The Gravedigger’s Son and the Waif Girl 1

by Sam Feuerbach

  She knew she was finished with the place for once and for all. She’d never come here again – never again did she want to see the orphanage with its murderous henhouse. This place was swimming in blood. She stooped down to get her cap, which had fallen off during her jump, and she put it on her head. One of the hens clearly thought Aross had provided the coop with a new perch, because it fluttered up onto Grim’s shoulder and made itself at home.

  Aross Slimefoot, queen of the rats, opened the barndoor for the last time in her life. In comparison to her, Grim was an altar boy. She turned back to face him. "Now you know how Wolf felt. Die well!"

  power

  T he day hustled along and Drogdan harried Farin in the stables. Accomplished swordplay was proving to be much more difficult than he’d imagined. His teacher had revealed himself to be a mind reader – no matter what Farin tried, Drogdan’s sword was always at the ready, fending off every attack. Farin was padded from head to toe, his teacher on the other hand had foregone a training vest or any other form of protection.

  "You’re never going to hit me," he’d said with an encouraging grin – and up until now, unfortunately, he’d been proven right.

  Let me take control for a minute. I’ll only batter him with the side of the sword, promise. Next time he’ll roll himself into a carpet with his head pulled in before he tackles you.

  When would Stinker finally get the message that Farin wasn’t going to do that? The gravedigger’s son had to learn how to handle a sword himself, he didn’t want to be depending on a daemon. Wasn’t the story of Vigo a warning? Interesting that Stinker had so suddenly reappeared again now. Immediately following Farin’s insightful meeting with Emicho, the gravedigger’s son had really wanted to question the chimera on numerous points, or more specifically, to confront him. But he had, until this moment, prudently hidden himself away.

  Didn’t hide myself away, I was considering.

  Right then. He was considering. Farin rolled his eyes. "Is that something stinky?"

  "Where’s your head, squire? You’re in the middle of a fight so keep moving. You can think about things when you’re dead". Drogdan glared at him. The squire competitions will take place every morning during the grand tournament. Don’t you dare disgrace our house! We are the stone dragons and our tradition is to present the best fighters!"

  His words were effective; from then on Farin concentrated on the work in hand. Several sword sequences rained down on Drogdan’s blade.

  "The day you get me into a sweat, I’ll buy you a beer. And if you hit me, a whole barrel. You have to show more variation in your striking, your attacks are too predictable."

  With a dastardly circling of his weapon and a strike against the cross guard, Drogdan forced the sword with a jolt out of Farin’s hand, which landed after making an elegant arc in the dung. Still, at least it managed to neatly split a horse turd in the process.

  "How many times do I have to tell you: never drop your sword!"

  Ashamed and frustrated, Farin picked up his sword. "Am I making any strides at all?"

  "Of course, lots! You’re always unbeatable when the lessons are over. We’re finished for today – you can walk away now…making great strides."

  "I don’t think that’s funny."

  "But I do", grinned Drogdan.

  Farin visited the library again in the early evening. The guard in front of the door recognised him from a distance and gave him a friendly nod. "Ah, the well-read young squire. Step inside." He raised his halberd to attention and even opened the door.

  "Thank you very much," said the gravedigger’s son, joyfully.

  First, he climbed up the ladder and put the crimson tome back in its place. A thirst for knowledge such as he’d never felt before possessed him. He walked through the aisles, concentrating intently. He’d internalised the knight’s colour coding, which was why he was all the more surprised when he reached the last row of books. Here were only uncategorised books, and it was quickly clear to him why. These works consisted purely of books on demonology, witchcraft and black magic.

  He gingerly leafed through a weighty tome with dark leather binding until he reached the middle section where he found numerous drawings of horned, scaly daemonic faces.

  Disgusting drawings!

  "Is that what you look like, Stinker?"

  Nonsense! That’s how humans, in their unfathomable naivety, imagine us. I’m much uglier.

  "Oh, right."

