The Exiled Heir (Autumn's Fall Saga)

by Jonathan French

  “I told Brogan as much many times, but he would not hear me. He would not see that living amongst the Fae was folly at its most deadly, for even those immortals that claim friendship are hated and hunted by those of their kind who would rid the world of humanity. I could not threaten the safety of those already under my care by tending to those blinded by Faery magic, so I withdrew my men from the Wallow.”

  Padric listened as the Thegn spoke with passion and watched as the shame of his decision settled over him. Kederic stood on his wall and looked to the horizon, eyes narrowed against the wind, jaw set in contemplation.

  “And then Brogan was slain,” he continued with ire in his voice. “That walking scarecrow servant of his murdered him and I sent my own men out to hunt him down. They are still out there, Acwellen and his huscarls, along with the Sure Finder and those damn dogs of his…might as well be Fae themselves for all their queer cunning. I have chewed at these events Padric, worried at them and I do not like what begins to unravel. You say the gnome claimed to have seen an Unwound and took the fomori in search of it, all the while my riders search for the husk…and the village is left undefended, giving the Red Caps every chance to burn it to the ground. This is not passing chance. Something is set against us.”

  “The goblin in the fire,” Padric said.

  Kederic nodded. “With the help of the husk and the gnome.”

  Padric started. “Deglan? Why would he…”

  “Who else saw this Unwound? Who took the fomori in search of it? You said it yourself, he was headed here with a warning…a warning that never came.”

  “Rosheen and Fafnir did not come either.” Padric said. “That does not put them in league with the Red Caps.”

  “Careful,” Kederic said. “Do not put so much trust in Fae-folk and dwarves. That was Brogan’s mistake, as well.”

  “I cannot vouch for the gnome,” Padric countered. “But I have known Rosheen my whole life and she arrived as I did, a stranger with no knowledge of any of this.”

  “No knowledge?” Kederic scoffed. “She is Fae. I do not place blame upon her for the dealings here, but it troubles me you never thought to ask her about yourself.”

  “Ask her…?”

  “Raven-touched.” Kederic gestured at Padric’s head. “Your neighbors thought you cursed and you have grown up believing it. Padric, I have travelled enough of the world and seen that the beliefs of men are as varied as the flowers in spring. But here on this Island where there is no spring, we grow superstitious and place foolish predictions on the hair color of babes and read auguries in the entrails of animals. Among the tribes of Middangeard, where the raven is revered, a man born with black hair is thought to be a great chieftain and destined to bring woe to his enemies. That might have been you, but by chance you were born here; not amongst warriors in Middangeard, but amongst farmers in Airlann, a land where the seasons never change and peasants are forced to find explanations for Magic, a land where the Fae are at once respected and feared. Your own neighbors curse you for a Fae-friend, while the shepherds of the Wallow think you much favored.

  “If your people think you cursed Padric, there is a reason. A reason for which the Fae are to blame, mark me. You should discover why you have been so ill-named. And who better to ask than an immortal? One who was around the day you were born and thousands of years before. This Rosheen knows, Padric, but she has left you to suffer in ignorance. Such are the games played by the Fae.”

  ELEVEN

  Deglan chewed willow bark to ease the pain and swelling in his mouth. His tongue kept wandering his aching gums, probing at the salty gaps where four of his teeth used to sit. Three were completely gone and he had been forced to yank the jagged remnants of the last out by hand. Thankfully, he still had his satchel and the prepared willow, but the slow working herb had not yet reached his head. A dull pain, fed by a sizable knot, still pulsed through his skull. It would fade given time.

  There was no balm for the pain he felt when he finally reached the Wallow. Even from a distance, the destruction was absolute; a greasy black stain on the landscape. Deglan walked the ruins, struggling to see some semblance of the place that had been his home for over eight centuries, but everything was utterly laid low by Fire. Only a skeleton of the windmill remained standing, two tumbled stone walls barely managing to lean against the other. Deglan plodded numbly into the shell and poked around the morass of wet ash, fearful in the certainty of what he would uncover. Most of the bones were reduced to little more than charred fragments, but the skulls were unmistakable. He had known these men, treated their hurts as boys and delivered them as babes. Now their empty sockets stared back at him from a charnel pile of soot. Some of the skulls were clearly goblin, but Deglan could find no joy in the sight. There was no more honorable pyre for a Red Cap than the flames of destruction they lived to create.

