Fearless

by Cornelia Funke

  The men riding towards the watchtower were the same ones Fox had seen behind the Witch’s stable, but as they rode closer, she noticed that the Goyl wasn’t among them. Nor was Jacob.

  ‘Calm!’ Valiant whispered to her. ‘It means nothing. Absolutely nothing.’

  Yet Fox felt as though someone were forging iron rings around her heart.

  He wasn’t with them.

  They had killed him.

  No, Fox!

  They were four. All well armed. The Waterman was also missing, but they had brought the bloodhounds, and Fox was glad she wasn’t wearing fur. One of the men was very young, and another one was barely taller than Valiant. Fox recognised Louis of Lotharaine from the pictures of him standing by his father’s side. In the pictures he’d looked much taller. Fox could smell elven dust and toad spawn as he reined his horse just a few steps away from her.

  ‘You’re the vixen.’

  It was half question, half stated fact. Louis’s voice was as unpleasant as his face. ‘A Dwarf? Is that all the reinforcements you could muster?’

  The man with the dogs uttered a barking laugh.

  Valiant gave Louis an indulgent smile. It was every Dwarf’s curse and blessing to be underestimated for his size. ‘Evenaugh Valiant. And with whom do I have the pleasure?’

  Louis swayed in his saddle as he pushed back his jacket to reveal the gem-encrusted hilt of his sabre.

  ‘Louis Philippe Charles Roland, crown prince of Lotharaine.’

  ‘Impressive!’ Valiant replied. ‘But we Dwarfs, we’re all republicans. I hope you don’t take it personally. Anyway’ – he looked searchingly past the prince – ‘we had actually arranged to meet a Goyl.’

  The bloodhounds were watching Fox. They were not as easily deceived by her body as humans were.

  ‘Where is Jacob?’ She’d promised the Dwarf to leave the talking to him, but she was tired of waiting.

  The prince stared at her with that mixture of disgust and desire every shape-shifter was all too familiar with.

  ‘Where do you have the heart?’ he barked at her. ‘I bet you have it hidden under your clothes, like your fur.’

  The hounds bared their fangs, and Louis gave the dog man a nod.

  Valiant turned to the watchtower and gave a shrill whistle.

  Two lumbering figures stepped out of the shadows behind the tower. The Giantlings had ice all over their clothes, and they stared rather unkindly at Louis. Nowhere had Giants once lived in as large numbers as in Lotharaine, and nowhere had they been hunted with as much abandon. Crookback had a collection of Giants’ heads, which he still liked to show off during state events.

  ‘Yes, I was forewarned,’ Valiant said while Louis tried to calm his shying horse. ‘I’ve had the dubious pleasure of doing business with your father. Why should I trust his son any more?’

  The taller of the Giantlings gave a disapproving grunt, and one of the horses reared up.

  It was the dog man who fired the shot. Maybe he was afraid for his bloodhounds, who were barking so furiously at the Giantling that he took a lumbering step towards them. The bullet hit him in the centre of his broad brow. His collapsing hulk buried the shooter as well as his dogs.

  The other Giantling howled out with rage.

  He yanked the prince from his saddle and shook him like a rag doll, his other fist blindly flailing about. He killed the baby face with one swipe; Fox could hear his neck snap. Valiant only just managed to jump to safety, and she retreated between the shying horses to find some shelter from the raging Giantling. In his fury, he trampled the rifle that had killed his companion, until its metal stuck to his soles like wilted leaves. Then he threw himself to his knees next to the lifeless body and wiped the blood from the shot-up forehead.

  ‘Like a Giantling’s vengeance,’ the saying went – for good reason.

  Louis was spreadeagled on the trampled earth, and like the servant with the baby face, he was not moving. But the Bug Man was crawling on all fours to his master, staring in distress at the waxen face. Behind him, Valiant was groaning as he struggled to his feet, cursing all Giantlings.

  The prince had two swindlesacks on his belt. Fox took them before the Dwarf got hold of them. She put her pistol to the Bug’s head.

  ‘Where is your prisoner?’

  Louis stirred. The Bug Man sighed with relief and ran his spidery fingers over his master’s face. ‘The carriage,’ he stammered. His eyes were full of tears. Fox couldn’t tell whether they were tears of rage or of fear.

