The Gravedigger’s Son and the Waif Girl 1

by Sam Feuerbach

  Farin sat down. "You kidna…escorted me from my village and brought me here."

  "That’s right. Bring me the mole, the gravedigger’s son from Heap! That was the order." He thought for a moment. "And keep him alive. The lord of the castle added that right at the end, when we were almost across the drawbridge." He grinned. "I take it we got ourselves the right mole."

  The gravedigger’s son from Heap rubbed the swelling on the back of his head. "Uh, yes – actually, my name is Farin."

  "That’ll do at a pinch."

  "You were coming from our cottage when we…uh...met. Can you please tell me what you did with my father?" he asked.

  "What do you think? We asked him where his son was. And he started giving out furiously and wanted to know what that unseemly yob had done wrong this time. We left him to himself and his rage."

  That sounded familiar!

  "How can I get a message to him? He needs to know that I’m fine."

  "Have a word with the old man about it", suggested the big man with the high voice. "By the way, my name is Drogdan. And the other two friendly members of our riding party are sitting here too. The powerful clever clogs opposite is Plaudius. And tarrying to your right is Stump. He doesn’t want to reveal what his real name is. Quite possible he’s forgotten it."

  Having gained all this new information, Farin looked at this table companions more closely. The one beside him was sitting on a fat cushion, otherwise he’d hardly be able to see above the table’s edge. The brown eyes in his round head examined him curiously. The royal crest of the peregrines decorated his chest armour. A red-faced fat man was noisily chewing on his slices of bread-and-lard on the opposite side of the table. "Nishe excurshon, jush bit cold."

  Farin recognised the second voice as the third one of his travelling companions.

  Should he make a complaint about how he was manhandled? He decided against it – what good would it do now?" "I enjoyed it too. I had my own horse, and a fine sack protected me against the cold."

  "Ha! Now you’re here. Why?" The fat man beside the leader chewed questioningly.

  "Our lord of the castle doesn’t want to hang you high, it seems, but have you as his shield bearer. How did he come to pick you of all people, a gravedigger’s son from a hamlet in the arse end of nowhere?" asked Drogdan.

  "To be honest with you, I don’t really know why myself. Best ask him yourself."

  The man shrugged his shoulders. "Get some food and drink into you first."

  There were all kinds of spreads on the tables, one of which was glowing at him in a golden-yellowy manner. Was that honey? No, it couldn’t be. Sweet, sticky, succulent honey – that was to be found more rarely at home than a polite word from his father.

  Before he helped himself, he had to find something else out. "Where can I wash myself? Is there a stream nearby?"

  Drogdan looked at him in amazement. "Stream? There’s no stream in the castle. Water comes from a well. You’ll find it in the black courtyard, you can get a bucket there."

  No stream, but honey flowing instead. Farin let the latter drip down onto his bread. "What are your tasks, sir?"

  "Drop the formal address. We’re all the knight’s men here. I’m in Stump’s unit, just like Plaudius.

  Farin looked at the little man to his right in amazement.

  Knight Stump is our commander, the best you can get", said the fat one, his mouth half-full.

  Drogdan nodded. "I agree completely."

  "Hrm". Clearly Stump had no objections.

  A knight doesn’t have to be big, thought Farin, surprised. Everything about this man was small except for his eyes, which were still looking him up and down. Luckily, he seemed satisfied with what he saw for he smiled softly, and his pupils glinted wisely.

  Farin bit off a large chunk of his bread and chewed intently. Fresh bread – he kept on gobbling, who knew how long it would stay fresh, or if he’d get any more. The high-born Turgenson pointed at him with extended forefinger from the other end of the table, at which point a whole row of men fixed their hostile eyes on him.

  "This Sir Turgenson – is he really a duke and a nephew of the king?"

  "Hrm," confirmed the voice beside him. The furrow on Stump’s brow deepened.

  Drogdan nodded too. "He is, surely. Best not to tangle with him. If he has it in for you, your life will be hell here."

  Oh, right!

