by Robin Jarvis
“Don’t you dare, my love!” Tidubelle scolded, reaching across to save and support him.
But not all were so fortunate.
Other werlings were thrown off balance and fell, shrieking, to their deaths, while those who had not reached the safety of the trees were slaughtered on the ground.
Petrified and sobbing, Tollychook was too far from any hope of reaching sanctuary. Tripping over his large feet and blinded by tears, he was stumbling through the fallen leaves when a huge shadow swamped him.
Down came an immense, slavering head, and the narrow eyes lit upon Tollychook’s round figure greedily.
“No!” the werling boy blubbered. “Go away. Please, no!”
Two branching arms swung around to trap him, and Tollychook bleated piteously.
“Bloodkill,” the unclean voice gloated.
Whimpering, Tollychook felt the stinking breath beat upon his face.
A ferocious barking suddenly sounded, and from nowhere Liffidia’s fox cub came rushing up to clamp its jaws about the thorn ogre’s arm.
The monster snarled and lumbered backward, rearing on its stunted legs to shake the animal off.
A night’s peaceful rest to forget the horrors of Frighty Aggie, coupled with loving attention from Liffidia, had worked a miracle on the fox. It was stronger now, but still no opponent for one of Rhiannon’s infernal pets.
With a yelp the cub was tossed aside. It ran off through the woodland with its tail between its legs.
But the distraction had been enough.
Liffidia had darted in to rescue Tollychook from the monsters clutches, and they were already scaling the nearest tree.
“Thank you!” Tollychook burbled. “I was nearly eated!”
In the Tumpin oak, Gamaliel and his family watched them climb into the wych elm where the Doolans lived, and heaved glad, grateful sighs. But the threat was far from over.
Far below, Chokerstick wearied of ramming its head against the trunk and hooked its claws into the bark. The thorny branches rattled, and it heaved itself off the ground. All through the woodland the ogres were clambering up, and there was nowhere for the werlings to run to.
“We’re done for!” Figgle breathed.
CHAPTER 16
The Battle of the Trees
BEYOND THE HAGBURN, FINNEN Lufkin was facing a peril of his own.
In the branches of the chestnut tree, Snaggart was hunting him. Gurgling with wicked relish, the imp crawled up the trunk.
“Sweet—fangsome dainty,” it muttered. “Snaggart want—Snaggart bite.”
Finnen had nothing with which to defend himself. Desperately he tried to wergle, but his marvelous gift had derived solely from the wood of the Silent Grove, and without it he was powerless. The only thing he could do was climb and try to evade Snaggart’s claws for as long as possible. Running to the hill had been a stupid and reckless idea. The chestnut tree stood tall and alone above the forest. There were no other trees to leap across to—and no escape.
“Stay away from me!” he yelled.
Higher the ratlike thorn ogre crept. Its malevolent eyes swiveled in its sharp face, intently following Finnen’s frantic movements as he scurried out of reach.
“Crunch bone—drink blood,” it taunted. “Snaggart catch.”
The disgraced werling climbed faster until he came to a junction in the trunk, where three mighty boughs reached out almost horizontally, their radiating branches meeting to form a precarious platform that encircled the tree’s girth. Onto the greatest branch Finnen ran, and Snaggart jumped on behind him.
“Chase and kill!” the imp snickered.
Along the spreading limb Finnen hurried, nimbly dashing over that dividing route and hopping across the empty gulfs between the branches.
But Snaggart was just as agile, and the ogre reveled in the deadly game. Round and round the trunk it pursued the frightened werling boy. Then it switched direction without warning to go scampering about the other way, so that Finnen would suddenly encounter it bounding before him.
“Begone!” Finnen cried. “Leave me!”
The imp mocked his fearful calls and, with malicious glee, decided to make its play more amusing. Wielding the Smiths enchanted knife, Snaggart began to chop away the connecting branches after scurrying across them. Finnen found the winding way becoming increasingly impassable.
Finally he was stranded on one of the three main boughs with nowhere to run except back toward the trunk. But before he could reach it, Snaggart came leaping over, and the imp stood blocking his retreat.
