The Valley Of The Dwarfs - 3. Chapter 3

The farmer’s chalet was typical for that region of the Hinterlands. The main entry was uphill, behind the house. While out front, or what some might consider to be the front because it faced downhill toward the village, there was a large door to admit the farmer’s animals, which in winter provided warmth to the house above, albeit a rather odorous warmth. But if you’re a farmer, a home redolent of animal excrement is nothing compared to a diet of animal feet, ears, tongues, hearts, livers, kidneys, brains, intestines stuffed with all sorts of leftover meats and vegetables, and jellies made from rendered icky-bits like noses, eyes, gums, and hooves.

“It almost makes you want to keep it and build next door,” Paolo said admiring the chalet as he and Carlo approached from their camp further down the valley. “Being from Rome, I’ve always imagined how idyllic it would be to live on a farm and raise my own food. It’s so, what’s the word, oh, yes, pastoral. Yes, this is definitely pastoral. Isn’t it Carlo? Shame Albrecht wants to turn it all into a schussing resort.”

“Money, that’s all Albrecht thinks about,” Carlo said. “Where can he make a gold piece and who can help him with the least amount of expense. With Gunther helping him, I’m sure they have it all figured out down to the last copper. How many shares are you in for?”

“You know that’s supposed to be a secret,” Paolo said stopping and turning toward Carlo. “When he and Gunther came to me, I remembered him specifically saying, ‘Don’t let any of the others know how many shares you bought, it’ll only cause dissension among the ranks.’ ”

“Yeah, he said the same to me,” Carlo said. “So, let’s see, we’ve been lovers for how many years, now? How many secrets are lovers permitted to keep from each other? Tell you what, I’ll write mine down in the dirt a few paces back and you write yours a few paces ahead. Then we can meet back here and decide if we want to test our love for each other. Sound like a deal?”

“I don’t know,” Paolo said avoiding Carlo’s eyes. “You know, my father’s fairly rich so my share might be larger than yours.”

“Are your shares your own or are they your father’s?” Carlo asked stepping closer to Paolo. “If I remember correctly, your father has fairly tight purse strings. I can’t imagine him letting you have those shares outright. Who can’t go home if this all turns into one big fiasco?”

“Okay, okay, you know me too well,” Paolo said. “Five, five shares; there, are you happy now?”

“As a matter of fact I am because my father put in five shares, also,” Carlo said. “You didn’t think I was rich by any means? I was hoping this thing was going to work so I could get my own inn. The way Albrecht and, well, Gunther to some extent, presented this scheme, it sounded too good to be true.”

“You got that right,” Paolo said. “Say, how about slipping over to that little grove of apple trees and checking out the turf around here?”

“Is that all you think about?” Carlo asked and then looked straight into his lover’s eyes. “Yes, I guess, that is all you think about, but no, we need to go talk to the farmer and report back to Albrecht. It’s Albrecht who is expecting us, not the farmer.”

“Okay, okay, we’ll talk to the farmer,” Paolo said with resignation.

Pierre was rugged, muscular, with a big black mustache, bright blue eyes, a Roman nose, and the smile of a Franc harlot, but he was sad, very, very sad. His wife of sixteen years, his fifteen-year-old daughter, thirteen-year-old son, and five-year-old daughter were dead from some strange plague brought into the valley by merchants with their team of asses. Many people in the valley died, but the farmer on the east side of the valley was the saddest of all. He had an eight-year-old son and a ten-year-old daughter, too young to be of much use with big animals, tall apple trees, and acres of grass to be scythed and raked.

He might have been a very sad farmer, but he was shrewd, too. He recognized the significance of an offer of five pieces of gold for a farm that was worth no more than three. He, also, had to think of his remaining children and what it was going to cost him to move back to the village where his wife’s parents lived.

“Fourteen pieces of gold and that’s my final offer,” Pierre said. He took a swallow of wine and stared at the two men.

