"Agreed," answered his father.
Gasping, they set down the stretcher, only nobody came forward to lend a hand. Peat and Hamak swopped poles at the back.
"Go on!" grunted the alderman to the gravedigger’s son.
Everything in best order – normal service has been resumed, thought Farin as he bent down and grasped the stretcher with both hands.
"Boy, he’s heavy," groaned Peat.
"Gerlunda and Amen couldn’t have been brought there at the same time if it was only the man in black. Unless we’re dealing with more than one perpetrator," ruminated Hamak aloud.
The stretcher poles almost slipped out of Farin’s hands. He had successfully suppressed the raven’s words until now. "First, I’ll take care of the fat pig-priest, then the alderman. And guess who’s next on the list, my friend."
Is Hamak next? And then…
His simple life threatened to be turned upside down by murder and strange voices. He gritted his teeth. He shouldn’t waste his strength on such thoughts while his arms were burning under the stretcher’s heavy weight. They reached the horse and cart and heaved the body of the priest onto the load bed.
A public position in the village demanded a public funeral, and Farin was under no illusion: the job would end up on his workbench, and piecing this tattered body back together again meant a lot of work. Only now did it hit Farin that he should have looked for and brought back the skullcap with him. You couldn’t expect the residents of Heap to tolerate the rain falling into their priest’s head during his funeral. I’ll mask the missing skullcap with a headpiece, thought Farin. And I’ll stuff his sliced stomach with wood shavings and sew it up with thick yarn.
"You’re going to pay for this, gravedigger’s son," hissed Peat quietly so that his father couldn’t overhear him. The two of them were standing behind the cart while Hamak was taking his place on the box.
"What do you mean?"
"For dragging me into this shit."
Farin could hardly believe his ears – did everybody in the village really have to blame him for every depravity and trouble? "Puke your guts out, scaredy-cat. You’re good at that", he whispered back.
Hamak glanced over his shoulder. "You get up in the front, Peat. And you at the back, you scoundrel."
Peat fired a look of revulsion and repulsion at Farin, before clambering up beside his father. The episode in the Cleft had certainly not improved their relations. Still, at least he could sit on the cart bed and keep Amen company. Off they set towards the yard of the gravedigger and undertaker.
the arena
D ecision day. Vigo was putting on his leather armour. Each part carefully went into its place, tailor-made, countless fins of hardened leather covering him – they offered sufficient protection while still allowing freedom of movement. If Torem caught him with his mighty weapon, panels wouldn’t help him anyway. The leather helmet would protect him from a closed fist or a headbutt at most. Agility and adroitness were what helped most in a duel with the champion of the house of the peregrines. Vigo’s strategy: don’t get caught – especially not by a mighty two-hander.
When principal knights fought to the death just about anything went. Throwing sand in the eyes, kicks in the abdomen, biting off ears and ripping buttocks. There were a few rules, the most important being: only one weapon and it had to be a sword. If one of the competitors pulled out another weapon, for example a throwing knife, then he’d be executed by the archers, and officially lose the fight. The sword would be examined and cleaned before the fight. This measure was necessary because some particularly valorous principal knights had dabbed up to fifteen different poisons on their blade although it was forbidden. Always fascinating to consider what things people dreamed up in their efforts to gain an advantage. The competitors were allowed recourse to the complete arsenal of armouring and shields to defend and protect themselves.
Torem will wear chain and swing his long two-hander. I’ll choose my bastard-sword and the oak buckler with the large steel stud.
He could only use the round-shield once to head off a blow from his enemy, at least if Torem’s blow was a direct hit. Although the wood had been hardened three times, the buckler would split. So, he would avoid getting hit at all costs.
His beloved observed his ritual. "I prefer it when you undress yourself."
"I prefer it when I undress you," said Vigo, wiggling his eyebrows.
"I’m being serious, my bold principal knight. I’d hate to become the principal widow", said Orelia.
"We’d have to be married for that."
"But we are – spiritually at least."
