The Exiled Heir (Autumn's Fall Saga)

by Jonathan French

  The River Trough bordered the village to her right. Rosheen followed it up past the mill. It was a large, three tier construction of solid wood, its heavy wheel groaning steadily around. The alehouse was just beyond, a long, squat building of thick wooden beams. Attached to one side was a stable made of stacked stone with a turf roof.

  The door to the alehouse was unbarred and slung inward with a slight push, revealing a spacious common room filled with long benches and tables, all of them upright, disturbingly well-ordered for a place with no people. Rosheen landed lightly on the dirt floor and stepped a few paces inside. It was colder in the shadowy alehouse than it was without, where the afternoon sun was hidden by a thick smudge of grubby clouds. The fireplaces were stacked with fresh turf, ready to be lit and clay flagons hung neatly on pegs over the serving table.

  “Just like all the others,” Padric said from the doorway. “Undisturbed. Just empty.” He dumped his pack and went over to one of the fireplaces, pulling his flint from his belt. Rosheen regarded him as he worked, kneeling before the fireplace, grimy and soiled from traveling.

  Padric had not taken a blade to his face since they departed his home and a thin layer of black whiskers now shadowed his chin, lip and jaw. Coupled with the hair falling to his shoulders, black as ink, and the ever present brooding of his eyes, the growth on his face made him look wild and more than a little dangerous. The slaying of a gruagach made it less an illusion and more a hard truth. Rosheen’s heart fell as she said goodbye to the innocent boy she knew, and not for the first time. Will I be able to love the man as much? Or at all? She shook the thought away and found another barely more appealing.

  He stood up, the fire now rising steadily, and turned to her.

  “You look ill,” he said

  Rosheen nodded. “Drink?”

  “Right. Grand.” Padric went around behind the serving table to where the large kegs rested heavily in their cradles. “These are all untapped. Need a mallet.” He cast around for a moment before reaching toward the floor, pulling the cellar door open. Rosheen could feel the cold underground air leak up from the opening. She tensed. Why is there light?

  “Padric,” she whispered.

  “I know,” he hissed and drew his long knife. He held his free hand out toward her, indicating she should stay up top and ducked his head, cautiously descending the steep stairs. The narrow passage was clearly illuminated by the flickering of firelight and Rosheen could see where the stairs ended facing an earthen wall. Padric crept down quietly and stayed on the last step as he peered around the corner into the cellar. Knife ready, he stepped down to the right and out of sight. There was a moment’s pause and then his head poked out from behind the wall, looking up at her.

  “You better come down here.”

  As she flew down the cold closeness of the tunnel, she caught the pungent aromas of fresh ale and musty earth. Reaching the bottom, she looked. It was a roomy cellar, tightly packed with stacked barrels. Padric stood in the center, his back turned, the knife returned to its sheath. One of the wooden support beams held a bronze lamp, the burning animal fat spewing greasy smoke into the air, staining the ceiling. At her approach, Padric stepped aside and Rosheen looked down.

  Should have guessed.

  The clurichaun lay over the top of an empty side-turned barrel, his back bending with the curve of the wood. His swollen belly bulged toward the ceiling, expanding hugely with each deep snore. His feet were dangling towards them, one missing a shoe, his head lost from sight over the other side of the barrel. A clay jug dangled loosely from the tip of a relaxed finger. Another barrel stood open next to the clurichaun’s makeshift bed, still upright. It was not simply tapped, but the entire top was pried off, showing the contents of dark ale near half gone.

  “Relative?” Padric asked, a wry grin cracking his face. It was the first time he had smiled since killing the skin-changer.

  Rosheen snorted and grabbed the clurichaun by the ankles, tugging sharply. The barrel rolled forward, dumping the wretch onto his rump on the ground. His head fell back against the barrel, but he kept snoring. Coarse stubble covered his face, his curly hair oily and matted. Rosheen grabbed the front of his stained shirt in her fists and gave him a good shake. His head thumped soundly on the barrel with a woody echo, but he did not wake. She released him and slapped him across the face, giving a second strike with the back of her hand on the return. The clurichaun rewarded her efforts with a reeking belch, but slumbered on. She brought her fist back and took aim at his nose.

