by Robin Jarvis
With his head bowed he trod the overgrown path, pulling the covered handcart that contained his tools and scant belongings behind him. The crunching of the wheels over the stones and cinders was the only sound to be heard, and the Pucca’s face became grim. The surrounding silence was unnatural, and the cart began to bounce even more noisily as he hastened on his way.
“A few furlongs more,” he muttered uneasily. “If the Smith recalls aright, Moonfire Farm lies at the end of this forsaken road. Unless the evil has grown strong enough to leave the forest, Smith should be able to bed down in the barn this night. When he’s settled in the straw and had a chance to think, then he’ll know what’s best. Mornin’s the right time for what he’s got to do; no use in this dead dark—perilous maybe.”
The bright green eyes of his kind shone in the murk as he looked warily around. The landscape had altered little in the spinning years, but he tried to push the returning memories to a far corner of his mind.
“Good hot supper, that’s what the Smith is wanting,” he said, trying to turn his thoughts aside. “If there’s a light showing in the farmhouse, he’ll sharpen the mistress’s knives and shoe the master’s horse in fair barter. A mutton stew would go down real easy. Ah, he’d like that now, would old Smith.”
The Pucca spurred himself on, but after only a few short minutes, the wheels of the handcart rattled to a stop, and the Wandering Smith murmured unhappily.
He’d cornered a bend in the track, and the concealing trees upon his left now disclosed a long stretch of the neglected road ahead. In the near distance the Pucca saw a sinister framework looming over the wayside.
It was a gibbet, an old forgotten gallows. In former times, highwaymen would be strung up there as a gruesome warning to the other gentlemen of the road. Silhouetted in the moonlight, the timbers looked stark and threatening. But it was not the gibbet that had caused the Smith to halt and anxiously clutch at the talismans about his neck.
Perched upon the projecting arm was a large barn owl. In the darkness its eyes burned like molten gold, and their unblinking stare was fixed upon the Pucca.
“By the dragon’s sulfurous breath!” the Smith swore. “That’s no ordinary bird.”
Turning cautiously, he wondered if he ought to go back. But he knew that only the empty wild stretched behind him. There would be no hope of shelter or protection out there. His one chance was to press on and gain, if he could, the safety of the farm.
Grasping the handles of the cart once more, he prepared to make a dash for it. Yet before he could take flight, the owl shook its feathers and opened its beak. From that lofty height a cold, condemning voice rang out across the track, and the Smith trembled to hear it.
“Witless thief!” it called. “Witless thief! Didst thou truly believe thy vagabonding would go unmarked? Thou cannot set thy accursed feet within my Lady’s realm and elude the vigilance of those in Her service.”
The Pucca steadied himself and glared at the bird. “Since when did the lands beyond the fringes of Dunrake fall under Her dominion?” he cried. “Has the heartless one grown so great?”
A hideous cackle sounded from the downy throat, and the owl’s fierce eyes opened wider still.
“Yea, indeed,” it crowed. “My Lady has thriven in the years of thy absence. Far now does Her power reach, and never more shalt thou escape Her.”
His face twisted with disdain, the Smith spat upon the ground, and the owl screeched in rage.
“Petty cur!” it shrieked. “Base despoiled Surrender unto me that which thou stole and dry death shall be swift.”
Beneath the Pucca’s dark brows there flickered a glint of green, and he reached into his cart.
“Smith knows what you’re needing,” he said. “And fain he’ll be to deliver it.”
Suddenly he whirled about, and in his hands he wielded a loaded crossbow.
“Here’s an end to your service, Master Flat Face!” he yelled, taking careful aim. “May all felons be so dispatched!”
But before the bolt could fly into the owl’s breast, the bird laughed.
“Long years has my mistress spent preparing the welcome of thy return,” it scorned, devoid of fear. “Now, indeed, thou shalt pay for thy malfeasance.”
And with that, it spread its wings and let loose a loud, summoning call.
At once a chilling, bloodthirsty yell answered, and the Smith faltered.
Other cries went shrieking into the night, and the Pucca stared wildly about him as the trap was sprung.