  For a moment Farin forgot his food. How could he have hit the bull’s eye like that so soon after coming into the food hall. Should he tell the others he was already on the high-born’s hit list? No, that would sound like complaining; he decided to bide his time for the moment and provide as few targets as possible.

  "Sir, you…uh…I mean, you said the lord of the castle wants me as shield bearer. What does that mean?"

  "You should bear his shield."

  "Oh, yes…and apart from that? What else is he expecting from me?"

  "Too much! You can be sure of that. Damn difficult, satisfying the old man. One of the few who manages to do it regularly enough is sitting to your right."

  "Hrm".

  "Because he has first-class people he can always rely on," continued Drogdan, looking cheerfully at the others.

  Plaudius smiled too, but Farin’s stomach felt queasy.

  Drogdan noticed the shadow on his face. "What’s up?"

  "He expects too much? Too much sounds considerably more than too little", he said through gritted teeth.

  "He’s just demanding," proffered Plaudius and bit into his bread.

  "What are you particularly good at doing?" asked Drogdan.

  The man didn’t want to mock him, he just wanted to motivate him by reminding him of his abilities.

  While Farin considered the question, the big one probed further: "What’s your area of speciality?"

  "Uh, I…I’m good at washing corpses."

  First they exchanged looks with each other, then the three looked at him.

  "Oh, right. I don’t think that’s the reason he brought you here. If I know my lord at all, then he doesn’t give a hen’s shit what his corpse is going to look like." Drogdan pulled at his earlobe.

  Stump beside him said: "Hrm."

  "With which weapon can you fight best?" tried Plaudius.

  "I…I’m a gravedigger. I never learned to manage a sword or a bow. Only a shovel."

  Drogdan tilted his head back a little, a look at Stump, a look at Plaudius, the corners of his mouth were twitching. "One-handed shovel or two-handed?" He started to roar with laughter, Plaudius exploded too.

  Some of the men in the middle of the table looked over curiously.

  Once again it hadn’t taken him long to become the target of mockery – he, the gravedigger’s son, the newbie, the no-hoper. Farin lowered his head.

  Drogdan quickly became serious again and nodded encouragingly towards Farin. "No harm done. We’ll sort you out. Of course, you’ll have to learn how to handle weapons. Really, you’re too old for that. The pages already start fighting at six with their wooden swords."

  I might stand half a chance against them, thought Farin. Uncertainty grumbled again in his stomach.

  I have to look on all this as an adventure. An adventure where I can learn something. If they throw me out, I’ll just go back to Heap. And no-one can take away the things I’ll have seen and experienced up to then.

  "Right, now we have to go to the army-master and get the watch schedule for the next few days." Drogdan got up from his chair. "See you later, Farin."

  Stump and Plaudius nodded at him too, and the three left the hall.

  Farin continued eating his breakfast with mixed feelings. He could get used to fresh bread and honey. He also took a big gulp of water. It tasted sandy somehow, not at all like the water from his stream. The hall slowly emptied. Just as Farin was wondering what he should do, he saw Markan coming towards him.

  "His lordship is only expecting you this afternoon. We’ll meet again on the eighth hour in the litt
le yard in front of your tower, then I will lead you through the castle and to the squire’s training grounds."

  Back in his tower-room Farin braced himself for the worst. How would he measure up to the other squires, for example in sword-fighting, never having possessed his own sword? And he would also be one of the oldest, so his presence would definitely be horrendously embarrassing for him. He leaned over the wash bowl and half-heartedly rubbed his teeth clean with his forefinger. As he did so, he glanced out the narrow window. The view was sobering, just grey wall underneath the crenelated parapet. He nervously shifted from one foot to the other.

  You need to calm down and stop moaning and groaning. It’s definitely more interesting here than in Heap.

  "That’s easy for you to say, Mr Know-it-all. And before you vanish into thin air again, tell me who you are. And what you want from me." He hadn’t intended the last sentence to sound so accusatory. But he couldn’t stop himself expressing his anger at the uninvited visitor in his head.

