Yet to be named, pt1

Below is the start to my story that was first intended to be written in Polish at least 5 years ago, but since then I found it easier to write in English. It makes it troubling for people around me to read as only a few actually made the effort to dig through it, but I still consider it a job well done. More coming on a hopefully regular basis.

It was hard to tell through the rainy clouds, but the sun had finished its slow walk over the sky and began hiding behind the horizon. The forest grew darker, birds and day animals gave way to night predators. The road, hardly more than a clear trail of packed dirt through the woods, turned into a sea of mud and great puddles of rainwater, steadily growing as the intense downpour continued into the night.

A lone rider came thundering through the path. The horse's hooves splashed mud and water as it rode onward. The man was soaked to the bone and exhausted after a long day of travelling through the wilderness. Every now and then, he swore bitterly under his breath.

After one sharp turn, his mount neighed loudly and stood on its back legs, frightened. The rider was caught unawares and too tired to react in time. He fell off into a huge pool of mud and watched as the horse ran away in the direction he was headed.

He got up and attempted to shake the mud off without much success, grunted, and continued on foot. As if in mercy, the rain had almost ceased to fall, reducing to a small drizzle. Keeping in mind that horses don't run off at complete random, he advanced cautiously, scanning the road, hand on the hilt of his sword.

Just a few steps later, the sound of rustling leaves came to his ears of the sound of the few remaining raindrops. He turned in the direction of the noise, tightening his grip on the sword-hilt. He couldn't see anything through the still dense autumn foliage. Instead, he made a few steps away from the sounds.

Whatever it was, it was coming closer. Weariness gave way to fear. He knew he couldn't outrun anything after the travel. He cringed his teeth. The beast was almost in his sight. The last of the branches were shoved out of the way....

The small spring of fear turned into a flood of terror.

It wasn't a beast.

It was a skeleton.

Two skeletons. Three.

Walking dead. There was no clothes or skin or even meat on them, just bones. Each held an old, rusty axe. Their faces were expressionless save for the endless grin of death. They turned their eyeless heads towards the man, beginning a slow but steady approach.