Thorn Ogres of Hagwood

by Robin Jarvis

  Within one of those dark gaping holes he thought he caught a glimpse of her many eyes regarding him keenly. Again he heard that chilling, sinister laugh, and running after his friends, he finally suspected why the nightmarish creature had spared him.

  Once more the werlings ventured into the forest, but they did not have far to travel. The Wandering Smith was camped only a short distance away, and presently they saw the merry flames of his small fire crackling through the trees ahead.

  Soon they were warming themselves by its heartening heat while the Pucca tended to Gamaliel’s shoulder.

  Laying the pale werling upon a bed of furs, he muttered strange words over the wound and pressed iron charms against the poisoned flesh. Taking a small leather bottle from the cart that was standing close by, he poured three drops of the bright blue liquid it contained into the raw sinew, and sang softly under his breath.

  The others watched him apprehensively, but they no longer feared or were suspicious of him.

  While they waited, Liffidia fed the fox cub some warm milk that the Smith had given her, and the half-starved animal nuzzled lovingly against her.

  Brushing the last waving wisps of web from his sleeves, Tollychook gazed around them. He stared curiously at the Smith’s handcart.

  It was a rickety, much-battered contraption that had tagged along behind the Wandering Smith for many years and miles. But it was the contents that fascinated Tollychook.

  With the covers removed, the Smith’s wares glinted and glowed in the firelight. There were iron pots, long shapely ladles, a collection of swords, knives, goblets, metal helms similar to the one the Pucca wore, steel collars, a kettle whose spout was shaped like a leaping fish. Fire-blackened pans, copper lanterns pierced with hundreds of tiny holes, a cowbell, plates of tin, a wooden chest containing a wealth of talismans and amulets like those he wore about his neck and had used upon Gamaliel. Over the side of the cart, a vast array of spoons of various sizes hung upon a length of wire, and their many shallow bowls appeared to dance and brim with flame.

  Yet in among that abundance Tollychook saw other things that he did not like the look of: small bronze statues with fearsome faces, effigies of ancient forest gods and fire devils.

  “That’s as much as the Smith can do,” the Pucca said, applying a poultice to Gamaliel’s shoulder. “Should draw out more of the werhag’s venom, but only time will decree if he lives or dies.”

  The werlings looked at Gamaliel, and it seemed to them that already the deathly pallor had left his face.

  Liffidia smiled up at the Pucca and thanked him warmly. “We are always told not to have any dealings with big folk,” she said. “I don’t know why. Are they all as kind as you?”

  He merely laughed in reply and began examining Finnen’s injury.

  “Are you from the Hollow Hill?” she asked.

  A frown clouded the Smith’s face, but he said nothing.

  In brooding silence he bandaged Finnen’s arm, and Liffidia was left wondering if she had offended him.

  “Is this whole forest and the stream named after Frighty Aggie?” Tollychook piped up suddenly. “You called her the werhag.”

  Placing Finnen’s arm in a sling, the Smith settled himself before the fire. “There’s more than one hag in Hagwood,” he muttered darkly.

  The werlings looked at one another, feeling uncomfortable and not sure what to say. Meanwhile, the Pucca hung a large covered pot over the flames. Leaning against the bole of a gnarled tree, he regarded them for a long time before uttering another word.

  A thread of steam began to curl from beneath the pot lid, and Tollychook’s nose wrinkled with pleasure at the delicious smell.

  Liffidia and Finnen suddenly realized that they were famished, but their packs had been left on the other side of the holly fence, together with the lantern.

  “Root stew,” the Smith finally said, rising from his seat and doling the bubbling food onto the smallest plates he could find in his cart. The plates were still very large and cumbersome for the werlings to handle, but they accepted them with gratitude. “Not a banquet,” he admitted, “but it fills a hole when your belly’s wagging.”

  The children ate the food hungrily. The stew was boiling hot, and Tollychook burned his tongue, but he huffed and blew and gobbled it down. The taste was unlike anything the werlings were accustomed to, containing many unfamiliar herbs and odd-looking tubers chopped into chunks, but it was still more than acceptable, and even more welcome after the trials of the night.