  A familiar sign drew Farin’s attention. With furrowed brows he looked at the circle with the upside-down pentagram and the flame. The book wasn’t written in his language, which was why he understood neither the title nor the description.

  "The symbol of the unutterable again. Can you help me?"

  No answer and no stirring either. Anytime it concerned the unutterable, the daemon got petulant.

  "Stinker? Don’t be hiding yourself!"

  Do you think Stinker is the correct form of address if you want something from me, treacherous worm?

  "Yes, as long as you rankle me by calling me worm. And, anyway, you still haven’t told me your real name." Farin paused: "What do you mean, “treacherous worm”? You can talk! Just explain to me what that talk about treachery and this King Ecki…uh… all means."

  Why can you not remember any names? King Ekarius!

  "Stop going off the point! What does it all mean?

  Since when do I have to explain myself to a worm? Pshaw! I don’t have to explain myself to anybody. You asked Emicho in a most underhand way how you could get rid of me.

  Stinker really did sound miffed. Enough to drive you up the wall. Whose wall, though?

  "Listen to me, chimera. Have I ever made any secret of my desire to get rid of you? You’re a big problem for me, and there’s nobody I can talk to about it.

  That would be a waste of time anyway. A quarter of the people couldn’t give a shit about your problems, and the other three-quarters are delighted you have them.

  "You’re just mean and nasty as per usual!"

  And you’re a thankless, legless, spineless slimy crawler.

  "Say worm, it’s faster. And now, help me with the book."

  Haven’t you noticed I’m offended?

  "Let’s clear that up later. Can you…", Farin took a deep breath, "…read this book?"

  Pshaw! And now the bookworm comes crawling up to me and wants help in reading.

  "Do daemons have a heart?"

  Well, obviously!

  "Then give it a kick and help me."

  Hm.

  "We talk about everything when it’s only us in the tower room."

  Hm.

  "Please."

  Hm. Let go, you know how it works.

  Farin positioned himself behind one of the two lecterns in the central aisle, placed the tome on top of it and relaxed. He let his thoughts circle, his spirit float, felt something enveloping him and leading him carefully through a wall of fog.

  "The unutterable – prince of fire and chaos", he read aloud. Again, the gravedigger’s son was astounded at his miraculous ability to suddenly read and understand the strange language.

  That’s Cartanesian. Some of the highest category daemons are described in that language.

  "Do the Necorers believe in the daemon princes as in a god?"

  Worse! You’ve no idea what you’re letting yourself in for.

  "What do you mean? The unutterable really seems to be frightening you."

  Ha! Wait until you meet him.

  The gravedigger’s son buried himself deeper into the tome. The misdeeds of the fire princes were described in the following pages – nothing for those of a weak disposition. Chaos meant intrigues, coup d’états, torture, blood. Suddenly Farin spun around. The library guard had tiptoed up to him quietly, was standing close behind. And shoved his halberd with force into Farin’s torso. Or tried to.

  Farin spun to the side with superhuman speed so that the point slid past and the barbed hook merely tore his shirt.
His left arm shot out and grasped the shaft of the weapon. With a simple flick of his wrist he snapped the thick oak wood as if it were no more than a rotten branch. The iron head clattered to the floor – the attacker was now holding no more than the broken shaft in his hand.

  "What?" That was all the guard could say, the surprise written all over his face – Farin didn’t need Stinker’s help to read that. The man quickly regained his composure, reached to his belt and drew out a long dagger. He held it in front of him, ready to attack.

  "You must die!" growled the guard.

  Immediately he lunged forward, aiming to thrust his weapon into Farin’s heart. A shimmy to the right, a lightning-fast spin to the left. The attacker was highly trained, he didn’t fall for the dummy. He instinctively turned his dagger so that the blade slid across Farin’s chest. Shirt and skin gaped open.

  Farin didn’t feel the pain. He heard himself say: "I’m going to get angry soon."

  His hand grabbed his attacker’s right wrist, as he had grabbed the halberd-shaft before. "Let go!"

  The attacker didn’t obey.

