The Grave Robber's Apprentice

by Allan Stratton

  “They’d say one of us should stay in the main building, the other in the barn. And since I’m a girl and a countess, well . . .” She smiled at Hans.

  “Fine,” Hans grumped. “I’ll take the barn. If it gets too cold, I guess I can cuddle up to the sheep.”

  Peter patted him on the back. “Good lad.” He began to lead them back inside.

  “Wait,” Angela said. “What’s that hidden by the pines up the mountain?”

  Peter paused. “My private chapel. The one place you must never go. Never, on pain of banishment.”

  “Why?”

  Peter’s eyes flashed. “Because I say so.” He turned abruptly and marched across the grounds. Hans and Angela watched him in stunned silence.

  “Banishment?” Angela frowned. “Why is the chapel so important?”

  “I don’t know and I don’t intend to find out.”

  “But it’s all so strange. Who was Peter before he became a hermit? Why did Arnulf kill his son? And what are the secrets hidden in his chapel?”

  “One thing’s certain,” Hans said. “Peter the Hermit is not what he seems.”

  Chapter 28

  Tall Tales

  The Necromancer arrived in County Schwanenberg at dusk. He expected his Weevils would be hiding in Potter’s Field, while the archduke would be pacing the castle halls, impatiently punching holes in the stonework. Instead, he found the Weevils sitting cross-legged in the courtyard, decked out in new finery—frock coats and breeches, sewn by village dressmakers from the von Schwanenberg family tapestries. Arnulf was entertaining them with a puppet play starring his hand bones.

  At the sight of the Necromancer, the Weevils fell at his feet, touched the hem of his shroud, and kissed his scaly toes. “We thought you wuz dead, Master. We thought them wolves and monsters had eated you up.”

  “You thought wrong, my pets.”

  “High Chancellor,” Arnulf exclaimed, “I’m delighted you survived. Your Weevils told me of the Wolf King’s assault and of their brave pursuit of the grave robber’s apprentice and the countess.”

  The Necromancer craned his head to the Weevils. “Tell me of this pursuit, my pets, for you left me in the clearing.”

  The eldest thrust out his chin. “When the Wolf King’s pack attacked, our prey runned into the woods. We runned after ’em and killed ’em dead.”

  The Necromancer smiled. “Where, pray tell, are the bodies?”

  “The monsters flew down and ate ’em,” the Weevil said solemnly. “Then they flied away, leaving us only the heart of the boy.”

  “Your Weevils presented it to me,” Arnulf said, “along with the girl’s bloody burial jewels. In reward, I’ve made them knights of the realm.”

  “Sir Weevils? Oh my.” The Necromancer feigned a bow and stroked their cheeks with his fingernails. “How quickly they grow up,” he sighed to Arnulf. “No longer my gang of pets, but little men who curry favor to advance themselves.”

  “Yes, Master,” said a Weevil with scabby knuckles. “Soon we’ll be as powerful at court as you. Even more, for we has eyes to see.”

  There was a dangerous pause. “You may have eyes,” the Necromancer said drily, “yet, sadly, you are blind.”

  “Blind?”

  “Yes, blind to the danger of seeking to steal my power. Blind to the peril of betraying the archduke with lies.”

  “What?” Arnulf exclaimed.

  “No. We never lied,” the Weevils quaked.

  “You lie even now,” the Necromancer continued. “You fled the Wolf King’s beasts like cowards and left me to face the foe alone. Then you stole the heart from the peddler I killed and dipped the girl’s burial jewels in the muck.”

  Arnulf whirled on the Weevils. “Explain yourselves.”

  The Weevils froze. “It were a story. An innocent story.”

  “Whoever heard of an innocent story?” the Necro-mancer scoffed. “Those who control stories control the world.”

  “What shall we do with the traitors?” the archduke asked.

  The Necromancer clasped his hands in prayer. “Spare the rod and spoil the child,” he said piously.

  “Indeed,” Arnulf thundered. “May your fate be a tale of sound moral instruction.” He snatched the Weevils two at a time and crashed them together like cymbals. The Necromancer rubbed his tummy: Their little skulls reminded him of eggs being cracked for an omelet. That is, if eggs screamed.

