Fearless by Cornelia Funke Page B

helplessly at the tiny thing.
    ‘What?’ Valiant barked at him. ‘Look at me! I know to you all Dwarfs look alike, but you should at least try to remember my face. I’m the owner of this mine.’
    The Giantling suppressed a yawn and adjusted his helmet. Then he pushed the tiny envelope into his uniform and stepped aside.
    His huge body revealed a door, framed by a frieze of skulls. The slits above the noses clearly identified them all as the skulls of Witches.
    Guismond the Witch Slayer. Chanute had once told his story to Jacob in some filthy tavern. He’d been so drunk, he’d barely managed to pronounce the name. ‘Guismond, yes, there’s no man ever knew more about witchcraft. You know what they called him?’ Jacob thought he could hear his own voice answer, the high voice of a boy: ‘The Witch Slayer.’ That name resonated with everything that had made him follow the old treasure hunter in the first place: danger, mystery, the promise of enchanted treasure to gild his life. His life, which on the other side of the mirror had tasted only of boredom and yearning.
    Already Chanute didn’t have to explain to Jacob how Guismond had earned his byname. No human on either side of the mirror was ever born with magical powers, but in this world there was a way to acquire them. It was a sinister way, and Guismond had not been the first one to follow it: one had to drink the blood of a Witch when it was still warm. ‘How many Witches did he kill?’ Chanute had refilled his glass with the acrid liquor that had cost him one arm and almost his mind. ‘How would I know? Hundreds, thousands. Nobody counted them. He’s supposed to have drunk a cup of blood every week.’
    Jacob examined what was left of the crest on the gold-plated door: a crowned wolf, a cup of blood, and there was the crossbow . . .
    Behind them, the Giantling was leaning against the wall.
    Fox eyed him pensively. ‘Your guard’s suspiciously sleepy,’ she said to Valiant.
    ‘Elven dust,’ the Dwarf replied. ‘These big idiots always have some in their pockets. Can’t get them off that stuff.’
    Jacob listened, but all he could hear was the Giantling’s heavy breathing. Elven dust? Maybe. He pulled a pair of gloves from his bag. Fox had given them to him after a tomb’s protective spell had nearly cost him his fingers. Like all shape-shifters, she was immune to such spells.
    Valiant looked uneasily at Jacob. ‘Why the gloves?’
    ‘You don’t need them, as long as you don’t touch anything. Are you sure you want to come with us?’
    ‘Sure.’ The Dwarf didn’t sound too convinced, but there was serious loot to be had, and that outweighed even his fear of a dead Warlock.
    Jacob exchanged a quick glance with Fox, then he put his hand against the crowned wolf. It didn’t take much force to open the door. He could feel that others had already done it before him.
    The scent wafting towards them was barely noticeable. Tomb-cloves were a simple method to protect the dead from the greed of the living. Their poisonous pollen could survive over centuries. Jacob held Valiant back. Fox took a pouch from her belt. The seeds she offered were barely bigger than the pips of an apple.
    ‘Eat!’ she told Valiant, who eyed her suspiciously. ‘Unless you want to look like a mouldy loaf of bread after a few steps.’
    ‘Watch your step!’ Jacob whispered. ‘Don’t touch anything and keep your mouth shut, especially if something asks you a question.’
    ‘A question? Something?’ Valiant popped the seeds into his mouth. His wide eyes stared into the dark tunnel in front of them.
    The walls were lined with burial niches. Fox grabbed the Dwarf just before he stumbled into one of the mummified corpses.
    ‘Why do you think they were buried here?’ she hissed at him while Jacob pushed the mummy back into its niche. ‘This is the tomb of a Warlock. I’m sure they are easily woken.’
    The man they found a few steps in had been dead only a few days. The