In its claws the ogre flicked the knife to and fro. “Snaggart stop chasey,” it growled. “Snaggart want—Snaggart jab—Snaggart bite.”
Along the branch the ogre came stalking, a horrid, hungry light in its eyes. Finnen edged away as far as he dared.
“Don’t you come any closer!” he warned, and the ridiculous, empty threat made Snaggart cackle all the louder.
The narrowing limb began to bounce and sag beneath them, and a daring, foolhardy idea flooded into Finnen’s mind.
Lifting his gaze, he made the decision and jumped up, coming down again with all his weight on the springing branch. The timbers creaked and the slender way dipped horrendously. Snaggart yelped and held on grimly, then up the branch sprang, and Finnen shot high into the twigs above.
“Slippy cheater!” Snaggart yapped, shaking its fists. “Snaggart snatch—Snaggart rip!”
Clinging to the twigs, Finnen stared down at the furious imp then hurried toward the trunk.
Below him, Snaggart copied his movements. It had had its fun and now the hunt was in earnest.
Up it climbed, the knife clenched between its fangs. Finnen would not evade it any longer.
To the top of the chestnut tree the werling hastened, until at last there was nowhere left to run to. He was trapped in the uppermost branches, where only a pair of wings could save him.
Snaggart drew the blade from its jaws and prowled nearer. The imp was horribly close, and Finnen knew that he was about to die.
“Snappy snappy,” the thorn ogre hissed. “Snaggart chew—Snaggart crunch.”
It inched its way toward the despairing boy, savoring the terror written across its victim’s face. A brown tongue flicked over Snaggart’s cracked lips, and it shivered with delicious anticipation.
Finnen had backed away as far as he could without falling from that hideous height. But it would be better to end his life that way. A quick plunge to death was more preferable than being devoured by that loathsome devil.
The world of Hagwood spread far below like a boundless map, and Finnen prepared to jump.
“No!” Snaggart snapped, guessing the thoughts of its prey. “Bloodkill.”
With that, the ogre pounced, and Finnen shrieked.
But Snaggart squealed even louder, for as it leaped at the werling, a gigantic claw reached up from beneath, and the imp was yanked backward.
Kicking and screaming, and with the Smith’s knife flying from its grasp, Snaggart was dragged down through the branches—to a pair of waiting, clicking jaws.
There was Frighty Aggie. Her monstrous, jointed legs were wrapped about the trunk, and her many eyes were fixed upon Finnen.
Stupefied, the werling stared at her while, emitting one last squeal, Snaggart was bitten in half and eaten.
The horror that dwelt behind the holly fence twisted its enormous head, and the thin laugh that Finnen remembered all too clearly blistered across the forest.
Returning her baleful attention to the boy, the ghastly voice fell silent, and a pale gleam flickered in the depths of her countless eyes.
Finnen understood.
In those fragmented clusters he saw a thousand distorted reflections of himself and realized just how close he had come to a doom like hers. To chew the wood of the Silent Grove was a perilous gamble. He could easily have suffered the same fate as she.
Twice now she had spared his life, for in the unlit regions of her insect mind she r
ecognized that there was a bond between them. She knew it, that night outside her lair, when she sensed the strong link they shared.
“You heard me cry out,” Finnen said, and he no longer feared her. “Just now, you heard my voice and knew I was in danger. You came to help me because we’re...we were the same. I’m like you, like what you were before. I made the same terrible mistake.”
The abhorrent nightmare regarded him almost tenderly, as a mother might a son, but the only sound was the click of her awful jaws.
“Thank you,” the boy murmured.
A faint rattling noise echoed in her throat, then down the tree her eight legs carried her.
Watching her descend then creep back toward the holly fence, Finnen knew that he had been immensely lucky. So far he had escaped the obscene torment that had consumed Agnilla Hellekin. Up there in the topmost branches of the chestnut tree he made a solemn promise to himself. Never again would he set foot in the werling burial ground.
Finnen turned his gaze to the land of his home. What evil destruction were the thorn ogres wreaking there?
Swallowing nervously, he commenced the long climb down.
