An Armory of Swords Page 8

Keaf watched from a dozen paces away, excited at the prospect of a fight as Kaye curled a fist. “It was a fair goal,” Kaye shouted.

  Lane raised himself up to tower above Kaye. “I say you cheated.” He swung at Kaye again. Kaye ducked, and Lane sprawled forward into an ice-scaled puddle. It was too much for Keaf, and he burst out laughing.

  Lane scooped a handful of mud and flung it. Kaye dodged and laughed, and Lane came raging up from the puddle. He lunged at Kaye, missed, and landed in the mud again. When he lifted his head, he was only a few paces away, facing Keaf. His anger shifted immediately. “Damn ghoul-lover!” He flung a stone at Keaf’s head and charged.

  “Leave him alone,” Kaye shouted. “Let’s play ball.” Alone among the villager boys, he never picked on Keaf, but the others ignored him and followed Lane.

  They chased Keaf into the woods with hurled stones and clots of mud. One stone hit his back, but he was quick, and he was used to the forest, and he outdistanced the rest. He wound deliberately through thick brush and over fallen logs, and the shouts dwindled behind him. Well after he’d lost the others, he kept running, caught up in being a part of the group, even if it was as the prey. His father would have laughed as his foolishness and warned him not to make a habit of enjoying it. We’re shunned, his father had often said, but gravediggers have dignity.

  Keaf choked back other memories and kept going. Before he knew it, he cleared the far side of the woods and burst onto the cart path where he nearly collided with a small wagon.

  “Whoa, boy,” the driver said as his beast skittered. “Where are you rushing to?”

  “Home,” Keaf stammered, puffing steam in the cold air. He backed away, wondering why a riding-beast was hitched to a cart, and bowed his head. “To the graveyard,” he added. A faint but familiar smell emanated from the wagon, and he glanced sidelong at the straw in the back.

  The man looked at Keaf with open surprise. “A gravedigger?” He turned to the east and made a quick sign with his right hand. “Goddess, you have guided me true.”

  Keaf retreated another step, but the man slid to one side of the buckboard seat and motioned for Keaf to join him. “Would you like a ride, then... your name, boy?”

  “Keaf,” he said, startled. He kept his eyes pointed down at the dirt, mindful of his proper station.

  “Well, Keaf, come along.”

  “I can’t,” Keaf said. “I dig graves.”

  “Too good for Jarmon’s company?” The words didn’t challenge. “I’ll admit that Templars aren’t well received in some circles, but I’ve never been ostracized by a gravedigger.

  Keaf looked up in bewilderment, and the grin that lit Jarmon’s face reminded him of his father. Underneath his heavy overcoat, the fellow was dressed like a lord or noble with chain mail and leather armor. A temple banner decorated his chest, white with rainbow-fringed edges. He didn’t seem to understand the custom of shunning. “No, my Lord Jarmon,” Keaf said, confused. “I’m the outcast one. You can’t let me ride with you.”

  A moment later, Lane and the other young men charged out of the woods. The day was already warming, and their panted breaths dissipated quickly. “There he is,” Evar wheezed. He bent low, gasping for air as he pointed with a stubby hand. As Lane led and the others advanced, Keaf jumped behind the wagon, ready to run again. The smell was worse there, and he spied the edge of brown blanket under the straw.

  When Lane was a few steps away, Jarmon stood and pulled a long bright blade from the sheath at his side. “Do you have business with me?” he asked. His voice was loud and booming deep.

  “Not you,” Lane said. “But that ghoul-lover is going to learn who his betters are.” He pointed with a thick hand, and someone threw a stone. It hit the wagon and disappeared in the straw.

  “And I think my friend Keaf and I will be going.” Jarmon pointed his sword at Lane’s chest.

  Lane stepped back. “You can’t defend him, he’s shunned.” His voice was close to whining. “We need to teach him a lesson.

  “Ten against one,” Jarmon growled. “I think you’d better reconsider.” He twisted the reins of his beast around a notch in the seat and hopped to the ground in one smooth motion. His size hadn’t been apparent until then, but he was a head taller than Lane and broader at the shoulders. “You had better run along home and think about whom you bully.”

