The Exiled Heir (Autumn's Fall Saga)

by Jonathan French

  “No! No… more lying about! We have to go! Now get up…please old friend, you must get up.” He heaved again, the effort sending an avalanche of dizziness through his head. He fell over in front of the toad’s large face. Bulge Eye stared back at him, but his eyes were empty and his breathing had ceased. Deglan pushed himself up, made a silent promise and ran unsteadily into the forest.

  The men were clustered near the alehouse when Padric sprinted into the hamlet. Ardal had chosen their position well, backs to the stone wall of the stable, pitchforks and makeshift spears leveled at the ready. Half a dozen men with bows crouched on the roof, arrows nocked. The river flowed protectively behind the building, guarding against any attack from the rear.

  “They are coming!” was all Padric said in way of greeting.

  “How many?” Ardal demanded.

  “Sixty or more.”

  The faces blanched before him, every man seeming more a boy.

  “And there is something else with them,” Padric was getting his breath back. “One of them can command Fire.”

  Ardal nodded. “Your piskie told us.”

  Padric looked around. “Rosh…where?”

  “She leads our families to the fort. She and the dwarf. Where is--?”

  He was cut short by a wordless whimper from Laoire. Padric looked and felt a sickening in his bowels. The lights of three score torches danced over the fields, a swarm of huge drunken fireflies. They could hear the goblins’ laughter.

  They came screaming between the buildings, tossing torches atop the sod roofs and into doorways. The small houses went up in seconds and the entire town was revealed with the light of their destruction. Padric had spent the entire night in silent vigil, watching these crazed creatures with a detached fear. That fear turned to barely controlled panic as they charged towards him, mouths full of teeth. The bows above him thrummed, six arrows swallowed by the teeming mass of sharp metal and gleeful howling that barreled towards them. Padric bent his knees, flexed his fingers around the hafts of his weapons and prepared to sell his life for the families of strangers.

  “SONS OF GHOB!”

  The Red Caps ground to a halt, turning towards the bellowed challenge. Padric looked to the south and there, standing on the hill, was a towering shadow, broad shoulders draped in steam, horns gleaming with moonlight, sword and maul raised in defiance.

  Faabar’s voice boomed. “I am a servant of the Seelie Court, guardian of the Source Isle of Airlann! This trespass will not be suffered! Be gone! Your enslaved Fire shall not burn here, thralls of Penda!”

  The faces of the goblins curdled, their confusion turning to outrage. Suddenly, they turned and charged up the hill towards the fomori, leaving Padric and the other men forgotten. Faabar did not wait for them. He bull rushed down upon them, the maul swinging in vicious arcs, scattering the goblins to left and right. Many fell broken to the ground and did not rise again. He towered over the mass, quickly surrounded on all sides. They stabbed with spear and pike, slashed with pole-axe and billhook, but the force of his charge was unstoppable and he won free, tearing a swath through the horde. Smashing through their rear ranks, Faabar continued his rush until he reached the stable. The big warrior’s body was covered in a hundred small wounds and Padric saw blood running freely through his bandaged leg. Faabar did not appear to notice.

  “You men!” he yelled at the bowmen on the roof, “Thin these vermin out!”

  The archers reacted quickly, sending arrows into the goblins before they could regroup from the fomori’s assault. Padric watched the shafts fall. There were so many goblins, the arrows could not miss, nor make a difference.

  “Stay behind me,” Faabar ordered. “Guard my flanks. Do not let them surround us or we are lost.” Without waiting for a response, he turned back to face the Red Caps.

  They came more cautiously this time, spreading out in a wide front. Padric looked into their gray faces as they drew near. There was no fear, only a cold cunning, a calculation of the killing stroke. Each was half the height of a man, but they carried long hafted weapons that could disembowel a larger opponent with ease. Boiled leather, studded and plated in bronze, hung filthy and worn upon their bodies, more protection than could be boasted by any of the shepherds. They made horrible bestial sounds as they advanced, barking and hooting, catching the attentions of the men and demoralizing them with promises of painful death.

  And then they charged.

