The Gravedigger’s Son and the Waif Girl 1

by Sam Feuerbach

  He spent a part of the night reading with great diligence. The candles were very smoky and stank a lot, but they in no way dimmed his thirst for knowledge. He wanted to learn quickly and surprise others, especially, if he were honest with himself, the knight. It would mean a lot to him if Emicho had a good opinion of him. His new life presented a unique opportunity. He wanted to become a good squire, but without forgetting his roots as a gravedigger.

  In the tome with the leather binding he found three removeable maps of the immediate area as well as two architectural drawings of Castle Stormwatch. The depiction of the catacombs fascinated Farin above all else. In the map he saw a bird’s eye view of a labyrinth of passageways, rooms and doors. With his finger on the parchment he tried to figure out the route he had followed with Stump, Plaudius and Drogdan towards the ice hall. That turned out to be unexpectedly difficult as the map presented an endless number of routes. Farin finally recognised the fork with the gate of bars and could recreate Stump’s route. His fingernail tapped on a narrow chamber. That had to be the ice hall, where Keimund’s corpse was being preserved. He turned the map around and mulled over it. Yes, there was no other alternative. But there was one small problem that bothered him. The four of them had only barely fitted into the little room with its two recesses. The little room had seemed to him like a bare stone wardrobe, whereas when he looked at the map, no matter which way he turned it, he saw the delineation of a narrow second door. A passageway directly behind it wound its way towards further rooms, considerably larger than the ice hall.

  And where, if you please, could that second door in that narrow hole have possibly been? Only a narrow gap, if anything, could possibly have fitted, and one that somebody must have walled up. Inexplicable. Maybe there was a secret passage, or the map was inaccurate.

  Farin couldn’t help shaking his head. The discrepancy between the sketch and his memory was making him fidgety. Curiosity was niggling at him and was giving him no peace. A thought was circling his mind like a vulture above a cadaver.

  Should I really go into the catacombs again? On my own?

  The lower iron bar wasn’t fully engaged, a one-off opportunity to risk it without Stump’s key. This oversight would be noticed at the latest by the time the deceased Squire Keimund’s relatives arrived. The thought made him sad. How joyless the long journey from the south to Castle Stormwatch must be, whose only purpose was to receive the body of their son? And how would they then take the terrible news that their child had been murdered?

  I’ll risk it, decided Farin.

  He stood up, slipped on his fur coat, carefully rolled up the map of the catacombs, put it under his belt and left his little room.

  Hey, worm – you surprise me.

  "Hey, Stinker. It’s late, go to bed."

  Do you not want to know why you surprise me?

  "I suspect you don’t care what I want – you’re going to tell me anyway."

  Well deduced, little one! Here we go – you’re generally distinguished by your lack of drive and tendency to boredom so that the wind blows you in front of it like a collection of dry leaves. And now? No normal person would descend alone into these gloomy vaults. But be my guest, let me not hold you up.

  "I’m not normal – I’m the gravedigger’s son."

  Aha!

  If only that buffoon would drop his arrogant chuckling.

  None of the servants were out and about in the castle at night, and most of the guards recognised him as the lord of the castle’s new, battle-shy squire, and so he was allowed to move freely. With only the occasional torch burning on the walls of the hallways and corridors the castle was mostly in darkness and shadow. Where it wasn’t dark or shadowy, blackness reigned. That didn’t matter to Farin. Black was his stock-in-trade – the colour of mourning, the colour of last respects. He found himself sooner than expected in the bare vault with its stairs leading in all directions. The gravedigger’s son grabbed a torch and stepped into the passageway leading to the darkest recesses. Down the crooked steps, and after a short time he was standing in front of the horizontal iron bars. Yes, the bottom one wasn’t engaged which was why he could push it into the wall on the right.

  Now we’ll see if I can fit under it. Plaudius certainly wouldn’t have stood a chance of squeezing through.

