Dark Waters of Hagwood

by Robin Jarvis

  Leaving the stallion behind, she lifted the hem of her silken gown and picked her way through the tangled undergrowth.

  All was quiet; the wooded rise was deserted. Only the boldest birds frequented that unwholesome place, but that morning they were nowhere to be seen.

  The High Lady glanced up at the forsaken treetops, then looked around her uncomfortably. The very air seemed to quiver with menace as if the indwelling spirits of the cliff resented her trespass.

  In the distance she saw the seven pines rearing into the clear spring sky. That lofty crag was where she was headed, but as she pressed on she thought she heard voices whispering in the dark green spaces behind the leaves and brambles around her.

  She could not catch what they were saying, but the ill will was plain enough. Yet ghostly shadows held no terror for her. Rhiannon Rigantona did not flinch from any enemy, be it real or unreal.

  “Save your hisses,” she announced haughtily. “I am Queen of the Hollow Hill, daughter of Raggalach the High King, and no nameless specter or woebegotten sprite of tree or stone can affright me. Go nibble on the memories of your old villainy, and bleat your grievances elsewhere. There is but one to whom I would speak this day.”

  The whispers ceased, but as she continued toward the peak, the Lady Rhiannon was aware that many shadow shapes were following.

  Beneath her feet, the ground became bare earth. Then immense blocks of weather-worn rock replaced the barren soil, and soon that was covered in a carpet of pine needles and fir cones.

  The soaring trunks of the pines towered before her, and she stepped into their gloomy shadow to stand upon the highest point of her realm.

  Close by, the rocks ended abruptly and formed the sheer, perilous cliff of the Witch’s Leap. She could hardly hear the sound of the waterfall far below. The whole of Hagwood could be viewed from here. It was an undulating sea of treetops, broken occasionally by hills and the glimmering thread of the Hagburn.

  But she had not journeyed there merely to survey her kingdom.

  With the lofty breeze coursing through her raven hair, she lifted her chin proudly.

  “Step forth,” she called. “Come out. I know you are here, watching and listening. I know you linger here still.”

  Only the rattling of brittle twigs overhead answered her.

  “I do not ask it,” she continued. “It is my command.”

  A fir cone fell to the ground behind her.

  “And do not think to scream your worst, for I will not blanch to hear it. We in the Hollow Hill have heard you screeching amid the worst winter storms. It scares me no more now than it did when I was a child.”

  A soft tread crunched the dry needles to her right.

  Rhiannon did not turn to look. She knew there would be nothing to see. A shifting, misty blur in the corner of her eye would be all.

  “So,” a foul, coarse voice spoke suddenly. “The brooding princess returns. After these many years.”

  Still staring straight ahead, Rhiannon’s dark eyes glinted with recognition.

  “Black Howla,” she declared. “It is too long since we conversed.”

  “You knew where to find me. I am always here—the place where your father trapped me, the precipice where I jumped to my death.”

  “You sound the same as ever, troll hag. Still angry, still raging; is it a wonder I did not come here? I tired of your bile an age ago.”

  The unholy voice growled, and the shadow of the pines deepened.

  “But you have changed much,” it said. “Tall and slender and fair of face you have grown. Yet blacker and more cruel is the force that walks you.”

  “I am what you made me to be.”

  The voice snorted in derision. “I did nothing!” it snapped. “The enmity and lust for power was already within you. Instruction in the dark arts of my sisterhood is all I can claim. And how eagerly you learned, Little Royal Witchgirl, how hungry you were for that rich, forbidden knowledge, how you would sneak away from your precious Hollow Hill and plead with us to teach you.”

  “Which I was duly grateful for. After my father pursued you to your death, it was I who avenged you and found your scattered brood, nourishing them in secret. To this day they aid me still in acknowledgment of that.”

  “You take more than you give, Deathless Lady. I know my sisters scrape and scratch and starve in the Cold Hills, they who once terrorized this forest, riding upon the backs of ferocious boars.”

