War in Hagwood

by Robin Jarvis

  “I doesn’t want to die on an empty stomach,” Tollychook complained to the featherless hen matron, who clucked back at him and shooed him on his way.

  Finnen Lufkin was still standing upon the battlements, watching the light fail in the sky and keeping an eye on the camp of the Redcaps below. Those vicious creatures had lit several small fires and were sitting around them, singing repulsive songs of brutal slaughter and cackling at hideous jokes. Only the bones of their former wardens remained, and they were well gnawed by now. They were growing impatient and they kept glancing back to the tower, wondering when they should attack again. Would the High Lady be angry if they didn’t wait as she had commanded, they wondered?

  Observing them, Finnen guessed what they were thinking. He heard Meg and the others gather behind him but he did not turn around.

  “That hammering when the key was destroyed scared them,” he said. “But they’re back to their usual nasty selves and itching to get their knives and arrows wet again.”

  “They will enjoy my sister’s new reign,” Peg-tooth Meg said. “Now that she is free from fear, her ambition will be limitless. She will make a world of pain and horror, where suffering will replace love and her cruel whims shall be the only law. Before this day, she was only the blood-soaked tyrant of a small secret kingdom; henceforth her terror will have no bounds.”

  “How long before she comes back here?” Finnen asked.

  “Soon,” Meg said. “Very soon.”

  “Good,” he replied. “I don’t want to live in her new world.”

  Finnen stared west across the forest. The sun was taking a long time to set. In fact, it seemed to be growing brighter.

  “Fire!” he cried. “The western edge of the wood is burning!”

  “That will be her work,” Meg told him.

  “But that’s our home! Our families are in that blaze—my old Nan!”

  He whirled around in anguish. Liffidia and Tollychook had pushed to the front and were watching, horrified, at the angry glow in the far distance.

  “Me Mam and Dad,” Tollychook sniveled.

  “Everyone we know …” Liffidia murmured.

  Finnen’s face turned almost as red as the distant flames and he let out a yell of helpless rage that was so loud several Redcaps glanced up at the battlements.

  Meg shook her head sorrowfully. “So the immortal tyrant’s reign begins,” she announced, “with the slaughter of innocents. I am sorry you are stranded here, so far from your families and friends. If any of Tammedor’s children were able, I’m sure they would have flown you there so you could try and save your loved ones.”

  “If I had been the ace wergler I pretended to be,” Finnen said, with bitter self-reproach, “I could have changed into a bird myself.”

  Liffidia turned away. It was too hideous to think about what was happening over there in the land of the werlings.

  It was Tollychook who finally said, in a hesitant mumble, “But, Master Lufkin … you doesn’t need to be good at werglin’—not when there’s that fire devil to do it for you.”

  The other werlings looked at him in astonishment. Then Finnen threw his arms about him.

  “Tollychook Umbelnapper!” Finnen cried joyously. “You are the wisest out of the lot of us. Bless you—oh, bless you!”

  Peg-tooth Meg gave a great smile and gladly handed over Harkul, the silver talisman.

  “Go, all of you,” she urged. “Be with those dearest to you at this evil hour.”

  “But we don’t know how to fly,” Liffidia told her. “Tollychook and me, we never wergled into birds. There’s more to it than just flapping the wings; I know that much. We’d never make it and there isn’t time to learn.”

  “I’d only be a fat bird anyways,” Tollychook said morosely. “An’ plop right down into one of them there Redcaps’ laps.”

  Finnen looked at his friends and doubt clouded his face. How could he leave them? But Liffidia knew what he was thinking.

  “The battle here is over now,” she said warmly. “There is nothing anyone can do. But, over there—you could just make a huge difference, Finnen. You’re smart and resourceful. You might still save some of them. We’ve always looked up to you, every single one of us, no matter what you did. Please hurry; please go!”

  Tollychook was nodding feverishly in agreement.

