War in Hagwood

by Robin Jarvis

  “Nightflame,” Lord Fanderyn repeated. “Of course—why, he is the pride of the Hollow Hill. That preening goblin knight, Sir Ogbin Moldweed, the oafish braggart—he won the beast in a crooked wager did he not? A prize far too grand for that rogue.”

  Hogmidden drew a scandalized breath then gurgled with laughter. “That’s him right enough,” he said, disarmed by the noble’s scorn. “I never did think he was fit to shovel out my gorgeous lovely’s stall, let alone mount him.”

  “He’s a foul, lowborn swaggering bow leg,” Lord Fanderyn continued candidly. “Nothing more than a common spear waver, risen far above his base station through toadying, informing, and betrayal. He’s unworthy of such a magnificent beast. It must please your heart when She comes to borrow your precious Nightflame from time to time.”

  “That it does!” the bogle agreed with fervent nods. “And my grand lad, he knows he’s in for a rare good gallop when he sees Her at his door. His hooves are a-stampin’ an’ his tail’s a-swishin’ an’ it’s all I can do to put the bridle on. …”

  Hogmidden gave a choking gasp and clapped his hands to his mouth. He had said too much and he sprang back into the shadows, afraid.

  Lord Fanderyn’s eyes sparkled. “So the Lady Rhiannon has gone riding,” he said thoughtfully. “I find myself wondering why. What could have lured Her outside? What new tempest is She brewing?”

  “Beggin’ Your Loftly Lordship’s pardon!” the bogle pleaded. “Don’t tell Her I squeaked, it weren’t my fault. You’re too brain bright by far, Your Nobleyness—you tricked it out of me. Please don’t tell Her. She made me swear not to. I doesn’t want that spying owl to chew on my poor old eyes and the rest of me fed to the Redcaps.”

  But Lord Fanderyn was already walking away, returning along the passage that led to the lower halls. Hogmidden shrank into the corner of the stall, shivering with fright at what would become of him.

  THERE WERE NINE OFFICIAL ENTRANCES to the Hollow Hill but there were many more secret ways in and out of the hidden kingdom, created down the centuries by the noblest families for their own private and furtive use. But Rhiannon Rigantona had spies in every noble family. Treachery was easy to buy in a realm ruled by fear. There was not even a stoat-sized gateway she was unaware of. She of course had many exits unknown to all, save herself.

  Deep in thought, Lord Fanderyn had left the stables far behind and was on his way to visit the first of the three official southern entrances. He had decided to question the door wardens and glean what he could from them. There was no doubt in his mind that the High Lady was up to something. His own spies had brought word of the thorny fiends seen marauding through the forest recently and those monsters could not have entered the wood without her leave.

  He would have to take care in questioning the doorkeepers, however, for his interest would undoubtedly be reported. He was just phrasing what he would say in his mind when a large, broad shape stepped out in front of him and barred the passage.

  “You’re going the wrong way M’lord,” growled a thick, gutteral voice. “Your fine chambers are above and westward.”

  Lord Fanderyn glared at the creature before him.

  It was a fat, sallow-faced and scaly goblin, with a porcine snout and enormous flapping ears that dangled before his sly green eyes. A chain mail coif covered his head and he wore a long leather tunic, belted beneath his belly with a great silver buckle.

  “Waggarinzil,” Lord Fanderyn greeted coldly when he recognized the commander of the door guards. “Are my movements now to be watched and directed?”

  “When were they ever not?” the goblin replied with a grin that showed his gray teeth. “Are not all our to-ings and fro-ings keeked on and made note of by some rat-hawk or other? But on this uncommon morning t’would be best for you to seek out your own dear bed and not tarry in the hallways.”

  Lord Fanderyn eyed him curiously. “Why is this morning more uncommon than the rest?” he asked, wondering if Waggarinzil knew about the High Lady’s absence.

  The goblin rubbed his gauntleted hands together. “For one thing, you’re still up and tramping about, M’lord,” he began with a drawl and a wink. “That’s worth someone’s jotting it down by itself, but ’tweren’t that I meant.”

  He glanced around warily then leaned a little closer and whispered, “Didn’t you hear about the call out?”