  He lay down like a lizard, pressed his chin on the cold stone floor and pushed his way under the lowest bar. The thick collar of his fur coat got caught at first before finally disengaging and slipping through. He quickly got back onto his feet on the other side and walked down the long corridor. Shouldn’t the heavy wooden door to the ice hall be here on the left soon? The light of his torch being so weak, he almost walked past it. He opened the door and this time he was all alone in the little room – if he didn’t include Squire Keimund. The body lay just where they had left it – in the upper recess. Farin pulled the map out from his belt and unrolled it. A passageway on the right side was supposed to lead to further domains of the catacombs. The wall was no more than a yard wide and it had no opening leading onwards. He meticulously examined the fixed stone, pressing and tapping on every block, every crack, every joint and still could find nothing out of the ordinary. The stupid drawing was telling lies. Why would another passageway lead from this room, of all rooms, which was hardly bigger than a privy? Irritated by his lack of success, Farin stooped down and crept along the floor – massive stones, wherever he looked. He held his torch at the lower recess, nothing noticeable there either. What in God’s name was he doing here at all? He could have been lying comfortably in his bed ages ago. He could think of no answer to his question except to crawl into the recess and lie down in there. When the coldness of the stone began to permeate through his fur coat, he pulled up his legs, preparing to stand up again. His left arm accidentally banged against the wall, which surprisingly gave way. What looked like stone turned out to be nothing more than a board, plastered in grey, which Farin could easily dislodge. His torch nearly slipped out of his hand while he scrabbled through the hole – luckily, it hadn’t gone out. Now he found himself at the start of a low, narrow passageway which slowly became wider and higher as he crawled along. It continued on, slightly staggered, under the ice hall. The map hadn’t indicated differences in elevation. What a piece of luck that he’d arrived here! Continuing to crawl along, Farin reached another passageway, where he was able to straighten up.

  The gravedigger’s son curiously followed the sharp bend to the left. The circle of light emanating from his torch revealed doors on both sides. The first one had a crude lock on it, the one opposite was ajar. He kicked it right open and shone his torch inside. He couldn’t believe his eyes: an expansive open chamber opened up before him. Peculiar signs and runes embellishing the walls. Everything in rusty red – or was it blood red? There was a bookcase against one wall with a dozen books, beside it a lectern with a tome opened on it. The floor was decorated on opposite ends with two delicately drawn pentagrams. In the corners were candles as thick as arms, and within the pentagrams were various herbs, such as marjoram and parsley.

  Cunning chimera piped up: Typical incantation chamber, as people like to furnish them. Step into the first pentagram, recite your incantation fluently and flawlessly, and the being called is torn out of their kingdom and forced to appear in the second pentagram. Which is why daemons are stinky and endeavour to kill the conjuror. A small gap in the pentagram and they can attack.

  Knight Emicho surely knew about this room, especially as the books had to belong to him. Maybe he had installed the secret chamber himself. Farin’s brave new world had come crashing down around him already. Was it all just lies and deception? Why was the knight practising melancholy occultism in the catacombs? The pentagrams spoke for themselves. How else could this layout be explained? The lord of the castle was clearly dabbling in the convocation of daemons, evils spirits and creatures of the dark. And he had been carrying on to Farin as if the Necorers and the man in black were his deadly enemies.

&
nbsp; No, not Emicho. That can’t be true.

  He was plagued by doubts, but he was too tired to argue. Who else was involved in this? Were they all in cahoots together? The whole morass made him sick, hypocrisy and lies made him sick. Emicho’s words echoed in his ears: "Loyalty is important to me. Absolute loyalty. I have to be able to rely on you, in every situation." The knight expected loyalty only in his direction, the rest was just a sham. Definitely no respect towards a gravedigger’s son, he was petty livestock at best, and they, as everyone knew, just produced shit when it came down to it.

  Don’t get all worked up about it – maybe there’s a simple explanation.

  The disappointment of being disappointed in Emicho was eating away at something inside him. A bit of his body or spirit or even a bit of his soul? Maybe a little bit of each – Farin couldn’t tell.

