The Gravedigger’s Son and the Waif Girl 1

by Sam Feuerbach

The mighty Vigo had disappointed him, too naïve, too presumptuous, too parochial. The faces of King Ekarius and his advisor Wineview gave the game away: they wanted to watch Vigo die. A pact of the powerful, a political game. Tarian Wineview had clearly worked this arrangement out with Grachus, the king of the Southern Kingdom on the occasion of his journey to Crossford. Offer up your own people for a life in the lap of luxury.

  Should he kill Torem and thereby save Vigo? Or did pride come before the fall? The far-down, final fall.

  ***

  Vigo was standing facing the enemy, a mere two paces away. He hardly felt the pain in his shoulder now, he could move his right arm again. He’d reckoned on that, but what next? He had let go after all…

  He had to pay respect to his opponent’s martial artistry, he had underestimated him. And Wineview had prepared him the wrong way too – had sent him to be destroyed out of his own self-interest. They had offered up their principal knight. His thoughts were spinning faster and faster. No wonder he was dizzy. The roar of the crowd flashed around him. He felt as if he were standing on the bridge of a sailing boat in a hurricane. He wouldn’t go down without a fight. He bravely braved the storm.

  Torem’s flesh-wound in his hip was bleeding profusely but he didn’t seem to be bothered otherwise. He swung his two-hander in circular movements behind his back in order to attack in a wide sweep – one-handed as before.

  With gritted teeth Vigo turned to the left and placed his weight on his right leg. He had no choice, he had to evade the blow. Parrying was out of the question, his blade would in all probability snap. He turned on his standing leg like a dancer. The mighty weapon flew past.

  He had let go after all…what was going on here?

  Help me!

  The blow of the two-hander deliberately missed, a feint then, enabling Torem to prepare for a follow-up. Vigo stumbled, avoiding a fall with two backward paces. Once again the two-hander was whizzing towards him, this time in a horizontal arc. He evaded this blow too with a dive. Now he lay on the ground and turned onto his back. How much longer would luck be on his side?

  He had definitely let go.

  Blood was streaming down Torem’s leg, but the giant wasn’t waning. Already he had his sword prepared for the death blow – nimble and precise in everything he did.

  Once again Vigo lay on the deck of the arena and saw how his life was being ripped out of his hands. He only had a miniscule moment left to live if he didn’t come up with something in double-quick time. It was too late for every thought that was flitting through his mind. He should have made an honest woman out of his beloved – Orelia was the most important woman in his life. Those traitors. Now, of all times, he turned his head towards the tribune. The scornful look from Tarian Wineview was more hurtful than any injury. Vigo, the principal knight, would die today as Vigo, the principal idiot. But it wasn’t only his king and his principal advisor who had sold him short, also the soulless piece of dirt within him was allowing him to be slain.

  Vigo filled his lungs, then roared at the top of his voice: "TREACHERY!!"

  The acoustics in the arena strengthened his call as it echoed all around. The squelching reverberated too as the blade of the two-hander penetrated his chest. With a crunch it bored into the clay beneath him – a smooth puncture. With head bowed Vigo watched how the mighty blade practically bisected his body, it didn’t hurt at all. The drop of sweat that fell on his face from Torem’s forehead, on the other hand, did bother him. Disgusting.

  A glance towards his king’s tribune. Wineview nodded towards His Majesty. A short, self-satisfied gesture. The last gesture the principal knight of the house of the stone dragons saw in his life.

  ***

  Boundless jubilation on the victor’s side caused the arena to tremble. There was nothing the mortals like better than watching others slaughter each other for their enjoyment. As predicted, Torem prepared to hack Vigo’s body into a hundred pieces. First, he wanted to separate his head from his body.

  "Desist, Torem, principal knight of the peregrines." King Grachus had arisen and spread his arms out. "Vigo, the principal knight of the house of the stone dragons fought honourably. He died honourably and will be honourably laid to rest."

  That much honour always makes me sick.

  Torem turned his attention away from the body and walked slowly towards the tribune. He paid respect to his king with a bow and said: "Your will is my life."

