The Exiled Heir (Autumn's Fall Saga)

by Jonathan French

  She rose. “I will walk with you.”

  “I would just have to escort you right back,” he told her. “Too many unfamiliar faces about to have you walking alone.”

  “Well then,” something happened to her eyes. “I will not come back.”

  She was bold and Padric was tempted. Her thick auburn hair promised warmth, her smile spoke of welcome abandon. He had tasted his fill of harsh company and underneath her woolen dress, Padric was sure she would be soft to his hands.

  “Forgive a tired man,” he said, inwardly cursing himself for a fool. “I think the horse got the best of my strength for the day.”

  Her face remained amused and playful. “Is that a refusal?”

  He laughed. “It is a plea. Not to take offense to either of the poor choices I would undoubtedly make tonight.”

  He was relieved to see she was indeed unhurt. She smiled and shook her head. “You are a strange one, Padric Piskie-Kissed.”

  “I know,” he said walking backwards, still smiling. “It is a burden.”

  He made his way back to the stables, immediately regretting his decision, but he did not turn around and make himself twice the fool. The grooms were all asleep in their bunks off the tack room, so Padric crept by and made for the stalls. Kederic would not risk the welfare of his steeds and had forbidden anyone from sleeping in the stables, but Padric did not care. Disobeying the rule gave him a petty satisfaction and maybe his defiance would lead to an audience with the Thegn away from his men. The possibility that he would be flogged passed through his mind, but he was too weary to worry overmuch. He made for the rear where a large stall was used for feed and fodder storage, unbuckling his sword belt and letting it fall. A long sigh of comfort escaped from his lungs when he settled into the soft mound, sleep quickly dimming his vision. Something pressed into his lower back and he dug halfheartedly into the hay to retrieve it.

  The mound erupted and something leapt on top of him! The hay fell in over his head, blocking his sight and he felt his left hand pinned fast. He swung blindly with his free arm and buffeted into the thing, but could not dislodge it. He tried to raise his face out of the pile when a hand gripped his throat, shoving him back down. He thrashed and punched in a panic, vision and breath cut off. Another hand clutched his free wrist and pinned it down, rendering him completely helpless. Choking and sputtering, his mouth filled with dry strands, gagging him. His right hand closed on something and his dimming brain recognized the feel of leather. He grasped it and kicked his body upwards with his legs, desperate to throw off whatever was crushing the life from him. His knees struck it in the back and the pressure flew away from his throat, his wrists. He rolled out of the hay, drawing in dry breaths of dust, coughing back to life.

  The sword belt was still in his hand and he fumbled to draw the blade as the figure recovered and dashed at him from the top of the pile, arms outstretched and grasping. Padric stumbled back and thrust with the naked iron. The figure did not check its headlong rush and the blade slid in easily through its chest up to the hilt. It fell forward and knocked Padric back into the wall. Shoving the figure away, Padric lost his grip on the sword. His attacker stumbled back on unsteady feet, the blade still imbedded deep in his body. He was so thin, Padric did not know how he managed to fight at all. Some old man? It was difficult to tell with the face concealed beneath the wide brim of that rumpled hat.

  Padric held his bruised neck and sucked in air, waiting for the wretch to fall, only to have his newly found breath catch in his throat when the man kept his feet and slowly pulled the sword from his own body. No blood ran from the tear in his filthy shirt, no drops ran red from the blade as it issued from the wound unblemished. It took the sword out and into hand before raising its head. There was no face! Only a sack stuffed and stitched with the semblance of human features, dead pits of blackness for eyes beneath the floppy brim of a…

  “Slouch Hat,” Padric croaked.

  The husk hesitated at the sound of his name, but Padric did not. He launched off the wall, swatting the sword out of the scarecrow’s hand before barreling him over. The stuffed body was heavier than it looked, but Padric still outweighed Slouch Hat by several stone and once they were down Padric pinned him fast.

  “Murderous maggot,” he rasped at the husk.

  “Padric!” a sharp whisper came from behind him. He turned his head and found Jileen in the entrance to the stall, eyes wide, white knuckles clutching a shawl about her. Her gaze shifted to the form pinned beneath him and she rushed forward, dropping to her knees next to them.