  Farin increased the pressure. "Drop the dagger!"

  The wrist cracked three or four times – like opening a walnut. The pain convulsed his face, the veins on his temples bulged, but the guard refused to drop the dagger. His left hand reached into his boot and pulled out a knife.

  A thundering voice: "Now I’m furious!"

  A turn, a powerful jerk, a crunch, a scream. Farin was paralysed by his horror at himself. His hand was still holding on to the wrist, only neither the arm nor the chainmail sleeve was attached to the attacker’s body anymore. An enormous hole gaped from the guard’s left shoulder. Farin had ripped the arm from the shoulder joint with incredible force, like petals from a daisy.

  "He loves me not", he ascertained loudly. Or was it the monster inside him, who had just saved his life?

  The gravedigger’s son casually tossed the arm on the ground. It slid along the floor for a yard, leaving a bloody smear on the parquet. The fingers were still clasping the grip of the dagger.

  Learn from his example. He doesn’t drop his weapon.

  The attacker’s remaining arm was losing power. Farin grabbed the knife and plunged it vertically through the chainmail and into his stomach. The man staggered, torn sinews and muscles were dangling from his shoulder, then he collapsed. He rolled around on the floor in his own blood.

  The gravedigger’s son went down on his knee. "Why did you attack me? Who is your employer?"

  The attacker’s eyes were bloodshot.

  "Who sent you?"

  "I serve…the fire. You’re all going to…burn." His pupils fractured. His head slumped sideways.

  Farin stared, dumbstruck, at the dead man. It took forever before he could avert his eyes. It seemed to him like an awakening. An awakening from a nightmare. He was standing in the library, his chest was burning. The cut wasn’t deep, he had suffered no other injuries. He had miraculously survived the treacherous attack. And he realised now as he stood there in shock that the miracle’s name was Stinker. It was a lucky coincidence that the daemon was controlling his body at the moment of attack.

  It took a while before Farin could speak again: "He wanted to kill me! Just stab me to death in the back! Why?" he whispered as he trembled. "I should have been the person lying there. You saved me!"

  Oh, come on! Why would I help you? It was just reflexes.

  "If it was “just reflexes” I wouldn’t need to be thanking you." Farin thought for a moment. "What sort of a mission was he on? Bad luck that he’s dead. Now we can’t interrogate him."

  Farin bent down to the corpse and exposed the left forearm. Nothing unusual there.

  You don’t have to examine him – I know what he died of.

  Nauseated, Farin looked over at the other arm, which lay three yards away on the floor. It had to be done. He went over and looked carefully at the limb. He found it on the inner side of the forearm: an upside-down pentagram with a flame in the middle, surrounded by a circle.

  "That’s what I suspected. The same tattoo as on Squire Keimund."

  That’s not a tattoo. Farin’s ears pricked up. Stinker’s voice sounded unusually anxious.

  "It’s deep in his skin. What else can it be?"

  A stigma. A stigma of the unutterable. That’s how he indoctrinates petty-minded beings like humans. To put it simply: the guard who wanted to kill you was controlled remotely.

  The gravedigger’s son went ashen faced. He didn’t want to believe it, but he’d only just lived through it. He asked in bewilderment: "Can he do that with everyone?"

  No, he only controls those on whom he personally branded the stigma earlier.

  "This is getting worse and worse! Well, I have to report to Emicho. How am I going to explain the condition of the body?"

  He picked the head of the halberd up and smashed it at hip height against the wood of the nearest bookcase.

  What’s that supposed to mean?

  "Do you want to explain to Emicho how the fight went?"

  For the second time that day Farin headed off to report certain events to the lord of the castle.

  Emicho looked down at the corpse and shook his head. "Clemens was the soldier’s name. He’s been in my service for two years and was considered a first-rate fighter. How did you manage to defeat him?"

  "I noticed just in time that somebody was creeping up behind me and was able to throw myself to the floor at the right moment."