  He might as well look at the tome. Numerous artefacts and insignias full of black magic were depicted on the two opened pages, which – combined with human sacrifice – would appeal to any summoned-up daemons. Farin turned over the leaf. A circle with an upside-down pentagram and a flame caught his eye.

  "Like on the squire."

  The symbol of the unutterable.

  "What? You know its meaning? Why are you only telling me now?"

  Did you ask me before?

  Farin swallowed his anger. "Who is the unutterable? Did the man in black not mention his name in our yard?

  I don’t like talking about him. There are many reasons why. If he’s really in the Necorers’ service, it will get awkward. Strangely for Stinker, he sounded unusually concerned.

  "So he really does exist? Is he a daemon?"

  Yes, indeed.

  "Why is he called that? Because it’s dangerous to utter his name?"

  Rubbish, he’d love that. But his name is long and difficult.

  "And what sort of thing does this daemon do?"

  Fire!

  Farin was tearing his hair out. "Do they call you the unbearable? You’re hiding something from me. What’s this daemon all about?"

  He’s an arsehole. A damn dangerous arsehole. I don’t want to talk about him.

  "Hm. Then tell me something about all this bullshit here." Farin gestured to the pentagrams and the tome.

  Fundamentally, the modus operandi practised in this chamber are amateurish, because only daemons belonging to the most primitive categories can be invoked. But finding this in Emicho’s cellar surprises me too.

  Farin’s disappointment in Emicho weighed heavily on him. He was also overcome by cold and weariness, and his thirst for action had burst like a bubble. He just wanted to get out of there, so he turned and left the oval chamber. A look at the map told him that the passage led to another room which connected to the great hall. He hurried along the bare corridor, ignoring other doors before climbing a steep, narrow set of stairs. He really had to keep going – his torch was going to burn out soon, he noticed with concern.

  What had Drogdan stated: "The ghosts of many are wandering around the catacombs, never having found their way out."

  Stuff and nonsense! I haven’t seen any ghosts yet.

  "And I haven’t seen a way out."

  Well, I can manage for several months without food or drink.

  "Good for you, Stinker."

  A strange wooden wall emerged ahead in the dim light of the torch. He couldn’t make out individual planks, an enormous chunk was blocking his way. Dead end. A perplexing dead end. Farin kept the wall lit with one hand, he felt along it with his other one. On the very right he touched a lever, roughly the size of a dagger. Without considering it for more than a moment – in truth he had nothing to lose – he pressed it down firmly. A click, and a hand’s span away from it a narrow door opened. Farin slipped through and found himself standing in a familiar room – the knight’s scriptorium.

  Shit, shit, shit! If any final proof were needed, here it was. Who apart from Emicho could get from here easily and quickly to his dark, secret place?

  The scriptorium was unlocked, no guard to be seen. Farin, cold and tired, shuffled back to his tower room. Emicho would be back from his travels tomorrow and Farin could confront him with the facts. Hard to know how the knight would react. Probably quickly and easily, by taking him out of circulation pronto. Would the lord of the castle show any interest at all in Farin’s findings regarding Squire Keimund? Farin had promised Emicho he would be loyal. He wanted to stick to his pledge, but his feeling of loyalty towards his lord and master was being severely tested.

  loyalty

  F ollowing a sleepless night, the gravedigger’s son stood before the lord of the castle’s scriptorium the next morning, waiting to be admitted. His head was steaming with rage. The sentry looked at him sceptically, he seemed to sense the young man’s feelings and the urgent questions that weighed heavily on Farin’s heart. The carved fire-breathing dragon head on the door seemed to be laughing at him.

  "His Lordship will speak to you now!" The sentry gestured Farin to come forward.

  And about time! The gravedigger’s son pulled the door open forcefully and stepped in. Knight Emicho was standing by the fireplace, staring into the flames. Farin couldn’t replicate its warmth – he wondered if he should come straight to the point, regarding his discoveries in the catacombs. How about a friendly "what are you getting up to down in your catacombs, Sir Dark Knight?"

  The lord of the castle looked away from the flames and turned to his squire. "How did you get on over the last three days?"