  A cold smile appeared on Rhiannon’s lovely face.

  “Such lively times may come again,” she said. “That is why I am here.”

  The crackling of the pine needles moved a little closer behind her.

  “Speak,” the vile voice of Black Howla said. “What promise do you pretend to make? I saw you riding at your father’s side when he hunted me down like a wild beast. You serve only your own needs.”

  “I pretend and offer nothing, but I would tell you this: I am weary of the Unseelie Court. The nobles are ever plotting and conspiring against me and I would be rid of them.”

  The voice cackled hideously in her ear.

  “Then do unto them as you did your father!”

  “I would, if I were certain.”

  “Certain of what?”

  “That no one could move against me, that no harm could afflict me.”

  The voice drew back.

  “Now you come to it,” it snarled. “From this crag I have seen you hunt for that which you lost; prying into grassy graves, despoiling farms, and stealing the mortal infant. What a busy bee you have been this last night, swapping shapes and dashing hither and thither, but all for nothing. I know what you fear most, my Little Royal Witchgirl.”

  “Then you understand,” Rhiannon said tersely. “Until I have that casket returned to me, I cannot move against the court. I am in constant danger. Even now I feel it—worse than ever before. The Wandering Smith returned, but he did not have the casket with him. Out there, in some lost corner, it is waiting, ticking steadily towards my death. For all I know it is already open and the mortal blow is a whisker away from striking. How can I endure this continuous trial?”

  A low, bestial chuckle sounded on the air.

  “Then breathe easy, my keen pupil,” the shade of Black Howla cackled again. “For, from this height, I have seen what you have not. I know where your precious box was taken many years ago and who now holds the key to it.”

  The High Lady whirled around.

  “Tell me!” she demanded.

  But the crag was empty, and the only movement was the fir cones rolling in the breeze.

  “Black Howla!” she called. “I did not give you leave to go! I order you to tell me!”

  The evil laughter came to her again, but now it was faint and fading on the wind.

  “Little Royal Witchgirl!” the voice cried as it floated up into the distant branches. “You are beyond such fears this day. Unassailable and invincible you truly are. There are none who can harm you. Let your dark suspicions be at rest; your enemies have lost. Your life is beyond their reach now. I know. I have seen.”

  “Is this true?” The High Lady called.

  “By the power of the stones, I swear it! Key and casket shall never unite!”

  “Then I am safe! The threat is over!”

  A ghastly laugh sounded high above.

  “May disaster fall upon the Unseelie Court, and Hagwood be given to the wild once more. Hear my last malediction, Ragallach! Your reign shall end in blood, by your blood!”

  It was the curse Black Howla had pronounced just before she had flung herself from the cliff top those many years ago.

  And then the wind snatched the words away, and Rhiannon Rigantona was alone. Even the nameless spirits that had followed her had departed back to their empty holes.

  Slowly, she turned her ravishing face into the wind and half closed her eyes.

  A serenity she had never felt before flooded her mind. Whatever her enemies attempted, they could never overthrow her. N
ow her true reign could commence, and she threw back her head and laughed.

  High above, a terrible, shrieking scream tore through the uppermost branches of the pines, and down at the bottom of the rise, the stallion jerked its head in terror.

  “Screech all you wish, Black Howla,” the High Lady called. “This crag I grant to you to haunt till the hills crumble. Soon may your infernal sisterhood ride once more through the forest and fill the night with fear. I, Rhiannon Rigantona, decree it.”

  Turning on her heel, she strode from the cliff and returned to her sweating stallion, more assured in her maleficent sovereignty than ever before.

  It was high time she gave her attention to the treacherous nobles of her court, but first she had an appointment at the broken watchtower.

  CHAPTER 20 *

  FEATHER AND SWORD

  RHIANNON’S OWL HAD FLOWN SWIFTLY back to the Hollow Hill and summoned the captains of the spriggans to its presence.

