“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 from 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.