  She caught one of the horses, ignoring Valiant’s calls.

  The trail was easy to follow. A herd of cows wouldn’t have left clearer tracks, but the dark clouds over the mountains made it hard even for her to spot the carriage beneath the pines. The Waterman was tied to one of the wheels. Good. The scent of his scaly skin reminded Fox of the many damp caves she and Jacob had searched for abducted girls. When the Waterman spotted her, he started yanking angrily at his fetters, but Fox just walked past him.

  Her hands trembled as she tore open the carriage door. The Bastard was all but invisible; only his eyes glinted through the dark like coins. Jacob’s face was streaked with blood, but he seemed unhurt otherwise. Fox cut his ropes. He stumbled as he climbed out of the carriage. Fox had seen this kind of exhaustion before.

  ‘How often?’

  He rubbed his battered face and attempted a smile. ‘I really am glad to see you. Where is Valiant?’

  ‘How often, Jacob? Answer me!’

  He took her hands. His fingers were cold. It’s a cold night, Fox. It means nothing. But she could see death all over his face.

  ‘One bite to go.’

  Just one.

  Breathe, Fox.

  She pulled out the two swindlesacks she’d taken off Louis. She also gave Jacob the leather pouch where she kept the heart. This time his smile wasn’t quite as weary.

  ‘You also look exhausted.’ Jacob stroked her face. ‘Just as well this will all be over soon, one way or another. Right?’

  He tucked the sacks into his coat pocket and leant into the carriage.

  ‘Keep searching,’ Fox heard him say. ‘There is a door. No onyx on the other side, no Thumblings, but there are some princes. Only a few of them wear crowns, though.’

  ‘Cut me loose!’ the Goyl replied with a hoarse voice. ‘Let’s find out once and for all which of us is the best.’

  Jacob stepped back.

  ‘Another time,’ he said. ‘This one I can’t afford to lose.’

  ‘You would have lost a long time ago if the vixen didn’t keep saving your skin!’ The Goyl sounded like he was choking on his rage.

  ‘That’s correct,’ Jacob replied. ‘But it’s also nothing new.’

  Then he slammed the carriage door shut.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN

  HEAD. HAND. HEART.

  The Giantling had already covered the body of his companion with stones. He’d also arranged the bodies of the other dead at his feet like offerings: the kitchen hand, the dog man and his two bloodhounds. The two who’d survived his rage lay bound and gagged by the wall of the watchtower: Louis and the Bug. Valiant was pacing up and down in front of them. He didn’t look happy at all.

  ‘Look at that!’ he yelled at Jacob. ‘What’ve you got me into this time? The Lotharainian crown prince! Luckily, he’s still alive, but that probably rules out Crookback as a buyer. Wasn’t it enough to make the Empress your enemy?’

  Jacob felt Fox’s arms around him before she slipped off the horse. Her warmth lingered like a promise as he swung himself from the saddle.

  All will be well.

  He ignored Valiant’s muttering and went to the fence behind which the ruins lay. The Dead City. Not a place he’d ever wanted to see this close. Even Chanute had always steered clear of it. Jacob thought he could hear voices, some kind of chanting, interrupted by hoarse howls. Maybe the lunatics who lived among those ruins sensed that this was going to be a special night. Supposedly, it was enough t
o merely touch the walls to succumb to the same madness. Jacob’s eyes searched for a path through the dead streets that led up the mountain. The city once had thousands of inhabitants. He saw stairs and bridges, crumbling churches. He saw towers and houses, their empty windows outlined by will-o’-the-wisps, and palaces with walls pocked with the nests of plague finches – the only kind of bird that thrived in places like this. If the palace really appeared, it was going to be a long way to reach it. And Jacob could feel his life slipping away with every breath.

  ‘I hear the Goyl’s still alive?’ Valiant appeared by his side. ‘Why didn’t you shoot him? Competition’s good for business?’

  ‘I’m not quite as quick with the shooting as you, remember?’ Jacob looked at the watchtower.

  Fox was waiting by the door.

  ‘Did you have the body brought here?’