  "My principal knight has achieved victory. Open the gates to your new king."

  Ear-splitting applause again. Most of the people on the opposite tribune cheered too. Impressive, how quickly the bearers of souls could change course, flags in the wind, weak-principled, weak-willed, weak-minded.

  That’s people for you. I’ve never seen it any other way.

  The arena emptied, there was nothing left to see here. Silence fell, softly and gently as snow around him. He felt in the arms of something like peace.

  Crunching steps neared him.

  "Pablo, dismember the body and feed it to the dogs." Tarian Wineview, the principal intriguer, came into view.

  "But sir, King Grachus mentioned an honourable burial," said one of the four servants accompanying him.

  "A clever strategy to get the people on his side. Nobody will care about the loser tomorrow. King Grachus won’t be here much longer, instead he’ll be off on his next campaign of conquest. The new governor will be called Ekarius, and his principal advisor, Tarian Wineview. And the latter will feed you to the dogs as well if you ever contradict me again."

  A clear statement. So clear that servant Pablo hunched like a hundred camels. Advisor Wineview yanked the sword out of Vigo’s bent fingers, then left the venue while his henchmen organised a stretcher. They rolled Vigo’s body onto it and carried him to the city gate.

  "Throw the body into the dungeon, the executioner can deal with him there. I’m not dismembering him for the dogs", said Pablo.

  The route went along several narrow alleyways, up steps, down steps, down more steps before the servants reached a damp smelling passageway. Pablo lit a torch of pitch before they headed deeper into the underground vault. At the end of the passage they laid him down on a hefty slab.

  "Let’s get out of here!" said the servants.

  Soon they were gone and with them the light of the torch.

  Darkness didn’t bother him. Time didn’t exist for him. And so he knew no waiting nor impatience. An hour or a century – what was the difference?

  Noises. The door creaked open. Two women and two men stared down at Vigo’s corpse.

  Orelia sobbed: "It had to come to this." She tenderly closed Vigo’s eyes. "Take him with you. And no noise. The bribes will be wasted if they catch us after all and feed Vigo to the dogs."

  He couldn’t see any more, but he heard the men groaning under the weight of the stretcher. A few minutes later and he was smelling horses; the little group came to a carriage. Vigo’s corpse was pushed onto the cargo bed.

  "Gerlunda and I will sit on the coach box. We’ll meet tomorrow at the little church", said Orelia.

  Vigo’s final journey had begun.

  negotiations

  T he turnip-sack was yanked off Farin’s head. The light of the torch seared his retinas. Blinded, he could only see three shadows. His eyes refused to adjust to the light.

  Three silhouettes were looking down at him. The three men he had hidden from under the workbench in the gravedigger’s?

  "What have we got here, then?" somebody asked.

  IT’S HIM!

  Farin recognised the distinctive voice at once. Although the visit to Heap had been short, he would never forget it.

  The dark outlines slowly transformed themselves into facial features. If there had been the slightest scintilla of doubt about who this person was, it vanished when not only the voice fitted, but also the appearance.

  "He looks knackered. Bring him up and give him victuals and drink. Then have him bathed and freshly dressed. Then brin
g him to me."

  Two voices murmured: "Yes, sir."

  The man turned on his heels and left.

  Farin was gobsmacked. It is him and it isn’t him. Not the raven. He gasped. Not the man in black, not the murderer and Necorer. The knight! That’s who it was! The jangling, door-from-its-hinges-bursting knight.

  Don’t fall unconscious again, gravedigger’s son.

  Farin couldn’t make head nor tail of anything anymore. Mutely, he allowed himself to be led through dark, cold passageways. Then he climbed up a few steps, obediently placing one foot after the other, and then went along a cold hallway. Concentrating hard, he managed not to stumble despite aching muscles. He was able for nothing – not true! Hadn’t he learned in early childhood how to go on two legs without falling over? An archway marked the entrance to a kitchen. The room struck him as an ideal location for life after death. Bright, warm, and it smelled of bread, roast meat and spices. The best explanation for his current state of mind: he had died earlier. Only – when exactly? On the horse, or not until the dungeon? The way he had been feeling, in both places.