  Their host, however, ate only a couple of mouthfuls before sighing and setting his portion upon the ground. “Mutton stew old Smith was hoping for last night,” he remarked sadly. “But there was no light in the farmhouse window, aye, and no farmer neither.”

  The brilliant green of his eyes glimmered while he watched the werlings clear their plates, and his woolly brows crept together as a secret thought flickered in his mind.

  Chewing the last spoonful, Finnen caught the strange look on the Pucca’s face.

  “Smith had forgotten about the little changers who live on the border of the forest,” he murmured, more to himself than to the others. “Maybe he’s not the only one. Easy to slip from memories, they are. Would you risk it, Smith—should you risk it?”

  “Any more?” Tollychook ventured, peering hopefully at the pot.

  The Smith stirred himself and dished out the last of the stew.

  “Well, my jolly friends,” he said brightly. “What sport were you playing with the warden of the holly? Deadly work that is, too grim for the likes of you is she. Lucky that the Smith heard your hullabalooing. This side of the stream is no place for your kind to be adventuring.”

  Finnen explained what had led them there, and when the tale was complete, the Pucca fingered his beard.

  “Not like the werhag to leave her prey like that,” he muttered. “Smith has never heard it happen. What was it about you she found not to her taste?”

  The boy could not answer and lowered his gaze.

  “Soon as you’ve rested,” the Pucca said, changing the subject, “and the hours have judged what will befall your stung companion, the Smith will guide you home. But hearken to these words and heed his warning—never set foot inside the wild forest again.”

  “That I won’t!” Tollychook declared emphatically.

  “Keep to your own trees,” the Smith continued. “Ages have you spent hiding from sight, ignored and overlooked—let that way endure.”

  Finnen felt vaguely uneasy. “You speak as though there was more to fear in the forest than we already know,” he said.

  The green eyes glinted. “There is,” he answered bleakly. “Hagwood is a treacherous corner of the wild world. Trust no one; shun those not of your race.”

  “Even folk like you?” Liffidia asked.

  “There are no others like Smith,” he told her sharply. “Not no more, not hereabouts.”

  Glancing quickly at the night-shrouded branches above, as if searching for something, the Pucca whispered, “Most important of all, have no dealings with those who dwell in the Hollow Hill. If you value your lives and those you love.”

  “We never see the likes of them,” Tollychook chirped, happily stroking his full tummy. “But I never heard nowt bad against ’em.”

  “I don’t think the hillmen even know we exist,” Finnen added.

  The Smith snorted and pointed a grimy finger at each of them. “Wer-rats,” he proclaimed. “That was their name for you in days long gone. Whether they still recall you...Smith was just wondering that himself.”

  “You do come from the Hollow Hill, don’t you?” Liffidia said shrewdly.

  The Pucca grunted.

  “Say rather that Smith did—once,” he replied. “But that was so many springs ago, when the forest was called Dunrake and the crown graced the brow of a king.”

  Tollychook whistled. “I never heard any tale about no king,” he said.

  “What happened to make you leave?” Finnen a
sked.

  The Smith considered for a moment. How much could he tell? Indeed, should he draw them any further into his confidence? Merely by talking with them he had endangered their lives. Did he have the right to compound that hazard any further?

  “Ain’t no pretty story,” he said at last. “A black history full of spite and malice, and only one other knows the full truth of it besides Smith. You’ll not sleep the easier for the hearing, and shadows will seem darker when it’s done. Be very sure before you open your ears.”

  The werlings looked uncertain. Perhaps it was too great a burden for them. Could he have misjudged them? They were only a small, insignificant people after all, no match for the enemy.

  “Shall Smith tell it or no?” he asked, and again he spoke more to himself than to the others.

  “Yes, please!” an unexpected voice cried. “Please tell us!”

  The werlings whipped around and broke into astonished laughter. There, sitting up on the furs, the color already back in his cheeks, was Gamaliel Tumpin.