  ‘Indeed.’ Valiant let out a pitiful sigh. ‘I hope you have at least some idea of how difficult that was! I had to bribe the Giantling guard by the tomb with a year’s supply of elven dust, and then I had to hire the other two to bring the coffin here. I had to give a master performance in front of the Dwarf council to convince them that I was as disgusted as they were by the sudden disappearance of the body. I neglected my other business interests to come here. I want that crossbow. And I want to make a fortune from it! I’m planning on travelling to Albion myself, as soon as you have it. Wilfred the Walrus seems to be our most likely buyer, don’t you agree?’

  ‘Sure,’ Jacob answered.

  He was just glad that Valiant didn’t know about his promise to Robert Dunbar. If that crossbow really did save his life, then he’d have to be careful the Dwarf didn’t shoot him.

  The inside of the watchtower was empty, except for a few rusty lances and the remnants of a goat that had perished in its walls. The Witch Slayer’s body lay in one of the simple wood coffins in which the Dwarfs buried their dead mine workers.

  Fox helped Jacob open the lid.

  The simple coffin made the gown on the headless corpse look even more sumptuous.

  Fox looked at him.

  It had been a long hunt. But they’d made it this far, together. Just as they had promised each other in Valiant’s castle. Just the way their fellowship had shaped not only his but also her life for more than six years. There was hardly a memory from those years that was not shared by both of them. His second shadow. By now she was so much more than that. Nothing had ever made that clearer than these past months. She was a part of him, inseparably connected. Head, hand and heart.

  ‘What are you waiting for?’ His impatience was making Valiant stand on tiptoes in his bespoke boots. They had not only high heels but also soles that made him taller. Dwarf cobblers were very skilled at giving their customers a few extra inches.

  Jacob first pulled the sack with the hand from his bag. As with the head, he barely felt anything when he touched the dead skin. He felt a brief twinge of worry that Guismond’s magic might have lost its potency after so many centuries. You’ll know soon enough, Jacob. The fingernails still had remnants of gold on them, but they were not mouldy, as one usually saw on the hand of a Warlock. Maybe Guismond had found a way to protect himself from that effect. The regular intake of Witch blood had terrible consequences. It attacked the brain and caused strong hallucinations. All Warlocks went mad at some point. If the archives in Vena were to be believed, already years before his death Guismond had began to distrust even his most loyal knights, and he had friends and enemies executed indiscriminately, usually by starving them to death in golden cages he’d hung from the walls of his palace.

  The hand in the south.

  Jacob leant over the body. The hand was stiff and cold, but it fit perfectly on to the stump of the arm, as though he was assembling a sinister doll.

  The wind that came rushing through the tower’s windows was cold and damp like snow, and it made the lantern Fox was holding over the casket flicker.

  Jacob opened the leather pouch that contained the necklace with the heart. He tucked back the burial gown until it revealed the gold-lined hole in the chest. The black heart Ramée’s granddaughter had worn around her white neck. Jacob felt nothing but a faint warmth as he took the jewel off the chain. It almost seemed to welcome his touch.

  The heart in the east.

  It fit into the gold-lined hole as though Guismond had a stone heart beating in his chest even when he was alive. And he may well have had.

  The Goyl had kept the head in the same swindlesack Jacob had carried it in.

  The head in the west.

  Like the hand, the face was stiff and lifeless as Jacob pulled it out of the sack, but as soon as he put it on the stump of the neck, the golden lips parted.

  The gurgle that emanated from the open mouth sounded like the last sigh of a dying man. The corpse’s pink skin turned grey, and the face began to crumble as though someone had shaped it from golden sand. The neck, the hands, the entire corpse crumbled into itself. Even the gown rotted in front of their eyes, until the casket was filled with nothing but grey dust mixed with a few specks of gold.

  ‘What the devil—?’

  Valiant stared down at it, aghast, but Jacob breathed a sigh of relief. The Witch Slayer’s magic was still working. And he had found himself a new abode, like a bird that’s been let out of its cage.

  Fox was already by one of the windows, looking at the ruins.

  A shadow, manifested from the darkness of the night. It took shape very slowly, for what was moulding itself there was huge. Towers, battlements, walls. At first they were transparent, like smudged glass, but then they became stone, as sallow as the dust in the coffin.

