The Grave Robber's Apprentice

by Allan Stratton

  A monstrous tongue licked his face. Hans thought of Angela and prepared to die. Instead, the fog rolled through and Hans stared his attacker in the eye.

  “Siegfried!” he shouted in delight.

  The great wolf wagged its tail. The rest of the pack frolicked in the mist.

  “What’s happening?” Pandolini trembled.

  “These are old friends,” Hans exclaimed. “The pack of the Wolf King. He and his men must be nearby.” He scratched Siegfried’s ears. The wolf rolled its head in ecstasy. Hans rose and clapped his hand to his thigh. “Siegfried, Angela is with my friends’ children in a nearby clearing. Come with us to greet them, then lead us to your master.”

  As if understanding, Siegfried and the pack accompanied Hans and the Pandolinis to the meeting place. But instead of children, they found the Wolf King and his crew tied up with silk scarves.

  “Tomas Bundt,” Hans exclaimed. He quickly freed him.

  “Hans!” Tomas’ Adam’s apple nearly popped out of his mouth.

  “Mamma, Papà,” peeped a chorus of tiny voices from the treetops.

  Signora Pandolini threw open her arms. “Bambini!”

  The children pointed at the wolves and wailed.

  Pandolini nervously patted Siegfried’s head. “Amici, bambini.”

  The Pandolini children scampered down the trees and hugged their parents.

  “The little devils were in the branches,” Tomas said, helping Hans untie his comrades. “When the wolves ran off, they dropped down, bound several of us in an instant, and returned to the treetops to ambush the next of our number.” He blushed. “Don’t tell a soul. We have our reputations to think of.”

  “Your secret’s safe,” Hans smiled. “But where’s Angela?”

  “Nearby, I hope. The hermits have taken our horses to look for her.”

  Hans was thunderstruck. “The hermits are here too?”

  Tomas nodded. “We were camped near the mountain when we heard the avalanche. From the tree line, we saw them flying down the slopes in coffins and went to help them. They had your old monk’s robe. Siegfried used the scent to find the circus camp. From there we followed the wagon tracks, catching up as you reached the city. We stashed our gear and ringed the palace, keeping to the shadows. Tonight, we saw the children escape from the turret. We followed their trail here. You and Angela were missing. But there was a path heading west—”

  “West?” Hans gasped. “That’s the asylum. Angela—”

  “With luck, the hermits will stop her before she gets there,” Tomas said.

  As if on cue, the hermits entered the clearing. Their beards and hair were trimmed and their robes exchanged for the tunics and breeches that had been packed in the mountain cave. Though physically unrecognizable, their bearing was unmistakable: solid and graceful, with a quiet strength that spoke of courage.

  “The lad’s safe,” Tomas called out.

  A tall, broad-shouldered man bounded forward and hoisted Hans in the air. “My boy,” he whooped, “I made you a promise: ‘Wherever you are, fear not, for I am with you. I’ve lost you once and never shall again.’ Now, by my troth, I make good my word!”

  “Father,” Hans exclaimed. “Or should I call you Archduke Fredrick?”

  “So, you know the truth at last!” Fredrick laughed. “You’re as bright as you are bold.” He set Hans down. “Call me Father, Son, and know your true name as well: Johannes, Prince of Waldland.” He turned Hans to face the others. “Behold, this is my belovèd son, in whom I am well pleased.”

  The men dropped on one knee and placed their hands over their hearts. “Long live Johannes, Prince of Waldland.”

  The Pandolinis burst into applause. The bears rose on their hind legs and twirled in a circle.

  “Magnifico!” Pandolini cheered. “Had you put this on a stage, I should scarce have believed it!”

  “But what about Angela?” Hans asked. “Did you find her?”

  There was a terrible silence.

  “We saw her enter the asylum tower,” Fredrick said. “Immediately, soldiers hiding behind the dung heaps surrounded it. She’s trapped.”

  “We must free her,” Hans said, “and restore you to the throne.”

  “A wonderful dream, but how?” asked one of the hermits. “Arnulf has an army, we are but few.”

  “We’ll rally the archduchy,” Hans replied.

  “Who’ll fight for a ruler they think is dead?” Tomas frowned.