  That’s exactly what I mean. One minute you’re boring and the next you’re impetuous and emotional. A wimp. And I’m not going to tell a person like that my name.

  "But I’m the person in whose head you’re rattling around. You’re welcome to find a better one. As long as you’re here, I’m going to call you Stinker. That suits you."

  Sweet! I’d probably be gone if you hadn’t thrown the amulet onto the fire.

  Farin groaned when he heard that. "Let’s move onto my second question. What do you want from me?"

  Time is irrelevant when it comes down to it – and whenever it happens, it happens. Then I’ll travel back.

  "Back where?"

  Home of course, to a dimension beyond this pathetic Worldly Kingdom.

  "And why did you come here at all?"

  There was a moment’s pause before the voice explained: Call it a dare, call it curiosity, call it audacity.

  "Call it dim-witted. Now I know where the word demon comes from."

  Worm, whenever you try to be funny, it goes completely wrong. Do you want an answer to your question or not?

  Was it possible for a chimera to be offended?

  "Spill the beans – I’m listening."

  We were summoned, in the middle of a most enjoyable drinking session, by a daemonic conjuration. How me and my mates laughed when we saw the amateurish portal that appeared out of the blue. We usually ignore such pathetic conjuration attempts, but I was intrigued to see its agent on the other side. And so, I stepped through the portal and found myself in your world.

  "How does that work? And what’s a portal?"

  Imagine it as a gateway from one place to another, a dimension gate. In those days people referred to it as a daemon gate. They’re usually made up of pentagrams drawn on the ground.

  "Hm, how long have you been here already?"

  A blink of an eye or eight hundred years – take your pick.

  Farin gave a whistle in surprise. "Eight hundred years? That’s an eternity."

  From a human point of view – yes.

  "What’s keeping you here, and don’t tell me that the mighty daemon wasn’t able to go home in eight hundred years."

  I’ll ignore your infantile mockery. Daemons are crazy about magic, and there’s supposed to be magic in the Worldly Kingdom. Unfortunately, I haven’t found any up until now. No sorcerers, no warlocks, no spirits. Only the mean-spirited. Present company included.

  "Pshaw. And the portal that called you?"

  That bespeaks my magic.

  "Hm." Farin considered his next question. "How many people have you planted yourself in?"

  I’ve lost count. If I were to be doing with writing things down, I’d write about fifty. Speaking of doing the "right" thing, squire, you’d want to get a move on – you have an appointment.

  Could that really all be true? The daemon had already spent eight hundred years causing trouble. Farin definitely wanted to learn more about the thing that was afflicting him. But now he had to fulfil his duties. Duties he neither knew of nor understood. He left his little turret room to get to know a whole new world. For that he needed neither a portal nor a conjuration nor a summoning nor a daemon gate.

  the castle

  A s arranged, Markan greeted him at the eighth hour with a friendly bow at the foot of the south tower. The gravedigger’s son followed him through countless corridors, up steps, down steps until they reached a large, vaulted room, both pleasant smelling and pleasantly warm. Farin watched the hustle and bustle, wide-eyed. There were at least thirty servants performing their daily chores – maids, cooks, and skivvies peeled and chopped, cooked and baked, cleaned and scrubbed. Senior maids, head chefs and major domos barked out orders although Farin was immediately under the impression that these instructions were unnecessary – everyone seemed to know what had to be done.

  "The main kitchen. Let’s keep going. And now it will get nippier."

  Farin really didn’t want to leave the commotion. But Markan simply marched onwards and so he had no alternative but to follow him.

  "Now I’ll take you up to the keep; we’ve a great view of the complex from up there." They entered the highest tower of Castle Stormwatch. By the time they were halfway up, Farin had given up counting the steps in his head. Once they arrived at the top, he was rewarded with a view so astonishing that he barely noticed the cold wind in his ears.

  Markan, his hair blowing, pointed into the distance. "As you can see, the fortress was erected on a hill. A clear view of the countryside in all directions. Which means potential enemies can be spotted from a distance."