  In the mud outside were the prints of many horses. He had lost Acwellen and his band of brigands in the forest, but he was on foot and they must have reached the village well ahead of him. Come to see the spoils of their treacherous act and gone away, leaving Deglan to stand, a living corpse, in the vestiges of Hog’s Wallow and try to make sense of it all.

  He had never trusted Kederic Winetongue, not from the first day he arrived with promises of protection and friendship, but he never thought the man capable of this much evil. Consorting with Red Caps and sorcerers! Deglan let out a choked grunt and kicked savagely at one of the goblin skulls, sending it bouncing through the muddy ash. It rolled to a stop still facing him, grinning at his despair.

  He found the tunnel to his house choked with rubble, but was able to struggle through and gain entry. The Red Caps’ hatred of gnomes was apparent in the destruction. Smoke still hung lazily in the underground dwelling, mingling with the stink of excrement. Deglan’s bed was burnt, his stores of herbs as well. The shelves of potions, unguents, salves and liniments had been ripped from the walls, broken into splinters. He had known comfort here. Safety and warmth. He lived and worked in this home, using his craft to heal, ease and sometimes prolong the fleeting life of mortal-kind. There should have been memories in the very walls, phantom feelings of past days echoing in the familiar space, wailing in pain at its degradation. But Deglan was passed all feelings of loss. The memories that returned to him now were not of happier days, but of days before. Days of war and fear and hunger. His body and mind slipped back into the old rhythms with tragic proficiency. There was no more time to mourn. Survival was the only concern.

  He salvaged what little he could and tucked the rescued medicines into his satchel. He scavenged in the ruins for warm clothes, taking anything he could find, heedless of the burns in the wool or the reek of goblin piss. The heavy, bronze-bladed cleaver he used for amputations lay in a corner and he snatched it up, a tool of grim purpose now a much needed weapon. As he turned to leave, his eyes fell upon the large nook where Bulge Eye used to sleep. Strangely, it was untouched, free of offal and scorching. Empty.

  Deglan passed it without a pang of sorrow.

  When he emerged from the tunnel…it was waiting on him. Deglan froze, the instinct to fight or flee as motionless as his feet. If he ran, it would catch him. Maybe not instantly, as they were not exceptionally swift, but it would pursue at its own tireless pace and catch up when Deglan was broken by exhaustion. To fight was ludicrous. It was huge and made of solid iron. Living Iron.

  It faced him, the narrow black holes that served as its eyes staring at him and above him and beyond him all at once. The slim limbs of heavy, dark metal hung motionless at its sides, large hands tipped in long fingers. A shabby mantle of raw wool was draped formlessly over its torso, but underneath, the thick plating of its body gave it a powerful frame at shoulder and chest. The legs stuck out from beneath the makeshift cloak and appeared sparer, suggesting agility for all its weight.

  Deglan had spent four miserable months in the fortifications atop Bwenyth Tor, tending to comrades, stitching wounds, staunching blood, removing
limbs and burying friends as the goblins launched attack after attack at the defenses. They had fought, they had starved, but they had held and given as good as they got. When Two-Keg brought the word that the Forge Born were coming, Deglan waited for them to arrive with all the rest. Waited to die. It seemed that death had finally reached him.

  “To it then, you blighted metal bastard! You rusted, mindless goblin puppet!” He scooped up a clod of mud and reared his arm back to throw in a feeble, final act of defiance.

  “I was asked to bring you.”

  The face had no visible mouth and Deglan was startled when it spoke. The voice that issued from the thing was slow and deeper than distant thunder. Each word hesitated into the next, grinding out unaccompanied by movement or mannerism, the sound threatening to fade to a halt at any moment. Deglan’s arm hung in the air behind him, the clump of mud still in his fist. He was perplexed, afraid, tired and very angry.