  If you were dead, I’d know about it. Now you know why I didn’t need to help you.

  If my life is going to carry on being so exciting, I’ll never get rid of the chimera.

  They sat him down on a chair and produced a pitcher of wine and a pitcher of water.

  A man with a white apron and a white cap asked: "What will it be?"

  "Wha…wha…?" A thousand questions were screaming for answers.

  "As you wish." The man filled his mug with water.

  Why the respect? Was there somebody else sitting at the table?

  Only now did Farin dare to glance furtively at the three men in his vicinity. Standing beside the white-capped man was a large fellow with a leather chest-plate, leaning against the wall in a relaxed pose. Two bright eyes sparkled in his bearded face. A noble sword-hilt protruded from his belted scabbard, his trousers were studded from top to bottom, his boots were pointed at the front. A kitchen maid stood behind a long table, kneading dough with both hands. Her plump arms were glowing up to her elbows. Behind her on the wall hung all manner of knives, spoons, ladles, skewers, and pots of all sizes.

  Farin clutched the mug in both hands and lifted it shakily towards his mouth. It didn’t bother him how odd he must look.

  "We still have the leftovers from dinner. Wild boar," explained the cook.

  A striking, high voice gave instructions: "Lisa, bring him to the washtub. And tell Markan he should bring new clothes."

  Farin secretly squinted over at him. It was the leader, who together with the two other men had waylaid him and brought him here, wherever here was. Robbed and transported like a sack of turnips in a turnip sack.

  "Yes, sir." The maid wiped off the rest of the dough from her fingers, washed her hands in a basin and dried them on her apron.

  It wasn’t death that awaited him, but a bath.

  Farin had never seen such a washtub before – at least five people could fit into it at the same time. The water steamed invitingly and smelled of lavender.

  "What are you waiting for? Get in!" The man, who had introduced himself as Markan, shooed him onwards.

  Farin undressed gingerly – tunic, trousers, shirt, peasant boots. Then he stood there in his plain, tattered underwear and waited.

  "Everything off!" The corners of the man’s mouth twitched. Farin wasn’t used to undressing in front of strangers. Above all, he was ashamed of the condition of his clothes. He stripped everything off quickly, threw it in a ball onto the floor and climbed over a three-step ladder into the washtub. That is to say, he tried to climb in. Holy hell! As soon as he carefully dipped his toes into the water, he felt he was standing on burning coals.

  "Ouch!" he hissed. Or was it his flesh hissing in boiling water? Farin quickly pulled back his foot again.

  Markan looked at him with a sardonic, sparing, sharp look, although not angrily. The man leaned over the edge and plunged his hand into the water. "Exactly right. Don’t be such a ninny."

  Farin made a new attempt.

  No, impossible. I might as well stick my legs directly into the oven. "If we leave it until tomorrow, the water might have cooled halfway towards normal bath temperature," he suggested.

  Markan stood facing him, legs apart. "Oh, now I know what sir has planned for you. You’re going to have to work hard on refining yourself and improving yourself considerably. He had the last court jester castrated because he couldn’t make him laugh." He tapped his forehead with his forefinger. "Have I ever heard our lord of the castle laugh?"

  What was going on here? Nothing in his life was running normally. And what sort of a figure was he cutting here, between the devil and the deep blue sea, riding on the edge of a washtub, one leg in, and the other one on the top step of the small ladder, while plumes of hot steam swirled around ears and nose.

  Stop carrying on like that! You should try swimming in the lava lake on Gorrgrinnt.

  Well, that’s cold comfort. He peered over at Markan helplessly, whose eyes slowly began sparkling strangely. The man went towards the exit of the bathing room and called loudly down the corridor: "Lisa, come here again. Help our young visitor into the water."

  In the middle of the steam, a head – red like a tomato – appeared through the fog. In an instant Farin pulled his other foot into the tub and his legs slipped in.

  "AAAaaaaaaaah!" he screamed.

