“So there is one around?” Rosheen asked after the fomori told them of the destruction in the forest.
“Possibly,” Faabar replied. “Whatever made that trail was taller than I, but too short to be a giant.”
“So, why the doubt?” Rosheen pressed. She was sitting on the boy’s shoulder, the grudge from earlier in the day forgotten.
Faabar looked up at her. “Because Hog’s Wallow still stands.”
“And the trails we found do not head towards the village.” It was the first thing the boy had said.
Deglan clenched his teeth. “I saw it going there myself. I may be shorter than you son but I am not blind. If you think…”
“Wait,” Rosheen cut him off. “Trails? More than one?”
The boy nodded. Faabar turned to Deglan.
“No one thinks you did not see it true,” he said. “But Padric is right. We found evidence of its passing on several separate trails going up and down the Tor. Whatever it is, it has been ranging all over, but going nowhere near the Wallow.”
“Do all of you have tadpoles for brains?” Deglan was fed up. “Hog’s Wallow did not exist during the Rebellion! The Wart Shanks settled it after the siege.” He threw an exasperated look at Faabar. “Remember!? It was a cavalry outpost long before the humans came with their…sheep! The Forge Born did not know about it, because it wasn’t there! Their orders were to take the fortress and that is what an Unwound would do—fulfill that order! It’s stalking around up there looking for the defenders of Bwenyth Tor, the gnomish cavalry and the warriors of the Brindleback clan!” He thumped Faabar in the chest with his knuckles then himself. “Us! We are all that remains!”
Their eyes held for a long moment and Deglan saw that Faabar knew he was right. The fomori stood and dressed, slinging the greatsword over his shoulder and taking the maul in his huge hands. “Then we shall attend to our duty with the same vigor as our once and future foe.”
Deglan rose himself and glared at the warrior. “You pull those stitches and I’ll skin you alive. I don’t care how much vigor you have!”
“There is still daylight remaining,” Faabar judged the sky. “I have a mind to follow the most recent trail.” He looked at the boy. “What say you?”
The youth nodded, his face full of determination. Such valor, Deglan scoffed inwardly, and then cursed himself for a bitter old cuss.
“Do you not have duties with the dwarf?” Rosheen said critically from the boy’s shoulder.
The boy smiled wolfishly. “Who do you think told me about all this?”
“Meddling dwarf,” Deglan said, just as Rosheen said the same. He grinned at her and she winked at him. But then her face froze, her gaze behind him. The boy drew his long knife.
Deglan turned quickly and found two lean, shaggy hounds not ten yards off, standing at the edge of the forest opposite the Tor. They were long of limb and snout, the muscles visible beneath their wet, grey fur. There they stood, so very close and had never made a sound. Deglan knew them.
“Sweat and Panic,” he whispered
If they were here then he could not be far behind. And then he saw him; a sinewy, compact man, crouching just inside the tree line. Matted straw colored locks grew from the back of his head past his shoulders. Thick whiskers covered his cheeks, but his lip and chin were shaved. He wore hunting leathers and a short mantle of animal pelts. In his hand was a stout spear, its head a broad point of thick, black iron. Madigan the Sure Finder.
“Sheath your blade, Padric,” he heard Faabar say. “You will not need it.”
“Oh…he might,” Deglan said softly.
Neither Madigan nor his hounds made any move towards them. They remained three sets of eyes, all of them watchful, patient and calmly feral. Sweat and Panic panted slightly, never blinking. Madigan could have been carved from the bark of the trees around him.
“Who is that?” Padric asked, his voice taut.
“Kederic Winetongue’s huntsman,” Faabar answered. “We had best be off. Riders will not be far behind.”
“Too late.” The heavy sounds of horses moving through the trees reached Deglan’s ears. They rode past the huntsman and reined up at the spring. There were eight of them, all told, each wearing a tall helm, the faces beneath grim and bearded. They wore woolen cloaks and brigandine armor over their riding breeches and boots. Each held a boar spear in their fists, their saddles adorned with various other axes and swords, cold iron every one. Deglan tensed as one of the riders approached. He nodded curtly, recognizing the man.