In steady, lurching movements, the hulking shape of Chokerstick scaled the Tumpin oak. Throughout that woodland the murderous forces of Rhiannon were hoisting themselves up into the trees while the owl swooped down, demanding the surrender of the one called Finnen Lufkin.
But no answer did the bird receive, for the battle of the trees had begun.
Kernella and Tidubelle had ransacked the Tumpin home in search of weapons, but the only useful item was an old spear that Figgle took with him on his mole hunts. Gamaliel brought out the last of his pebble collection and piled the stones about the entrance in readiness. Yet they all knew that it would take more than these humble objects to defend themselves.
The Dritch family, who lived below, was slightly better equipped. They had two bows and three dozen arrows, but their neighbor, old Mistress Woonak, possessed no weapons at all and feebly brandished her knitting needles.
Up came Chokerstick, and the Dritches fired a volley of arrows at its hideous face. The tips of four arrows bit into the ogre’s woody hide, but the rest simply bounced off. A repulsive, bragging laugh rumbled in the monsters gullet, and quickening its pace, the malignant brute drew level with the entrance to the Dritches’ home.
Seeing it approach, the werlings had fled inside, but Chokerstick reached in with its long barbed arm, and harrowing screams issued from within.
When the arm withdrew, it was dripping with blood. Chokerstick lapped it like a cat at cream, then the barbarous creature started to climb once more, smearing a crimson trail in its wake.
Hearing the deaths of the family below, the werlings who were gathered outside the Tumpin dwelling felt sick. Still wearing his bizarre shape, Gamaliel watched the fiend approach.
“It’s nearly here!” he called.
Gripping the spear grimly, Figgle readied himself, and each of the others took a pebble from the entrance.
Up over the branches the clattering, thorny crown of the ogre reared, swiftly followed by its craggy brows and then the pale, almost white eyes that roved rapaciously over the cowering werlings.
“Come,” it croaked. “Give to Chokerstick—blood sweet.”
At once a hail of stones was pelted at the repugnant face, but the monster felt nothing. The puny missiles ricocheted harmlessly off its tough, woody skin, and the ghastly eyes watched in foul amusement when the small, frightened creatures had no more stones to throw and began to squeal all the louder.
The ogre’s great, drooling lips opened wide to hiss with laughter.
Suddenly, yelling at the top of his voice, Figgle Tumpin lunged forward and hurled the spear into the gaping mouth.
“Get off my doorstep!” he hollered.
Down the cavernous throat the spear went flying, and the ogre convulsed in pain. Roaring, it slid down the trunk, but its claws gouged deep into the bark and held it fast. Wheezing and rasping, the monster hauled itself up once more, and the malformed face was twisted with wrath.
Hate and malice burned in those narrow eyes more fiercely than ever, and Chokerstick came storming over the branch to tear Figgle apart.
Mr. Tumpin stumbled to get away, but the shadow fell across him and the grotesque head descended.
Suddenly a prickly shape jumped between them, and leaping backward, Gamaliel thrust his hedgehog spikes into the ravening face.
Chokerstick screamed. The sharp bristles had pierced one of the squinting eyes, and the ogre fell from the branch, toppling out of the tree.
Flailing its mighty arms and bellowing in fear, the thorn ogre tumbled through the air. Upside down it plummeted. Then, with a juddering crunch, the ogre smashed onto the ground.
The thicket that grew from the horrors humped back rammed deeply into the soil, and Chokerstick kicked its deformed legs at the sky to right itself. But the branching thorns anchored it to the earth, and it was stuck fast.
High above, the werlings cheered, watching it struggle and writhe in fury. But they had not realized that a second ogre had scaled their oak. Even as they cast their gazes upon Chokerstick’s frenzied efforts, Ungartakka was lifting its mountainous head behind them.
In the surrounding trees many more deadly confrontations were taking place. The unhallowed legion of the High Lady’s army had proved victorious. Nothing could withstand the ogres’ malevolent attacks, and the woodland trembled to the clamor of their hideous shouts.