  “Kill me now, you walking anvil! I’ll not be a prisoner to goblins!” He threw the clod as an afterthought. It did not have the distance and came apart in the air, dirty chunks scattering into the air between them. There was a long silence. Deglan’s agitated breath expelled in vapor, while the Forge Born stared through him in mute judgment. Finally it spoke.

  “The goblins march south…for now.” The last two words lowered greatly in pitch as they slowed to a ponderous crawl. “We go north.” Then it turned and began walking in the declared direction without ensuring that Deglan followed. In stillness, the thing was unsettling, but a shiver ran unbidden up Deglan’s spine when he saw it in motion. Its metal legs carried it with steady, determined strides towards the river, its pace and direction set and sure.

  “The world is mad,” Deglan said as he watched the Forge Born walk away. “And I am its king.” He set off after his guide.

  One thing was for certain, it was not Unwound. At least not yet. All of their kind was built for destruction, but this one still had control of its faculties. After the Rebellion, the Forge Born were a common sight, but Deglan had done his best to stay well away from them. It had not been difficult. Despite the King’s decree that they be granted mercy, there were few willing to endure their presence. The more vicious of the fomori tribes ignored the Court’s laws and began hunting them, but it was a dangerous endeavor and many of the would-be predators fell prey to their quarry. For even with a heart, the Forge Born were dangerous.

  Deglan had to jog in order to catch up with the long, mile-eating strides of the Forge Born. He scowled at its back, pondering the wisdom of his choice to follow it, angry at himself for finding no better option. Deglan noticed the throat of a metal scabbard peaking over the ragged cloak just beneath the Forge Born’s right shoulder. Curiously, the scabbard was empty and Deglan could find no evidence of other weapons.

  “It was you,” Deglan accused suddenly. “I saw you coming from the Tor. You were up there!”

  The war machine did not respond and kept its pace.

  “We tracked you,” Deglan said, his voice growing louder. “And we found them. Were you following the goblins?”

  “No.” It was more akin to a bell toll than a word.

  “Then how do you know they went south?”

  “I watched.”

  “You watched? Watched what…watched the village burn, watched the men die?! You could have stopped it!”

  The Forge Born halted so suddenly Deglan almost collided with its legs.

  “No,” it said without turning. “I could not.” It resumed walking.

  Deglan seethed and allowed the thing to go on without him. “This is folly.”

  His confusion had caused him to follow blindly, but now he looked at the surrounding landscape and found it to be very familiar. They had left the fields behind and entered the rougher upcountry. The way was hilly and boulder-strewn with nary a path or sheep run to be found. A difficult stretch of land and one that Deglan had walked many times. They were heading for the barrows.

  Deglan chuckled sourly. “A dead man wants to see me. Wonder which one has a complaint.” He continued up the rocky incline.

  The barrowlands were laid long before humans settled the area. Low mounds, completely reclaimed by dirt and grass marked the edge of the earliest burial sites. Many of the defenders of Bwyneth Tor moldered in these grounds, the final days of the war making it impossible to transport their bodies back to Toad Holm so that they may be laid to rest in the Ever Dark as was gnomish tradition.

  Further in, the larger and more recent cairns of mankind bloated the countryside. Some were simple mounds of stacked stone covered in earth, with naught but a small opening to admit the dead, while others were vast, many chambered constructions with heavy stone lintels set above the entrances. Deglan grimaced. Human lives were candle smoke on the wind, here and gone, yet they spent most of that life in backbreaking preparation for death. He hated coming here. And he hated it more with his present company.

  The Forge Born strode purposefully between the great mounds, never pausing nor wasting a sidelong glance at the cairns. The pale grass was long, thin and weedy, flowing in spurts against the wind. The stones were the color of long years and between them the passages into the mounds gaped, at once hungry and gagging. How many such bleak places had this machine walked, uncaring? How many had its metal hands lain low with violence so that they must be placed within such houses of bones and dust? Questions Deglan could not answer. Questions not worth posing to the thing walking in front of him.