  Lane dropped his stone, and all the boys retreated before Jarmon’s glare. “We’ll get you, Keaf,” Lane said. He turned on his heels and led his fellows back toward the woods.

  After they disappeared into the trees, Keaf came around and bowed before Jarmon. “My Lord. I can never repay you.”

  “Well, now,” Jarmon said, “I think you can.” He reached over the side of the wagon and raised the blanket enough to reveal a body. “Even with the cold nights, old Wend is growing foul. I’ve been traveling north these past two days looking for a good omen on where to bury him, and I have found my omen in you.” He let the cover fall and brushed a handful of straw over it.

  Jarmon hiked himself back onto the wagon seat. “Don’t waste more time, boy.” He offered a hand and plucked Keaf off his feet as he pulled him up. “Now where is this graveyard of yours?”

  Keaf pointed down the road. “Not more than ten minutes’ walk, and then take the lane up toward the Ludus Mountains.”

  The riding-beast pulled them along quickly, and Keaf was glad they traveled into the wind. As they reached the trail up to the graveyard, Palmora came into view down the valley. Dormant winter air and too many fireplaces made for a band of gray haze over the jumble of cottages and shacks, but a few larger buildings stood out.

  “A crossroads?” Jarmon asked.

  “A branch of the Eastern Highway comes along the foothills here. It connects a few villages.” Keaf rocked nervously on the seat, unused to being close to people, and especially not someone like Jarmon. At the same time, there was something familiar about the Templar, an air of quiet trustworthiness that continued to remind Keaf of his father. “The graveyard’s just up the way,” he said. “I can run on ahead and start digging.”

  “Easy, boy,” Jarmon said. His huge hand found Keaf’s shoulder and squeezed. “After this long, my friend in the back isn’t in that big a hurry.”

  “Why bring him so far?” Keaf asked. As soon as he said it, he remembered his father’s admonition against questioning people. You won’t like what you learn, his father would say.

  “Wend was a faithful servant,” Jarmon said. “He was born near the mountains, though he never said exactly where, and he requested that he be buried near them when his time came.”

  As they turned up the path, a gust of wind carried the smell of rot, and Jarmon covered his mouth and nose. Even this late in the season, flies buzzed in the straw. The clouds of the past few days had gone, and the sun was at work. “It’s time to lay old Wend to rest,” he said.

  Keaf looked back and wondered. There were plenty of mountains in this part of the country, and one hardly had to travel for two days to reach them. But he held back any more questions.

  They followed the trail up to the base of steep foothills and reached the tree-shaded graveyard. A neat split-rail fence surrounded the cemetery proper. Keaf’s father had worked hard to build it, to give the place a respectable quality, and Keaf maintained it out of that respect. Every grave was neatly squared off by small stones, and an orderly pile of rocks waited to mark the new digs. Keaf had seen many a body laid to rest here, and he’d buried some five souls in the months since his father had died. The ground was a series of names and faces to him, a macabre resume of his family’s works.

  “I have a good spot for him,” he said. “One that looks up toward the peaks.”

  “Fine,” Jarmon said, somber now that his task was nearly ended.

  Keaf hopped down and reached for the body to haul it over to the gravesite. Wend’s left arm was missing below the elbow—oddly, his sleeve was neither pinned up nor cut short—and his chest looked caved in, perhaps f
rom long sickness. He didn’t look old. Keaf had him half upright before Jarmon stopped him.

  “You get to digging,” Jarmon said. “I’ll bring him.”

  Keaf looked at him and frowned. “He’s too many days dead. You don’t want to touch him.”

  Jarmon’s expression agreed, but he insisted. “I’ll do it. Go dig.”

  As Keaf let the body back down he was surprised at the stiffness in the torso. Wend’s head remained straight and facing forward as if it were on a spit. All the strange things about the body added up in Keaf’s head, but he ignored the mysterious total in favor of Jarmon’s story. His father had taught him the importance of trust, and Keaf wanted to trust the Templar.

  It took little time to dig the hole. The frosts of winter hadn’t penetrated very far, and Keaf knew how to break the ground and make it yield. He squared out a hole a meter and four hands deep and extra long for Wend’s height.

  Jarmon sat on the rear of the wagon and watched until Keaf was ready to climb out. “Deeper,” he said. “I want two full meters of good soil on him.”