The shadowy dark upon the right-hand side of the track suddenly seethed with frenzied movement and evil voices. Countless pale eyes snapped open and twisted shapes leaped up from the stubbly grass. Out of the gloom they sprang, and the Smith quailed when at last he beheld them—the thorn ogres.
As tortured shrubs of briar and bramble they appeared. Tangled branches, covered in cruel barbs and spikes, thrust from their backs and crowned their heads. Their faces were masks of brimming hatred, and every deformed feature was molded and ruined by malevolence.
Onto the track they charged, the stumped ends of their bowed, buckled legs thumping and dragging over the ground. In the remote cold hills they had been bred to slaughter and destroy, and their mouths gaped wide with the lust for murder that had been nurtured in them. The ghastly light that welled in their bulging eyes was an unholy glare fueled by loathsome hungers. They lurched for their victim, hissing and cackling with boiling malice.
The first of the monstrous creatures to leap onto the track was as big as a calf: a huge, malignant brute with a thick, woody tail that creaked and groaned as it lashed from side to side. A wintry hedge of spines reared over its hump back, and from its grinning maw a grotesque, hollow voice came growling.
“Bite and tear,” it rumbled menacingly. “Rip and spike.”
“Seize the traitorous thief!” the owl commanded. “In thy mistress’s name, take and bind him!”
The Smith was too stricken and daunted to move. Vital moments were wasted as the horror rushed toward him. Three more swift, hobbling strides and the fiend’s outstretched claws would clutch and clench at him—and the struggle would be over before it had commenced.
Yet in the Pucca’s chest his courage kindled urgently. Snarling, he swung the crossbow about and the bolt went singing into the night.
Deep inside the ogre’s throat the dart plunged, and a startled shriek bellowed from the punctured gullet.
Like a hewn tree, the nightmare toppled to the ground. Thrashing the tail, it choked its last breath, but there were many others to replace it.
Over the fallen leader three more instantly came bounding, and there was no time to reload the crossbow.
“Witch’s filth!” the Smith cried, hurling the weapon at their vile faces and unfastening the sheath of the small knife that hung at his belt.
But the ogres were too fast. Before he could even grasp the hilt, their claws were upon him.
Yammering in barbaric, callous voices, they flung him to the ground, the thorny talons scratching and pinching his flesh as they pinned him down. Strong and immovable as the roots of ancient trees was their fearsome grip, and there was nothing the Smith could do. He was caught.
Lying across the track, his eyes turned to the star-filled heavens, he saw the abominations gather around him. There were ten of them, and all were croaking wickedly, promising death and torment.
“Strangle and gouge!” they taunted. “Sip blood—be strong.”
From somewhere outside the range of the Pucca’s sight a higher, squeaking voice cried, “He killed Ungark—stick him! Gore him!”
The Smith tried to turn his head, but the claws gripped him too fiercely. It was only when the owner of that voice came pushing through the crowded ogres to lean directly over his face that he saw there was an eleventh member of that foul crew.
It was a mean, ratlike specimen, much smaller than the rest. Upon its head the twigs sprouted ragged leaves, and its eyes were narrow and sly.
&n
bsp; “Much juice in him,” it declared, squeezing the Pucca’s cheeks and slavering eagerly. “Snaggart want—Snaggart bite—Snaggart empty!”
The ogre smacked its unclean lips and licked its fangs, but high above the track there came a forbidding cry, and the owl came swooping from the gibbet.
“Stem thine appetite,” the bird commanded, dropping from the night with its wings spread wide. “Not yet shalt thou dine.”
The small ogre slapped its sharp nose and waggled its ears in fury, but the owl dived down behind and, with a flick of its talons, sent the creature stumbling backward.
There was a rush of white feathers and the bird alighted upon the Smith’s chest.
“No, not yet,” the owl said, its golden eyes staring at the Pucca’s upturned face. “Not till the thief yields that most precious thing that he stole.”
A defiant chuckle came from the Smith’s lips, and the owl juddered upon his chest.
