The Gravedigger’s Son and the Waif Girl 1

by Sam Feuerbach

  Aross changed her silverling at a stand into fourteen coppers and a pickled herring. She then purchased a pastry at pier two. She swallowed both ravenously and for the first time in days she felt half-way satiated. Hubstone was more bearable on a full stomach.

  Aross’s experiences at the harbour were enough for one day. Here might was right, and by might was meant brutality and unscrupulousness. She had to go back to the orphanage. She would present herself to the matron there. That was the only way she could get to her bed in the dormitory where she slept with fifteen other girls. The price for entry was twenty of the best on the back of her hand. She wouldn’t flinch and she wouldn’t complain. Her feet flitted through the alleyways, and strange words through her head: Chain Dog, witches’ peal, bone reader. What a world. She decided to forget this nonsense.

  She arrived at the orphanage and headed straight for the matron’s room. There she sat, in her rocking chair, reading a hefty tome. Doubtless more stories about dim-witted giants and rotten kings. The matron looked up and smiled. Not the embracing smile of Shewhoknows, but rather a typical adult’s smile. Lip service, singular and fake!

  "Ah yes, it’s always much better when the little rat comes crawling to pussy cat. Twenty of the best! Give me your hand." The matron stood up.

  With teeth clenched, but standing up straight and without hesitation, Aross reached out her left hand to the matron.

  She shook her head and said in a disconsolate voice: "The other hand, my child."

  How Aross hated those lips describing her as "my child". The back of her right hand was still swollen and beaten black and blue from yesterday’s flogging. The girl changed arms without batting an eyelid. The matron had a special contraption for her disciplining. She tied the girl’s wrist to a small wooden block which was screwed to the table by means of a leather strap. That way her victims could not pull away their hand.

  The matron went over to a shelf which had five canes, all of varying lengths and thicknesses. Aross blinked. Five? Up to now only four canes had hung there.

  She wasn’t long waiting for an explanation. "Today I am going to christen my new darling in your honour," beamed the matron as she reached for number five.

  "Best willow wood," she said, singing its praises and clicking her tongue.

  Aross gritted her teeth. The rod was longer than all the others, and the very sight of it was painful. Savouring the moment, the torturer raised the cane high before slamming it hard against the tabletop, just beside Aross’s hand. The whizzing through the air and the ensuing thwack on the wood was enough to make the other children scream and whimper. Aross, on the other hand, remained stiff, silent and still. This attitude enraged the matron no end, the girl knew that much at least. The woman raised the cane for the first proper blow, the cane whipped down, landing with precision on an already swollen part. Aross almost fainted with the pain. She swayed momentarily but didn’t even let out a groan.

  "It’s always a particular pleasure with you, child. You’re very special. I shall break you, rest assured. I’m going to start with your fingers."

  Then came the second whack; a vein burst, and blood splattered onto the matron’s face. Her eyes and cheeks had become rosy, making the blood almost imperceptible, and she was breathing more quickly and seemed to be enjoying every moment. No sound passed through the girl’s lips. Another eighteen whacks to go. It became clear to Aross that the woman would turn her hand into pulp, she would destroy her fingers, her knuckles, the back of her hand. Tears poured down the girl’s face – tears of pain, of helplessness, of rage. She tasted the salt in her mouth. Should she scream? Surely, she had to scream now? Maybe that would change things.

  No! I don’t bark, I bite.

  After the fourth or fifth blow Aross toppled over, the pain simply pushing her into a deep hole. A hole without light, without feeling, without agony. She barely sensed how she’d almost wrenched her arm out, which was still tied to the tabletop. Then the hole closed over.

  champion

  M y champion! You must come and help your king."

  "Must I? I see, I see." Vigo relaxed.

  The king’s messenger shifted awkwardly from one foot to the other. "The enemy is before the castle. The outer city wall has already fallen. It’s only a matter of time before the barbarians from the south will force their way into the castle." His champion not exactly reacting in sheer horror, he added: "And into your bedroom."