  “Take this chance, my former sluglung friend,” Meg told him. “You have fought so courageously here. If I were queen, I would make you a knight of the Serpentine Order. There is no higher rank in the Unseelie Court. So fly now, Sir Finnen Lufkin and may the old forces of Dunwrach guard you.”

  At that moment there came the sound of galloping hooves through the forest and everyone turned to see goblin knights and elfin nobles come riding from the trees.

  “She is here!” Meg declared. “Go now—hurry!”

  Finnen gripped the silver talisman and closed his eyes. He concentrated hard and at once felt cold sparks crackle between his fingers. His back bent and his legs dwindled. A wave of white light washed over him and the fire devil slid through the feathers of his transformed wings.

  Meg caught it and stroked the head of the bright-eyed blackbird that had taken the boy’s place. It hopped onto her finger and she placed Harkul into one of his little claws.

  “You will have need of this to return to your normal self,” she said.

  Finnen cocked his head to one side. Then he spread his sleek wings and leaped from the tower.

  Liffidia and Tollychook marveled as he flew straight and fast, high over the besieging enemy who strung their bows immediately and sent volleys of arrows into the air. The blackbird swerved and swooped, skillfully avoiding every one.

  “He was always the best of us,” Liffidia said softly.

  “Tell me Mam I miss her!” Tollychook cried.

  The blackbird was already vanishing into the distance—a fluttering fleck almost invisible against the dark smoke that was climbing over the horizon. The silver fire devil glinted briefly in his grasp and then they lost sight of him.

  Peg-tooth Meg lowered her eyes and stared down at the troop of mounted knights and nobles who had ridden from the forest. Their bright armor was gleaming and the tips of silver spears flashed, reflecting the flames of the Redcap fires. Lord Limmersent rode at the forefront, his face grim and stern.

  “What puzzlement is this?” Meg muttered as she watched them advance. There were not as many as she had expected and her sister was not among them.

  Lord Limmersent reined his steed to a halt and stared up at the broken watchtower. Since the secret meeting that afternoon with Lord Fanderyn, he and the other four nobles, together with the two goblin knights and the most trusted members of their households, had searched the forest in vain for clues as to where the High Lady had taken the spriggans and then the Redcaps. Only when they came across an exhausted spriggan deserter and put the fear of water on him did they discover where the battle had been fought that morning, and so they spurred their horses toward the eastern edge of Hagwood. The kluries had remained behind in the hill, to spread the word among their folk, and others, that salvation was finally at hand.

  Now Lord Limmersent peered upward, unable to disguise his disdain.

  “What manner of creature dwells therein?” he asked himself. “And how am I to parley with it?”

  But before he could approach the entrance, the Redcaps leaped from their campfires and ran after the horses, jabbering and snapping at the heels of the riders.

  Sir Begwort and Sir Hobflax, the goblin knights, unsheathed their swords and swept the bright blades before the crowding savage faces.

  “Keep your distance,” they warned. “These are lordly folk. Where are your keepers?”

  The Redcaps hesitated, but their eyes were filled with hate and they spat at the horses.

  “We ate them!” they boasted
, smacking their lips. “By the leave of the Lady Herself. And we’ll dine on you and your chargers if you try to enter that there tower.”

  “What you doing here?” others demanded. “Where is the Lady?”

  They surged forward and swarmed around Lord Limmersent and his company, forming a snarling barrier between him and the entrance. “No one is to go in there,” they growled.

  “Out of my way, gibbet fodder!” Lord Limmersent commanded. “How dare you obstruct me, descendent of a princely house? You are but stomachs on legs whereas the pure blood of the fallen realm beyond the Lonely Mere runs in my veins.”

  The Redcaps gurgled with insolent delight. “We won’t waste a drop of it,” they promised greedily.

  Lord Limmersent snorted with anger and looked at his fellow nobles. They were just as infuriated as he was. Earl Brennant had drawn two long knives and was pointing them at the throats of the two most vocal and jeering of the Redcaps. The Lady Mauvette was gripping a jeweled dagger and the aged Earl Tobevere had a hand on the hilt of his sword in readiness. The goblin knights were desperate to spur their horses into the mob and go slashing with their steel but there were too many of those bloodthirsty fiends for them to battle.