  “Rosh!” Padric admonished her.

  “Oh keep quiet,” she replied, but dropped her fist. “He is well beyond feeling anything. Now help me.”

  “Help you what? I’ll not beat on him!”

  “Don’t be daft. Pick him up.”

  Padric frowned at her and leaned over, grabbing the back of the clurichaun’s vest, hoisting him from the ground one-handed. The little sot dangled at the end of Padric’s outstretched arm, oblivious. “Now what?”

  Rosheen tilted her head toward the open barrel and raised an eyebrow.

  “Waste of good ale,” Padric said.

  “From the smell of him, he’s already been swimming in it,” Rosheen countered. “Now dunk him.”

  Padric sighed and held the clurichaun over the barrel.

  “Head first,” Rosheen corrected.

  Padric reached down with his other hand and gripped the clurichaun’s ankles, slowly spinning him around until his arms were swinging freely towards the ground. Wrinkling his nose distastefully Padric lowered his burden into the barrel. The curly head went under, the open mouth sending up a deluge of fat, gurgling bubbles. Padric held him under for some time, looking more sheepish with each passing second, but the clurichaun did not wake. No ale erupted in a fit of froth and waves, the stubby legs did not kick or jerk in Padric’s grasp. Padric gave Rosheen a withering glare and pulled the clurichaun dripping from the barrel.

  “Mayhaps he can breathe it, too…like a fish,” Padric said.

  “Very well,” Rosheen said tightly. “Get the lamp, while I take his trousers down.”

  Padric did not reply to that, just stared at her blank and horrified.

  “We’ll just singe his bollocks. Should be enough to…”

  “Inna wake!” the clurichaun declared suddenly, still upside down.

  “…bring him right ‘round,” Rosheen finished victoriously.

  Padric looked disturbed

  “I don’wan n’more soup!” the clurichaun said, his eyes blinking hard.

  “Wake up and pay attention!” Rosheen stepped up.

  “You leaf tha’ broom a’there, Jileen!” the clurichaun complained thickly. “I had’no but tha’three pints and thas’all!” His face was swelling up, turning a strange shade of red and pale purple.

  “Let him down,” Rosheen told Padric, who looked greatly relieved as he eased the little fellow to the dirt floor. The clurichaun lay on his back, breathing heavily and muttering incoherently to the ceiling.

  “Not like to get much out of him,” Padric said.

  Rosheen shook her head. “If the ale here is as good as that dwarf of yours claimed, this sodden wretch is the reason. I’ve no doubt he made a deal with the brewer-- his enchantments for a place to sleep and a share of the stock. He’s been living here awhile now and knows what happened. Clurichaun are not always drunk, but they are enough of the time as makes little difference. He knows.”

  Padric nodded once and bent down, propping the clurichaun up against the barrels.

  Rosheen approached and stood over him. “Can you tell us where everyone went?”

  The bloodshot eyes rolled lazily around, missed her and pulled focus on Padric. The clurichaun squinted up hard and slack jawed. “Lurvely voice for one s’large…an’ bearded.”

  “I want to know what happened here, you crusty toadstool!” Rosheen leaned in and said loudly in his ear.

  A grin split the clurichaun’s lips, revealing perfect white teeth.
Fae-folk. Even our drunks are comely. “Pretty pishkie, give us’a kiss.” He puckered wetly at her.

  “I’ll plant something on those lips if you do not begin talking sense.” She pulled her fist back again.

  “Fishhh fffoood wuzza dead man, heelz kissin’ the sky!” the clurichaun sang tunelessly. “Fly, fly, mortals run, fear’n ev’ry eye! The ‘ollow man has gon’away, left his masser drowned! The metal man has come’ta play, red death for’all around!” The clurichaun broke off his slurred song and slumped into a gurgling chuckle.

  “He’s mad,” Padric said.

  Rosheen was not so sure. She knelt down, slow and careful, reached out and placed a cool hand on the clurichaun’s brow. His head rolled towards her unsteadily and he looked her in the eyes. Sad. His eyes are sad. “Please,” she whispered gently. “Tell me.”

  He stared at her and smiled. “Knew you’d take my trousssers down.”