  “Stay back,” he hissed.

  “Padric, let him up.”

  “What? Jileen…it just tried to kill me. It did kill Brogan.”

  “Liar.” The word came from below him in a voice thin and reedy. Padric shivered, reluctant to look down at the formless face.

  Jileen placed a hand on his arm and was about to speak when they both caught the glow of a light coming towards them. Jileen shoved Padric away and threw her shawl over Slouch Hat then grabbed Padric by the tunic, dragging him down on top of her. Her mouth found his, lips parting, her body pressed upwards seamlessly into him. They rolled and she was now astride him, hay caught in her tousled hair, dressed bunched up around her thighs. She breathed in little laughing gasps and did not stop when one of the grooms poked his head into the stall, lantern in hand.

  “Oi now! What’s this, then?”

  “The lord’s come a’callin’,” Jileen giggled, her voice slurred. She poked Padric clumsily in the chest. “Yer t’be flogged.”

  Padric watched the groom’s grin begin to overpower his scowl. “Beg an hour?”

  The groom gave him a knowing nod and went his way. Jileen waited for the lantern light to completely fade before ceasing her mummery.

  “Boy,” the reedy voice issued from under the shawl next to Padric’s ear. “Would you get off me?”

  Jileen stood up allowing Padric to roll away. He retrieved the sword out of the pile and did not sheathe it as Jileen uncovered the husk and helped him to his feet. Slouch Hat was shaped like a man, albeit a gangly one. He was barely taller than Padric, but there was something queer about the way he moved, an unnatural smoothness that sent hackles up the spine. His tunic and breeches must have once been finely made, but were now soiled and torn. Padric watched as he methodically picked every last piece of debris out of Jileen’s shawl before handing it back to her.

  “How did you get here?” she asked as she wrapped herself back up.

  “I snuck in,” the husk replied, the folds of his sack face moving disturbingly as he spoke.

  “But the Sure Finder?” Jileen’s hushed voice was worried, almost desperate. “Slouch, what if…how were you able-”

  “Not with ease,” the husk cut her off gently. “Madigan has had his beasts on my heels since I left. I barely managed to stay ahead of them. They harried me through the forests and back again and then…several days ago, they just stopped.”

  “He has not returned to the fort,” Jileen said.

  “Then the Winetongue has him hunting other prey.”

  “Goblins,” Padric put in.

  Slouch Hat’s laugh tore almost noiselessly at the air. “He knows well where they are.”

  “Speak plainly!” The night’s events had killed any patience Padric possessed.

  The husk fixed him with the holes in his face. “Kederic commands the Red Caps.”

  It was Padric’s turn to laugh. “Madness! The man distrusts the Fae. Why would he ever conspire with goblins?”

  “To rule them,” Slouch Hat said. “To become a Goblin King.”

  Padric struggled to keep his voice down. “I’ll not listen to slanderous words from a thing that murdered its own master.”

  “He didn’t,” Jileen said. “Padric, Slouch Hat did not kill Brogan.”

  “How do you know?”

  “He was on an errand for me when the body was found.” She suddenly seemed to remember something and looked to the
husk. “Did you find them?”

  “No,” Slouch Hat replied. “It was as we feared. They were gone.”

  “Gone?” Padric was confused. Angry and confused. “What was gone? What errand? Jileen!”

  “There is no time to explain this to some warrior whelp,” the husk snapped. “Jileen, we must end this now, before it is too late.”

  Jileen hesitated before speaking. “What do you propose?”

  “I will kill Kederic.”

  Padric brought his sword up so rapidly Jileen jumped. Slouch Hat remained perfectly still. “I will not allow that.”

  “Do you really think that will work on me, boy?” the husk stepped towards him. “My home has been burned, my friends have been slain, I have been branded their slayer and the man responsible is sleeping peacefully within a bowshot of where we stand. If you think you can keep me from him, I will show you how mistaken you are.”

  Jileen stepped between them. “Enough! Padric, put that down. Slouch, listen to me. Padric was there. He fought with the others. He tried to save us. Faabar trusted him…we can trust him.”