Paolo blinked, but the innkeeper’s son, Carlo, stared right back, as he was a Southern Hinterlandian and knew the art of negotiation in these parts. He knew Pierre’s true final offer was somewhere between five and fourteen. Pierre hoped it would be closer to fourteen, Carlo was looking for something closer to five, and neither of them was going to accept nine. Pierre, also, knew the outsiders had a plan for the farm that didn’t include cows, pigs, chickens, dogs, cats, apples, or hay. Whatever it was, it was worth gold to them. Luckily for them, Pierre was looking for gold, a lot more gold than five pieces.

“Do we have a deal?” Pierre asked with a smile.

“Ten,” Carlo said.

“No, eleven,” Paolo said.

“Eleven?” Carlo asked turning to Paolo.

“Well, you put in an extra three and I put in an extra three,” Paolo said with a conspiratorial smile. “What Albrecht doesn’t know can’t hurt us. You could use eleven pieces of gold, right?”

“Oh, yes, you’re very generous,” Pierre said.

“You’re not to say anything to any of our other compatriots or any of the townsmen, okay?” Carlo said.

“Sure, your secret is my secret,” Pierre said.

“When can you leave?” Paolo asked. “Not that we’re trying to force you, or anything like that.”

“Well, I’ll have to say my goodbyes, in the village, you know,” Pierre said.

“Please, don’t tell anyone you got more than five pieces of gold for your farm,” Carlo said, again, with worry.

“No, no, I understand,” Pierre said. “Who is this Albrecht, anyway?”

“A bully, from the north,” Carlo said.

“The big one, with the Moorish eunuch, yes, he’s the talk of the village,” Pierre said. “Has the boy been baptized?”

“No, I don’t think so,” Paolo said. “No, I can’t imagine why he’d want to. Why do you ask?”

“The priest was mentioning Moors in last week’s message,” Pierre said. “He used the term Moor in a sentence that included the phrase ‘burned at the stake,’ if you know what I mean.”

“Stickler for the rules is he?” Paolo asked.

“And a true celibate, a true celibate,” Pierre said. “In case any of your party was thinking of priestly habits concerning alternatives to vows of celibacy. This one lined up the altar boys the first day, bent them over, whacked them with a switch a couple times, and then laid down the laws and it wasn’t in Latin, either. I tell you what; I’ll be out a week from today.”

“Well, here are your five and three more,” Paolo said counting out the gold pieces in his purse.

“And, three from me,” Carlo said handing over his share.

“Can I ask what you’re going to do with my farm?” Pierre asked with a tone of concern. “The only reason I ask is that I’m actually leasing the land from dwarfs. This whole valley belongs to dwarfs and, well, you know, the other beings, too. If you’re going to do any alterations to the purpose stated in the lease, you’ll need to check with them. Just a warning, you know. Oh, yes, let me get you the lease.”

Pierre walked out of the room, leaving Paolo and Carlo staring at each other with disbelief. Paolo didn’t actually know what Pierre had said, while Carlo knew everything, again. This was a protected valley. The Schneeman was the Great Snowy Mountain! How could he have been fooled so easily? Albrecht was stupid to think he could do anything here without the dwarfs’ authorization, especially considering how dwarfs felt about tourists. Or, had Albrecht already made arrangements? Time would tell.

* * * * * * *

How does one seduce a priest?

Gunther thought about that as he walked toward the village. What if the priest belonged to one of those orders that actually followed all of the rules to the point of practically not even having a good wank out in the privy or in those quiet moments when you were alone, all alone in your cell and you thought about how cute Brother Malachia was when he smiled and how much you’d like to sin with him, if only once. What if this new village priest was like that?

He’d have to talk around the village about him, first. Of course, not come right out and ask someone, especially some boy who might be an altar boy, whether the priest liked to have someone kneeling under his cassock or bent over the altar rail with his bare behind offered to the priest. You couldn’t come right out and ask that sort of thing. You had to talk around the subject, test the waters. Let the other person volunteer the answer.

If it was a good answer, the right answer, then all Gunther had to do was find out if the priest was one of those strange ones who only liked little boys or if he was amiable to anyone, as long as it was a male, kneeling under the cassock or being bent over the altar rail. There was the odd chance, that the priest was one of those who actually preferred women. There were those in the church, a few, a very small minority, but they were there.