Nowhere was safe from their prowling slaughter. Beneath those canopies of bright new leaves the werlings were cornered, and their death screams rang from tree to tree.
Only the stoutest hearts endeavored to battle the thorn-crested devils. In the wych elm of the Doolans, Yoori Mattock was wielding an old ceremonial sword and had supplied the bravest of the others with long knives. Liffidia, Tollychook, Bufus, and four other children were sent to the highest branches as three large ogres came clambering up the trunk. On the lower boughs, Mr. Mattock and his valiant group formed a line of defense. But their knees were quaking, and the hands that held the weapons shook from the monumental fear that gripped them.
“Stand firm!” Yoori called. “We can’t let one of them by us. Fight or die! Fight or die!”
Higher the ogres climbed, and when the first malformed finger came reaching over the branch where he stood, Mr. Mattock pounced upon it, hacking with the sword and yelling at the top of his voice.
The finger splintered and was sliced in two, but it only made the monster below snarl more viciously. When it pulled its hulking body level with the werlings, the ogre’s fangs were eagerly snapping and champing.
Onto the bough it hauled itself. At once Yoori sprang forward, slashing and slicing so wildly that for a moment the monster was confounded.
Up into the grotesque snout the sword blade jabbed, and the tip of an unclean, misshapen nose was sent spinning to the ground. The ogre roared and slammed its fist against the trunk, causing the whole tree to shiver. But Mr. Mattock had not finished, and several of his companions had rallied to his side.
With their knives they stabbed up at the vile creature’s throat, and it backed away over the branch, gurgling horribly. The ravaging claws went swiping for those nasty little insects with their bitterly sharp points, but they hopped and dodged, and always their blades came cutting and carving.
Further along the narrowing branch, the werlings drove it, until there was a rending crack, and the wood split beneath the horrors awful weight.
From the wych elm the ogre fell, but even as it toppled, its grasping claws lashed out and caught Yoori across his head. Unable to save himself, Mr. Mattock went tumbling after the plunging nightmare, and the sword slipped from his grasp.
From the top of the tree, Liffidia and the other children watched them fall and felt the tremendous crash when the ogre hit the ground. Tollychook winced and hid his face.
“Poor Mr. Mattock!” he wailed.
Liffidia shook him by the arm. “No!” she cried. “It’s all right; he’s not hurt,”
Peering down, they saw that Yoori had broken his fall by grabbing on to the twigs of the lowest branches and had swung himself safely to the woodland floor.
Tollychook brightened for an instant, then realized that the ogre was also unharmed. The thorns had been snapped from its back, but already it was staggering onto its clubbed feet once more.
Yoori had no time to climb back into the tree. Maddened beyond fury, the monster went screaming toward him, and the werling could only turn and run.
“Faster, Mr. Mattock!” Tollychook cried. “It’s a-gainin’ on you!”
Behind the Tumpin oak the leader of the council fled, with the thorn ogre charging straight after him.
“Did he make it?” Tollychook asked fretfully.
Liffidia did not answer, for she had glanced directly below them to where Krakkwhipp and another grotesque creature were dealing with the rest of the defenders.
This time the werlings could not hope to win. The ogres ignored the cuts from their knives. Their brutal onslaught was aided by the revulsion that overcame their small opponents as they faced the terrible ogres—a revulsion that weakened their stabbing thrusts.
Not one of them could bear to look at Krakkwhipp, for upon the fiend’s spikes were impaled many of those who had perished in the first skirmish. The gruesome spectacle was too harrowing to witness, and Krakkwhipp gurgled with hellish mirth to see them so affected by its delicious dangling ornaments. Taunting them, the depraved monster shook its head from side to side, and the limp little corpses that it wore swung and swayed to its ghastly rhythm.
Aghast and repulsed, the werlings threw their knives at it. Then they ran, only to be captured by the second ogre. Into its massive claws most of them were swept and swiftly shoveled inside the immense, fang-filled mouth.
Only a few of the defenders managed to escape. They scrambled up to where the children were perched, and the enemies came creeping after.
From every tree a crimson rain began to fall, and swooping between them, the owl became filled with doubt and dismay.