  Warning words sounded in Keaf’s head. Two meters—twenty hands, as his father said, was the demon’s deep. He scrambled out of the hole and gripped his shovel like a staff. “I won’t bury a devil-held soul in my cemetery.”

  Jarmon’s expression hardened. He stood slowly and drew his sword. “Lad, I will only tell you once. No devil or demon possesses this body. I have sworn on my Templar’s oath to see him buried. He will rest in that hole this day, even if I have to lay you alongside him.”

  Trapped between Templar sword and graveyard demon, Keaf felt the confrontation smoulder. An urge told him to run, but his father’s wisdom held him fast. Trouble was like a weed. The longer you ignored it the bigger it grew. He considered Jarmon’s words and tried to imagine a truth that would fit them. What could be so awful, other than a possessed soul, that it required two meters of earth to bury it?

  Finally, Jarmon lowered his blade. “Please, Keaf. I give you my word as a Templar of the Goddess of Dawn. No evil spirit possesses this body. It’s just a custom in some parts to bury bodies deeper.”

  Keaf let his instinct to trust the Templar win. More than ever, Jarmon reminded him of his father, a big man whose soft-spoken words carried truth and wisdom. He felt the tension inside him drain away, and he let out a long breath. A little more depth wouldn’t take long.

  With the last of the dirt patted into place, Keaf went to select some stones to mark the grave. Other than carrying the body over and laying it carefully into the hole, Jarmon had watched from the wagon seat. Now he stood.

  “No stones, boy. I don’t want the grave marked.”

  “But how will anyone know where it is?”

  Jarmon let out a long sigh and ran a hand through his graying hair. “You’re smart enough to realize that Wend didn’t die under usual circumstances,” he said. “I don’t want to bring his troubles down upon your head. With luck, no one will know he’s here.” Jarmon pulled a small sack from under his tunic and shook it. Metal coins clinked. “How much do you get for a burial?”

  Keaf ran a dirty hand through his hair and used the sweat to wipe away some of the grime. “I get five coppers usually, but this was deeper digging.” He thought of demons again, and his shoulders bunched.

  “Will three gold delvars do?” Jarmon held out the coins, large and shiny in the afternoon sun.

  Keaf’s lips pursed into a reflex whistle, and he nodded. He didn’t know what delvars were, but three of them looked like a king’s treasure. He hurried over and held out his hand.

  “Good,” Jarmon said. He let the coins clink one at a time into Keaf’s palm, then he moved to the front of the wagon and unhitched his mount. “And I’ll throw in this cart if you’ll promise to lay another grave atop that one in the spring.”

  Keaf understood now, and he didn’t argue. Wend, one-armed and stiff as a rod from waist to neck, was no servant, and Jarmon wanted to make sure that he was never discovered. A lord, perhaps, murdered and spirited away by an usurper. Or an enemy of Jarmon’s temple—that would explain the Templar’s presence. “I will,” he said.

  “You’re a good lad,” Jarmon said as he saddled his riding-beast. “Don’t let those bullies push you around. Take them one at a time and show them you’re not afraid, and they’ll respect you after that.”

  Keaf snorted laughter. “Lane will beat me into the ground. He’s done it before.”

  “You’re quicker than he is,” Jarmon said. “Big men tire fast. Stay out of his grasp for a little while, and he’ll fall like any of the others.” He mounted and pulled his beast around toward the path. “Take care, boy.”

  Coming from the Templar, it sounded sensible, like the advice Keaf’s father had always given. Keaf felt a rise in his confidence that lasted until Jarmon was halfway down the road. Then he ran to hide the coins before Lane and the others came around.

  Keaf lay on his cot next to the crude stone hearth and watched orange sparks dance over the fire. Quiet on the outside, inside he fought a battle with his morals. Jarmon had been gone for two days, and still all Keaf could think about was the secret he buried with Wend. In his imagination he saw not devils now, but treasure. Treasure that could mend many wounds.

  The deepest scars in Keaf’s life were not those from mud and stones. Shunning cut wounds that never healed, wounds in the mind and wounds in the heart. He survived as his father had, by growing a tough hide, by callousing over his emotions and his thoughts so that each subsequent injury hurt a little less.