  Arnulf tossed the Weevils into a pile. “I trust I didn’t go too far?”

  “Heavens, no. One must be cruel only to be kind.”

  “Well said.” Arnulf flexed his iron knuckles. “So to business: What really happened to the boy and girl?”

  “The Wolf King’s creatures flew them to safety,” the Necromancer said, weaving a cunning yarn of his own. “Yet victory shall still be yours, Excellency, for these winged monsters are mere warlocks who change their shape at will.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Last night I lay with the dead. My spirit flew above the earth and found the monsters with the children, returning to human form.”

  “We’ll hunt them down and mount their heads in my throne room,” Arnulf exulted. “But who are they? Where do they live?”

  “Come to the crypt,” the Necromancer said. “I’ll show you in a vision.”

  “At once.” Arnulf grabbed a lantern and motioned his guards to follow.

  The instant the courtyard was empty, two tiny Weevils peeked out from under the pile of their brethren.

  “Is we still alive?” whispered one.

  “I thinks so,” the other whispered back.

  “So what does we do now?”

  “We runs. We runs where Master will never think to find us.”

  Arnulf followed the Necromancer through the grove to the von Schwanenberg family tomb. He posted his guards at a distance, and entered the crypt. Something otherworldly always swirled about the Necromancer, but here, surrounded by centuries of the dead, Arnulf felt ghosts in the very air he breathed.

  The Necromancer tapped Angela’s coffin with his staff and traced a hexagon around it. “Lie in the girl’s death chamber.”

  Arnulf placed his lantern at the foot of the coffin and crawled inside. The Necromancer took a musky fungus from a pouch and placed it on the archduke’s tongue. At once, the room spun before Arnulf’s eyes. He rolled to his side and fell back sweating; his pupils vibrated wildly.

  The Necromancer circled him, crablike; he tilted his head above the archduke’s. Lamplight danced in his empty sockets. “What do you see?”

  “Caverns, caves,” the archduke moaned.

  “Yes,” the Necromancer sang in a faraway voice. “The warlocks live in little caves. Can you see them at their magic?”

  The archduke stared hard into the shadowy sockets. Yes, yes, he imagined, there they are, little shadow-men flitting about the caves.

  The Necromancer slithered to Arnulf’s feet. “Look above you. Can you see them flying the night sky?”

  Arnulf stared up at the flickering shapes that darted about the ceiling. The more he stared, the more he saw creatures, like the Necromancer said—monsters with wings and tails that vanished the instant they appeared. It was like staring at cloud-shapes, only dark and frightening and real. “Where do they land?”

  “Look around you,” the Necromancer prodded. “The dead will guide you. Let your eyes climb up into the clouds.”

  Arnulf did as he was told. He watched the lamplight scale the shelves of coffins, ledge by ledge, to the flickering shapes on the ceiling. The banks of coffins, they were like . . . mountains? he wondered. “They’re in the mountains!” he gasped.

  “Yes, Excellency,” the Necromancer murmured. He led Arnulf’s mind forward. “The creatures land in the far mountains, where they return to human form.”

  “But nobody lives in the far mountains. Nobody except a few hermits.”

  The Necromancer let the thought float in the air.

  Arnulf blinked in am
azement. “The hermits are warlocks?”

  The Necromancer remained silent; the thought took hold.

  “What a clever disguise!” Arnulf exclaimed, his eyes as big as breastplates. “The warlocks live in the clouds, yes, where they change into hermits without being seen!”

  “You’re wise, Excellency, and cunning,” the Necromancer flattered. “The hermitage in the far mountains with its little caves, that’s where they’ve taken the boy and girl. That’s where you shall slay them.”

  Arnulf frowned. “What if the hermits turn back into monsters?”

  The Necromancer recalled an old legend. “From ancient times, mirrored shields have subdued such creatures; they freeze at the sight of their ugliness.”

  Arnulf wiped the sweat from his brow. “We must return to the palace immediately. I’ll raise some troops and forge those mirrored shields. By week’s end, we’ll be at the warlocks’ lair, where I’ll slaughter the Wolf King and his monsters. There’ll be epic songs and poems. My name will live forever. And you, dear friend, will have treasure without end!”