  The king had indeed sent his most cunning errand-boy.

  "Is that all?" asked Vigo.

  "The…the king commands…uh…he asks you to help. It will be a fight to the death."

  The naked woman’s head lay on the champion’s chest, her long legs wrapped around his. It had never occurred to her to hide her nakedness. "Do I have to go then, my love?" she murmured in a lascivious voice.

  "Don’t you dare, Orelia. We’ve only just started," he said with a smile. "Wait here for me – I’ll be quick."

  Vigo swung out of the bed; he knew when it was time for action. After all, it was all a question of compromising – which then allowed him to live it up afterwards. A sense of duty had nothing to do with goodness. Not even the sensuous pouting of his playmate could change his mind.

  "Stringing a king along is dangerous. Even more indecent to let the enemy wait for a fight to the death. It’s a question of upbringing," he explained to her.

  Vigo enjoyed her "you-look-so-wonderful" gaze as he pulled up his trousers.

  The messenger stood in the doorway all the while, sweating. It couldn’t have been easy for him to invade the bedchamber unannounced. There had been times when Vigo would have killed him for doing just that. The messenger justified himself swiftly. "I thank you, sir. The king will tear my head from my shoulders if I return without you at my side.

  "Then I would avoid him if at all possible if I didn’t have my champion at my side."

  The servant considered that for a moment. "Even better to return to him with my champion. I’ll wait."

  Vigo grinned as he pulled on his studded armour – his breastplate consisting of three layers of hardened leather, and his thigh armour, which attached to his waist armour. He strapped on his broadsword and looked at himself in the man-sized mirror. He didn’t look genuinely terrifying. He was, though. An opponent to be taken seriously by the enemy. He resolutely reached for his leather helmet, put it on with the eye slit facing backwards, waved around his arms helplessly and whined in consternation: "I’m blind, everything is dark, I can’t see anymore!"

  His beloved giggled, impressed. "Are you the king’s court jester or the king’s principal knight?"

  "What’s the difference, my precious?"

  She nodded, as if she were the last person capable of answering this philosophical question. "Take care of yourself, principal court jester."

  A joyful roar rang out when Vigo stepped out of the palace and into the inner courtyard. The soldiers, artisans, vassals and citizens, who made up the throng, all loved their champion Vigo, first knight of the Northern Kingdom, who had remained loyal to his king, Ekarius the Fifth.

  No wonder! If he were a normal citizen, he’d also love himself – hadn’t he already saved the town and its castle no less than five times from siege, destruction or worse by winning in single combat. Decisive duels that were fights to the death. This was what Vigo lived for; this was why he served his king; this was why he always got what he wanted.

  The attacks on the capital of the Northern Kingdom had become fewer in recent years. Word had spread about Vigo’s fighting skills – after five glorious victories the enemies knew what they had to expect before these walls. They prepared for either an unbelievably demanding fight to the death, or a siege that would last for years, by the end of which they would have lost countless men and conquered a city which would have little in common with how it looked today. Supplies would be used up, the people dead or on the point of starvation, the wells poisoned, the city treasures buried. All this unpleasantness could be
simply avoided – by a duel for control of the city, which would of course require the permission of its defenders. If the fighter representing the attacking army lost, then that army would withdraw empty-handed. If he won, however, the city would submit to the enemy leader without further combat. The victor would receive the key to the castle, and so the authority over the city. The previous leader, generally a prince or, as in this case, a king, would then abdicate. The conqueror gained control over the city and all its resources without significant losses, generally including the citizens, who had to accept the outcome of the fight for good or ill. Of course, there was a certain hidden risk; the conqueror might not adhere to tradition but instead, having entered the city, he might execute the conquered king first and then all of the citizens, but this rarely happened.