“Acwellen.”
A crooked toothed smile split the man’s brown beard. “Ho, lads! It’s the Faery Doctor! Out to gather pansies in the woods today, little man?”
“Actually,” Deglan replied cheerfully “I am looking for more codsoothe root. Just in case you decide to get amorous with another of the shepherd’s stock.”
Acwellen’s face darkened as only the face of an oaf can when insulted.
“You should be careful, gnome.” The small man with grey in his beard said through yellow teeth. “These lands belong to Thegn Kederic. You might get lost…and never be seen again.”
“I doubt it Drefan,” Deglan replied. “I’ve been riding these lands for more years than you can count. Which is to what, ten? Before you have to take off your boots and use your toes?”
“We are on the hunt,” Faabar put in loudly, drowning out Deglan’s last remark. “Same as you.”
Acwellen made a show of seeing the fomori for the first time. “And the guardian beast! My, my, this is quite the gathering. I last saw you bleeding in a shit smeared field, lowing like a calf at market.”
The pale tub of suet named Fat Donall laughed at this, his tiny pig eyes squinting with mirth. Deglan recalled this cruel man laughing when a pack of wolves ripped a lamb from its mother mid-birth. Next to him, the gawky, chinless wretch known as Poncey Swan grinned arrogantly.
“And last we saw you,” Deglan told the lot of them, “You were riding out of town before dawn, your horses’ tails tucked firmly between their legs. Least they showed some shame in leaving. Unlike you lot of cowards.”
Acwellen’s face turned red as he stood in the saddle, brandishing the boar spear. The other seven riders formed up behind him, anger on every face.
“Peace!” Faabar shouted, stepping between Deglan and the horses. “Acwellen, do you seek the husk?”
The man nodded, still glaring at Deglan. “By the Thegn’s order.”
“And have you any sign of him?”
Acwellen shot a glance at Madigan’s hounds, somewhat nervously to Deglan’s mind. “It’s only a matter of time.”
“Slouch Hat’s been gone well over a fortnight now,” Deglan jabbed. “Might want to try looking back in Sasana.”
“I don’t need advice from a herbwife!” Acwellen snapped “It’s your kind should be leaving these lands! Your damn unnatural slaves, murdering decent folk! The Thegn will see a stop to it, hear my word!”
Deglan was growing tired of this lout. “Slouch Hat was no slave of mine. But I am glad to hear the Winetongue is so grieved at Brogan’s passing as to send his men out in search of his killer. Interestingly, the same men he ordered away from Hog’s Wallow the day we found Brogan dead.”
Acwellen’s voiced dropped to a contemptible snarl. “That tongue’s going to get you killed one day, little man.”
Faabar stepped close to the man. “I have oft told him so,” the fomori’s voice was distant thunder. “But it will not be today.” Acwellen was ahorse, Faabar standing. The two were eye to eye.
Acwellen blanched and then turned his horse, giving his men the signal to ride on. He paused long enough to call back, “Go back to that sheep shit village of yours and leave the husk to us!”
Deglan shook his head as he watched the back end of the horse trot away. “If he ever falls under my care again, remind me to render him impotent. I know a plant that would do it.”
Remembering the huntsman, Deglan turned back to th
e trees. Sweat and Panic were gone, as was their master. Deglan’s thoughts went to Slouch Hat.
“May Earth help you if you are guiltless,” he muttered to himself.
They lost the trail just as the last hazy light of a purple dusk dwindled in the sky. They had come across a small branch of the River Trough, narrow and easily forded, but beyond they found no sign of the Unwound’s passing. The trees were undamaged, the leaves on the forest floor undisturbed. Faabar squatted in the shallow water, searching for a sign. Padric heard him growl in frustration.
They were all tired. The day had been long and the effects were showing in their little band. Deglan had not groused for several hours. Even his toad seemed ragged and sleepy. Rosheen had fought her weariness stubbornly and valiantly, but eventually collapsed on top of Padric’s pack. He could feel her behind him, leaning against the back of his head. Padric ached all over, his feet stone bruised and sore.
They were countless miles from the village with night falling quickly and Faabar appeared to have no intention of turning back.