  The palace, which kept growing into the night like a stone thistle, had not been built to impress through its beauty. It was meant to do only one thing: inspire awe. Even from a distance, one could see the cages on the crenellated walls where Guismond had let his friends and foes starve to death. Beneath them Jacob could make out the Iron Gate. If the stories passed down from the times of the Witch Slayer were true, then the gate came to life with lethal force whenever an enemy demanded entry. A treasure hunter trying to steal Guismond’s crossbow was unlikely to be considered a friend.

  Well, first you have to get to that gate, Jacob.

  Outside, the Giantling was still piling rocks on his companion’s body. The higher he piled them, the more importance he accorded to his dead comrade. Every friend and relative who visited the grave of a Giantling added a stone, so that the graves often grew to the size of a small hill.

  The prince was still unconscious. The Giantling had given him quite a thrashing, but he’d survive. Jacob wasn’t sure whether that was good news or bad. Imagining Louis on the throne wasn’t necessarily a comforting thought.

  ‘His father will feed you to his dogs!’ Lelou was screeching with a shrill voice. ‘He’ll have your hearts served for breakfast . . .’

  ‘. . . and roll cigarettes from our skins. I know.’ Jacob pulled out his knife and leant over Louis.

  Lelou watched him in speechless horror, as though he’d suddenly swallowed his tongue.

  ‘Yes, it’s a pity he can’t come with us,’ Jacob said, cutting a few strands of Louis’s pale blond hair. ‘I’m sure the Iron Gate would welcome him more warmly than me.’

  ‘What’s that supposed to be for?’ Valiant asked. ‘Are you going to sell a strand to every girl you find pining at the prince’s portrait, dreaming of becoming Queen of Lotharaine?’

  Jacob left that question unanswered. Never had he felt more grateful for the things Alma had taught him – things that Witches usually never divulged to a human. She had once pulled out one of his hairs and wrapped it around her bony finger. ‘This here tells me more about you than your blood,’ she told him. ‘Every single hair reveals who you are and where you come from. Yet you humans leave it in combs and brushes without realising that even a few strands of it give any stranger the chance to put a very powerful part of you in his pocket. For a Witch, th
e hair you leave on a hairdresser’s floor is enough to create a doppelgänger in just a few hours.’

  He didn’t have enough for that. But maybe it would make Guismond’s gate accept him as a distant descendant. It was worth a try.

  ‘You have no right!’ Lelou’s voice trembled with rage. ‘Treasure hunter? You’re all filthy thieves. The crossbow belongs to Guismond’s heirs.’

  Jacob got up.

  ‘Yes, but why did his children never come to claim it? What do you think, Lelou?’ He put Louis’s hair in one of the empty swindlesacks. ‘Maybe they never even came to his tomb. How do you explain that? Just with the fact that the Witch Slayer was a terrible father and quite mad towards the end? Did he, as some say, have their mother killed, and was that why they rejected him? Or were they simply too busy waging war against one another?’

  Arsene Lelou pressed his colourless lips together. Still, as expected, he couldn’t resist the chance to show off his knowledge.

  ‘They thought their father wanted to kill them all!’ he twanged. ‘That’s why they never came to the tomb. That’s why they never searched for the crossbow. They were convinced Guismond would find a way to kill them.’

  Valiant uttered a sceptical grunt. ‘Why should he? He needed an heir.’

  Lelou rolled his eyes. ‘The Witch Slayer was crazy. He didn’t want anybody on his throne, not even one of his children. He wanted the world to stand still after his death. It was supposed to begin and end with him.’

  Fox went to Jacob’s side.

  ‘We should get going,’ she said quietly.

  Yes, but Jacob was still thinking about what Lelou had said. Maybe taking Louis’s hair wasn’t such a good idea?

  He pulled Fox away.

  Behind them, Lelou was reciting every horror story ever written about the Dead City. Jacob knew them all.

  From his pocket he took the chain Ramée’s granddaughter had worn – and possibly Guismond’s daughter before her.

  ‘I will get you a pendant for it,’ he said as he put it around Fox’s neck. ‘The most beautiful one I can find in Guismond’s palace. But let me go alone. Please! It’s too dangerous. I’ll come back with the crossbow. I promise.’