  With a spring in his step Vigo climbed the wooden defensive corridor. He raised his eyebrows heavenwards when he saw the enemy army. Fierce-looking soldiers as far as his eyes could see. On all sides he could see the yellow and black banners adorned with their peregrine falcon on the coat-of arms of King Grachus. A dangerous enemy who already controlled the south. His domicile was Hubstone, the most important harbour city of the Worldly Kingdom, which had made him rich and powerful. Grachus had been extending his claws northwards since time immemorial too; this man wouldn’t rest easy until he had the entire Worldly Kingdom under his wings. This endless striving for power and yet more power was a mystery to Vigo.

  The enemy army had overcome the first hurdle in the twinkling of an eye – there were impressive holes gaping from the outer wall. The houses in the background were burning, sending up clouds of black smoke. Too black. Grachus’s soldiers had clearly helped things along with oil-soaked rags. Which merely emphasised the need for a duel. Ekarius simply couldn’t afford to reject the offer.

  He spotted his king on the balustrade directly over the castle gate. The show-off had put on his pageant armour. A mixture of gold and silver. Although gold was, of course, a totally unsuitable metal for armoured plates. Soft and heavy. As befitted its wearer. Beside him stood the chancellor, Tarian Wineview, the king’s closest advisor. What the man did all day remained a mystery to Vigo. Oh yes – he advised the king closely. Vigo imagined to himself how this had manifested itself up to now. Presumably, the king had asked: "The enemy is outside our gates. What do we do now, my dear Wineview?" Vigo could literally see it before him, Wineview swaying his head left and right with gravitas. "Let me think, your majesty. Give me a little time. I will gladly advise you closely." His head continued to sway. "I have found the solution. Send for Vigo, the principal knight."

  "A splendid suggestion, Wineview", praised the king. His work being done, the resourceful advisor leaned proudly, if a little wearily, against the wall.

  With a little shake of his head, the champion marched towards his ruler and nodded respectfully. "My king."

  "You’re here, Vigo."

  The king’s chancellor ignored him completely. Vigo didn’t like rudeness. "Hail, unto thee, Chancellor Wisenot."

  "You’re not going to chase back the enemy from the south with your clownish tomfoolery", snarled Wineview back at him.

  "Now, now, don’t be fighting," intervened Ekarius magisterially. "Vigo, can you imagine, King Grachus desires my head yet again."

  "Your majesty, forgive me, but my head is top of his list, ahead of yours."

  "By all means, you go first." King Ekarius could be extremely generous at times.

  "For variety, we could allow the closest advisors to step into the arena," suggested Vigo, throwing Wineview an encouraging look.

  The latter declined the offer. "It is precisely for this purpose that we can afford your good self, Cavalier Vigo."

  How he hated this cowardly smart aleck. And to top it all, Wineview had clearly been ogling Vigo’s beloved, Orelia. No wonder – there was no woman more enchanting at court.

  "Could we set aside this squabbling and concentrate on the enemy?" asked King Ekarius.

  "Right then, let’s move onto our familiar acquaintance, King Grachus. It hasn’t even been a year since his last visit," declared the champion. "And he was hopping mad when he had to turn around last time. I wouldn’t put it past him that he’ll go against tradition and make an example of us by flattening the whole city."

  The fine shimmer on the king’s forehead suggested to Virgo that he wasn’t far off the mark with his prediction.

  "Grachus has a new principal knight. He’s a true master of his arts and is said to be the most dangerous duellist of all time. His king is so enthusiastic about him that he’s been named head of the army."

  "Stop trying to frighten me – that will only make me up my price." Vigo wiggled his eyebrow, but his all-conquering smirk put the lie to his words. Fear played no role in his life. "And the most dangerous duellist of all time is standing beside you."

  There was movement within the enemy ranks. A group of men broke away and briskly approached them – King Grachus leading the way; Vigo easily recognised him on account of his long, two-stranded beard. Beside him strutted a bloke so big that he could look over the castle wall on tiptoes. As he came closer, he performed obscene gestures at the defenders.