“It is following the stream bed.” The fomori said this almost to himself, but Padric heard.
“Upstream or down?” he asked.
“Up,” Faabar answered “The silt is deeply furrowed, the stones turned.”
“It doesn’t want to be followed,” Deglan said, stifling a yawn.
“But it leaves so clear a path,” Padric said. “Once it leaves the water, its destruction will continue.”
“But in the dark,” Faabar said grimly “we could miss it and pass right by without ever knowing.”
“Or it could be waiting to ambush us,” Padric said. The thought had come to him suddenly and he voiced it without thinking, immediately wishing he had not.
“Either is possible. And both are cunning.” Faabar stood, his scowl burning in the last rays of dying sunlight. “Unwound are not cunning. This has been thought through, purposefully planned to throw us off and plant doubt in our minds. A bloodthirsty machine does not do this. They seek, they slaughter, they seek again. That is their way. This…is something else.”
“What then?” Deglan asked, some of the bite returning to his voice.
“We won’t know until the trail ends.” And the fomori was off.
Padric heard Deglan groan then spur his toad onward, up the stream bed.
“Are we really going to do this?” Padric asked his unseen passenger.
“You had your chance to turn back, farm boy,” came her reply.
Padric smiled and followed after the toad.
The moon rose, bathing the stream in soft, cold light. Padric could see where the blackness of the treetops gave way to the star encrusted sky and the fire of moonlight dancing in the water ahead, but naught else. The rest of the world was ink and mystery.
Faabar’s huge silhouette led them, the great blade on his back gleaming sharply when he turned to check for signs of their quarry’s egress. Padric wished he could ask Rosheen for her Faery-fire, but knew it would only draw attention should something be waiting for them in the dark, so he followed blindly, his once sore feet numb from the knee deep water. He trusted Faabar had a reason for traveling in the stream and avoiding the banks.
They traveled in silence, stopping occasionally to let Faabar scout the woods to either side. With each foray the fomori was gone longer and longer, while Padric and the rest waited in the water. They waited now, growing more impatient with each long minute. Padric felt his body flagging while his mind grew more anxious. This trek through the dark was beginning to spark of madness and Padric could not help but recall the last night he spent with Rosheen on his back traveling through a darkened forest.
Faabar returned at last, moving low and careful. He rejoined them in the stream bed and motioned them to gather. His voice was a wet whisper in the dark.
“Follow me and move silently. Padric remove your pack. Deglan you will have to leave Bulge Eye here.”
Something in the warrior’s voice killed any complaint the gnome might have given. He kicked his mount over to the bank and dismounted. Padric followed close behind and dropped his pack near the toad. Rosheen took to the air once again.
“He will stay,” Deglan whispered, patting Bulge Eye’s lumpy head.
“Follow,” Faabar repeated. “Low and silent. Our lives depend upon it.”
Padric did as he was told, hunching low as he entered the woods, stepping softly as possible. Faabar led them through the trees, winding his way silently between the trunks. He seemed to go in random directions, never staying long on a straight path. Padric was surprised how silently the large warrior moved despite his size and his injured leg. The gnome crept just as quietly and Rosheen was smoke on the wind. Padric felt he was crashing through the forest, making a tumult of snapped twigs and fallen leaves. Our lives depend on it. Padric expected to die at any second with the noise his feet were making.
They came to a rise in the land, the trees marching dutifully up the slope. Faabar led them down a gully at the base of the rise for some time before stopping. He turned to face them and put his finger to his lips then pointed up the rise. Finally, he spread his fingers and pushed his splayed hand slowly towards the ground. Silence. Up the hill. Keep low. Padric nodded in the dark and swallowed his fluttering breath. They followed the fomori up the hill, three scared, blind goslings. Padric could see the lip of the rise ahead. The trees stood at the crest, black columns edged in the flickering burn of firelight. Padric’s mouth turned sour. More fires. More forest. More death.
Faabar bellied down to the ground and crawled to the lip. Padric followed his example. Deglan beat him to the top and lay to Padric’s left. When he settled in Padric looked over to catch the gnome’s eye and recoiled, clamping his teeth shut against a cry of alarm. It was not the herbalist lying next to him.