  “I will not be a part of your murderous plot,” Padric told her.

  “Murder?” the husk returned. “This is beyond that, beyond vengeance. Kederic must die if you do not want what has happened to these lands to occur across the whole of Airlann. If you do not trust my word, trust what is in front of you. The countryside burns, yet this fort remains untouched and the people who survive have no choice but to come here. He is master of more today than yesterday and much more than a moon’s turn before. Kederic’s own riders hunt the goblins but never find them. You say he distrusts the Fae, this we have known for years, but now he uses their greatest enemy against them. If the goblins put a throne under him, he need not love them. He owns them and he will use them to rid this isle of Fae-kind forever. Already, Faabar is dead and…”

  “What?” Jileen pressed.

  “I found Bulge Eye,” Slouch Hat said slowly. “While I was on the run. And I can tell you it was no goblin spear that I pulled from his corpse. I lived around the Thegn’s men long enough to know their arms.”

  “And Deglan?” Padric found himself asking.

  Slouch Hat shook his head. “I found no sign.”

  Padric went cold. Kederic told him the gnome never made it to the fort and now he knew why. The villagers said Rosheen led them to safety, yet... The man had lied to him! They called him the Winetongue and Padric had become drunk on his words, senseless to the truth. He thought of Rosheen, hunted by the Thegn’s men, ridden down like an animal and pierced with cold iron. Was she lying out there now? Moldering in some lightless track of woods? Slouch Hat was wrong. This was not about the fate of the island.

  Airlann could rot! Padric thirsted only for vengeance.

  “We move now,” he told the husk. “Acwellen’s dogs are the only ones in the hall and stupefied with drink by now. He will never be more vulnerable.”

  The husk nodded grimly and snuck quietly out of the stall. Padric made to follow when Jileen caught his arm. She said nothing but the meaning in her look was clear.

  When they reached the yard, Padric took Slouch Hat by the wrist and looped an arm over his shoulders. The husk’s limb felt fragile, devoid of muscle or bone, but there was strength when he tried to pull away. Padric held tight.

  “Just act drunk.”

  Slouch Hat must have understood, for he went limp, stumbling along as they made their way to the hall. Some of the refugees under the support beams were awake and watched them from the dark, but Padric paid them no mind. They just needed to reach the Thegn’s bedchamber. After that, Padric saw only red.

  They dropped the act after opening the heavy doors and slipping into the hall. It was black as pitch inside, the central fire cooled to embers. Padric crept close to the wall, leading Slouch Hat, hoping they would not tread on someone sleeping in the dark. He felt his away along until they came to the side passage which led to the Thegn’s quarters. Padric paused to listen for any sign that their passing had made a disturbance. Silence met his ears and he breathed easy. Nothing stirred, no footfalls, no mumbles of wakened sleepers, no snores. It was completely quiet.

  Curse his stupidity!

  He turned to flee when the torches flared. Banan stepped out of Kederic’s chamber, an axe riding one fist, a sword the other. Poncey Swan had an arrow trained on him from across the hall, his smile willing Padric to run. Seon and Big Cunny stepped forward with leveled spears, and behind, Fat Donall lounged on a bench with his torch held lazily. Drefan almost danced as he approached and held his torch close to Slouch Hat, who backed as far into the wall as he was able to avoid the flames. Aglaeca relieved Padric of his sword then hauled him roughly to the center of the hall and threw him to the floor.

  “These actions grieve me, Padric,” Kederic Winetongue said. “I did not want to believe you capable of this.”

  Padric struggled to his knees and looked up to see the Thegn standing over him, Acwellen close to heel.

  “I believed too much of you,” Padric spat on the Thegn’s foot. Aglaeca cuffed him heavily across the face and Padric met the floor again. This time he spat blood.

  Kederic knelt down in front of him. “I thought you stronger than this. Past being taken in by the lies of these creatures.”

  “I know the truth when I hear it,” Padric told him through sore teeth.

  “What have they promised you, Kederic?” Slouch Hat demanded from the wall. “You speak of lies! What falsehoods were you fed to birth so much evil?”