A man had to know when it was best to change the subject.
Vigo changed the subject. "Are you going to be at the fight?"
"You know I can’t. It’s…it’s just not possible for me."
"Then I’ll tell you afterwards what it was like. I’ll be gone a little longer than yesterday."
Bleary-eyed and sobbing a little she said: "Take your time. The important thing is you come back."
"I’ll be a little dirtier and bloodier."
"So long as it’s not your blood…"
A pounding at the door. "Principal Knight! The time has come!"
"Till later, my precious!" Vigo rolled his shoulders forward and back, turned his head left and right. The vertebrae in his neck cracked, battle-ready. Without turning back, Vigo strode out of the principal knight’s chamber.
The roar of approval that greeted him put all previous roars in the shade. Ten thousand people greeted their champion. Five clear victories had made him a legend, and the people fervently believed in him.
Don’t lose your concentration, the only thing that matters is that you believe in yourself. When it comes down to it none of these idolaters and exalters are actually going to help you. Surrounded by twenty thousand people, you’re going to face the principal knight of the house of the peregrines, lonely and alone.
He raised his buckler in salute, the roar of the enthusiastic crowd grew louder, a thunder like the flood waves of the Northern Sea. They were standing everywhere – on the defensive corridor, on the walls, even on the rooftops – waving and shouting at him.
"VIGO! FOR THE STONE DRAGONS!"
"FOR THE KING!"
"OUR CHAMPION! FOR VICTORY!"
This time Vigo’s path didn’t lead him to the defensive corridor, but instead over the lowered drawbridge to an area in front of the castle. A scramble of people accompanied him, he was their principal knight, they loved him, and everyone wanted to be near him.
Now he saw it – the arena. An oval hollow in the middle of a field offered seats to over ten thousand spectators with its twenty-two stone-tiered rows. The crowd was divided into two zones – after all, there were two hostile fractions in close proximity to each other, and there was only one reason they weren’t all butchering each other: they were leaving that to the principal knights.
He was grateful for the protection his leather helmet offered: his eardrums were insulated from the noise of the people in the tightly packed oval; they were louder than any thunderstorm. Although it was already a tight squeeze, many of the spectators shared their narrow seats with another onlooker. Wooden tribunes made of precious timber had been constructed on both the north and south side. Here the officers, the nobility and of course the royal families made themselves comfortable. His liege, King Ekarius the Fifth, was already sitting in position. Was that a tankard of red wine in his hand? His principal advisor, Chancellor Tarian Wineview was sitting to his left. His consort was tarrying to his right.
Vigo’s opponent was waiting for him in the northern half, under King Grachus’s tribune. Torem stood there motionless, legs apart, waiting for the inevitable. His two-hander was behind his back as it had been the day before.
The booing and whistling, the shouting and cheering grew louder, and a peculiar sport developed. The mission of the kings was identical to that of their peoples, who expressed their support through deliri
ous shouting.
King Ekarius the Fifth stood up. The south side abruptly went silent. At which point King Grachus stood up in the north tribune – his vassals, mainly soldiers, went silent too.
King Ekarius greeted Vigo with a fashionable hand gesture. A true benefactor. With a powerful voice he opened the ceremonies. "Hear ye, my principal knight, Cavalier Vigo. An adversary lusts after our city, our castle, our homeland. My title, my honour, my power I place in your hands for the duration of this duel of the champions. Defend your people and extend the fame of the stone dragons. Cavalier Vigo, my principal knight, I am your servant this very day."
Defenders had been using these words for generations. Now it was the challenger’s turn to speak, and King Grachus didn’t waste time. "My principal knight, Cavalier Torem – a rival resists my will. My title, my honour, my power I place in your hands for the duration of this duel of the champions. Conquer these people and extend the fame of the peregrines. Cavalier Torem, my principal knight, I am your servant this very day." His eyes smouldered as he spoke these words.
The two servants could get down to fighting now, thought Vigo.
The principal knight of the peregrines reacted neither by word nor gesture; he was mentally preparing for the fight.