The body was of a size with Deglan, but where the gnome was solid and husky, this creature was wiry of limb and ill-formed. It wore a leather jerkin, studded with metal and on its feet were armored boots of heavy iron plate. A vicious looking billhook lay clutched in its knobby fingers. But the worst was the face, pinched and narrow, ears and nose sharply pointed, a wide gap-toothed mouth lying open and slack. The body was belly down on the ground, but the pale eyes stared up at the night sky, the flat head turned completely around on a broken neck. Padric had seen a face like it once before, rotting on a pole. That goblin, like this one, had been dead. The dozens in the small valley below were very much alive.
They thronged around a large bonfire, the blaze illuminating them in a harsh, hot radiance, their twisted shadows stretched and capering. The leaves of the trees, normally soft gold and honest orange, were molten hands shimmering above the furious clamor of the goblins. All were armed and armored similar to the corpse next to Padric, their heavy boots stomping, spears, scythes, bills, halberds, all thrusting into the ember filled air. The goblins cavorted and cheered. The fire burned and everything was awash in red anger; the boulders, the dirt, the trees, the skin of the goblins and the rough, shapeless bonnets atop every head. Padric locked his teeth together.
Red Caps.
Padric learned today that not all fables are false; that history and legend are sometimes one, but he needed no tale to tell him these were dangerous creatures. These fanatical killers had plagued the mortals of Airlann for generations and were spoken of with as much fear and disdain as the gruagach. But where a changeling worked its evil with trickery, deceit and quiet murder, the Red Caps brought theirs with the torch and the sword, razing whole villages, using the blood of their victims to dye their hats that horrible color. Even the warriors in Stone Fort grew grim at the mention of Red Caps. Padric heard they slaughtered other Fae-folk with equal impunity.
He looked over at his companions. Piskie, gnome and fomori. Each face a carved mask of disdain, the firelight etching their features in burning shadows. Rosheen felt his gaze and looked over. Her expression was pained, almost shameful, her eyes wishing him a thousand miles away. Bey
ond her, he saw Deglan lurch forward, his eyes wide, the muscles of his jaw working beneath the skin. Padric turned back to the valley and saw the goblins settling as one of their number stepped next to the bonfire.
He seemed larger than the others, but that might have been due to the suit of heavy bronze armor that covered him toe to throat. On his head, he wore the same dreaded hat as the others, but a brazen helm, fashioned in the likeness of a snarling boar was tucked under his arm. He turned slowly in place, taking in the goblins around him, waiting for the din to die before speaking, his voice even, calm and dripping with malice.
“Promises, my cullies. Promises. Who keeps them?” He paused, his pale eyes gleaming, searching his band. “The Lord of the Pile?”
There were hisses, angry jeers, cursing and spitting.
“The fat lord of our mud brothers, King Hob?”
More screams of dissent and several of the warriors pulled their members out and pissed in the dirt. The speaker nodded slowly, a thin satisfied smirk on his face.
“Promises…who keeps them?” He thumped his chest, his bronze gauntlet ringing on his breastplate. “Torcan?”
The Red Caps erupted, their weapons pumping with each shrieking cheer. A few began shouting over the others, “The Swine’s Wife!” and soon the cry was taken up by all, each goblin adding his voice to the call. “Swine’s Wife! Swine’s Wife! Swine’s Wife!”
The one called Torcan held out his armored hand and a goblin stepped from the throng cradling an ugly battle axe of pitted iron. Torcan took the weapon and held it aloft, the goblins surrounding him yelling madly, stomping their heavy boots. “Swine’s Wife! Swine’s Wife!” Torcan’s lips were moving, but Padric could not hear his words over the triumphal wails. The Red Caps quieted in order to listen.
“Torcan is your captain,” Torcan said, “Torcan leads you. Torcan...and his wife.” He hefted the axe onto his shoulder, leering at the blade. “She is a wanton slut, my cullies and so unfaithful…she kisses all of Torcan’s enemies.”
The Exiled Heir (Autumn's Fall Saga) Page 15