  "Who’s that baby?" asked Vigo in amusement.

  "Like master, like man. That’s your enemy. Don’t underestimate him – you’re not in a competition of poets and muses, but a swordfight to the death."

  Vigo looked at his king in amazement. "Thanks for reminding me."

  The king sighed. "If I didn’t like you so much…"

  "If you didn’t need me so much. Our fates are intertwined, Your Excellency. What do you know about the giant?"

  "He’s won two fights already, which means Raktardom and Settland are under Grachus’s control," explained the king. "Both enemies fell faster than you can utter your impertinences. People have considered him to be invincible since then."

  "Just because somebody’s plopped into the water twice is a long way from saying they can swim," said Vigo dismissively. "Did he stick to the rules and spare the city retainers and population?"

  Ekarius nodded. "He did. But now Grachus is in front of my city a second time. I don’t trust him."

  I wouldn’t trust somebody who wanted to take away my gold, my people and my kingdom either, thought Vigo to himself.

  By now King Grachus and his entourage had reached the city gate. His principal knight looked even taller and broader up close.

  "He’s going to have to squeeze his way through the gate." Vigo looked him up and down – the man was wearing a lot of armour – a mixture of leather studs and panels – solid protection allied with maximum freedom of movement. A two-handed sword strapped onto his back; so long, the mighty weapon still ploughed the ground.

  "Where do our enemies always get such giants from?" complained the king.

  "Your enemies, Your Majesty. I could imagine inviting the big lad out for a mouthful of beer on a different occasion. We’d drink to the great rulers of the world."

  His Excellency was spared a retort by a bellow from below: "HERE STANDS KING GRACCHUS!"

  "Indeed!" responded Vigo light-heartedly.

  "Be quiet now!" hissed Ekarius. The king leaned over the parapet and stretched to peer down. No mean undertaking on account of his fat stomach and short neck. He called out in a firm voice: "Hail to thee, King Grachus. What brings you here, this fine day, before our castle walls?"

  "What does it look like?"

  The men around Grachus laughed merrily – except for the hulk; not a single muscle on his face disturbed his battle-ready features.

  "I’d like to hear it out of your own mouth, Grachus. I’d like to hear that you’re abiding by the traditions of our beloved Worldly Kingdom."

  "But, of course, honoured Ekarius, the what-number-again? Was it the third or fourth? – I’ve lost count."

  Ha-ha, thought Vigo to himself. Grachus is provoking Ekarius the Fifth brilliantly.

  His Majesty remained relaxed. "Perhap
s you are not capable of counting so far, Grachus. And so, I forgive you that. Say loudly and clearly what your desire is."

  Not a bad riposte at all.

  Grachus called out in a firm voice: "My desire is your title, your city, your kingdom. And so, I challenge the principal knight of the stone dragons to come out for a duel to the death in the tradition of the old Worldly Kingdoms. Should my champion lose, I shall command a retreat. Should he win, I expect the surrender of the city and your abdication."

  Or your extinction. Vigo would prefer not to find out.

  It was now up to the defenders if they wanted to accept the challenge to the duel or not. Otherwise, a potential conqueror would be knocking on the city gate every Sunday. King Grachus undoubtedly had good reason for throwing down the gauntlet. The thousands of soldiers behind him also exerted a certain pressure.

  "Let it be so!" replied Ekarius.

  A deafening roar rang out. Attackers and defenders welcomed this strategy – both sides would end up with nothing more than a bloody nose. No, not even that. Only for the two participants in the duel to the death would the reckoning be different.

  "Who will fight on behalf of the house of the stone dragons?" asked Grachus despite knowing the answer already – after all, he was familiar with Vigo from the last encounter.

  Yes, tradition meant people always did the same things again and again. Which is why it was called tradition. They’d be stuck in the loop for ten thousand years.