  Everyone who dwelled in the hidden realm of the Unseelie Court feared the High Lady’s winged provost. It was the only one of her subjects she trusted, and it was always spying upon them, telling her all that it discovered. They hated it almost as much as they hated her and feared it in equal measure. So, when they were summoned, the captains hastened to obey and dared not question the unusual orders it gave them.

  They were to take their soldiers and march in secret from the Hollow Hill to the eastern borders of Hagwood and set a watch upon the broken tower. No one else must learn of their mission, not even the nobles of the court. This was a command of Rhiannon Rigantona, and the punishment for disobedience would be cruel and severe.

  And so, quickly and stealthily, the spriggan forces were awakened and stole past the sleeping quarters of the ferocious Redcaps.

  The promise of an excursion soon drove the sleep and grogginess from their ugly heads. Many believed there was a battle in the offing, so squinting in the morning light, they streamed from the Hollow Hill, expectant and impatient for action.

  With the owl flying at their head, they marched through the forest and thought eagerly of the skirmish they persuaded themselves actually awaited them. It had been a long time since the last proper battle had been waged in Hagwood. That was against the troll witches, but only the oldest campaigners remembered what that was like.

  Their fingers itched to swing their gleaming swords and use their thin-bladed knives, so their spirits were high and they covered the great distance quickly.

  Excitement burned in their brutal hearts, and they muttered to one another of the trophies they hoped to bring back from the bloody engagement.

  “Heads is always best,” one scar-faced veteran hissed to those beside him. “String ’em up by the hair and tie to the bedposts. Looks good and comes in handy if you wakes up peckish.”

  “I likes fingers,” mused another. “Threaded on a string, they make fancy necklaces.”

  “Nah,” cackled a third. “Can’t beat guts for versatility. Them’s not so flashy as heads nor fingers, but when dried over a rosemary fire, there’s nowt chewier—nor better at keeping up yer breeches in an emergency.”

  The gruesome talk continued until at last the owl swooped over the ranks and called for quiet.

  They were drawing close to the tower.

  The spriggans crept through the thinning trees, but they were so intent on the forthcoming bloodshed that they did not realize they had been followed.

  From the moment the Hollow Hill opened, a sparrow had seen the High Lady’s foot soldiers pour out and had quickly sent a warning throughout the forest.

  Keeping at a safe distance, out of sight, the birds of Hagwood began to muster. Hopping from branch to branch, they followed the spriggans eastward, their numbers swelling with every step the legion took.

  At last the soldiers reached the shrubs and saplings that fringed the forest, and the stark outline of the tower reared in the distance.

  Alighting upon the overgrown stones of a ruined wall, the owl puffed out its chest feathers and addressed the troops.

  “Hearken unto me,” it told them. “Thine orders this day are to crawl on thy bellies through the undergrowth and, by degrees, creep to yon blasted tower. My Lady Rhiannon hath commanded thou watch all movements and be ready.”

  “Ready fer what?” some of them mumbled.

  “Crawl on our bellies?” others complained.

  “When do we fight?” grumbled the rest. “What’s in that tower anyways? Is there enemies, an army what needs attacking? A monstrous giant?”

  “I want me some heads to take home.”

  The barn owl spread its wings and glared at them all.

  “Be still and silent!” it demanded. “Wouldst thou dare flout the High Lady’s commands?”

  The spriggans shook their heads and looked sheepishly at the ground.

  “Then let none be overzealous in his lust for war,” the owl warned. “For, if this plan be spoiled before Rhiannon arrives to take command, then thou knowest Her retribution will be swift and without mercy.”

  “She’s coming here?” one of the captains asked.

  “Even now the forest trembles beneath the hooves of Her steed,” the owl declared. “Ere long She shalt stand hither and decide what must be done to the villains who dwelleth in yon tower. Now, worm thyselves through the bracken and come as close to that accursed place as thou canst.”

  The spriggans lowered themselves to the ground and were about to spread out through the grass, when one of them chanced to look behind him, wondering if he could see the High Lady thundering toward them on her stallion in the distance. What he saw instead made him exclaim in astonishment.