  Lord Limmersent tossed his head in rage. Precious time was slipping away. The Redcaps were obviously expecting the High Lady to return at any moment and then he and the others would be caught in their conspiracy against her. He decided to bluff it out.

  “We have been sent by Rhiannon,” he lied. “She commands we speak with those in yonder tower. Withdraw, let us pass.”

  The Redcaps squinted up at him. They had no reason to disbelieve his words but there was something suspicious going on and they shuffled backward reluctantly.

  Lord Limmersent regained his composure and led the knights and nobles to the foot of the tower.

  He stared up at the battlements again but, in the failing light, could see only dim shapes peering down at him.

  “I come to you from the Hollow Hill!” he shouted. “Lord Limmersent am I—noble of the Unseelie Court. We desire a counsel with you.”

  While he waited for an answer, the Redcaps crowded before the broken entrance. Their own orders were to let no one in or out and they were going to stick to them.

  The other nobles grew anxious. They had not imagined they would have to yell their secret rebellion into the sky like this.

  Then, from high above, a dry, croaking voice called down, “Hail, Perival Limmersent. Many years have passed since I last beheld your proud face.”

  Hearing his first name, Lord Limmersent sat bolt upright in the saddle and cursed under his breath. Who was that up there? Who knew him?

  “Declare yourself!” he demanded. “Who are you to use my name?”

  Peg-tooth Meg gazed down on him, a vague shape in the deepening shadows. “Do the fountains still spout sweet in the courtyard of your halls?” she called. “Long ago, I danced in them.”

  The noble strained his eyes and searched his memory but could not guess who was atop that tower.

  “Let us speak together!” he answered. “It may be our goals are the same.”

  “Why are you here?” Meg asked. “What do you hope to gain from me?”

  Lord Limmersent cast a wary eye over the Redcaps then abandoned caution completely.

  “We seek the golden casket made by the Puccas!” he declared. “If you have this powerful thing, what I hope for, what I pray you can grant us, is an end to the Tyrant of the Hollow Hill.”

  The nobles around him shifted uneasily and glanced over their shoulders at the dark forest. There was no going back now.

  On the rooftop, Peg-tooth Meg turned to her sluglungs.

  “Shimmil Dunge, my loves,” she told them.

  On the ground the Redcaps were hissing ferociously. Savage, bestial loyalty to the High Lady flamed in their breasts and their eyes locked on the throats of this treacherous, lying lord and his companions. Their bodies tensed and they prepared to spring.

  Then, without warning, a sound so unexpected filled the air, all thought of battle was momentarily forgotten. It was music—a plaintive, sorrowful melody that dripped from above like rain. The Redcaps were confounded and gaped upward while the nobles exclaimed in confusion.

  The Lady Mauvette uttered a small cry of recognition and caught her breath. “I know that sound,” she said. “I have heard it so many times. But it cannot be …”

  It was the sound of a harp. Peg-tooth Meg had run her fingers over the strings of the enchanted instrument she had made from the bones of her dead brother. The only tune it would ever play was that of the lullaby their father the High King had sang to his children. Now those soulful notes cascaded down from the battlements and Meg’s cracked voice began to sing.

  Three young chicks are chirping in the nest:

  One a princeling with gold on his crest.

  Another the fairest, with love in her breast.

  One the darkest, more quiet than the rest.

  Little birds, little birds, your father so adores you.

  By the joy that you bring, his kingdom is all for you.

  With deepest love, the Hollow Hill implores you,

  To reign one day—may faerie gold shower o’er you.

  “What wonder is this?” breathed the Lady Mauvette. “After so many years.”

  Every eye was trained upward and so everyone witnessed the same impossible sight at once.

  Something was descending. A hunched figure was floating down from the tower. At first it seemed to be sitting on empty air, but then they saw what appeared to be glistening, stretching ropes on either side of it.