  Padric was on him before she could blink. He grabbed the little fool up roughly, slamming him against the support beam, causing the lamp to shake, the light in the cellar fluttering wildly.

  “Tell me what you know!”

  The clurichaun gawked at him for a moment, wide-eyed and fearful, then burst out laughing full in Padric’s face.

  “Scared!” he chuckled. “So scared! They all were! No’me. I no’scared a’you, mortal boy. What’er you? Nowt is’what! No’when I dinna run from liffing iron!”

  Rosheen felt her spine go taut. Living iron?

  “I’ll tell Jileen,” the clurichaun kept on. “I’ll tell’er and no drinks for you.”

  “Where is she? This Jileen.” Padric’s teeth were clenched, Rosheen could hear it, but her mind was elsewhere. …metal man has come’ta play…

  “With the men,” came a strange, lilting voice behind them. “At the burial.”

  Burial. …red death for’all around…

  “Fafnir,” Padric said, looking around and lowering the clurichaun to the floor.

  Rosheen turned. The dwarf.

  Stocky and broad shouldered, Fafnir filled the width of the doorway. He wore traveling clothes of sturdy wool, a grey cloak about his solid frame, the hood pulled up over his head. His clever eyes sat above a bulbous nose and a shaven lip, but his jaw and chin were covered in a short, spade-shaped beard, rust colored and pointed at the end. Padric moved forward and the two clasped wrists. Fafnir’s head barely reached Padric’s chest but his hand was a ham hock, Padric’s arm a twig.

  “It is pleasant to see you again, friend,” Fafnir said. His Middangearder accent created strange swells in his speech, instantly annoying Rosheen.

  “I hoped to find you here,” Padric said.

  Rosheen glowered. And found him you did. Him and no one else.

  “It is only ill-luck that you did,” Fafnir replied. “I have been delayed. Many days now. Dark days for the people here.”

  Rosheen saw Padric’s face fall at the words ‘ill-luck’, the foolish beliefs of his people falling on him like a sudden rain. He will blame himself. Well done, dwarf.

  “What people here?” she demanded. “We have seen no one. Save that.” She jerked a thumb at the clurichaun who was staggering back to his barrel-bed. Clumsily, he attempted to mount it, belly down, but as he reached the top, his weight caused the barrel to roll. The clurichaun farted and fell out of sight.

  Padric and Fafnir both looked over to her, the dwarf with a smile and the man with a distant stare, which dispersed in an instant.

  “Fafnir,” Padric said. “You remember Ro--”

  “Rosheen,” Fafnir finished for him and bowed his head toward her. “My honor to be at your service.”

  “Grand,” Rosheen replied flatly. “Now, please. What happened here? You mentioned a burial.” …red death for’all around…

  Fafnir considered her for a moment. “Come. We will talk upstairs.”

  Fafnir produced a clay pipe from his belt and filled the bowl with leaf before lighting it with a brand he took from the fireplace. Padric settled down on a bench and marveled inwardly at how good it felt to sit up off the ground after so long. Rosheen sat on the serving table behind him.

  “I arrived a fortnight past,” Fafnir began, the pipe clenched firmly in his teeth. “I had a sword to deliver to a fomori here. One Faabar. He commissioned it when I passed this way a year or more ago.” Padric could feel Rosheen cast a look his way, but kept his attention directed entirely on the dwarf. “I am told that the fomori is injured, so I wait. But I do not wait long, before…” Fafnir took a long drag off his pipe and shook his head gravely. “One of the women found the village elder dead in the eel pond, the same day I arrived. A man named Brogan.”

  “The eel pond?” Rosheen asked.

  Fafnir nodded. “The lord who resides near here bids the villagers breed them. Developed a taste for them while warring in Sasana I am told.”

  Rosheen gagged slightly. “I hope the man was dead before he fell in.” Padric tried not to smile.

  “The herbalist claims he was drowned,” Fafnir said.

  “The villagers…they fled after the body was found?” Padric asked.

  “They did,” Fafnir replied. “The women, children and the old amongst them. To the holdfast of the same eel-eating lord, Kederic the Winetongue. The herdsman stayed behind, taking their flocks out into the hills most nights for safety.”