  Padric saw Faabar’s weapons swing in mighty strokes, but almost instantly the goblins were past him. The men of the village gave a wordless bellow and surged forward to meet them and Padric went with them.

  A Red Cap cackled at him, thrusting a rusty halberd towards his face. Padric knocked the blade aside with his axe and slashed back with his seax, but the stroke did not have the reach, whistling harmlessly past. Pain cracked through his ankles as the halberd haft swept low. Padric fell hard and waited for the heavy blade to cleave his skull, but the blow did not come. He stumbled to his feet and found the Red Cap lying on his back, an arrow in his chest. There was no time to thank the men on the roof. Padric saw Ardal fending off two goblins, his heavy chopping axe barely able to parry the swift thrusts of his assailants. Padric ran to his aid, bringing his own hatchet down into the back of one goblin’s head. There was a woody clunk, followed by a revolting squeal as Padric pulled the blade free of the skull. The remaining goblin cursed, turning to face this new attacker when Ardal’s axe took him in the shoulder. The force of the blow knocked the goblin to the ground, his arm twisted and broken. Ardal raised the axe high and dispatched him with a brutal downswing.

  Padric took a quick look around. Faabar was continuing to hold the bulk of the Red Caps at bay, his greatsword sundering their polearms before they could reach him, the maul in his other fist sweeping into their ranks, breaking bodies. The goblins danced around, looking for an opening, stabbing at the fomori’s face to distract him while others slashed low, trying to bring him off his feet. Their numbers were many and for every two that Faabar killed, three slipped past.

  Their arrows spent, the men on the stable roof could only yell out warnings when a goblin broke through. Already the men were hard pressed to deal with the interlopers. Laoire lay squealing against the wall of the stable, his left leg gone at the knee. Several others lay motionless on the ground, brained or gutted or with no visible injury at all. Somehow, those were the worst. Padric’s innards felt full of putrid liquid and it was all he could do to keep the shit from running down his legs in stinking relief.

  Defying his weakness, Padric leapt into the fray, charging four goblins that threatened Faabar’s flank. He threw his axe on the run, the weapon whirling end over end to catch a goblin in the hip. Padric closed the distance and kicked the wretch in the face, bowling him over. Before the other three could react, Padric was upon them, punching the long blade of his knife into an exposed neck. Hot blood squirted over his hand as he ripped the blade free. A man he did not know ran up beside him and engaged one of the remaining goblins. The last got his billhook up in time and Padric was forced to check his charge. The hideous face beneath the blood colored cap smiled at him, crooked teeth full of rot and mockery. The billhook made a swipe for his collarbone, but Padric stepped into the attack and dropped to a knee. The wooden haft of the weapon struck him, dull pain welling, but Padric ignored it, grabbing the shaft with his free hand. He yanked hard and pulled the goblin towards him, already stabbing forward with his knife. The blade caught the plating of the goblin’s jerkin and the grip fumbled out of Padric’s blood slick hand. Shrieking, the goblin threw himself forward, slamming his broad head into Padric’s cheekbone and they toppled backwards. The goblin was on top of him and they wrestled with the shaft of the bill hook, free hands punching and clutching. Padric buffeted the goblin across the mouth with his elbow. It laughed, blood thick with drool dripping onto Padric’s face. The goblin released his hold on the billhook, snapping his hands into Padric’s hair, yanking his head forward, the
n slammed it back down into the ground. Light burst into his vision, a swimming dizziness. He barely felt his head raised and slammed again. Pain-blind, Padric rolled, scrabbling and thrashing at the wiry mass trying to kill him.

  When his vision cleared he found himself on top of the goblin, its eyes bulging, face swelling. Padric’s forearm was across its throat, his full body weight crushing into the windpipe. The goblin hissed and spit, his hands gouging feebly at Padric’s face, legs kicking in the dirt, snot tossed out of its bulbous nose. To his right the fallen seax lay within reach and Padric snatched it up, keeping the goblin pinned. The struggling bastard managed to catch his wrist, but there was no strength left in his arms. Slowly, inevitably the blade pushed downwards and the goblin watched helplessly, feebly trying to move his head out of its path. The steel was halfway through the eye socket when the goblin went limp, dropping Padric’s entire weight into the knife, pinning the twitching head to the ground.