It was getting serious now. Vigo positioned himself opposite his opponent at a distance of about ten yards. Slowly the giant began to come alive. He reached behind his shoulder, pulled his two-hander out of its clasp, shaking off the latter so that it clattered to the ground. Both hands were clasping the sword-hilt. His body was protected by impressive chainmail. Impressive, because no part of it matched the next. Vanity was something you couldn’t accuse Torem of. How many suits of armour had he used in creating this patchwork? His neck guard consisted of chain mesh hanging from his helmet and over his shoulders like long hair. His mail shirt was made from thousands of intertwined steel rings. Getting through this armour would require a strong horizontal thrust of the sword-tip. More important than the enemy’s armour was his weapon. The two-handed sword boasted no decoration. Smooth blue steel bereft of a blood groove, of engravings, of jewellery. Both hands still gripped the hilt and held the sword perpendicularly upwards before his chest. What did that mean? Torem wore a chain gauntlet on his left hand and a heavy, metal-plated one on his right.
Ten fanfare blasts gave of their best and signalled the beginning of the fight. Only one of the champions would leave the arena alive. A moment ago, you could hear a pin drop, now the stadium shuddered to the cheers, jeers and whistles emanating from the stands. Torem came back to life, he stretched out a long arm and pointed his sword- tip at Vigo. The mountain of muscles in his upper arm flexed. Vigo cautiously drew his sword from its scabbard. It probably didn’t weigh a third of his opponent’s. With every exchange of blows Vigo would have to watch carefully where the swords met, because if his blade broke, he was a goner.
Vigo held his buckler chest-high with his left hand, he held his sword like a walking-stick with his right. The principal knight of the house of the peregrines wasn’t into long introductions. He stormed towards Vigo, his right hand letting go of the hilt, and he used his considerable reach to sweep his blade at neck height. Vigo ducked away at the last moment, his eyelashes trembling in the rush of air. He straightened up immediately and sought the opportunity of a counterattack. But he took too long, and the blade was aiming at him again.
To the ordinary layman or woman nothing much had happened yet apart from a missed blow, but Vigo blinked as a realisation dawned on him.
His opponent was quick in spite of his size, his chainmail was only restricting his movements marginally. He’d expected all this beforehand, but another discovery surprised him. Torem was manipulating the two-hander with only one hand, and moreover it was with his left one. The other hand was thereby free. Alongside enormous strength in his arm and hand he was also using a sophisticated technique. Vigo had only heard of such fighters up until now. Torem had sacrificed a shield in favour of a particularly powerful plate-glove. He was basically fighting with two weapons, because a belt of the steel-reinforced fist resembled the blow of a cudgel.
And only the day before Chancellor Wineview had assured him there was nothing unusual to report regarding Torem’s fighting technique. A wave of anger radiated in his head – not a good sign. Heightened concentration was in order now. The principal advisor hadn’t even mentioned he was a southpaw. Sloppiness?
I’ll deal with Wineview later, decided Vigo.
Mind you, he’d have to make sure he was in a position to investigate the matter later. Otherwise, things would take care of themselves.
Vigo hoofed it back three steps towards the middle of the arena. Neither two-hander nor plated gauntlet must hit him; he had to be quick or his fight and his life would be over.
His deadly enemy charged forward again, unfortunately not furiously and unbridled like a bull, but at a controlled tempo with well-managed, practised movements. The giant was performing circular movements of his weapon, all with his left hand. Vigo stayed where he was this time and deflected Torem’s sword with the tip of his own, so that it slid by him. Just as he was about to deftly stab with his own weapon, he saw the right fist flying towards his temple. Vigo yanked his head backward, but he wasn’t quick enough – the metal glove grazed his leather helmet at cheek-height. A loud crack echoed through his head. That’s how broken bones in the area of the ear sound. He would have to dedicate time and attention to it after the fight. The blow had foiled another planned counterattack. Vigo didn’t want to be in the position of only reacting. Again, he footed it backward a few paces in the hope that Torem would make another charge toward him. His opponent just stood there however, cool as a cucumber, five yards away.