  “And what of the prophecies?” Pandolini quivered. “They say Arnulf will reign forever. Who’ll brave the spirit world?”

  “I, for one,” said Hans boldly. “I welcome the challenge to defeat the tyrant, his necromancer, and all the forces at their command.”

  “Spoken like a true prince of Waldland,” his father beamed.

  “How shall we proceed?” the men asked.

  “I’ve a plan to fulfill the prophecies,” Hans said. “If we defeat their power, the people will have the courage to join our side.”

  The men leaned in. “What’s your plan?”

  Hans held their gaze with a look of fierce determination. “First,” he said. . . .

  Chapter 43

  High Stakes

  All morning, town criers heralded the news that Angela and her parents were to be burned at the stake for witchcraft. As the people readied themselves, Knobbe was hard at work at the task Hans had given him.

  “You know the memorial pillar in Market Square?” Hans had whispered before escaping through the lagoon. “The entrance to the foundation is in the catacombs. I need you to climb up the inside and chisel the bottom out of one of the memorial coffins. Then, follow the catacombs to the door leading up to the cathedral. I’ll meet you there, midday tomorrow.”

  Knobbe would’ve acted at once, but Arnulf had arrived and he and Nurse had had to hide all night on a shelf of bones while the archduke’s new dungeon master had a training session on the old. When Arnulf left at dawn, they’d crawled from hiding as the new dungeon master was hauling his predecessor’s carcass to the lime pit. Nurse had whacked him silly with a thighbone. “Is he dead?” she’d asked. “No such luck,” Knobbe’d sighed. “Take his uniform. We’ll stuff him in a bone barrel, gagged with a dead rat.”

  The delay meant that Nurse now had her own executioner’s disguise. But it also meant that Knobbe had only begun to hack the bottom from the pillar coffin with a chisel he’d taken from the dungeon.

  “Quickly,” Nurse said, her bosom testing her new chain mail tunic.

  Chunks of marble fell from the darkness and landed by her feet.

  “By all the saints, woman, I’m hacking as fast as I can.”

  A voice echoed along the passageway. “Dungeon master?” It was Arnulf.

  Meanwhile, Hans and his father, Fredrick, were entering the city dressed in cloaks, tunics, and broad-brimmed hats from the hermitage trunks. Soon they were swept up in a surging crowd, the streets swelling like rivers, as citizens poured from their homes to the witch burning. The crowd flooded into Market Square.

  The first thing Hans saw were three mountainous piles of wood, guarded by a four-ring cordon of soldiers. Each of the stacks towered twenty feet in the air and was topped by a ten-foot stake. How could they get to Angela and her parents? Even harder, how could they escape with them through the soldiers and crowd?

  Hans waited until his father was in position near the reviewing stand in front of the palace. Then he slipped into the cathedral and darted through the shadows of the nave to the pipe organ. Behind was the barred door that opened onto the stairwell to the catacombs. An old friend disguised in executioner’s gear was waiting for him.

  “Here as planned.” Hans smiled at his other papa.

  “Not exactly as planned,” said Nurse, raising her hood. “Your Knobbe was called away by the archduke.”

  Back in the forest, the Pandolini children limbered up for a grand performance, while the hermits retrieved the swords and bucklers they’d stowed in the h
ollowed tree trunks near the city’s edge. Those who’d joined the hermitage from nearby counties had spent the night galloping on the Wolf King’s horses to their former estates. Trusted neighbors, families, servants, and friends had returned with them to make a stand for their rightful ruler, Archduke Fredrick. It was a noble sight: a hundred stout hearts and a circus family prepared to throw themselves against the might of Arnulf’s army.

  Tomas addressed the crowd. “For our fight to succeed, we must fulfill the three prophecies. Hans—the prince Johannes—has given us a plan. Its cunning shall inspire legends and plays.”

  Tomas was interrupted by a rumbling beyond the trees. A carriage flanked by cavalry thundered down the hill from the asylum. The Necromancer was crouched beside the coachman, whipping the horses with abandon.

  “They’re taking Angela and her parents to execution,” Tomas cried. “Do as Hans ordered! Chop down the leafiest bushes and saplings you can find!”