  Dark rings circled his eyes and he looked a trifle groggy, but otherwise he was back to his old self again and eager for a story of the hillfolk.

  The Pucca regarded him and the others afresh. These little people were more hardy than he had surmised, and so finally he made his decision.

  Leaving his place by the fire, he refreshed Gamaliel’s poultice. Then, taking the velvety wergle pouch in his fingers, he looked at it thoughtfully before chortling and sitting down once more.

  “So be it,” he began. “Know then the saga of tears and how the tyrant ascended the throne...

  “Once, in former, carefree times, in the reign of Ragallach—king of the summer country beneath the Hollow Hill—the Smith worked in the royal forge. He was not alone. Eight other Puccas of greater skill than his own labored there also. To shoe the royal steeds with silver and fashion bright armor for the goblin knights was their chief toil, and their work had no rival.

  “Yet other things they made—toys for the royal children: the princesses, Morthanna and Clarisant, and the young prince, Alisander. Cunning and magical were those gimcracks, wrought from precious metals and set with gems. Those were merry years.

  “But children grow, even in the underground realm, and the toys grew also. For Prince Alisander the Puccas fashioned the most lovely of all their works: a gold and silver dagger whose haft was fashioned from shimmering crystal. The prince valued it above all the treasures in his father’s vaults.

  “But as the years crawled by, the mood within the court altered.

  “The Lady Morthanna had flowered into the fairest maiden ever to grace the hidden kingdom, yet ambition blazed within her. She yearned for power, but her dreams were in vain, for Alisander was the heir, not she.

  “Still she plotted. When a suitor came to woo her, his heart turned instead to Clarisant. Affronted, Morthanna hatched a terrible vengeance, but the lovers disappeared from court. No one ever discovered what befell them.

  “Henceforth the realm of King Ragallach became a solemn and mournful place, devoid of song and merriment.

  “Yet ever resentment seethed within the Lady Morthanna. Her whispered lies turned friend against friend, and the nobles were set at odds and divided. Dissension and mistrust blossomed in every hall, but from whence the ill humors and deceits came, none could guess. So it continued until the mood soured to the correct degree for Morthanna’s designs.

  “Upon that dark, grievous day, she came to the forge, charging the nine Puccas to create a small golden casket with an enchanted lock that could only ever be opened by one key and one alone. A gift to her father she claimed it was, and so that no word of its making should reach his ears, the smiths were sworn to secrecy.

  “Loving their lord, the Puccas poured all their skill into the building of the glittering box, and when it was completed, Morthanna seized it greedily.”

  The Smith paused and stared into the depths of the leaping flames as though recalling the heats of the smithy all those years ago. His eyes sparkled and were wet.

  “What happened?” Liffidia asked.

  “Black deeds,” he replied.

  “That very night King Ragallach and his guards were slain. Their throats were cut, and the instrument of their murder was the prince Alisander’s crystal-handled dagger. The heir to the throne was taken, and so treacherous was the mood that none heeded his pleas of innocence.

  “Awaiting the pronouncement of his doom, the prince contrived his escape but was hunted through the forest by the Redcaps and spriggans, who shot at him with spears and arrows dipped in poison.

  “Over the heathland Alisander fled, in order to reach the Lonely Mere, for his pursuers despised the touch of water. Yet even as he leaped from the shore, an arrow plunged into his back and he sank, lifeless, into the cold deeps.

  “So at last did Morthanna succeed to the throne, and she took to herself the name Rhiannon—High Queen.”

  Gamaliel caught his breath. “The High Lady!” he cried, interrupting. “But I thought the hillfolk were grand and wonderful.”

  “She killed her own father?” Liffidia asked, mortified. “Then she let her brother take the blame and the because of it! How could she, how could anyone?”

  Shaking his head, the Smith sucked in the air through his teeth. “Many evils were committed in that accursed time,” he hissed. “Because Alisander’s dagger had been forged in the royal smithy, Rhiannon decreed that Ragallach’s blood stained the hands of its makers also. To the forge the wild Redcaps went, shrieking, and slaughtered all they found. Over their own anvils the Puccas were cruelly put to death. Their hands were chopped from their wrists and their heads hacked from their necks. Yet only eight of their number did they slay; the ninth they could not and never did find.”

