gray, dry, and stretched tight over its bones, reeked of the grave.

A Barrow-wight.

Even with Tom's warnings fresh in his memory, Sylas was stunned by its speed. If he hadn't cast his shield charm earlier, the creature's ambush would have likely ended him then and there.

But the Barrow-wight wasn't finished. With a hiss like wind through tombstones, it rushed him again.

This time, Sylas was ready.

"Petrificus Totalus!" he shouted, and his wand flared with silvery light.

The spell struck the wight mid-charge, freezing it in place. Its limbs locked as if turned to stone, arms still raised in a haunting pose of attack.

Sylas didn't waste a second.

With a wave of his wand, he summoned two cleavers, hovering beside him like guardian blades, and sent them spinning toward the creature's neck.

Clang!

Sparks flew as the blades struck. The steel scraped against something unnaturally hard beneath the decaying armor.

Sylas winced. He'd been warned the Barrow-wights were difficult to kill, but he hadn't expected their bodies to be so resilient that even weapons barely left a scratch.

Undeterred, he urged the blades to strike again. And again.

Under the relentless blows, cracks began to form. Black, rotting flesh was exposed, and beneath it, a glimpse of bone, ghostly white and slick with decay.

But before relief could take root, the wound exhaled a plume of black mist.

Before his eyes, the Barrow-wight's neck began to mend. The flesh reknit. The bone reformed.

The petrified Barrow-wight suddenly stirred.

Its limbs twitched, and then it broke free entirely from the paralysis, as if resisting the magic through sheer force of will. It didn't attack again, though. Instead, it melted back into the fog, vanishing with uncanny speed.

"Bloody wight," Sylas muttered through clenched teeth, frustrated. The ancient Old Willow Tree had resisted his spells before, and now this creature too?

He did a quick mental count. The Petrificus Totalus he'd used earlier had only held it for about four or five minutes. That was far less than expected.

This journey into the Barrow-downs was proving far more dangerous than he'd imagined.

The fog grew still once more. The wight didn't reappear, but Sylas could feel it lurking. The heavy air carried the weight of unseen eyes watching him, waiting, patient, and full of malice.

He didn't lower his wand.

Then the mist surged again, and the wight struck.

This time, it emerged wielding a massive greatsword, etched with ancient runes and trailing tendrils of black mist. It moved like lightning, barely a blur, and closed the distance in the blink of an eye.

With a roar that echoed through the dead hills, it swung the cursed blade down, straight into Sylas's shield.

CRACK!

To Sylas's horror, the magical barrier shattered on contact.

The Barrow-wight grinned, a grisly, corpse-like leer full of triumph, as if already imagining Sylas torn to pieces and his blood soaked into the stones.

But it had miscalculated.

THWUMP!

It slammed into a second barrier and was hurled backward.

Sylas had prepared not just one, but multiple layers of Shield Charms, he wasn't foolish enough to trust a single defense when walking through cursed tombs.

Before the wight could recover, Sylas's wand was already at the ready.

"Impedimenta! Petrificus Totalus! Expelliarmus!"

The first spell slowed the wight to a crawl. The second locked its limbs once again. The third sent its greatsword spinning from its hand, clattering to the mossy earth with a metallic thud.

Sylas didn't stop there.

This time, he wasn't about to let the creature slip back into the fog.

He fired off over a dozen Petrificus Totalus spells in quick succession, layering the enchantment until the air around the wight shimmered. Then, for good measure, he followed with a Leg-Locker Curse.

The Barrow-wight stood frozen, sealed in place like a statue of shadow and hate. Sylas estimated it wouldn't be moving again for at least an hour.

Only then did he turn his attention to the weapon.

The greatsword lay in the grass where it had fallen, black mist curling off its blade like smoke from a dying fire. Its edges pulsed with ill omens, and Sylas could feel it even from a distance. The very air around it buzzed with something dark… hungry.

He extended his wand and levitated the sword cautiously into the air, holding it away from himself. He didn't dare touch it.

The curse was obvious.

Anyone foolish enough to grab it barehanded would find themselves cursed. And Sylas had no intention of testing just how that curse worked.

Sylas stared thoughtfully at the cursed greatsword, then turned his gaze to the immobilized Barrow-wight.

A spark of inspiration lit up in his eyes.

Ordinary weapons had proven useless against these undead horrors, but what if he fought fire with fire? If this sword was forged in darkness, steeped in malice and cursed beyond reason… perhaps it was the one thing capable of destroying the creature for good.

With a sharp flick of his wand, the greatsword floated into the air, then launched forward like a javelin of shadow.

WHOOSH!

The blade pierced clean through the wight's chest, bursting out the other side and leaving a gaping wound. The creature's foul aura shuddered. The black mist clinging to its form thinned, wavered, and began to recede.

"It's working!" Sylas's voice rose with excitement. His wand guided the sword again, and again, each thrust plunging into the wight with relentless force.

Dark ichor sprayed. The creature's ancient armor cracked. Its brittle skin, once stretched tight over bone, began to rot and peel like scorched parchment.

Finally, Sylas lifted the sword high and sent it arcing downward in a single, merciless stroke.

SHNK!

The head flew from the creature's shoulders.

A final, strangled roar, full of hate and pain, echoed from the Barrow-wight as a massive plume of black mist burst from its body, streaking skyward before unraveling like smoke in the wind.

The wight's corpse collapsed in a heap. Its decayed flesh crumbled to dust before Sylas's eyes, leaving behind nothing but a pale skeleton.

...

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