“Insolent dolt!” the bird snapped. “Quickly shall we tame thy want of manners. Give unto me that which thou took those many years ago. Such is the demand of my Lady and thou cannot deny Her. Return it without delay!”
A bleak smile broadened in the grizzled beard. “Do you really believe the Smith has it?” he laughed. “Oh no, Master Flat Face. He assures you he does not. If that thing were, indeed, in his possession, do you think he would have balked to do what must be done? Nay, your mistress would have perished ages since if it were his. Again he says, he does not have that which you seek.”
The owl dug its talons into the Pucca’s chest, piercing the thick hide of the apron and pricking the layers of clothing beneath.
“Yet thou knowest where this treasure is bestowed,” it said with menace. “When thou fled the Hollow Hill, whither did thou run? In what place did thy light fingers conceal it?”
The Smith made no reply, and the owl tugged viciously at his beard.
“Rigid tongues are easily loosened,” the bird vowed. “Think not that thy neck is stiff enough to withstand the skill of our torture masters. They excel at their craft and love it most dearly.”
“Your threats are idle,” the Pucca scoffed. “She would not risk Smith’s return to Her hill, not even to bear him to the deep places of the earth. Loud would be his accusing cries; he would make the very vaults ring with the condemning truth, and the entire court would know. Has She bribed and corrupted them all? Smith thinks not.”
It was the owl’s turn to laugh. “Simple fool,” it mocked. “Did I not tell thee Her realm has grown great? Not to the royal halls wilt thou be borne, but to the cold hills beyond the Lonely Mere, where Her dungeons are deeper and none shall hear thee, though thou scream and howl in thine agonies. Verily thou shalt speak thy secret, the device shall be returned unto its true owner. Yet of thee...thou shalt wish there were more secrets to be spilled. Ignoble and wretched shall be thy deserved end.”
Pleased with itself, the bird fluffed out its plumage and took to the air once more.
“Bear him up!” it ordered the thorn ogres. “Take his perfidious carcass over the heath and to the cold hills. Let the skilled attention of the torture masters pare the knowledge from him.”
Into the night the owl soared, and the monsters that held the Smith hoisted him off the ground.
Beneath him the smallest ogre darted, the leafy spike of its head poking him maliciously in the back.
“Snaggart jump,” it barked. “Snaggart give pain.”
A dreary chant came from the others as they lifted the Pucca over their heads and marched toward the barren heath.
“Back to hills—return to caves,” they sang.
Carried aloft in their iron grasp, the Smith was still unable to struggle or even move his limbs, but he was not conquered yet.
“Thimbleglaive!” he called abruptly. “Fly out! Fly out! Strike Smith’s foes and cause a rout.”
As soon as the words were spoken, the small knife at his belt flew from its sheath and magically shot into the air. For an instant the moonlight flashed across the spinning blade, then down it sped. Into the claws that held the Smith the keen edge went slicing, severing knobbled fingers and biting into gnarled wrists.
Yowls of pain erupted on all sides as the enchanted knife thrust and jabbed, weaving a net of cold and deadly light about its master. Roaring, the thorn ogres dropped their captive and fell back, flailing their gashed and mutilated arms. Black blood splashed onto the cinders, and their branches clattered and shook as they stamped and screamed.
Circling above them, the owl cried out in rage. “Stand firm!” it screeched. “What is the bite of a single blade? Hold him! Seize him!”
But the ogres were dismayed and staggered back. There were not enough of them to withstand the unexpected onslaught, and the ghastly light of their eyes was dimmed. Cutting through the shadows, the knife speared the slowest in the neck and the monster fell to the ground with a heavy thud.
In the confusion the Smith leaped to his feet. Behind him the smallest ogre groaned, for the Pucca’s fall had crushed it to the floor and many of its twigs were snapped and broken.
“Pounce upon him!” the owl demanded, beating its wings before the ogres’ hideous faces. “Do not let him go free!”
Yet they were too cowed and afraid to obey. The knife was a frightful opponent, and they hissed in revolt.
Snatching his chance, the Smith ran to his cart and called. “Home, Thimbleglaive. Home!”
