The Exiled Heir (Autumn's Fall Saga)

by Jonathan French

  “No.”

  Faabar looked down at him for a moment longer than turned and began struggling up the trail. “He comes.”

  And so he joined the hunt, finding himself atop the Tor, in the wind, waiting on the fomori. During the trek, Deglan remained bad-tempered, Rosheen stayed in her huff and Faabar was intent on his tracking, so Padric marched in silence. He gathered from the few exchanges between the others that Deglan had seen the Unwound coming from the Tor, so the search would begin there. They had been on the summit for the better part of an hour and the ruins did not seem to be yielding any trace so far as Padric could tell, but he was no tracker. Rosheen’s patience broke long before his. She stayed on the ground, marching over to Faabar, who stood still as a statue.

  “Anything?” she asked. Padric smirked. The fomori towered over him, next to Rosheen, he was a mountain. The piskie did not seem to notice.

  “There are traces,” Faabar said. “Even in these strong winds, the scents are here. Iron. Rust. Oil.”

  “Sounds right,” Rosheen stated.

  “No. There is something missing.” Faabar looked down at her. “Blood. Unwound always smell of it, from many different sources. It would be the strongest scent. There is none in this air.”

  “There are none up here to kill.”

  “Perhaps.” Faabar looked doubtful. Padric stayed where he was. He had nothing to offer but another pair of eyes. And some stories about the Unwound.

  They were soldiers of living iron brought to life by the human sorcerers that ruled the goblins in bygone days. They were said to be monstrous large and unstoppable. There were hundreds of them and they marched forth to slaughter the Fae that were fighting to put the Elf King back on the throne. The Fae rebels defeated them with Magic; working a spell to give them a heart. It is said they threw down their weapons in shame for their bloody deeds and abandoned the Goblin Kings. It was not one of Padric’s favorite tales, but a good one nonetheless. He kept his mouth shut as the others spoke. He did not want to look the fool twice.

  “Still,” the fomori went on. “We will follow the scents that are here. They lead down from the old gatehouse,” Faabar motioned to the ragged remnants of three stone walls, irregular in height and crumbling. Padric tried to detect even the shadow of a gatehouse in the ruins and failed. “…down the opposite side of the Tor. The boy and I will follow.” Faabar turned to Padric and bid him approach with a jerk of his hand, then turned back to Rosheen. “If you will go down the way we came and tell Master Loamtoes to meet us at the foot of the hill, near Bairn’s Babble. It is a spring. He knows the place. Circle around the northern edge of the base and do not split up.”

  Padric thought Rosheen would argue, but she surprised him and merely nodded before heading off back down the path they had ascended, leaving Padric alone with the fomori. He grew a little uncomfortable as he stood there in silence. It was not fear, but a gnawing apprehension. Over the past weeks, Padric had learned much about himself. The journey to Hog’s Wallow had hardened him, both in body and resolve. He felt more competent and sure in his actions. He had never been overly strong, but he found that he possessed a well of stamina and a deep capacity to struggle through hardship, pain and toil. In Faabar’s presence, all of that seemed to melt away. The fomori made him feel even more a witless child than his father ever did. Padric worried he would say or do something foolish, proving the gnome’s harsh declaration that he was of no use. Faabar had spoken up for him, allowed him to come along and Padric feared he would disappoint.

  “Come,” Faabar said. “Our way will be more difficult.”

  Padric followed as they picked their way through the shattered gatehouse and on into the encroaching tangle of bracken and thorns.

  “There was once a donkey track that led up to this point,” Faabar told him as they made their way through the overgrowth. “Narrow and winding, it was only used to bring supplies up to the fortress. But the gnomes wove their spells when we heard the goblins were coming, asking the Earth to swallow the path so that our enemies could not use it. Nature, it seems, has continued the work of Magic in the centuries since.”