  His heart pounding, Farin took a deep breath. Fury, disappointment and horror were screaming for assuagement. It had to come out! "Sir, I…I don’t understand it!" he croaked. "I…found the parchments in the catacombs. And the conjuration spells and the books about the rituals and the relevant insignias for black magic. Why? It’s only the daemon conjurers from the cult of the Necorers who do that, the ones you hate so much."

  Well, you’re certainly not mincing your words.

  The knight’s bushy eyebrows pushed themselves in front of his face like a mask. He stood there stony-faced and looked at his obstreperous squire.

  Emicho asked in a cold voice: "Anything else? Well, spit it out!" He turned back to the fireplace and added a log as if he didn’t have a care in the world. He used the poker to push it into position.

  Farin gasped for breath like a fish out of water. Had Emicho not heard him? Why was the knight not responding and defending himself? He could allay Farin’s fears, say that everything was a big mistake, give explanations for all that crap in the catacombs – that’s what Farin had been secretly hoping for. But the man remained silent regarding the allegations – wasn’t that practically a confession? No – a small bit of him still refused to believe his master was guilty.

  "Please tell me it isn’t what it looks like", pleaded Farin.

  "It seems you’ve been sniffing around in the catacombs behind my back", said Emicho, going on the attack. The knight was using a diversionary tactic. The gravedigger’s son was slowly coming to the conclusion that the lord of the castle was one of the Necorers. Nothing could be worse. And just as that realisation struck him, it became worse. Much worse! The realisation hit him between the eyes, which were as wide as saucers. No doubt at all!

  Outrageous! NO! Not that too!

  For the gravedigger’s son, his nice new world of castles and squires had collapsed like a house of cards, once and for all. Farin shivered as he visualised the full consequences of what was happening. His lips were prickling, he was pressing them together so firmly. He couldn’t and wouldn’t serve a brutal criminal any longer, he would rather die.

  As if spellbound, he stared at the object in the knight’s hand – he was incapable of any other reaction. How naïve could he possibly have been? In his mind, he pictured his life coming to an end. At least he’d managed to reach the age of eighteen.

  Without betraying his true feelings, he asked in a firm voice: "Should I turn around so you can slay me just as slyly as you sle
w your squire, Keimund? You’re holding the relevant weapon in your hand."

  If he thought he’d break down the knight’s reserve this way, he was sorely disappointed. What next?

  Emicho approached Farin deliberately. He lifted the hand holding the poker in a threatening manner. Then he stretched out his long arm, caught the back of one of the visitor chairs with the poker’s spike, and pulled it directly in front of Farin’s feet. "Sit!" he ordered. The knight calmly sat down behind his writing desk again.

  "Firstly – no matter what happens, no matter how much you feel yourself to be in the right, never talk to me like that when other people are present. I would have already killed you after your first groundless accusation!"

  So now he was trying another tactic! Farin could hardly breathe. "There’s nobody else here!" he choked. "You’re…you’re a murderer!"

  "Every knight is a murderer," said Emicho, airily. "Tell me, Farin, from the village of Heap, what makes you think I slew the squire?"

  Is this false knight planning on talking his way out of it and making me look like an idiot? Naïve and ignorant of the world, perhaps, but not stupid.

  Farin spoke in a grave voice: "I examined Keimund’s body and the place where it was found. He had no idea he was about to be killed. Quite the contrary. He suffered a blow to the back of the head, completely unexpectedly, which made him bite his tongue. It was a tall person, judging by the angle of impact. There are numerous clues. Nobody falls from a fortified tower to his death with such a peaceful facial expression, especially without the abrasions on hands, elbows or knees appropriate to such a fall. Not unless a fireplace implement with a trapezoid-shaped spike was driven into his brain through the back of his head beforehand. The deep hole in the squire’s skull comes from your poker, the other one from the impact with the ground after he was already dead. The margins of the wound tell their own story. Keimund was carried onto the fortified tower and thrown from it. Did you do it yourself or get one of your henchmen to do the dirty work?" Farin swallowed hard after speaking; his admiration for the knight had been transformed into bitter disappointment.