The Grave Digger

The Grave Digger, Part One

 Two men circled each other cautiously, both sweating despite the chill. It was a gorgeous day in early November, and the smell of death was in the air. Each man was armed with a short dagger, glinting softly in the midday sun. They were surrounded by a silent crowd, creating the tight circle that enclosed them, cutting off any escape. It was a strange sight, two sweaty men, surrounded by a deathly silent mob, in the middle of a burning village. The only sounds that could be heard were that of a light breeze whistling through the rooftops, the distant crackle of a flame, and the soft crunch of the combatants boots on gravel as they stepped lightly, gingerly, each daring the other to make the first move. The first man did so, stepping forward and thrusting forward sharply in a single, fluid motion. The second man stepped back quickly, narrowly dodging the oncoming blade and slashing down with his own. He caught his adversary on the forearm, causing a small trickle of blood to issue forth. The first man grimaced, raising his arm to survey the damage. It was a fatal mistake. The second man, seeing his opportunity, aimed a sweeping horizontal slash at his opponent's throat. The first man attempted block the blow, raising his uninjured arm in a defensive posture.

The blade sunk deep into his forearm and stuck, causing him to cry out in pain. He jerked his arm back violently, causing his opponent to lose hold of his knife. His attacker, unwilling to lose both his weapon and his advantage, tackled him to the ground, grappling for his weapon. The first man struggled valiantly, but was unable to unseat his larger opponent, who, with energy born out of desperation, had managed to wrestle the blade away. He stabbed downward savagely, once, twice, thrice, into his adversary's exposed chest and neck, a pool of blood slowly forming beneath them. The victor slid off of the dead man and collapsed, wailing sorrowfully. The ring of villagers joined him, their voices rising as one in a cry of anguish.

A man, wrapped in a brilliant blue cloak that spoke of nobility, surveyed the scene below him. He was astride a black stallion and surrounded by a host of armed men. As soon as the first drops blood had been spilled they had raised a raucous cheer. They now jeered the mourners, laughing and mockingly imitating their cries of pain. The horseman chuckled to himself, greatly amused by suffering he had wrought. It had been a stroke of genius, forcing two of the helpless village folk to fight to the death. The threat of immediate death for their entire village had been motivation enough to turn the two men against each other, brothers, if he remembered correctly. He could have massacred the whole village, if he had felt so inclined, but as he listened to their pitiful cries, he knew he had made the right decision. Wholesale, senseless massacre would have been quite the waste of such exquisite suffering. They would most likely perish anyway. He had pillaged the majority of their food stores, and burned the rest. They would starve, desperately rationing out crumbs, dropping one by one, until finally the survivors wished for a quick death. Once spring came, he would return and grant them their wish.

He laughed again, turning away from the wailing crowds towards his waiting men. He signaled to them, and as one, they filed out of the village, leaving the smoldering remains behind them. The nobleman took one last looked at the grieving crowd, and then turned towards the mountains ahead. He had heard there was another village somewhere along the main road. He smiled sadistically at the thought. New people meant new games, and he rather enjoyed the games he played.

A snowstorm was brewing. The young man could smell it, could feel it in his bones. Angry clouds brimming with snow crept over the jagged mountains, forecasting the long, bitter winter that lay ahead. It was unusually dark for midday. The brooding clouds, aided by a thick mist rising from unseen hot springs, had obscured the sun.

The slopes stood mostly bare, as little grew so high up among the barren peaks. What little greenery was left consisted mostly of moss and lichen, with patches of Gelifolia, or greencollar dotting the landscape. Greencollar was a hardy shrub, with vibrant green rings running across small spade shaped leaves. It was valued highly by herbalists and healers across the continent for its strong alchemical properties.