  “Call out?” Lord Fanderyn repeated. “What tidings are these?”

  Waggarinzil chuckled and the mail of his coif jingled and rattled. “Ho!” he snorted, flicking his ears from his face. “By the Great Wyrms’ breath, I thunk as not, it was all hushed and cloaky. Well listen to me, my lordship, summat’s occurring—summat big.”

  Again he looked about him and his voice sank into an even lower whisper.

  “’Twas nigh two hour since, when that … fine feathery fellow—may his beak never be blunted—our most blessed Lady’s owl, comes calling outside the third south door. In a real fluster he was and fit to exploding with the urgence of his errand. Soon as my lads let him in, he swoops off—and where does he swoop to, eh?”

  “Tell me.”

  “Straight to the spriggan quarters, that’s where!”

  The goblin gave a grunt, then lifted the corner of a nearby tapestry to make sure nothing was lurking and listening there.

  Lord Fanderyn narrowed his eyes. “To what purpose?” he asked. “What did the owl do there?”

  “Only stirs up the captains,” Waggarinzil hissed. “Gets them to rouse their soldiers, all stealthy quiet like.”

  “And then?”

  The goblin cupped a gauntleted hand around his mouth. “The entire garrison sneaked off,” he breathed. “That bird done led them through a secret way from the Hill and off into the forest they marched—every last hobnail-booted one. Not a word nor a sign has been heard from them since. Now that’s what I call an uncommon morning.”

  Wiping his piggy snout with the back of his hand, he stared into Lord Fanderyn’s dark-blue eyes.

  “What make you of that then, M’lord?”

  The noble’s mind was racing. What was the High Lady doing? Had she been waylaid in the forest and sent the owl to summon her soldiers to save her? No, who would dare attack the Tyrant of the Hollow Hill? Besides, she, with her enchantments, was unassailable. But then why summon the spriggans? Whatever the reason, he did not have the answer—yet.

  “I make nothing of it,” he answered slowly. “We must not question the designs and policies of our deathless Queen.”

  “But the whole garrison,” Waggarinzil persisted, “and all so silent and armed to the lugs—what lies out there in yonder forest to make Her so sudden fearful? What enemies are out there to cause such alarm? A baffler, that’s what it is—but I’d dearly like to know the root of it, by the Big Wolf’s ears I would.”

  Lord Fanderyn stepped back from the goblin. Was he trying to make him say something indiscreet, as he himself had tricked the bogle esquire?

  “Spriggans love their knives and spears more than they do their whiskery mothers,” he finally answered with a dismissive shrug. “They eat and sleep with their weapons and, if they weren’t so terrified of water, would bathe with them too. If the Lady Rhiannon wishes to drill them in the forest, it is Her right to do so, and a very sound decision it is. Their slovenliness has become a byword among the nobles at court; they need a sharp reminder of discipline—as do a good many more in this realm.”

  Waggarinzil let out an injured-sounding sigh.

  “Now, now,” he said in a conciliatory tone. “There’s no need to huff and be overwatchful on my account. By Howla’s broken bones, I’m not out to sell tattling stories to no one. I remembers when this was a sweet kingdom, yes—even during the wars with the troll witches. Never was a finer king than old Ragallach—may His glorious memory never dim. Strange how so hale a tree bore such a sour and poisonous apple.�
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  Lord Fanderyn backed away in alarm. The goblin was openly speaking treason. Was he mad? They could both lose their heads for this.

  “Be silent!” he commanded. “I’ll hear no more of your sedition. It is I who should report you.”

  The goblin smiled. “I don’t believe you’ll do that, M’lord,” he said. “Not if what my little whisperers tell me is true. Seems you’ve no liking for wormy apples any more than us, even if they is golden—if you understand my meaning. Time we tasted the fruit of a different tree is what we say. Plenty of high-born varieties in this here orchard, though there’s few with such quality as one not so far away from me right now.”

  Lord Fanderyn was too astonished to speak, so Waggarinzil continued quickly.

  “Should the chance present itself,” he said, “there’s many who’ll fight under your colors, goblins and kluries and a great number of the lesser folk. All us needs is for the golden apple to be found lacking.”