  Whether it was the work of spells or natural growth, Padric could not say, but their way was certainly impeded. The downhill was choked with fallen limbs, dense hedges, tripping tangles of thick weeds and everything was covered in the ever present flood of fallen leaves. Each step was a challenge and a threat, forcing Padric to think about every motion. He was so intent on placing his feet that he almost lost an eye to the jutting branch of a dead tree. It caught him just below the eyebrow, forcing his head backward and his feet out from under him. He slid onto his backside with a curse, but recovered quickly. Thankfully, the fomori did not turn, but continued down, going sideways, his injured leg leading, keeping the knee straight as possible. The hillside was unforgiving and soon Padric could hear the fomori breathing heavy, giving the occasional grunt of pain.

  They pushed on and before Padric knew it, he had pulled well ahead. He stopped to wait, grateful for a chance to catch his breath. When Faabar caught up he stopped for a moment as well.

  “Better I should lead,” he rumbled.

  “In case we run into the Unwound?” Padric asked.

  “No,” Faabar gave a tired smile. “So I can slow you down, instead of chasing you down this damn mountain.”

  Padric laughed at that. He took two hard boiled eggs from his pack and offered one to Faabar. The fomori nodded gratefully and popped it into his mouth, shell and all. Padric looked down at his own egg doubtfully, then bolstered himself and bit into it, unpeeled. The shells were sharp, but tasteless and the egg went down fine, if a little gritty. They shared a waterskin between them before resuming their descent.

  “Padric, was it?” Faabar asked from the lead.

  “That’s right.”

  “Were you a hunter before joining with the dwarf, Padric?”

  “No,” Padric admitted, “My father was a farmer. We grew our crops and raised our meat. We traded with hunters for game sometimes.” Padric had been shown how to use a sling as a child. It was a skill meant to drive off animals that might harm the livestock. Padric had never even picked up a bow.

  “I am not a hunter myself,” Faabar continued. “Too much patience is needed. But I learned some woodcraft from those I have known. In war, there are few skills that are not useful, so I listen and I learn where I can. So, you and I are hunters today. Would you learn?”

  “Gladly.”

  In truth, Padric had never been one for learning. He had grown up too mistrusting of others to accept their wisdom. Not that there were many in his village eager to take him under their wing, unless it was to teach mockery, scorn and accusation. He learned some from his father, but only grudgingly after he failed to surpass him in anything. His mother taught him many things through her kindness and her gentle, unyielding manner, and some tangible skills he was forced to hide lest he be seen as only capable of woman’s work. Rosheen was more playmate than mentor. Now that he had joined with Fafnir, events were taking him on a wild hunt through the forest with an immortal warrior hunting a creature that was not supposed to exist. Padric smiled ruefully at his chance to be an apprentice.

  “Know your quarry,” Faabar began. “It sounds simple and should we be stalking a deer, it would be. But savage as it might be, our prey is no animal. What do you know of the Unwound?”

  Padric took a moment before he answered. He had a sudden, foolish obsession with answering correctly and did not want to misspeak. “Before today I would have said they were myth and what knowledge I do possess comes from stories, nothing more.”

  “Tell me.”

  So he did, starting slowly. He told the story he knew from childhood, feeling quite the mooncalf when he was finished. “I am sure it is mere fable,” he said sheepishly.

  “It is not,” Faabar said. “But there are errors in your telling. You relate the tale of the Forge Born. It was of the Unwound I was asking.”

  Padr
ic frowned. “Are they not the same?”

  “As the faithful hound is the same to the rabid dog. As you say, the Forge Born were soldiers. Disciplined, controllable, little more than puppets, but the spell which instilled them with a heart also freed them from their thrall, giving them a will of their own. Some did cast their weapons aside in grief, others turned those weapons on their former masters in vengeance and some took their own lives out of guilt, unable to bear the blood on their hands. When the war was done, the Forge Born remained and many in the newly restored Seelie Court called for their complete destruction. But Irial Elf King decreed it would be a wicked act to bestow them with goodness only to punish them for their unwilling servitude. The Forge Born were spared and allowed to find a place in the world.”

  “I have never seen one,” Padric said earnestly. Fearing Faabar would take that as disbelief he added, “But I have not seen much.”

  “Nor would you have. It has been almost a thousand years since the Restoration and in that time the Forge Born withered, slowly succumbing to the wasting influences of long years. They were as much machine as Magic and there were none left with the craft to maintain them. There lies the other error in your account. The Goblin Kings did not create the Forge Born, but the goblins themselves.”