  He yanked the blade free and staggered to his feet. Smoke from the burning houses was thick in the air, flecked with glowing embers. Nine of the villagers still stood, Ardal among them. A hole in the side of his head wept blood where his ear had once been. The others were dead, dying or too wounded to keep their feet. Laoire was no longer screaming. He lay silent against the stable, eyes staring sightlessly. Faabar still stood, dead goblins lying sprawled at his feet. The remaining Red Caps, some three dozen Padric guessed, had withdrawn from the fomori’s reach. They stood back, malice and murder in every face, the knobby knuckles of their long fingered hands caressing the hafts of their weapons.

  “What have we, my cullies?” Torcan stepped through the ranks of goblins, striding boldly towards the fomori. His hideous helm rode the crook of his arm, the large war axe propped across his shoulders. “The mortals keep a guard dog?” He swept the bodies of his fallen soldiers with a face full of mock surprise. “And it bites!”

  The Red Caps laughed, unconcerned that half their number lay slain.

  “You would stand against us, fomori?”

  “Aye, Swinehelm,” Faabar’s voice rumbled hoarsely. “Until you and all those who follow you lay in this pile of stinking meat.” He kicked one of the goblin corpses contemptuously and it rolled limply over to rest at Torcan’s feet.

  The Red Cap leader regarded the grisly carcass for a moment, and then swung his axe lazily down as if he were reaping wheat, severing an arm cleanly from the body. He kicked the appendage back at the fomori. “Have a last meal, elf’s pet!”

  Torcan grinned wickedly and stepped backwards, watching Faabar all the while. The Red Caps were parting, making way for something coming through the smoke, which appeared to gather unnaturally. It rolled thickly, defying the wind, coalescing around a nimbus of flame that made its way through the curtain of burnt air, which grew oppressively dry. Padric felt his throat and lungs begin to burn with each breath. The black cloud swelled then sucked into itself towards the fiery center. Four burly goblins stepped out of the smoke bearing that horrible chair on their shoulders, and seated upon it was the lank haired goblin, his eyes the approaching flame.

  Faabar turned sharply towards the men behind him, but it was Padric’s face he looked into. “Run!”

  A hissing roar erupted from the litter and a gout of flame spewed from the goblins burning gaze, blasting into the roof of the stable. The squeal from the men perched there was cut short as the top of the building was blown apart. Padric dove to the ground as chunks of blackened stone, burnt timbers and charred bodies fell around him.

  “We must make for the river!” Ardal’s voice yelled into his ear and he felt strong hands lifting him to his feet. They ran clutching each other, keeping their heads low, heading for the safety of the water. A concussive wave of heat threw them into the air as the alehouse erupted. Padric felt the sharp slap of water and choked as liquid filled his throat. He rose coughing amongst a sea of wriggling death. He was in the eel pond and it was steaming. The eels thrashed about all around him, hopelessly struggling against the boiling of the water. Padric vaulted out of the pond, throwing his arms up to shield himself as the wheelhouse burst into flames. Ardal lay next to the eel pond, his brains dashed against the stones. The men were fleeing, several of them burning as they ran, their tortured screams mixed with the perverse laughter of the Red Caps.

  Padric heard Faabar bellow with rage and looked up to see the warrior hurl his maul at the litter. The weapon whirled through the air, a deadly windmill of heavy bronze. The wizard only smiled as it spun savagely towards him and Padric stared dumbly as the wooden haft turned to ash in mid-flight, the metal head falling to the ground in a molten puddle. Howling in fury, Faabar charged, his greatsword held high. A bolt of fire punched into his shoulder and he staggered, but managed to keep his footing. A second caught his injured leg and he fell to a knee. The goblin magus stood, his arms held low and outstretched, fingers curled. The air between the fomori and the litter began to shimmer and distort as waves of heat danced mercilessly in Faabar’s path. Rising slowly, the warrior snarled and pressed on.