  Awestruck, the werlings stared at him.

  “Why have you come back?” Finnen asked.

  A somber smile split the Pucca’s graying beard. “Smith has a task left undone,” he said. “A moment ago the little maid inquired as to how Morthanna, the faithless and despised, could be so wholly evil as to murder her own father. This then is the secret that she thought no one else would discover, but Smith got to the root of it.

  “Of all the folk in that summer land beneath the turf, he alone doubted the fair mask of the eldest princess and suspected her true nature. When the suitor came, it was Smith who warned him against her. Then, when the casket of gold was made and she bore it away—Smith followed her, and this is what he learned.

  “Down a steeply winding stair she ran, a wicked laugh ever on her lips. Far beneath the earth she descended, to the deepest and most secure of her father’s strong rooms. Stout and barred was the door to that dank chamber, and Smith could not presume to know what she did therein. Yet her voice rang faint through the timbers, and his beard curled to hear the dreadful spells it recited. Instructed by the troll witches who once dwelt in the cold hills, Morthanna had become a mistress of filthy arts. Smith shrank into the shadows, covering his ears to blot out the hated words.

  “Long he cowered there, but at last the door swung open and out she strode. Harder than diamond was her face, for the foul enchantments had removed any lingering doubt and scruple, and she was now wholly cold and cruel.

  “Taking the great key that hung from her waist, she locked the strong room behind her and clasped in her hands the prince’s dagger, which she had stolen that day. Then, with murder on her mind, she ran up the stair and headed straight for her father’s bedchamber.

  “From the unlit corner the Smith crawled, and to the sealed door he inched in fear. What lay beyond it he dared not guess, but he had to know. Putting his mouth to the lock, he spoke a charm that sprang the hasp aside, for it had been made by his own hand and yielded to his pleas.

  “Into the chamber the Smith stole.

  “It was vast and empty, save for a circle of stones at its center, and there upon the floor was the golden casket and its key.

  “Hands shaking, Sm
ith looked within and howled in revolt. In that moment he should have showed his mettle and done the one deed that would have saved them all, but his stomach rebelled and he could not.

  “Instead, he took the casket and fled from the hill. Even as he ran into the trees he heard the horns sounding, announcing the death of the king, but, alas, the Smith thought that they pronounced his own doom. In blind panic he concealed the golden box and went not into the forest again.

  “When he uncovered the truth it was too late. The Lady Morthanna had claimed the throne and, as Rhiannon, wields great power. A tyrant She is now, and all Her subjects fear Her.”

  “That be a thumpin’ horrible story,” Tollychook burbled.

  A corner of the Pucca’s mouth lifted in a wry smile. “Tyrant She may be,” he added with a gruff chuckle. “And though She has gained all Her desires, not once throughout these long years has She been able to enjoy Her reign. Doubt and dread sit beside Her upon that throne, for Smith stole the casket and She has hunted for it ever since. Until it is found and in Her keeping, not an instant’s peace or rest shall She have.”

  The Pucca’s smile broadened in his beard. “How She has searched,” he laughed. “A thief Herself She has become, burgling the mounds of ancient chieftains, tearing crowns from the skulls of sleeping kings, but all for naught, all for naught.”

  “What was in the box?” Gamaliel begged, unable to contain his curiosity any longer.

  The smile vanished. The green light flickered beneath the brows and the Pucca’s voice sank to a chilling whisper.

  “Within that casket,” he said, “lies the only hope of destroying the cruel monarch of the Hollow Hill. Therein is Her one fatal weakness. It alone can bring an end to Her immortal life, and that is why, waking and sleeping, Rhiannon is fearful.

  “For this is what Smith saw, that evil day in the deep places of the earth when he turned the enchanted key and lifted the glittering lid. This he saw and the memory freezes his bones still. Inside the box, pulsing and beating by loathsome craft—was Rhiannon’s very own heart.”