  “Hoy!” he cried, forgetting they were meant to remain quiet. “Look back there! The trees—the trees are packed with sparrows and such!”

  Curious and surprised, the other soldiers popped their heads from the undergrowth and stared back at the forest.

  To their amazement they saw the branches were thronged with birds of every species. Every available perch was crammed with bright eyes, beaks, and feathers. They had never seen anything like it before, and their first reaction was to laugh and jeer.

  “Us got an audience, lads!”

  “Let fly some arrows and we’ll have a rare feast later. Why, there’s pigeons an’ crows, merlins an’ throstles, an’ a whole flappin’ world more—all jammed in tight together.”

  “We’ll have the fullest pies ever and so many skewers and spits, we could build a fence right ’round the Hollow Hill afterward.”

  The barn owl shifted uneasily upon the wall. It was confused and looked at the massed birds with supreme annoyance.

  Rising into the air, it flew a little way into the forest and settled in a tree in front of the silent multitude.

  “What mischief is this?” it demanded. “Get thee from this place. Be about thine own business. Begone!”

  The birds turned their heads toward the owl, but they obstinately remained where they were.

  “I am the High Lady’s lieutenant!” it proclaimed haughtily. “Obey me or thou shalt feel the wrath of the Deathless One. Thy nests shalt be burned and no roost shalt ever be given thee in the length and breadth of Her realm.”

  Again there was no response, and a sense of dread began to mount within the barn owl’s breast.

  “What bewitchment hath gripped thee?” it cried.

  “I’ll chase ’em!” one of the spriggans shouted and, stringing his bow, shot an arrow.

  Singing through the air, it rocketed into the trees. A blackbird fell from the leaves and crashed to the ground with the arrow embedded in its throat.

  The spriggans cheered, but their voices failed when they saw that all the other birds had remained where they were, and the threatening silence seemed to deepen.

  The owl twisted its head around. This was unheard of, and it began to feel afraid.

  “I doesn’t like this,” one of the captains murmured. “’Tain’t natural. Look at ’em a-glarin’ at
us. There’s hate an’ death in every single glinty eye or I ain’t never seen it.”

  The others shared his unease. The birds were utterly quiet, regarding them fearlessly with hostile stares.

  “What they watching us fer?” one of the soldiers asked. “Make ’em stop.”

  “All of you,” a captain called to the troops. “Fire a volley into the thick of them and see if that don’t spook ’em away.”

  The spriggans took up their bows and put arrows to the strings.

  An instant later the air was hissing with death, and jackdaws, sparrows, chaffinches, rooks, thrushes, and jays rained down like feathered fruit.

  “That learned ’em!” the captain laughed, but again the birds stayed where they were, and the mirth died on his lips.

  “It’s witchery,” one of the spriggans wailed, and, tearing his gaze away from those frightening silent birds, he bolted through the undergrowth.

  Before the owl could stop them, the others followed, and soon all the spriggans were darting through the grass to escape that unnatural and unflinching audience.

  On to the high ridge the soldiers blundered, heedlessly fleeing toward the watchtower. Suddenly they skidded to a halt as they came face-to-face with a gaggle of furious geese, who immediately began to honk and flapped their wings aggressively.

  As if that was some predetermined signal, the host of birds rose from the trees as one dark and massive cloud. Like a pall of swirling black smoke, they flew up, and at last their silence was over. The air was filled with squawks and screeches and shrill, piercing cries as they swooped to attack.

  Within moments every spriggan was mobbed. Beaks and talons bit and raked their ugly heads. The large hands that they flailed in the air to fend off the vicious attacks were clawed and scratched, and their big noses were pecked and pinched.

  Yowling, most of the spriggans stumbled down the ridge, tripping and tumbling down the sloping ground, and still the birds harried them. Others fled across the moor, stumbling into bogs and sinking mud, and were never seen or heard of again.