When Knobbe came to at Angela’s crypt, he was terrified: The punishment for stealing the property of a corpse was death; surely the punishment for stealing the property of a countess must be four deaths, maybe ten. Knobbe raced home and retrieved his bounty box, then hid in a rocky nook near the top of the cliff path by his cave.
Now it was nearly dawn. The grave robber ached in places he never knew existed. His body was pinched from the tiny hidey-hole, his joints throbbed from the damp cold of the rock, and his bowels were looser than the time he ate the dead bat from the village bell tower. Worst of all was the throbbing bump on the back of his head.
Had his boy really whacked him with a shovel, stolen his gear, and left him in his underrags? It was too cruel. Knobbe cradled his bounty box. “It’s you and me,” he said tenderly. “You’s all I got left.”
He looked to the sea. There was enough light to follow the roll of the waves and the murder of crows circling above. He decided to poke his head over the cliff top and look for intruders prowling the barrens.
Knobbe placed the wooden chest at the back of the nook and gave it a pat. “Never fear, my darling, I shall return.” He hobbled onto the path and climbed up till he was level with the weeds at the summit. He peered between them. Peering back was a dirty twig of a thing, hair dancing with lice.
“What do you want, Weevil?”
The Weevil pointed over his shoulder to the grave robber’s cave. Arnulf, the Necromancer, and a dozen soldiers were inspecting the entrance.
“I’m not here. You haven’t seen me,” Knobbe whispered.
The Weevil grinned, leaped to his feet, and waved both arms. “Over here.”
“Shut up,” Knobbe hissed.
“Over here,” the Weevil hollered again. “I’s found him. I’s found him.”
Knobbe spun around to escape down the cliff. Eight Weevils blocked his way, each with a reed spear. In his youth, Knobbe could’ve swung an arm and sent the pack flying. Now such a lurch would tumble him to his death.
“We see’d you at the crypt,” the biggest Weevil snarled. “We followed you in the dark.”
“Out of my way.”
“Or what, old man?” The Weevil jabbed him with his spear.
Knobbe took a step back. “Please. Let me pass.”
“Not so brave now, is you, old man? Not so fierce without your apprentice.” The Weevil jabbed him again.
Knobbe fell to the path. The gang laughed. He clawed his way backward. “What have I ever done to you?”
“It’s not what you’s done. It’s what you’ll fetch us,” snapped a Weevil with broken teeth. “Our master’ll bless us. He’ll feed us treats.”
The Weevils swarmed, poking and prodding the grave robber to the summit. There they pinned him, while the Necromancer, Arnulf, and the soldiers gathered round.
“Well done, my pets,” the Necromancer purred. He withdrew a dirty wad of toffee from his shroud and popped the goo into their mouths.
“You are Knobbe the Bent, grave robber of County Schwanenberg?” Arnulf demanded.
“I never robbed a grave in my life,” Knobbe protested. “You want that boy of mine—he robbed every grave he could find.”
“Come now,” the Necromancer said, “we’ve long been neighbors. I know your hobby.”
“I’m but a victim of lies,” Knobbe cried. “Search my cave. You’ll find no shovel nor bounty box.”
Arnulf pressed his foot on Knobbe’s throat. “Where is the Little Countess?”
“Dead in her crypt,” Knobbe gurgled. “Ask the town. She died and was buried, poor thing.”
“Excellency,” the Necromancer intervened, “perhaps I can tickle his memory.”
Arnulf stepped back. The Necromancer let forth a series of short, sharp caws. The circling crows landed around Knobbe’s head. The Necromancer knelt beside him. “Listen well, old friend: My birdies prefer dead meat, but who can resist a fresh pair of eyeballs?”
“Please, no,” Knobbe begged.
“Then tell us the truth: Where is the Little Countess?”
“I don’t know. Truly.”
A crow nipped his forehead.
Knobbe screamed. “The boy broke into her crypt. She was alive and ran for it. I told him to whack her, but he did me instead.”
“Where are they?”
“Run off together, I expect.”
The Necromancer faced Arnulf and swept his arm to the south. “That way lies the sea and drowning. To the east, bogs and quicksand. To the west, the road we took here. Therefore, our prey must be hidden in the village or fleeing north.”
“How shall we catch them?”
“While you take your ease at Castle Schwanenberg, have your soldiers deposit my Weevils in town and along the road,” the Necromancer said. “They’ll hide under washtubs, and in coal bins, sludge pits, and stairwells. By dusk, they’ll know every spot our little friends have stopped for refuge. Then I’ll scoop them up and gut them for my spell pot.”
Arnulf wiggled his iron digits. “Save me their pelts. I’ll have hers for a pillowcase and his for a footstool.”
Two Weevils yelped up the cliff path with Knobbe’s bounty box. “Look what we’s found!”
Arnulf went bone-white. He grabbed the chest in horror and stared at the inlaid teak. “Impossible.” He dropped to the ground and threw open the lid. There before him was a carved crest of an eagle’s head with lightning bolts, unicorns, and the sun. Arnulf trembled. “Her country’s crest! It’s hers indeed.” He grabbed hold of Knobbe. “Where did this come from?”
“The sea,” Knobbe quaked. “It swept in from the sea.”
“When?”
“Twelve, thirteen years ago.”
“What was in it?” Arnulf demanded.
“A baby. A little baby.”
“Describe it.”
“How?” Knobbe babbled. “It were a baby. It cried. It stank.”
Arnulf shook him hard. “What marks upon its body?”
“None,” Knobbe squealed, “save a spot upon its shoulder.”
“What spot? Which shoulder?”
“The right,” Knobbe blurted. “A birthmark shaped like an eagle.”
Arnulf dropped the grave robber. He rose to his feet and staggered in circles. “They told me the child was dead,” he raved. “They told me they killed him with his father.” He whirled back to Knobbe. “What became of the boy?”
“Why, he’s the lad I raised,” Knobbe said. “The wretch who freed the Little Countess from the crypt.”
“Aaa!” Arnulf shrieked to the heavens. “A thousand ducats for the skin of the grave robber’s apprentice! And two thousand ducats for his head!”