  “But there are goblins still in the world.” Padric was certain of it. He had seen one when he was a boy, at least he had seen its head rotting on a pole.

  Faabar grunted. “Oh they’re numbers remain undiminished. All folk thrive during times of peace and goblins thrive at the worst of times. Might be there are more now than there were during the Rebellion. They cluster in the ruins of the elf cities to the north, like Black Pool. Some have even returned to the fold of their ancient kin, the gnomes, but save yourself a tongue lashing and do not mention such to Master Loamtoes.”

  Padric would remember. The gnome had shown him nothing but scorn since he first delivered Faabar’s sword. Padric felt no need to further that ire.

  Faabar picked his way carefully with the haft of his maul and continued. “For all their masses, goblins are a hopeless rabble, squabbling and leaderless. And what is true today was true a thousand years ago. That is how they came to be led by the warlocks. Ambitious men and powerful, they learned their Magic under the tutelage of trusting Fae-folk, all the while lusting for control of the isle. They were cunning and knew potent crafts, but they were still mortal men and could not hope to overthrow the Seelie Court without help. The goblins were many and easily swayed, so the warlocks marshaled them to their cause and went to war, wresting the crown from the elves and abolishing the Seelie Court. They became the Goblin Kings, usurpers and oathbreakers all, oppressing the Fae for long centuries, ending the Age of Summer and ushering in this…Age of Autumn.

  “At last, when the suffering grew too great, we fought back and began slowly retaking what had been stolen. We were dubbed rebels,” Faabar practically spat the word. “In truth we were liberators, sworn to overthrow the treasonous tyrants that put us under their heel. The goblin armies were numerous, but their masters were mortals and despite their spells, could not cling to life forever. A succession of weak Kings left the goblins divided, while we rebels grew in strength. Victory was in our grasp, or so we believed. And then came Jerrod the Second and his son, the Gaunt Prince. Our hopes turned to ashes.”

  Padric had heard much of this tale before, but never told like this. Faabar’s slow, rumbling voice seemed to settle in Padric’s chest and camped pleasantly in his ears. He was not hearing the tale, he was feeling it. It was not legend or history or fireside fancy, it was living and real and suddenly not so long ago. Faabar was there and saw it all. As had Deglan. And Rosheen. Padric was sure of it now. Never had she spoken of it so openly as the fomori did now, but it was a part of her all the same. They all shared it, gnome, fomori and piskie alike. Even the drunken clurichaun Two-Keg held it close. It was just behind the eyes. A haunting sadness wrought by the terrible events of days past and a deeper sadness beyond, of the better days before. Days that would never return.

  Faabar stopped on the hillside and gestured around them. “Gnomes guard the Earth. Sylphs are in the Air. Undine deep in the Water. But thousands of years before the warlocks rose, the goblins went deep underground and took the power of Fire from its former stewards. That is a long tale and not for today. It is enough to know that they retained their mastery over the purging element in the days of the Rebellion and were instructed by King Jerrod to harness it to create for him an army. The goblins obeyed the madness of their human overlord and shaped the Forge Born in their blistering foundries deep below the Earth. Victory was torn from our hands on the day they first marched and we knew many more years of suffering.”

  “But the Fae King refused to destroy them,” Padric repeated thoughtfully. “Even after the war was won.” He absorbed the tale, nodding darkly to himself. Mankind should not be blamed for the actions of Oathbreakers. Those were Rosheen’s words. The Court understood that. It seemed they forgave the Forge Born as well.

  “Some helped us to rebuild,” Faabar answered. “Others left the isle for lands not scourged by their hands. The goblins who made them were powerful Flame Binders and the Keepers of Fire. They were killed during the war or hunted down and executed for their creation. Without them the Forge Born declined, their slumped, lifeless remains standing like statues across the land.” Faabar’s face grew grim and his voice low. He scowled at nothing. “But for every ten that simply rusted to stillness there was one that went Unwound. Not even the wisest can say why, but all can agree that a Forge Born gone berserk is a ruinous storm upon everything unlucky enough to fall in its path.”