  Chapter 44

  Two Prophecies Fulfilled

  The carriage stopped at the center of Market Square. The Necromancer opened the door for Angela and her parents and bowed in mockery. A hush fell over the crowd as he escorted them through the cordon of soldiers to the wooden stacks, lumps of coal bulging from his eye sockets.

  The base of each pile was swathed in oily rags. In front, a torch pole the length of a longstaff was mounted in a heavy brass holder next to a flaming cauldron. The executioner hunched beside it in a black hood, chain mail tunic, black leather trousers, and boots. His assistants, the dungeon twins, clapped their hands and giggled.

  Angela steadied herself. She turned to her mother and father. “I love you,” she said simply.

  “And we, you.” Her mother buried her head in the count’s shoulder. The twins pulled them apart and yanked them up the outer piles of wood.

  Angela took a deep breath and extended her hand to the executioner as gallantly as a heroine of legend. He led her up the center stack. While he bound her to the stake, Angela held back her terror by imagining happy endings. None seemed possible until the executioner leaned in to her ear and whispered, “Take heart, girlie. Hans is near.”

  In that instant, Angela noticed that the executioner’s right shoulder was the size of a small pumpkin. “It can’t be. Are you . . . ?” But he’d already turned and shambled back to his torch pole.

  The Necromancer raised a voice trumpet. “Today we shall rejoice in the death of three notorious witches,” he announced, “creatures who have conspired with warlocks against our great ruler, Arnulf, Archduke of Waldland.”

  There were a few cries of, “Death to the witches,” but for the most part, silence. The pitiable sight of Angela and her parents had turned all but the heartiest witch burners mute.

  The Necromancer popped the coals from his sockets and tossed them in the air. With uncanny aim, they landed in the cauldron. On cue, buglers on a palace parapet played the royal fanfare. All eyes turned to the reviewing stand. The archbishop, generals, counselors, chief stewards, sundry magistrates and county overseers rose as one. Arnulf appeared under the black velvet canopy of his private box to the applause of his soldiers.

  “Long live Arnulf, Archduke of Waldland,” cheered the Necromancer.

  The crowd mumbled a refrain and fell to its knees. Except one man.

  Tall and broad-shouldered, with a ruddy face, trim white beard, and eyes so blue they dazzled the sun, the stranger jutted his chin at the archduke. “Villain! Tyrant!” his voice rang out, as crisp and clear as a mountain spring. “Today, you and your wizard would burn three innocents at the stake. Their crime? To shield the life and virtue of a maiden you sought to defile.”

  The air trembled. Not even the bravest soldiers dared blink.

  Arnulf’s lips turned a violent purple. “Who are you, miscreant?”

  “One who counted you my brother, but knows you as the devil himself,” the man replied. He doffed his hat. “Yes, Arnulf! It is I, Fredrick, rightful archduke of Waldland, whose death you sought, and that of my child, to steal the crown.”

  Citizens struggled for a glimpse of the stranger—the elder remembering the glory times of the good archduke, the younger to see the man whom their parents praised behind locked doors.

  Sweat trickled down Arnulf’s neck. But what is truth next to a lie believed? He pointed to the memorial pillar. “Madman,” he scoffed. “Behold the coffins of my brother and his boy.”

  “Empty,” Fredrick said, “for I am alive, and so is my son and heir.”

  “Guards,” Arnulf ordered. “Arrest the lunatic and tie him to the stake beside the girl.”

  Before anyone could move, there was a frantic trumpeting. Sentries from the city’s edge galloped into the square, scattering citizens in all directions.

  “The great forest!” they cried.

  “What about the great forest?” Arnulf thundered.

  “We looked to the mist that lingers at the forest’s edge,” the first declared. “We saw trees and bushes rise from the ground—rise from the ground and march!”

  “What?”

  “The prophecy’s come true,” the second exclaimed. “The great forest is marching on the capital! With it, wolves and a host of otherworldly beasts—creatures with necks so tall they graze the sky! Sure ’tis the Wolf King and his monster horde.”

  Gasps rose from the crowd.

  “Quickly, men, the mirrored shields!” Arnulf shrieked.

  Some of the soldiers ran to the armory; others spun in circles.

  The Necromancer held the rest in check: “Two prophecies remain that shield the archduke better than any mirror,” he hollered into his voice trumpet. “His Royal Highness shall reign till an eagle rises from stone, and his severed hands sail over a sea of bones.”