  “That will never happen,” the noble uttered flatly. He didn’t trust this goblin for a moment. He had seen too many betray themselves with misplaced trust.

  Waggarinzil scratched one of his great ears. “Then by the Great Boar’s bristles, what is it out there that’s made Her so fearful?” he asked. “For the first time ever, She, who never has before, has got more flutters than a cave full of bats. So I says to you, be watchful and be ready.”

  Lord Fanderyn was about to answer when a sudden pounding din rang down the hallway.

  “Who’s banging on my doors?” the goblin cried, wheeling about and hurrying away.

  The noble followed him and they hastened to a small courtyard where two goblin guards with pikestaffs were braced against the large boulder that served as one of the Hollow Hill’s doorways.

  “Open in the name of the Lady!” bawled an angry voice from the other side.

  Waggarinzil signaled for the guards to stand aside, then planted himself squarely before the tall rock and folded his powerful arms.

  “Who’s that a-yellin’ out there?” he shouted.

  “Don’t you go askin’ such slack-wit questions!” came the stern reply. “Shift yerselfs and open this ’ere door.”

  “What’s the watchword for the day?”

  “How should I know? We’ve been out this past night. Now open up or there’ll be skulls to crack when I does get in and you’ll have to answer to Her Dark Ladyship, for ’tis Her bidding we’re doin’.”

  Waggarinzil stood aside and cast a quizzical look at Lord Fanderyn. “Open the way,” the goblin grunted.

  The guards heaved at the two iron chains on either side of the boulder. There was a grinding of stone, the rock swung inward and the courtyard was flooded with brilliant sunshine. They shielded their eyes and uttered dismal groans and their commander shuddered, for all goblins shun the sunlight.

  Lord Fanderyn stared at the squat, mail-clad figures already lumbering over the threshold. They were spriggans—three of them. The bloodthirsty Captain Grittle, who was forever sniffing for assassins and conspiracies in every corner, led the way, and two of his idiot lackies, Wumpit and Bogrinkle, brought up the rear. But what were those two carrying between them, Fanderyn wondered.

  “Took you long enough!” Grittle scowled as he barged inside. “I’ll be sure She gets to hear of that.”

  “Not so fast,” Waggarinzil instructed. “By Ragallach’s sword, you can’t just stroll in here without answering the usual questions; I got me my orders as well—and what’s that your lads are lugging? You been out hunting? Is that some skinny breed of otter? Who dressed it in them rags? What new sport is this?”

  Captain Grittle had no liking for Waggarinzil at the best of times, but that morning, he would have liked to hack off his ugly great head.

  “This ’ere’s a barn bogle,” he growled. “An’ we got to deliver it to Old Gabbity to see what she can do fer it.”

  Lord Fanderyn stepped forward and looked down at the sorry creature they were carrying. It was covered in hair and a dagger was buried in its back. In the words of the old saying, the bogle was as limp as a boned badger.

  “But this beast is dead, surely?” he declared.

  Captain Grittle noticed the noble for the first time and regarded him suspiciously. He didn’t like him much either. Lord Fanderyn smelled like a plotter more than most.

  “There’s a snatch of life left still,” he said gruffly.

  Wumpit, who was carrying the barn bogle by the shoulders, piped up, “Leastways there was when we set off from the Crone’s Maw. I isn’t so sure now.”

  “If him’s a goner, we’re done fer!” Bogrinkle sniveled wretchedly.

  With a twitch of his head, their captain motioned for them to continue on their way.

  “If I was you, sir,” the spriggan told Sir Fanderyn, “I wouldn’t try detainin’ us. She’ll not like that, She won’t.”

  The noble nodded. “Of course,” he agreed. “You must hurry on to Gabbity.”

  “But my orders!” Waggarinzil objected.

  “The responsibility shall be on my shoulders alone,” Lord Fanderyn assured him. “We must not hinder any of our Queen’s commands. In fact, I shall accompany our stout and stalwart spriggans to the Lady Rhiannon’s private chamber, where Gabbity watches over the human child.”

  Captain Grittle shook his head and stomped across the courtyard. “No need fer that, sir,” he said. “Me an’ my lads have managed all this way; we doesn’t need no escort now.”

