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.