Unfortunately, with the last plague, there weren’t a lot of young boys around and very few of those were of the correct age. He was going to have to be very careful about this, very careful indeed. The last thing he needed was to have some boy misconstrue his intent and end up with an angry village demanding something be done with a man who wanted to mess around with one of their sons, an angry priest who just might not appreciate someone invading his territory, and an even angrier Albrecht who just might willingly offer him up to those intent on having a little community barbecue party.

And, then, Gunther saw his prey. The boy wasn’t too young and not too old either, but old enough to know a thing or two about what a lonely priest might need in an isolated village in the Hinterland. Gunther walked up to the pine tree under which the boy was sitting.

“Hi, there, how’re you doing today?” Gunther asked.

“Not worth a shit,” the boy said.

“That’s a shame,” Gunther said sitting down, not too close to the boy. “What are you, about sixteen?”

“I wish,” the boy said. “If I was sixteen, I could get out of here. Maybe join up with a trading caravan and see where life took me. That’d be neat. You know that? Yeah, that’d be neat, but I’m only fourteen and, well, you’re one of the newcomers, aren’t you?”

“Yes, is there something wrong?” Gunther asked, considering the tone of the boy’s voice.

“There’s been talk, around about, you know, talk,” the boy said. “When the old priest was here, well, I knew about things like that, you know, the talk around the village. Not that I was like that, you know? You have a Moor. It’s been said he’s a eunuch. What’s that? Do you know? No one in the village will say. They say I’m too young for such things.”

“A eunuch has been castrated, usually for a purpose,” Gunther said. “My name is Gunther.”

“Dieter, nice to meet you,” the boy said, offering his hand. His grip was firm, which made Gunther smile. “Wow, gelded him, huh? Wow, that’s wicked. Why would anyone do that? Is it because he’s a Moor?”

“No, I suspect it’s for a completely different reason,” Gunther said.

“He’d stay a boy forever, right?” Dieter asked.

“Yes, forever,” Gunther said thinking of the previous night, when he was buried deep in Omar’s ass. “Yes, in many ways, forever. So, now that we’ve gotten the preliminaries out of the way, what’s your problem, Dieter?”

“I’m an orphan, you know, from when the plague was here,” Dieter said. “Mam and Pap, Olga, Mabel, Ann, Peter, they’re all dead and I had to live with the priest. He took me in because he said it was good Christian charity, but, you know, he’s not like the old priest. He beats me with a stick. Says I’m a heathen and the only way to fix that is to beat the word of God into me. You should see the bruises. The Burger caught him beating me yesterday and said that I don’t have to live at the church anymore. The next caravan comes here they’re sending a letter to the bishop to get a new priest, even if it’s one who likes boys. I guess I’m not the only boy who’s been frequently beaten with the priest’s stick, other than that first time when we all got it. That guy is just weird.”

“So, why the glum mood?” Gunther asked.

“I have to live with a farm family further up the valley,” Dieter said. He stood up, pointed toward a large rock projecting from the side of the mountain. “It’s nearly a full league further up, practically at the foot of the Schneemann. I’ll hardly ever get the chance to come back down here. I just want to get out of here. And, well, the main adit is up there, too. They had a boy my age up there; he died in the plague, too. Once when I was up there on an errand he told me about them coming out, now and then, but not being from around here, you probably haven’t met them, yet.”

“Them, who?” Gunther asked. And, what was an adit? He’d heard the word before, but in what context? Was this valley actually further into the Hinterland than Albrecht said? Was it them the boy was talking about?

“Sorry, I can’t say, you know,” Dieter said. “I probably said too much already, but don’t worry, I’m sure someone will let you know. But, that isn’t my problem, it’s yours. I’ve been having dreams, you know? And, well, once when I was on the other side of the valley delivering a message for the priest, I ran into a, well, I know I shouldn’t say this, considering you’re not from around here.”

“Yes, okay, I’m not from around here, what confronted you?” Gunther asked. There was something in his mind, way back in his childhood memories, and it was yelling at him, practically screaming, but he couldn’t quite understand the words.