  “Many thanks.” The Necromancer smiled slyly. With no more than a lantern, a crypt, and a pinch of dried mushroom, he’d bound the archduke to him with the most powerful magic of all: Imagination.

  Chapter 29

  The Forbidden Chapel

  By the following morning, Hans and Angela were fit enough to explore the hermitage grounds. Peter gave them new warm clothes to replace the tattered robe and general’s coat and led them to the cliff edge. Below, the river and mountain streams were squiggles of thread glittering in the sun.

  “The proper way up is to follow the goat trails on the sides,” Peter said. “It’s hard going, but at least you’ll get here alive.”

  Snow swept down the sloping rock face on the right side of the cliff edge before disappearing as it circled the mountain. “The shadows from the western cliffs keep it from melting. It makes for a quick ride down, but I wouldn’t advise it,” Peter said. “I once skidded two hundred yards on my backside before grabbing a passing berry bush. I nearly died of fright.”

  A heavy bell rang out. The hermits ran from their cells brandishing their wooden swords and circled the tree stump at the center of the grounds.

  “Pell training!” Peter exclaimed.

  “That’s my cue to explore your workshop,” Angela said, as she backed away from the rock face.

  “And mine to have fun,” Hans grinned. He and Peter made their way to the pell. “Why are the swords made of wood? And why strike at a wooden stump?”

  “The wooden swords are twice as heavy as metal ones. If war ever comes, a real sword will feel light as a feather,” Peter said. “The pell is useful too. You can strike at a post in ways that would kill a friend in practice.”

  Hans took to the pell as a duck to water. Years of digging and hauling had given him strength, while tunneling had made him agile. A special thrill was the freedom to roar as he charged.

  Even better was the chance to try his hand at the quarterstaff and longstaff. The staves were made of oak and hawthorn. The quarterstaff was eight feet in length; the longstaff, fifteen. Peter taught him how to place one hand at the center of the staff and the other halfway to the end. Soon he was parrying thrusts and upending opponents with a sweep behind their knees.

  Hans had used his shovel like this to defend himself against Knobbe. But he was astonished at the extra power that came with the staff’s extra length, and the steadiness it required for control. More than once he found himself on the ground surrounded by laughing hermits.

  “I learned the sidestep, duck, dodge and slip, and how to trap and jam a sword and staff,” he enthused to Angela over goat stew. She smiled and nodded the way polite people do when totally bored. Asked about her morning, she shrugged and looked away. It was peculiar, but Hans had no time for questions. After lunch, it was time to train with kite shield and buckler.

  The week flew by, Hans practicing battle arts while Angela did who-knew-what in the workshop. On the seventh day, a blizzard deposited a blanket of snow on the hermitage and down the far right slope of the mountain. The hermits marveled at Hans’ ability to keep his footing in the slippery slush.

  “Where did you learn such balance?” Peter asked.

  “From sloshing about in muddy graves.” Hans blushed.

  The afternoon following the storm, Angela was sitting on a rock by the cliff edge peering down at a bank of clouds that had rolled in before dawn. When the hermits left to meditate, Hans came over and sat beside her. She didn’t look up.

  “It looks like a giant’s duvet,” Hans said to break the silence.

  “Uh-huh,” she said absently.

  Hans studied her frown. “What’s the matter?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Tell me. For days you’ve barely said a word. Why? What’s going on?”

  Angela drew into herself. “I’ve seen things I shouldn’t. Don’t make me say what. It’s for your own good.”

  “Says who?”

  “I have to go.” She went to stand up.

  Hans held her by the arm. “Not till you tell me your secret. We’re friends: Friends to the end, remember?”

  Angela looked from Hans to the hermit cells and back again. “All right. But don’t say I didn’t warn you.” She took a breath. “I’ve been inside Peter’s chapel.”

  Hans gasped. “He said we mustn’t go there!”

  “Exactly. Forbidden places are always the most interesting. Anyway, no one was watching. You were all too busy hitting that stupid stump. So I snuck into the pine trees and made my way up to the chapel. It wasn’t locked or anything.”