  Padric watched as Faabar’s tough hide began to blister and peel, sweat falling in torrents down his face. The hair across his shoulders smoldered yet still he planted one foot forward and then the other, dragging himself inch by inch. The Red Caps stood around, stamping their feet and the butts of the weapons, jeering as Faabar labored onward. A grunt of frustration and pain issued dryly from Faabar’s nostrils and the sword fell from his hand, the metal glowing red as from the forge. He was two steps from the litter when he fell face first into the earth. Torcan and his Red Caps threw dirt, spit and insults as Faabar attempted to rise again. He managed to push himself to his knees, but his injured leg buckled when he tried to stand. Faabar’s proud, horned head did not bow, but looked the goblin wizard in the eye.

  “Irial Ulvyeh is King… of this isle. His…undying justice will fall upon you.”

  Screaming flames burst from the goblin’s hands and Faabar was catapulted backward, thrown through the air to slam into the wall of the stable. The stones collapsed and the fomori was swallowed by the burning building.

  Padric ran for the river and threw himself into the drink, the frigid waters an excruciating relief. He let the current take him, treading water to keep his head from going under. The village dwindled as the river swept him away and became nothing but a burning glow in the distance.

  Two dawns crept over the horizon. In the east, the glow of the true sun lightened the sky. To the south, a baleful orange mocked the new day. Rosheen looked south.

  Padric.

  “All the curses of the Earth upon goblin-kind.” She had not heard the dwarf approach, but she did not take her eyes off the false dawn.

  “Must you give them curses because you could not give them steel?”

  “Aye,” Fafnir replied. “And truly they deserve both.”

  The dwarf had scouted ahead several times during their long flight from the hamlet. Always there were watchfires and always he returned with no arrows spent, no blood on his blade. They suffered no ambush along the way and the abandoned fires were the only sign of goblins.

  Oddly fortunate.

  The refugees had stopped to rest and to watch and to weep when the glimmer of their village’s fate appeared behind them. The Red Caps would be coming, Rosheen was certain, but the men had done their job, giving them time to escape. The wives and old men said the Thegn’s fort was near. They would reach it and they would be safe, free to live new lives as widows and orphans under the care of a foreign warlord.

  “We need to keep moving,” was all Fafnir said before turning his back to the south.

  Rosheen watched for a moment more.

  He is safer with the fomori. She did not often lie to herself and the comforting delusion did not hold long in her mind. The time for keeping him safe slipped by long ago.

  Morning had fully blossomed when the fort appeared across the plains. Chill mist clung to the man-made hill that the great wooden walls
perched upon. The structure dominated the landscape, hunkered protectively above the partitioned fields where cattle and sheep pulled at the dew-damp grass. The villagers produced pitiful expressions of relief and quickened their pace, making for the hill and the uninviting fort with more speed than when they fled their homes. Fafnir took the guide rope of his mule from the boy who had led the animal during the flight. Rosheen turned her back in disgust.

  Must have his goods. Plenty of trade to be had in a fort.

  The people were halfway across the fields and riders were already coming out the gate to meet them. Riders that were looked for throughout the length of their harrowing journey. She had a moment’s worry for the gnome, but there was little room in her heart left, so long as Padric’s fate remained a mystery.

  Rosheen made to follow the villagers when she was grabbed from behind and pulled backwards. Thick, powerful fingers clutched her from shoulders to thighs, pinning her arms and her wings. The dwarf’s strange, lilting voice whispered closely to her.

  “Oh, I do not think you will be going up there.”

  TEN

  Padric could not remember what it was to be warm. The suffocating horror of the burning village was a misremembered nightmare. The real world was uncontrollable shivering, spasms of numb pain and building panic that could only be calmed if he surrendered to death.

  And Padric did not want to die.

  He stayed in the river as long as he could, hours or minutes, he did not know. The sun had risen, barely discernible behind a film of cloud, ashamed to look upon the doings of the night. He struggle to the nearest bank and hauled himself out of the current. The icy waters were a warm bath compared to the shock of the morning air. The slightest breeze sliced into his bones and his shivering turned into violent convulsions, his teeth drumming against each other in clacking mockery at his helpless condition. He lay curled tightly into himself on the bank, eyes and fists clenched painfully tight, willing the cold to leave him alone. It was no use. If he lay there, he would die.