  “Why leave over one dead man? Did they fear a pox?”

  “It is possible. The herbalist spoke heatedly with the men after he saw the body and it was on his instructions that the villagers fled. They have all since returned, hale and healthy. More than that I cannot say, the herbalist is a gnome and has little love for me. He tells me nothing and will not let me deliver the blade, for the fomori, he claims, is grievously injured.”

  Fafnir blew pipe smoke out of his nostrils. “But, the herdsmen gather here most every night. I hear gossip from them when they drink. They say Faabar is not like to recover, although never within the gnome’s hearing. They also say that the elder was murdered. Slain by his husk servant. This they say for all to hear.”

  “This Brogan must have been a rich man,” Padric huffed.

  Fafnir shrugged. “I know little of him, save that he sent the husk to me with a request to replace the iron plough blade that caused hurt to the fomori with one of steel. Hours later, the man was dead and the husk could not be found.”

  Padric had only seen husks once in his life. Four of them helped construct the fort near his village when he was just a boy, adding stone fortifications to the existing wooden stockade. For years after, when he passed one of the scarecrows in the fields he would stop and wait for a while, watching to see if it might come alive. Rosheen explained to him that the Magic used to give the husks life was old and nearly forgotten and would not quicken on common scarecrows. Padric was disappointed but not surprised. The farmers hung rush bundles on poles, poorly formed and bloated looking, all but shapeless, giving only the vaguest impression of arms and legs. Sometimes they would paint an ugly face on a feed sack to serve as a head, but most did not bother.

  By contrast, the husks laboring at the fort were tall and gangly, deft, nimble and precise in every movement. Their stuffed bodies were not overly strong, but his father told him they were exceedingly clever and understood how to raise the fort up solid and level. Padric remembered they took no refreshment when the men of the village rested, but sat talking and even laughing amongst themselves. He wanted to approach and talk with them, but was too afraid they would shun him or cast cruel japes in his face as the villagers often did. Even if they were kind, which he suspected from the jovial expressions on their pumpkin faces, Padric feared he would only invite more suspicion from the men by speaking with them. Husks were not Fae, but were created with their Magic and could be trusted only so far. When the fort was completed, the man who owned the husks was paid with goats and pigs and wool. The husks were given nothing and left with the man, carrying the wool and herding the stock. Padric had not th
ought of them in years.

  “The gnome would not allow Brogan to be buried until today,” Fafnir continued. “So the people have gone to the barrows. I was not asked to attend. There is a decent forge here, so I have worked steel, passing the days trading and teaching when the men are around, hoping the fomori will mend or that I will be permitted to see him.”

  “Why not leave the damn sword in someone’s keeping and move on?” Rosheen asked.

  Fafnir loosed a smoky chuckle. “This is what the gnome would have me do, but I see my goods delivered to their owners and none else.”

  “Probably hasn’t been paid yet,” Rosheen muttered to Padric’s chagrin, but if Fafnir heard he gave no sign.

  “I hoped to enter into your service,” Padric said, trying to keep any nervousness from his voice.

  “My wares would be the safer for it,” Fafnir replied. “The roads are ever perilous and it seems not even the settlements are safe. And you might have better luck than I with the gnome. In dealing with these Fae-folk, you are skilled.”

  Padric smiled at that. It was a lie of course, but a lie that allowed Padric to gain Fafnir’s attention in the first place. Fafnir had come to his village to peddle steel to the warriors of the fort and was met with little warmth. A few dirks sold, an axe head or two and little else, but while there, he happened to hear of a Piskie-kissed youth who was friend to the Fae.

  Fafnir sought him out.

  In the closeness of his father’s hut, Padric and his parents listened to the dwarf’s proposal. He told them it was often difficult to trade with humans and nearly impossible when dealing with Fae-folk. He saw a lad like Padric solving both problems. What Padric saw was an out. And so did his father. Little matter that the only Fae Padric knew was Rosheen and that he was not likely to sow welcoming feelings amongst his own kind.

  Now it seemed he would be tested at last and he welcomed the chance. He would see the sword delivered so Fafnir could be on his way to the next town, the next fort, the next distant country, taking Padric with him.