“A werewolf, you know, they’re up there in forests all around us,” Dieter whispered. “She said she knew who I was and asked if I wanted to be with Mam and Pap, again. She said she could arrange it, but I knew what she was saying and I didn’t want to, not then. But, I’m still having those dreams, you know, it’s just like they’re calling me to be with them, Mam and Pap and them. Do you understand?”

“You can’t do that,” Gunther said. “It’s a sin. You’ll suffer eternal damnation and torment. You’ll never see them. Dieter, how about if I walk with you up to the farm? I could talk to the family. Maybe, it’ll help them understand how you’re feeling.”

“Sure, I guess,” Dieter said. He pulled a small sharp knife—similar to one used for filleting—out of the knapsack he was carrying. “Here, I suppose I don’t need this now.”

* * * * * * *

After Paolo, Carlo, and Gunther left camp, Albrecht opened the money chest and after reviewing Gunther’s latest tally, he counted the coins. They were short by three gold pieces, two silvers, and eleven coppers. The problem was no one other that he had access to the chest. He had the only key to the lock and it hung around his neck on a short chain. Plus, he was a very light sleeper, or, at least, he was fairly certain he was a light sleeper. He hoped he was a light sleeper because if he wasn’t, then everyone else in the camp was suspect of thievery.

There was another reason, the original reason for counting the money. This whole enterprise was costing him a lot more than he planned, a lot more than he’d sold stock to cover initial expenses. He and the other four graduates were basically in it until money started rolling in, but the men-at-arms, cook, the two drovers and their herd of Equus, and the two wenches, who were becoming quite adept at talents other than lying on their backs with their legs spread in the air had to be paid. He had plans for the wenches in the future, but right now they were costing him money.

Of all the people in camp, Omar wasn’t much of an expense as he ate little and worked his little butt off helping the cook. If need be, he was the easiest to be disposed of; a little walk in the woods followed by a little slit on the side of his neck and Omar became carrion. Yes, if Omar got to be a problem moneywise, a little walk in the woods was his future; and, maybe, just maybe, he’d break the boy’s neck, just for the practice. Was Omar the thief? No, Omar had little use for money. Since he couldn’t speak, how could he go anywhere?

Now, Ernesto was another story entirely, but was he capable of stealing from the money chest? No, there wasn’t a time when he’d been asleep with Ernesto. No, he needed to be awake with Ernesto because you just couldn’t apply enough pain while asleep.

Plus, there was a solution to having Ernesto in the camp even though he was an initial investor. Those flyers and posters were going to need someone to distribute them and Ernesto just might be the one to send on that little endeavor. Give him a couple men-at-arms, one of the drovers and some of the stock, and Ernesto would be gone for a long, long time. Maybe he could ensure one of the men-at-arms had a special dagger, a poison tipped dagger that might fit very nicely into some fleshy part of Ernesto. Of course, maybe he could convince one of the men-at-arms to apply a little too much pressure to Ernesto’s neck during one of the freak’s orgasmic needs, just a little too much, just a little, but enough to create that crunching and popping sound as vertebrae separated.

To hell with this contemplation of who might be stealing from the coffer, Albrecht said to himself. What he needed was a little action. That’s what he really wanted and action meant killing someone. It didn’t matter who, as long as he was the one throttling the other. He thought of using his dirk, but that’d mean not being able to hold onto the other person while he, or she, died; unless, of course, he snuck up behind the victim and stabbed him, or her, in the back at that special place he’d learned in anatomy. Funny class, that. You couldn’t take it unless you provided a body for your day of dissecting. That was when Albrecht learned the pleasure of sending some poor soul on to his reward, as it was still considered sinful to dissect a woman.

Yes, that’s what he needed right now to get his mind off the money problem, but who?

Who indeed?

Well, it couldn’t be Ernesto, who was busy with the flyers and posters, or Gunther who’d gone off to seduce the priest. What about Carlo or even Paolo? They weren’t even aware he knew about them. Frankly, Carlo, Paolo, or Omar were his most likely victims, unless he found someone local. Now, that was an idea. Someone local just might be the correct choice, as it would require all of his skills as a tracker and assassin. Yes! That’s what was needed to take his mind of this money problems.