  The knight gave a sceptical look and asked: "And why does it look like a slaughterhouse in here?" He gestured to the wrenched-off arm and the slashed stomach.

  "Incredible luck. The man lunged forward with the halberd and the spike got stuck in the shelving. That broke the weapon and his arm tore away."

  I’ve rarely heard such a pathetic explanation.

  The knight’s face suggested that Stinker wasn’t the only one with that opinion.

  "Then I grabbed his dagger and stabbed him. It was horrible."

  "Hm!" Emicho examined the shelf. "Ah, here!". The bright spot in the wood was clearly visible. He bent down to the top of the halberd and picked it up by the shaft. "Top quality oak! Just snapped through. Stuck to the shelf. You were unbelievably lucky, Farin."

  Emicho scratched his stubble. "Incredible." He paused for a moment, then asked: "Did Clemens say anything else?"

  "Only: “I serve the fire. You’re all going to burn”."

  "The Necorers’ poison is spreading throughout the Worldly Kingdom. Misguided fanatics. Whole villages have been obliterated in the east already because they rejected the principles of these people. Let’s keep this story to ourselves. I’ll only tell Stump – he’s one of the few people I trust in the castle." The knight didn’t seem to be completely convinced by this version of the story – except, he didn’t have any better explanation for the ripped-off arm and the broken weapon.

  "Yes, sir!" Farin sensed that the he didn’t belong to the trusted few.

  The truth is just too far-fetched for anybody’s imagination, thanks be to God, thought Farin. I’ll tell Emicho about the unutterable when the time is right.

  Don’t say thanks be to God. That’s not fair – he had nothing to do with it.

  Late that evening a young man sat on his bed in the tower room and talked to himself nervously.

  "Do you think Emicho accepted my version of the fight?"

  Not entirely. But then even with a lot of imagination he couldn’t think of any alternative version of events.

  "I start shaking whenever I think back to the library. You were pretty angry."

  Ah sure, that was nothing. First anger comes, then rage, and the last one is frenzy – that’s when I become unpleasant.

  "Oh, right." Farin would rather not experience the daemon when he was in a frenzy.

  You have all the prerequisites. And I’ll bring the rest.

  "To do what?"

  To achieve something in your little life. To perform f
eats that nobody else can.

  Farin shrugged his shoulders. Even if it was true, did he want to?

  "I had a regular routine in Heap before you came on the scene."

  Stinker gave a daemonic groan. Yes, plenty of routine and little life.

  "Hm!"

  Exactly – hm! I’d never have been able to defeat the guard without your bodily prerequisites. A little additional strength, speed and technique, combined with will and determination, and we’ll both be having a lot of fun.

  "I’m afraid Clemens didn’t have any fun today."

  He attacked you from behind. You did well for a squire.

  "Yes, it’s only a pity ripping off arms isn’t one of the squire disciplines." Farin didn’t really mean it to sound as sarcastic as it did.

  You don’t understand! I signify powwwer.

  Farin’s head vibrated. "Doesn’t matter."

  Idiot! Power turns a worm into a…DRAGON! And I make the difference! In the library today you were a dragon.

  Farin really didn’t know what to say to that. Stinker had an answer for everything – no, not for everything. This morning at Emicho’s the chimera had been a stammering mess.

  "Let’s go back to this morning. Tell me what happened that time. Why does Emicho think you betrayed his father?"

  That surprised me as well. I was inside Vigo for many years, the principal knight of the stone dragons. Who do you think helped him be so successful? I stood by him during every trial by combat.

  "Except for the last time."

  Humans are mortal. Vigo had become too arrogant. Smug and comfortable, he was relying on me completely.

  "And that was a mistake!"

  That was his mistake – I am an evil daemon – neither guardian angel nor do-gooder.

  "Aha! Why did you save me in the library? You could have allowed the worm to die – just as you did Vigo."

  Stinker paused, then he grunted: Daemons are unpredictable.

  "Which is exactly why I want to be rid of you and not rely on you."

  Which makes you different to all my previous hosts.