The spectators were screaming their lungs out; Vigo could hear nothing but could see it in their distorted faces. Mouths and eyes wide open, grotesque visages vacillating between hope and fear and bloodlust. Concentrate on the eyes of your enemy – that’s what it all came down to. Do the right thing at the right time. It all boiled down to killing when it came to it. Now the principal knight of the house of the stone dragons was being proactive. He approached Torem’s right hand using a semi-circular approach. He wanted to provoke a backhanded sword strike. His opponent had no intention of falling for that one. On the contrary, he turned on his own axis and swung his mighty weapon towards Vigo’s hip. His longer reach would ensure he would hit Vigo before the latter’s own blade would hit its target. There were two possibilities left: either Vigo would abandon his attack, elude the sword-strike and make a backward movement for the third time in a row, or he would deflect the blow with his buckler and make a thrust himself. Well, there wasn’t much time to think things through – roughly the time it takes to blink. The latter! He pushed his small round buckler forward, placed it at an angle so that the broadside of the blade would hit the metal stud in the middle. This, apparently, was exactly what Torem was expecting, because just before contact he twisted his sword a couple of degrees so that it slammed obliquely into the wood and split the buckler in two. Pretty evenly too, pretty much in the middle. Two or three of Vigo’s fingers on his left hand were probably broken too, so forcefully had the blow connected. The numbed fingers shook the useless remains of the buckler off. So far, the battle had not been running to plan or in his favour. Once again, he had merely reacted.
Torem was now holding the sword above his head, which made the show-off look even more enormous. Vigo realised instinctively that his opponent had no intention of simply hacking down violently on him from above. Soon he was in reach. The giant directed the sword with one hand once again; he simply let it drop from above and spun himself around at the same time. A murderous carousel! Vigo dived in a twinkling, before the attack could slice him in half. He felt the clay soil, rolled away and completed a thrust towards Torem’s right leg. A hit! But his blade couldn’t penetrate deeply enough, being prevented by the forged chain rings. Vigo was up on both feet in one move, made
a lunge and stabbed at stomach height. This was exactly what the cursed giant was anticipating – he turned to the side. The two-hander was still some distance away and wasn’t a danger; the steel fist of the right hand, however, smashed into Vigo’s shoulder. Another crack, and the pain forced tears into his eyes. Everything seemed as if under water – the sounds dull and muffled and the view washed-out, foggy and indefinable. Torem had caught his shoulder joint. Vigo couldn’t move his weapon arm anymore. The bone, the joint, the muscle, whatever, refused to cooperate. His weapon-arm! Nobody could suggest that Vigo was leading in this duel to the death.
Don’t lose your nerve. Despite the excruciating pain, he still held his weapon in his right hand. He’d learned never to drop his sword from when he was a child – never, ever. The weapon was useless there now, he would have to fight on with his left hand. Although his middle finger was broken there too – at the very least.
Torem aired his views concerning the spectacle for the first time. "We’re the playthings of the corrupt juggler, little man. And you’re the one he’s abandoning. True power determines truth, which neither of us can contend with."
Vigo looked at him, dumbstruck. And he also knew he needed a miraculous wonder; no wonder – for it certainly didn’t look good for him at all. Once more the two-hander flew towards him. As fast as he could, Vigo turned to the right, the pain in his shoulder causing him to flinch. Since his earliest childhood he had learned to suppress pain, to ignore it, but he’d never experienced the agony he was suffering now. His body was rebelling, his muscles and sinews were refusing to serve. A knee gave way, Vigo landed on the clay. Torem was already above him and preparing for the coup de grâce.
Wow, Vigo, that was your worst fight ever. Small comfort that there wouldn’t be any worse ones to follow. Let go, Vigo. There’s no point. Let go!
who is he?
The Gravedigger’s Son and the Waif Girl 1 Page 12