  It finally stopped next to one of the largest barrows and seemed to be looking down at something. A smaller mound blocked Deglan’s view, but he made no effort to quicken his pace. Slowly, he passed the smaller mound and the object of the Forge Born’s attention came into view. Deglan rushed forward, cursing.

  Faabar lay against the wall of the barrow, a filthy heap upon the grass. Even before Deglan reached him he knew the fomori was blind. His once magnificent horned head was titled at an odd angle against the wind, straining to listen, to smell. Deglan had his satchel off his shoulder on the run and slammed to a halt next to his friend.

  Faabar’s face turned toward the movement. “I knew you would come.”

  “Quiet now,” Deglan told him. He fumbled desperately around in his bag, never taking his eyes off the fomori, hoping that his hand would light upon something that could help. He had so little of use, and, for the first time in centuries, he hesitated. He did not know where to begin.

  Faabar’s face was a ruin of stiff, blackened flesh, red raw and seeping from where it peeled away from his skull. A sticky film covered his cheeks, the last remnants of eyes boiled from their sockets. The leg previously injured by the plough had been brutalized into something unnatural to look upon. The rest of his body was covered in horrible burns, skin slick as glass in places, bubbled with blisters in others. But even Fire could not cauterize the wounds suffered from iron blades. They crisscrossed his chest in a dozen angry rends, blood leaking weakly. Only Red Caps were crazed enough to wield weapons as deadly to themselves as they were their enemies.

  Deglan’s hand slowed to a halt within his bag, finally pulling something free. Faabar gave no reaction when the wet rag touched his brow. Deglan dabbed gently, uselessly.

  “The goblins went south,” Faabar rasped. “Kederic can overtake them if he rides now…”

  “Kederic betrayed us,” Deglan said flatly.

  Faabar’s face searched blindly for answers.

  “I never made the fort. Acwellen ambushed me in the plains…I was lucky. He knew about the Red Caps, of that I am certain.”

  “Then the women…the children?”

  “I do not know.”

  Faabar lurched, spasms wracking his body. Deglan could only watch. The sight of his friend’s pain and his own helplessness were too much, so he cast a baleful glance up at the Forge Born. It seemed to be watching Faabar, unaffected by his agony. He settled at last, but the shivers of shock remained, seeming to shrink the proud warrior with every tremor.<
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  “We…we must get word…to the Waywarders,” Faabar managed. He looked up in the direction of the Forge Born. “Help me rise.”

  The machine leaned down and reached for the fomori.

  “Do not touch him!” Deglan shot to his feet.

  The thing stopped and returned to standing over them, as if it had never moved.

  Faabar groped feebly for Deglan. “He is not…Unwound.”

  “I damn well know that. But it is still iron.”

  Deglan had no doubt the thing had carried Faabar up here, aggravating his already grievous injuries. The strength required to move the weight of a fomori was frightening to think about, but it was a task this Forge Born had done with ease. It did not have Faabar’s bulk, but it was at least half a head taller and not subject to fatigue. Why it had done it was a mystery and one that Deglan had no time to unravel.

  “You cannot travel,” Deglan told the fomori, trying to keep the finality out of his voice.

  Faabar shrank further into the barrowside, letting out a pained breath. “Then you must. Go to Court. Tell them…what has happened. Stop this…before it is too late.”

  Deglan watched the grass ripple in the breeze, trying to ignore the cairn stones and the sense of hopelessness in his heart. “Sixty years or more since a Waywarder came through these lands. Over two-hundred since the last proclamation from the King…and near another hundred on top of that since anyone last laid eyes on him. He may be dead.”

  “He is not.” Faabar’s voice was weak, but not the conviction behind it. “The island clings to life. Winter has not yet fallen. Irial lives, Deglan…he lives.”

  It was still a gamble and Deglan had made up his mind. “I will go where I know there is help. For all the foolishness, there is still strength in Toad Holm. Hob will do something…he must.”