  Was it fair that he had to live alone and away from everyone else? Was it his fault that he’d been left on this particular hut’s doorstep, a baby abandoned? It wasn’t unusual in these parts for unwed mothers to give their children to the shunned folk instead of the wolves, but which was the worse fate?

  More than anything in life, Keaf wanted to be a part of the village, to have companions, to share laughter and raise a mug. And he wanted a wife. His thoughts turned to the blacksmith’s daughter, Toya, with her long yellow braids and slender body. If he could have her, all the world would be perfect. If he could have her? Hah—if he were rich and powerful, perhaps. If he had Wend’s treasure.

  Keaf had believed Jarmon’s story, not so much in the facts, but in the message behind it. Wend carried some important secret to his grave, a secret that the Templar had thought it vital to hide. But was that fair to Keaf, to put the burden on him without the reward?

  The waxing moon rose above the eastern hills, and a shaft of light cut across Keaf’s straw bed. Sleep was as far away as the moon, and he rolled to his feet, pulling his tattered wool blanket around his shoulders. Outside, the night was quiet with winter chill. Wood smoke hung in the air, mingling with the scent of fresh dirt. Down in the village, families snuggled together with friendship, closeness, love. All things that Keaf had barely tasted.

  His eyes strayed across the cemetery to the fresh grave. The frost would be working deep into the loose soil by now, and the worms would have found Wend to be a ready feast. And Wend’s treasure would serve no one. Keaf grabbed his shovel.

  Wend’s body had collapsed under the pressure of the dirt, and his left side oozed with the stench of rotting innards. Keaf cleared away the worst of it, rising frequently to gasp cold clear air. The longer it took, the more his determination wavered. Jarmon had trusted him. Whatever secrets this body held, they were meant to remain here. But what good was treasure to a dead man, and what harm would a little prosperity do to a gravedigger?

  Keaf straddled Wend and began to search. He found nothing in the ruined clothing, not even the usual bits and scraps of a servant man, until he felt along the body and discovered the gash in the left side. Something hard protruded, a knob of metal, a dagger, perhaps. Was that how Wend had died? He sucked a deep breath and tore open the shirt.

  The odor of death reached out. Worms crawled in Wend’s ruined flesh, and maggots thrived in festering lumps despite the days underground.
Keaf stood, his stomach sick, and waited for the revulsion to pass. After the cold air cleared his head, he went for the metal knob. As he pulled, Wend’s body twisted, and a meter’s length of slime-covered blade slid free. From down in the village, a brief roar rose up, as though everyone were cheering for some champion.

  On impulse, Keaf held up the blade, and his head reeled with a strange feeling of triumph, like a warrior at the end of a great battle, or a traveler completing a long journey. The beauty of the sword captivated him despite the filth that masked it. It was the finest metal he’d ever seen, and its edge split the moonlight like a silken thread. As he studied the small banner emblazoned on the hilt, something moved at his feet.

  Wend’s remaining hand moved slowly up in a death salute. Keaf slammed back against the dirt side of the deep pit. “Demon!” he screamed. He scrambled out of the hole with the sword and stumbled over his shovel. As he fell to his knees, his heart tried to pound its way out of his chest. “Gods forgive me, I’ve loosed a demon!”

  Dry maple leaves swirled around him, and the owls up the canyon hooted frantic calls into the night. The earth between Keaf’s hands heaved and puffed a wisp of smoke. A sulphurous odor betrayed the doom that stalked him. Creatures of darkness and death would take him to their deepest hell and torture him for eternity.

  A scaly arm burst from the crack in the ground. Keaf pitched to the side before it clutched him, and a body emerged, a thing more hideous than Keaf’s imagination could ever invent. It was the yellow of a dead man’s eyes, a deranged human shape with bent limbs and bloated belly. Sulphur stench enveloped it, and a constant moan quivered within its breast.

  Keaf couldn’t breathe to cry out his terror, nor could he find the strength to flee. His bladder emptied, and tears leaked from his eyes. Jarmon had warned him, but he had not listened. His father had raised him to respect the wishes of others and to live by his word, but he’d done neither of those tonight. He would die a fool’s death with the taste of guilt on his tongue.