  Kederic rose. “Bring that thing here.”

  Drefan herded the husk over with his torch and forced him to kneel before the Thegn. “I suffered your presence for Brogan’s sake,” Kederic said. “But now that he is gone, I see no more use for you. I will light a fire in his honor with your unnatural carcass.”

  “Honor the man you murdered?” the husk replied.

  “I murdered no one,” Kederic said through clenched teeth.

  Padric tried to rise again, but Aglaeca put a boot to his chest, so he tossed his words at the Thegn from the floor. “Then which of these whoresons did it for you? I know the men you keep, curs all! Fat Donall would drown a man for an onion!”

  The man named chortled heartily from his bench.

  “Poncey Swan’s too much a coward,” Padric pressed on. “And Big Cunny too daft. Drefan more than likely did your skullduggery. All for a pat on the head! Be proud of them, Thegn. Men such as these will be fit for your court. Only they would serve a Goblin King!”

  Kederic snatched Padric by his tunic and hauled him upright. He shook him, their noses almost touching as he yelled in his face. “You would say this to me? You! Fae’s pet that you are! I saved your life, boy! How dare you! How dare you!”

  Padric did not struggle, he did not pull away. He just looked into that red face. “I would dare anything for Rosheen.”

  Kederic’s face fell, his eyes filled with sorrow. “She has you bewitched.” He released his hold and motioned to Aglaeca. “Get these cutthroats out of my sight.”

  Acwellen strode forward. “That will be difficult, my lord.”

  Kederic turned. “Why?”

  Acwellen’s fist slammed into the Thegn’s jaw, showering Padric’s face with bloody spittle. Kederic stumbled but did not fall until Aglaeca kicked his legs out from under him. Padric stood stunned but that did not stop Drefan from planting a knee into his gut and sending him to the floor beside the Thegn.

  “Because,” Acwellen leaned over them smiling. “You will be seeing them right up until the end.”

  “Acwellen!” Kederic’s voice was full of fury and blood. “You cannot expect to get away with this.”

  “You’ll not be talking your way outta this one, My Lord Winetongue,” Acwellen chided. “I got all me boys here. Where’re yours?” He straightened as he laughed, full of himself. “Seon, run along and let our guests in! They’ve been awaitin’ too long.”

  Big Cunny went to w
ork binding all their hands while Acwellen seated himself and pulled deeply from a bottle.

  “The other carls will not stand for this,” Kederic said as his bonds were pulled tight. “They will never accept such treachery.”

  Acwellen ignored him and shared rude jokes with his men. Padric lay on the floor, numb and uncaring. He had failed. Had he succeeded his world would have still been darker. Maybe he would have gone home and seen his family. Found some days of solace before the wickedness that plagued these lands reached their doorstep. But even that fleeting chance could not eclipse his desire to see every man in this room dead by his hand. He should have fought back. Death was certain, but maybe he could have run Drefan through before they brought him down. That would have been something.

  The doors to the hall opened and Seon returned, his face nervous. Padric craned his head to look upon the figure that followed and his guts churned. The heavy bronze boots thudded across the hall as he approached, the battle axe propped casually over a shoulder and that damned unmistakable helm, forged in the likeness of a boar, was cradled in the hook of his arm. Kederic saw the goblin and began screaming, cursing Acwellen’s name, kicking at the floor, trying to rise but was held fast by the spear tips of his traitorous warriors.

  The goblin paused when he reached the center of the hall, half the height of the men who all shrunk slightly away from him. Even Banan took a step back.

  The goblin pointed to Kederic. “This him?”

  Acwellen nodded, trying to hide his apprehension. Kederic did not cower. Heedless of the spears he pushed himself to his knees and looked at the goblin in the eye.

  “Be gone from here, filth! Or my loyal men will see your head mounted on a spike come daybreak.”

  “Oh, I think we will be away long before then, as we have just one question for you.” Torcan Swinehelm placed the blade of his axe under the Thegn’s chin and leaned in close. “Tell me, Kederic Winetongue. Where is your wife?”

  The Thegn craned his head away from the bite of the blade, face full of loathing and did not answer.