  Something occurred to Padric then. “You picked up a scent on the Tor…we have been following it. If an Unwound is so destructive why is there no evidence of its passing? This hillside is overgrown, thick with bramble and hedge. Nothing has come this way.”

  Faabar stared down at him for a moment, then nodded with approval and set off again. He did not continue downwards but set off across the hillside. Puzzled, Padric followed. It was not long before the fomori stopped again and Padric was forced to do the same. He halted abruptly and stared. There was a scar running down the hillside, a swath of churned leaves, trampled hedge, felled trees and broken limbs. Padric swallowed hard when he saw that there was not a tree branch remaining at least a foot above Faabar’s head. Whatever had come this way was taller than the fomori. They had been hiking next to this destruction for hours, not fifty yards removed.

  “When hunting dangerous prey,” Faabar instructed. “It is best to track it. Not follow it.”

  Bairn’s Babble was choked down to little more than a pitiful gurgle. The water trickled down the rocks and was then lost in a morass of mud covered leaves. Deglan cleared away some of the debris and used a few of the leaves to make a channel for the scant water, diverting it to fall over a jutting rock. He was able to get his waterskin under the flow, but it was some time before the slight trickle filled the skin even half way. Deglan waited, his arm cramping, his brow furrowing. When the skin was full at last, he moved so Bulge Eye could take a drink, his tongue a pink, fleshy wad pressed between his wide toad lips. The piskie fluttered and paced and fluttered again, casting eyes up the wooded slope of the Tor. She was never still.

  “Would you sit,” Deglan barked. “They’ll be here.”

  Rosheen shook her head disapprovingly at the Tor. “He should not have come.”

  Deglan eased himself down on a dry rock. “My thinking is none of us should have.”

  She stopped pacing long enough to give him a dose of the glare she was giving the Tor, then went back to her mid-air dance of worry. She cared for the boy. Deglan found some spit in his mouth and shared it with a leaf on the ground.

  Mortals brought strange feelings to Fae-folk. Always had. The elves used to view them almost as amusing pets. To the gruagach they were a sickness. Goblins would have worshipped the most powerful and kept the rest enslaved. Fa
abar protected them like lost lambs, even though it was his own people that tried to fight them off when they first reached Airlann’s shores several millennia ago. The cliff dwelling fomori clans still clashed with human raiders from Middangeard, but Faabar had left the rocky shores long ago. Deglan had never seen him wroth with an Airlann-born human. Deglan’s own people felt a need to teach and trade with mortals, placating them like younger siblings. The humans’ knowledge of healing was appalling and Deglan never turned a patient away, but he bore no great love for mortals.

  Not like the piskie. Especially this piskie.

  “They’re here!” There was relief in her voice. Deglan craned around to look, not bothering to rise. He scowled at the sight of Faabar sliding stiff legged down the slope. “Should never have allowed it,” he muttered at Bulge Eye. The boy was trudging dutifully behind, trying to look for all the world like he wasn’t having fun. He never made a move to help Faabar, but Deglan did not miss the look of concern on the boy’s face. He’s been watching him, Deglan realized and wondered what the lad intended to do should the fomori have truly ailed. He could not have supported even a quarter of Faabar’s weight. Still, there was something to be said for good intentions.

  The pair came out of the tree line and onto the flat ground surrounding the Tor. Rosheen went to meet them while Deglan sat and waited.

  “Best let me change that dressing,” he said when they drew close.

  “In a moment,” Faabar said, breathing like a bellows. “I must needs sit for a time.”

  Deglan stood. “You sit while I work.” He made a dropping motion with his finger. “Breeches.”

  Faabar hesitated.

  “No need to be bashful,” Deglan mocked, “The sun has not yet risen on the day that made a piskie blush.” The boy snorted and received a flick in the ear from Rosheen.

  Faabar frowned down at him, then dropped his weapons and his clothing. Padric had to help him remove the boot on the injured leg. Faabar reclined as best he could against the rocks. Deglan was glad to see there was no blood blossoming through the bandages, but changed them just the same and moistened the poultice beneath. While he worked, Faabar related his findings.