Rushing through the air, the knife switched direction and flew at once back into its sheath.
A roguish grin lit the Pucca’s grimy face as he turned to the infuriated owl and snapped his fingers at it.
“Tell the tyrant Her doom is at hand,” he cried. Then, dragging the cart behind him, he darted through the trees upon his left and plunged into the dark eaves of Hagwood.
Incensed, the owl squawked a string of oaths and curses after him before returning its wrathful attention to the thorn ogres.
“Craven beasts!” it shrieked. “Thy deaths are no matter. Supreme is thy failure: The traitor has gone. She will know of it. She will punish thee.”
Nursing their wounds, the ogres shuddered and hid their faces. Picking itself from the floor, Snaggart glared into the wood and scampered toward the outlying trees.
“We fetch!” it yapped. “Snaggart hurt—Snaggart sting.”
The others lumbered behind it, but the owl flew before them.
“Ye cannot enter the forest this night!” it forbade them. “The Unseelie Court is abroad, and your presence would be detected. Should the hillmen capture you, then all Her plots and designs would go amiss. The hour has not come for the denizens of the Hollow Hill to know of your existence. The two secrets are bound together.”
The ogres muttered in their empty voices, and Snaggart leaped up and down.
“Thief! Thief!” it jabbered. “Snaggart find—Snaggart kill!”
“Obey me!” the owl demanded. “The traitor is now beyond thy reach. Get thee to the heath and there await the rest of thy kind. Thy number must be many times the greater before Hagwood may be invaded.”
Snaggart jerked its head forward and peered into the shadows that lay beneath the trees, its squinting eyes swiveling from side to side.
“Snaggart not like,” it grumbled. “Want kill—drink blood.”
The barn owl glowered at it, and the small ogre shrank away. “All of you begone!” the bird declared. “There will be feasting aplenty before our work is ended. Till ye are summoned again, stay upon the scrubland. The arch felon shall not evade us. Within the forest there are many eyes in the employ of our mistress. Let the thief believe he has escaped, then surely he will lead us straight to the very thing we seek.”
Woeful and mumbling, the thorn ogres retreated back over the cinder trackway and began lurching across the heath.
Gingerly touching the weeping stumps of its broken twigs, Snaggart watched the snowy shape of the barn owl rise above the trees, and a mutinous leer spread over the creature�
�s grotesque features.
“Snaggart wait,” it snarled. “But Snaggart empty.”
CHAPTER 7
Games and Stories
BRILLIANT SUNSHINE FLOODED THROUGH the trees that grew west of the Hagburn. The warm light of spring reached into every corner and danced in the reflected cheer of the primroses that had risen through the carpeting dead leaves.
That morning all spirits were high, and in the hazel tree the young werlings were treated to a wergling display by the older children.
Sitting upon the platform, even Gamaliel felt light of heart, and he watched in admiration as the transformations took place before him.
This was the time when the elder students proved how hard they had practiced during the winter months. With their wergle pouches at the ready, they changed themselves into all manner of small woodland creatures. There were stoats, snails, squirrels and voles, rats, and several unsuccessful finches and sparrows.
Master Gibble eyed the dismal birds ruefully. They looked plucked and naked. “Feathers are extremely difficult to achieve,” he said haughtily. “And your legs are hopeless—far too fat and bending in all the wrong places. If your ambition compels you to attempt forms that are beyond your capabilities, do not presume to parade the disastrous results before me.”
When it was Kernella’s turn, she took from her pouch a neatly bound bunch of fur and gave it a tremendous sniff while muttering her wergling word under her breath. At once her ears flapped and stretched upward. A fluffy tail popped out from under her cape, and her legs became twice their normal size. In a matter of moments she became a fat baby rabbit, an illusion spoilt only by the gingery hair that hung about the ears, the innumerable freckles that speckled its fur, and the wide gap between its front buck teeth.
“Well done,” Finnen congratulated her.
The rabbit blushed with pride, but close by, Stookie Maffin gave a disparaging snort and immediately wergled into a shrew.