  “I insist,” Lord Fanderyn replied firmly. “I would hear of your adventures, for it is plain you have had them. Your faces, arms, and legs are bitten and bloody as if a thousand tiny swords have slashed at you.”

  “Blood moths!” Bogrinkle explained with a shiver. “Almost made lacy doilies of our hides, they did.”

  “Tell me more!” Lord Fanderyn implored. “Such a tantalizing hint of a bold, heroic excursion. How did you come to be out in the forest, and what news of your fellow soldiers?”

  He set out to follow them, but Captain Grittle turned on his heel and, with a hand gripping the hilt of one of his many knives, said threateningly, “We’re on Our Lady’s commission, sir. Stand back—I’ll not warn you again.”

  Stung by this insolence, the noble clenched his teeth and bowed. He made no further attempt to follow them. The spriggans clumped off down a passageway and Lord Fanderyn turned to Waggarinzil.

  “An uncommon morning indeed,” he observed. “Discover what you can and bring word to me—I shall be waiting.”

  The goblin tugged one of his ears in salute.

  “Maybe the golden apple really is about to fall,” Lord Fanderyn said softly.

  WITHIN THE PRIVATE CHAMBER OF THE HIGH LADY, Gabbity, the goblin nursemaid, examined the shawl she was knitting and sucked her one tooth. The shawl was turning out very well, one of her rare successes. Mingling nettles and thistles in with the dirty wool had been an inspiration and she held her handiwork at arm’s length, letting out admiring gasps.

  “An entwined border of cowbane or monkshood?” she asked herself. “Or maybe just good old strangling ivy? Yes, very dainty, and with a few laburnum flowers to match my eyes and a sprinkling of nightshade blooms to accent my nose.”

  She cackled with delight and squirmed on her stool, causing the steeple of her white wiry hair to wobble on her head. What a ravishing spectacle she would be at the next court revel. So many envious eyes would be on her and she tapped her large feet at the happy prospect.

  Setting her needles clacking once more, she glanced into the cradle next to her. A pale pink radiance emanated from the human infant sleeping peacefully within. Cooing croakily, the goblin pushed her bulbous nose through the webbed canopy and basked in the soft, rosy glow.

  “Yes, little lordling,” she crooned. “Lie still as death, be silent as the stones and never grow a day older.”
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  Sneaking a quick, savoring sip of the child’s life force, she gave a gummy grin and was about to return her attention to her knitting when a fierce thumping battered upon the door.

  Gabbity fell backward off her stool in fright and her dirty skirts flew over her head.

  “Elves’ bells!” she squealed indignantly, her legs wriggling in the air.

  The hammering persisted.

  “If it’s them young kluries up to their annoyances, I’ll jab an’ slap some sense into ’em!”

  Struggling to her feet, she pulled one of the spare knitting needles from her hair then shuffled over to the stout door and gave it a kick.

  “Be off with you!” she called through the keyhole. “M’Lady’ll put an end to your foolery when She gets back.”

  Gabbity bit her bottom lip in self-reproach. “Ooh, I shouldn’t have said that!” she muttered. “M’Lady’s s’posed to be in here with me, that’s what She told me to tell anyone who dared come a-knockin’. Ooh, you’re in the stew now, Gabbity Malatrot.”

  “It were Her what sent us!” Captain Grittle’s voice barked back through the door. “We’ve a bundle ’ere what needs your nursin’—desperate quick.”

  The goblin rubbed her warty chin. “You doesn’t worm your way in here that easy!” she shouted back. Those spriggans were always trying to catch a glimpse of the mortal child.

  “On my life I swears!” Grittle yelled back. “There’s a three-quarter dead barn bogle with us that’s like as not gasped its last, but if there’s a sliver of hope for it then you’ve to do what you can to aid the thing. ’Tis a strict order from the High Lady Herself.”

  Gabbity picked her nose and pondered. The quarrelsome lout would never make such an audacious claim if it were not true.

  Cautiously she turned the great silver key in the lock, opened the door a chink, and pressed a swiveling eye to the gap.

  In the hallway outside, Captain Grittle stood back and gestured to the motionless figure carried by his subordinates.

  The goblin nursemaid ogled the bogle but did not open the door any further.