  “Of course not,” Hans said. “This is a place of trust. What would you have done if Peter had caught you?”

  “I’d have cried and said I was sorry and how I was just looking for a chisel to make a puppet head.”

  “How stupid. He said he’d banish us.”

  “He’d never banish me. I’m a girl and a countess and he gave me my name. You he might, though. Life is unfair for girls, but sometimes for boys, too; especially poor boys. That’s why I didn’t tell you. Because what I saw is so strange, I knew if I told, you’d want to see for yourself.”

  “See what?”

  “All sorts of things. Maps. A foreign crest. A hidden cave—”

  “A hidden cave?”

  Angela nodded. “The chapel is built over a hole in the rock that leads into a cave in the mountain. The cave is filled with boxes of old tunics, chain mail, and battle gear: two-handed swords, rapiers, falchions, poniards, and daggers. At the back are wooden stairs that lead out of the top of the cave onto the slope above the chapel. There on a ledge, hidden by trees and boulders, is a giant catapult.”

  Hans whistled. “A catapult? There’s nothing to fire at but air.”

  “I told you, it’s strange.”

  “And the maps and the foreign crest?” Hans asked.

  “One of the maps is of Market Square in the capital,” Angela said. “It has a dotted line showing the catacombs under the square that connect the palace to the cathedral. Other maps, equally detailed, are of the city and countryside. And one last map is the answer to my prayers. It holds the key to rescuing my parents.”

  “What is it?”

  “A detailed plan of the inside of the palace,” Angela said. “There are drawings of floor upon floor as well as red markings that could be secret passageways. There’s also the plan of an underground dungeon with a lagoon to the outside. Hans, that map can lead me to Mother and Father.”

  “How could a hermit have a map of the palace?” Hans asked gently.

  “It doesn’t matter.”

  “It does.” Hans squeezed her hand. “Palace maps are secret. No one knows the archduke’s private passageways. The map may look real, Angela, but it’s invented by the same mind that built a catapult to nowhere.”

  “Not everything in the chapel is pretend,” Angela fought back. “There’s the battle gear
. . . .”

  “Yes,” Hans said. “Brought here by the hermits from their former lives and put in storage. That’s not the same as a map to your parents’ cell.”

  Angela’s eyes misted. “I know it seems impossible. But what if it’s not? What if Peter has secrets beyond our understanding? It’s not just the maps—even the foreign crest looks real.”

  “Anyone can make up a crest.”

  “Yes, but this one’s so bold I can still see it: Two dancing unicorns. Above them, lightning bolts flying from an eagle’s head—”

  Hans went pale. “Angela, don’t play tricks on me.”

  “I’m not.”

  “The unicorns—are they dancing on a bed of wreaths?”

  “Yes,” Angela said. “With zephyrs blowing from the left.”

  “And the sun shining from the right?”

  “How did you know?”

  “That crest. It’s carved in the chest that floated me to shore. Angela, I have to see it. Now.”

  Chapter 30

  An Astonishing Discovery

  As Hans and Angela raced to Peter’s chapel, fifty of the archduke’s men were scaling the hermits’ peak with mirrored shields. All morning, they’d climbed the goat paths under cover of cloud. Now, as the sky cleared, they were within reach of the plateau. Arnulf observed them through a telescope from his position at the base of the mountain.

  The Necromancer lounged by his side, little mirrors fitted to his eye sockets. “Soon your men will fell those warlock-hermits with sword and arrow, and toss their bodies from the cliff,” he cooed.

  “Except for the boy and girl,” Arnulf gloated. “They shall burn as witches in Market Square. Their screams will terrify the world till doomsday.”

  Hans and Angela took Peter’s trail to the chapel, keeping their steps within his to cover their tracks. They knew they didn’t have much time; the hermits’ meditations would soon be over. Hans lifted the latch; the door creaked open; they slid inside.

  Hans took a deep breath. It felt odd being where he shouldn’t, like his nights in graveyards. Even odder was the knowledge that this chapel might hold the key to the puzzle of his past.