  At those words, there was a grating sound at the top of the pillar. The lid of the smallest stone coffin toppled over and smashed into pieces. Eyes widened as Hans squeezed up through the hole that Knobbe had chiseled in its bottom. “Behold!” Hans cried, and bared the eagle birthmark on his right shoulder.

  “Arnulf, your time has come,” Angela shouted from her pyre. “An eagle has risen from stone.”

  Market Square rocked in shock.

  Arnulf’s face bleached, stiff as starch. “The second prophecy may be fulfilled, yet I have a third to protect me.” He raised the golden reliquary slung around his neck. “Never shall these severed hands sail over a sea of bones!”

  With that, he sprang from his box, wielding his sword. In a flurry of leaps, he was at the pillar, bounding up its steps. Soldiers blocked the stairs against any who’d come to Hans’ defense.

  Hans squeezed back down the coffin hole. Arnulf smashed it wide with an iron fist. “Now, brother, I go to slice your brat in two,” the monster exulted. “Guards! Seize him!”

  Soldiers circled Fredrick as Arnulf jumped down the hole after Hans. But citizens around Fredrick rose from their knees. Other soldiers, too, cast their lot with their rightful ruler. A riot broke out. The cordon of guards around the witch stakes weakened.

  “There’s no time to wait,” the Necromancer screamed at the executioner. “Light the bonfires!”

  “Only if you be on the pyre,” the executioner replied.

  The Necromancer froze. “That voice!”

  “Yes, ’tis I, Knobbe the Bent,” the grave robber laughed, and tore off his executioner’s hood. “Did the stink of the crowd and them catacomb bones dull the scent of our county swamps?”

  In a rage, the Necromancer grabbed the flaming cauldron with both hands. His palms sizzled as he tossed it to its side. Fiery coals bounced across the cobblestones onto the oily rags below Angela. At once, fire engulfed the base of her wooden hill.

  “Help!” Angela cried, but the crowd retreated in terror from the blaze—as creatures on horseback galloped into the square. With the sentries fled, the Wolf King’s men had stormed the capital—the Pandolini children clinging to their backs, the wolf pack racing at their heels. The wolves
dashed everywhere. Panicked citizens fled to the parapets, toppling soldiers over balustrades.

  The fire roared higher. Angela screamed to the Wolf King. He spurred his men to the bonfire. Their horses reared, unable to leap above the flames.

  Amid the pandemonium, the Necromancer fled beneath the reviewing stand. Fearful of the mob, he hid under swaths of bunting and pulled a vial of sleeping potion from his shroud. One whiff of this, and I’ll appear dead, he cackled to himself. Come night, I’ll rise and escape into the dark.

  The soldiers seizing Fredrick succumbed to the crowd. He broke free and turned to help Hans. But Angela’s screams tore his heart. He ran to the pyre, where the Pandolinis had formed a human pyramid. Maria’d tied one end of the silk rope to the torch pole and scampered up the pyramid with the other. Knowing exactly what to do, Fredrick grabbed the pole like a longstaff and vaulted onto Tomas’ saddle, where he braced it in a stirrup.

  Maria bent her knees and somersaulted from the top of the human pyramid to the top of Angela’s woodpile. She loosed Angela’s bonds and tied the silk rope to the stake. Taut above the flames, it ran like a high wire to the longstaff.

  Maria slid hand over hand to safety. Angela clutched the rope, swung her legs high, and found the line with her ankles. She wriggled along the rope. The blaze exploded behind her. The rope burned through and she swung to the ground at the foot of Fredrick’s pole, and into the loving embrace of her parents, already freed by Knobbe.

  “Now to my son!” Fredrick exclaimed. But he couldn’t move. The cheering throng swept him onto their shoulders, his cries for Hans lost in their roars.

  Siegfried scared a path through the crowd to Angela. She zipped down the opening. As it closed in the crush, Angela slipped between legs and under arms, clawing and biting her final steps to the cathedral. Inside, she barreled through the nave and nipped behind the organ.

  The stairs to the cellar were guarded by an executioner. Angela held her breath. Nurse raised her hood.

  “Nurse! You! How?” Angela exclaimed.

  “Don’t ask.”