  "Take your time, Lisa can’t hear us, she’s far away in the kitchen", said Markan reassuringly and left him alone.

  You deceitful son of a mountain goat, thought Farin, almost forgetting his pain. His maltreated skin burned like fire and brimstone, and he believed…yes, what actually? His body was already becoming used to the heat. Slowly he let himself slide in more deeply, the warmth now flattered his chest languorously. His skin had survived the torture on the horse better than he’d expected. For the first time in ages he relaxed his body and sighed. Nobody in Heap would believe this story.

  Is the whiny worm feeling better now?

  "I’ve ended up at the knight’s not at the raven’s."

  Trust in your abilities, was my advice to you. You could have found that out earlier.

  "Of course – the sly chimera knows everything as usual, and of course it has to be before Farin."

  Listening and thinking about things helps. You didn’t recognise any of the voices. Do you think the raven wouldn’t come himself, but take the risk of sending out three lowbrows? Do you really think a dark cultist would say: Thanks be to God! There were certain clues. All you had to do was listen.

  Farin said nothing – he’d listened to the chimera and wanted to ponder over it for a moment. He almost fell asleep in the bathtub.

  When he was finished bathing, Markan gave him new clothes: underwear, leggings, a tunic, a wide leather belt – everything without decoration but made from good material. Of his own stuff, he only put on his peasant boots and belt pouch again.

  Markan led him through bare corridors into a round room with six doors. Why would anyone need six doors? There was one door at home, and it had two functions. It led into the cottage and it led out of it again. That’s all you needed – anything else seemed impractical to him. Markan banged on one of the doors with a carved fire-breathing dragonhead doorknocker. Farin would have liked to admire it for longer but Markan shoved him over the threshold, and immediately they were standing in the lord of the castle’s scriptorium. For this much Farin had figured out already: he was in a castle. And if that wasn’t enough of an adventure to be getting along with, he was now standing directly in front of the lord of the castle. He’ll answer any other questions himself, the master of the washtubs had said.

  "Stay here, mole. Markan, get out!" roared the knight. The quill in his enormous hand looked small and fragile.

  "That’s his way of saying thanks," whispered the servant as he slipped out of the room.

  The lord of the castle concentrated
on his visitor: "Are you wondering why I asked you to come in?"

  "Forgive me, I…I wasn’t asked in." Farin resisted any attempt to push out his upper lip by looking serious – he always looked terribly sulky when that happened.

  The knight lowered his bushy eyebrows so that they almost covered his bright blue eyes. "So what happened?"

  Was the lord of the castle able to see him anymore?

  "Uh, the…men chased me as if I were a wayward cow, stunned me with a throwing axe, tied me onto a horse and transported me here. Roughly and recklessly."

  "Oh, that’s terrible!" Shocked to the core, the knight held his hand before his mouth. His chiselled features softened – became blurred through sheer compassion. He asked gingerly: "Do you need anything?"

  "No, not that, but…"

  "A leg, an eye, teeth, fingers, toes?" The knight was sounding inconsolable now.

  "Eh, no."

  "Did they crinkle a hair on your head?"

  "Eh, well, no…not exactly."

  "Yes or no!"

  "No."

  The eyebrows slid back upwards again, the contours of the cheekbones sharpened; "I see it like this, then: they treated you with the utmost courtesy."

  I should really keep discussions like this to the minimum, thought Farin. "But…but against my will", he managed to say, and somehow it sounded as brittle as the ice on the great lake in springtime.

  "Aha! That’s a new point. Let’s summarise: courteously, yet against your will." The knight’s voice shimmered with hawkishness – he’d tossed any element of empathy over the wall and into the castle moat.

  "How else can I call it if…if I’m knocked down first and then abducted. Nobody had discussed it with me."

  The eyebrows pushed together. "You’re a primitive, lousy mole, no more, no less." His look could freeze water.

  He wasn’t going to let himself be dealt with like this, not by anybody. "I might be only a simple gravedigger, but I’m neither lousy nor a mole, Sir Knight."