  Farin liked the view. How beautiful it must look in springtime when the trees and fields became green.

  "Can I see the sea from here?" he suddenly asked.

  With the corners of his mouth turned down ironically, Markan explained: "The sea is to the south, four days’ journey from here. No need to fear a tidal wave or flooding here."

  Farin looked at the roof of the longest building in the complex curiously.

  Markan followed his gaze. "That’s the great hall with the sleeping quarters. Most of the castle residents live there." He pulled up his collar. "Peeking up directly behind it is the spire of the castle chapel. Do you see it? You have a complete view of the stronghold’s defensive works from here."

  Farin was still gobsmacked by the view. The outer wall of the fortress was softly curved and three yards thick across. He counted four open keeps, all projecting upward from the castle wall. The embrasures around each of them offered room for twenty archers. The keeps were connected by a crenelated parapet that ran along the entire inner wall of the fortress.

  "Has the castle ever been captured?"

  Markan shook his head in response. "Only once, when a principal knight lost in a duel. But that was more of a handover than a conquest."

  Farin’s eyes opened wide in astonishment. "Principal knight! Really?" Of course, he knew the tales that had flourished concerning legendary duels to the death

  "Nine duels over three hundred years in total. And only one fight was lost. Let’s hope history doesn’t repeat itself."

  "Is there any danger of an attack?"

  "Our lord of the castle is concerned by the Necorers in the south. More and more people are joining the cult and are forsaking the old king. This movement is working its way northwards like the plague a few years ago." The subject didn’t seem to please Markan, who changed to a new one. "There’s still lots to see – follow me! I’ll show you the castle gate now with its shield wall, the drawbridge facility and the outer ward."

  They climbed down the spiral staircase again. Farin was most fascinated by the enormous drawbridge across the castle moat, which was not filled with water, unfortunately, but with the products from the privies directly above. Consequently, it stank unmercifully. Farin’s nose was used to being afflicted by stenches – it didn’t bother him one bit. Streams of people were entering and leaving the castle via the lowered drawbridge. The chains fixed t
o the far end were as thick as Farin’s legs, and they led through two gaps in the castle walls to within. A horizontal pivot on the ground and an enormous winch with counterweights on the chains ensured the bridge could be hoisted rapidly.

  "And, last but not least, I’ll show you the font of all life."

  The two entered a spacious courtyard. The fortress well was dead centre, an enormous circle with a tile-covered roof covering the perimeter of the well.

  "Stormwatch is situated on a hill. The well must be very deep, mustn’t it if it drops down as far as the groundwater?"

  Markan seemed delighted at the question. "It took two years to complete. The workers had to dig down almost eighty yards."

  When it came down to it, everything here was tall and deep, wide and long, thick and very thick. With a diameter of over three yards the well contained a very impressive hole. Here too there was hustle and bustle, servant after servant carrying their wooden pails to and fro.

  "Let’s go to the squires’ training grounds."

  Farin’s mood worsened immediately but he dutifully followed Markan through dark passageways until they reached an inner courtyard full of wooden frameworks, ladders and ropes. There was no-one to be seen.

  "Basically, every squire learns his craft from his knight. Which is why they’re mostly scattered around the Worldly Kingdom. They only come to us for the last two months of their training so that they can clear the final hurdle. Then the castle is buzzing with people. And added to that, a special honour will be bestowed on us next spring."

  "Go on, Markan."

  The man clearly enjoyed his listener’s thirst for knowledge. His voice became more emotional. "Our lord of the castle is going to host the grand tournament this time."

  "Really?" The grand knightly tournament steeped in legend! Farin almost choked with excitement and amazement.

  "For one week we will be the centre of the Worldly Kingdom. Some of the senior squires will be ceremoniously dubbed knights. And the best knights of the kingdom will compete against each other in jousting, the victor being selected in the grandest joust of the year. This grey, staid old pile has been slowly regaining its importance over the last while. We’re proud that we’ve been granted permission to host the grand tournament on our castle meadows."