  The sluglungs had merged together into one great quivering mass and were lowering Meg over the battlements. Sitting in a seat formed from two large clasped hands, she drifted gently down. The gruesome harp was tucked under one of her arms, its strings still thrumming on their own, and the golden casket lay on her lap.

  The goblin knights rode their horses to one of the campfires, took up burning brands and galloped back, holding them high over their heads. The crackling light shone across the strange and grotesque figure dangling from the battlements. It had stopped its descent and was now suspended just out of reach. Nobody had seen such a face as Meg’s before and they did not hide their revulsion.

  Her froglike mouth became even wider as she smiled grimly and her bulging eyes alighted upon each of them.

  Even the Redcaps grimaced as the torchlight played over her unlovely features, but they too were eager to see what would happen next.

  Finally, Peg-tooth Meg spoke.

  “Many years have flowed by since I fled the land of eternal summer beneath the great hill,” she said. “Though you do not recognize me, I know your faces well enough.”

  “Give us your name!” Lord Limmersent demanded.

  Meg drew a hand through her lank green hair but, before she could speak, someone else called out, “Princess Clarisant!”

  The Lady Mauvette walked her horse forward. Her hands were trembling and a tear rolled down her cheek.

  The others stared at her in astonishment. “What crooked jest is this?” Earl Brennant cried. “Why do you address that misshapen toad wife so?”

  “Clarisant,” Marquess Gurvynn murmured. “That is a name I have not heard in too long a time. The fairest child under the soil, with golden hair and a laugh even more treasured.”

  “Not that ogress, certainly,” snapped Earl Brennant.

  The Lady Mauvette made no answer. She gazed up at Meg, ignoring the outward ugliness and recognized the beautiful spirit within her.

  Lord Limmersent shook his head, frowning. “As night is to day,” he muttered. “Princess Clarisant was as beautiful as you are hideous. And yet … I recall well her delight as she danced in my fountains.”

  The Lady Mauvette slipped from the
saddle and sank to the ground in a deep curtsey. “My dearest Lady!” she said humbly.

  The nobles could scarcely believe it. But the more they stared at the hump-backed creature suspended from the battlements, the more they became aware she possessed a regal dignity. It was as if the supreme ugliness was but a dense veil concealing a majestic light within, yet glimmers of that radiance were still shining through.

  One by one, the nobles climbed from their horses and then knelt with their heads bowed. The Redcaps were murmuring among themselves. Was this really the daughter of the late, beloved King? They looked at one another in confusion. What were they to do?

  “Your Highness,” Lord Limmersent said. “Forgive our rough manners. These are desperate times and this is the darkest hour. Your return among us is surely a sign of hope.”

  Peg-tooth Meg motioned for them to rise.

  “This is the hope you sought and gambled your lives for,” she said, solemnly holding the golden casket up for them to see.

  “What lies within?” Lord Limmersent asked. “What is this weapon that can defeat Rhiannon Rigantona?”

  Meg held the box against her cheek and stroked it. From inside there came a soul-rending cry.

  “Have mercy!” it shrieked. “Have pity! Eternal gulfs of pain and unendurable torment are before me—spare me! I beg you! Release me—release me! Worse crimes are to come—oh, much worse.”

  The terror and despair of that desolate voice sent a tingle of horror down everyone’s spine. Even the horses stamped their hooves and swished their tails and the Redcaps covered their ears.

  “What accursed spirit is in there?” The Lady Mauvette asked. “It wails an ocean of sorrow. I cannot bear it!”

  “Make it stop!” Earl Brennant implored.

  “But it’s Her!” Sir Begwort cried. “It speaks with the High Lady’s voice, or I have never heard Her speak.”

  Meg put the casket to her lips and whispered until the voice lapsed into bitter sobbing. Then she looked back at the nobles and said, “Here, inside this lovely treasure, beats all that was good of my sister—it contains her living heart.”