Myrding

A Shallow Grave

“It was right here!”

Of course. Why else have a giant, ancient graveyard?

The pale autumn sun was setting behind the tops of the dark pines, sending ghostly, golden fingers through the wisps of mist rising from the moss underfoot. Tekla had led our small party out through the kitchen entrance of the mansion and by back roads and goat tracks out of Falkreath Town into the fabled graveyard. Older than the town itself, Falkreath’s graveyard grew like an angry rash across the heart of the Hold in the wake of the many battles that have been fought over the hotly contested territory throughout history. It is the final resting place of many great and famous heroes from both Skyrim and the neighboring Cyrodiil. And at least one murdered infant.

We stood just inside the graveyard’s crumbling stone wall, by a patch of pale violet nightshade blooms shaded by the drooping boughs of an old birch-tree and showered with a wealth of gold coins from its autumnal disrobing. The colors were bright in the last rays of dying sunlight. It was a beautiful spot for a gravesite, unmarked as it was.

Or it would have been, had there been a grave there.

Instead, we were looking down into a pit torn into the earth, upturning the nightshade plants and exposing their spindly roots to the chill, misty air, like skeletal fingers clawing their way out of the disturbed soil. Through the overlay of scattered leaves I could see black spatters in the dirt.

“Been a few weeks, at least,” I said, looking at the leaves at the bottom of the pit and the progression of decay in the disturbed vegetation. “When was the child born?”

“Around that time.” Tekla’s voice trembled. “I buried him here, in hallowed earth, I swear!”

“I know,” I nodded in an attempt to assuage her fear of being blamed. “The scent of the blood is similar to Filla’s.” The girl didn’t look calmed; if anything, she looked about to vomit.

“Who could have done this?” Thadgeir demanded tersely. “A wolf or fox?”

I shook my head and crouched by the hole. I gestured at the deep scores in the earth.

“The paw that made these had four digits, one opposable and three primary,” I said. “Almost like a human hand in shape and size – except each finger has a curved talon, approximately five inches long.” I stood up. “The marks don’t show the vestigial fifth finger, which atrophies into a small stump during the transformation ritual. This was done by the hagraven I killed last night.”

Dusk fell upon us and shrouded us in gloom. Berit offered Tekla his heavy fur against the sudden bite in the air.

“At least justice was done upon the filth,” Thadgeir growled with some satisfaction. “But it pains me that she feasted on the flesh of my kin.”

“Hm.” I looked around. Ancient, weathered gravestones poked out of the mossy earth like broken teeth. Many of the names were similar. “Hagravens don’t eat carrion,” I pointed out. “They are intelligent and use fire. They butcher and cook their food. Crudely perhaps, but they don’t dig up rotting corpses and devour them raw.” I looked at the girl. She recoiled from my gaze, glinting in the gloaming. “You say the child was strangled. Why is there blood on the ground?” I looked through the supply of potions in my satchel. Shit. “The blood is what the hag was after.”

Thadgeir was struggling to keep up. “The child’s blood? Why?”

“Blood has many uses, for many kinds of creatures,” I said. “Sometimes, very specific types of blood are required. When did the hag start plundering graves? Around the same time that Filla’s child was born?”

Thadgeir nodded slowly. “About three weeks ago, yes,” he said thoughtfully. “But my nephew only agreed to post your bounty once his own father, Holgeir, was dug up. He saw it as a personal affront…”

I began to walk quickly back towards town. It would have to be tonight. “Is there an alchemist in town?” I asked over my shoulder. “I need to prepare a potion for the ritual.”