The Exiled Heir (Autumn's Fall Saga)

by Jonathan French

  “Where?” Torcan coaxed, pressing the axe upward until a thick pool of crimson welled upon the blade.

  Kederic grit his teeth through the pain. “Dead.”

  Torcan laughed. “No, no. That she is very much alive, I know for certain. Where you have hidden her, this I will have from you.” The goblin ground the blade deeper and Kederic’s eyes ran with fury and pain, but he said no more. “Very well,” Torcan looked at Acwellen. “The Thegn is to come with me, so we may…talk more. You have your fort, mortal. But remember, this ends not our bargain.”

  Acwellen nodded and Padric saw sweat running freely beneath his beard. “What of these two?”

  Torcan did not bother to glance at Padric and Slouch Hat. “Kill them.”

  Padric heard Fat Donall laugh, followed by a wet noise of glee in Drefan’s throat, but it was Poncey Swan that he watched. The weak-chinned bastard’s face was full of lust as he approached, laying the bow aside and drawing his skinning knife. Padric waited, ready to kick Poncey Swan off his feet as soon as he was near. This one, he would take with him.

  “My Lord Swinehelm!” Slouch Hat’s voice cut through the hall. “You need not Winetongue’s wife, when you have her son!”

  The Red Cap looked up and squinted hard, then rushed forward, knocking Drefan and his torch away from the husk. “What did you say?”

  “I tell you,” Slouch Hat said firmly, “you let them kill that boy…and you kill the Gaunt Prince’s heir.”

  Padric watched, full of confusion and fear, as Torcan Swinehelm turned and looked at him for the first time.

  FOURTEEN

  “Them’s loaded, they are,” Canker complained.

  “Shit-liar, you,” Nape spat back. “Now roll.”

  Canker snatched up the dice irritably and cast them in the ash pit.

  “Ruttin’ hell,” he cursed the result.

  “Smoke and Fire!” Nape cheered. “There’s a right measure. Nape wins!”

  “Nape’s a smug fuck,” Canker muttered.

  “Smug or no, I gets the honors when the cat comes back.”

  “If’er she comes back.”

  “She will. You watch.”

  Canker glanced around the clearing for the twentieth time. “Still thinkin’ we ought have a look-see.”

  “Bugger that! And you. Through marchin’ in the woods, me. Got the finer’s all right here. Wait in comfort and see a proper result, mark me.”

  Nape stretched and lay back, resting his head on the corpse of the collier’s wife. Canker remained restless, shifting on the seat he had made of the dead dog.

  Nape looked up at the sky, scratching between his bandy legs. “Think I fancy a little throttling.”

  “Whatta you on now?”

  “The cat,” Nape replied. “Gonna takes me time. Get a good long strangle outta her. Watch her eyes pop! This’n dropped too fast when you poleaxed her.” Nape reached back and punched into the woman he used as a pillow. “And that bastard had to be stuck quick. Fast fucker.”

  Canker looked towards the forest’s edge where the body of the collier still lay, spear sticking straight out his back to mark where he fell. “Twas a right good toss,” he admitted.

  “If I may say,” Nape giggled.

  “You’re the shit-liar now, Nape! ‘Twas Midden’s throw that did for him. I saw. Your’s lost in the trees somewhat.”

  Nape’s head craned off the woman to glare at Canker. “Mine struck home, I says and Midden missed.”

  “Not the way of it!”

  “Was! And Midden’s not here to say otherwise.”

  “No,” Canker said pointedly. “He ain’t. But we are. Got left behind to clean up. If that don’t speak to the truth of your aim, nout does. And we should be runnin’ down that rascal cat and getting back before Swinehelm has us branded for deserters.”

  Nape settled back down with a careless sigh. “Swinehelm’s on his own errand. Don’t give a fig for us out here. Been more moon’s turns than I can count, runnin’, scoutin’, trackin’ and hard camps at the end o’every day…and more often we march through the night as well! No, says I. No more. Not until I can enjoy me a little leave time.”

  Nape closed his eyes and Canker just watched him.

  “Drowning,” Nape said after a moment. “That would do for our cat. I’ll make like some filthy gruagach…hold her head down in the rain barrel.”

  “Shouldn’t talk such,” Canker mumbled.

  “Why and not?”

  “About them. ‘Tisn’t right.”

  Nape sat up on his elbows, grinning. “I could be one. Some skinchanger out here in the wilds! Real Nape is lying over in that stream yonder. Poor Canker…you’d never know it. Not till I was behind ya and turnin’ yer head backwards!”

  “S’not funny!” Canker jumped off the dog.

  Nape laughed at him. “If’n you’re too craven to wait with me, go ahead into them woods while we still have some day left. Might be you’ll stumble on that cat. Just remember, I won them bones so I gets to do her proper.”

  Canker snatched his poleaxe off the ground and made for the trees.

  “Watch for changelings!” Nape advised before he got there.

  Canker stopped and stood for an uncomfortably long moment. He pulled the grimy, blood-colored hat off his broad head and fidgeted, glancing at the trees and then back to where Nape lounged in the dying sun. Finally, Canker went back and sat on the dog without a word. The goblins waited.

  And Deglan waited with them.

  He could see them. He could hear them, forced to listen to their foul tongues wag for hours. The collier laid not a dozen steps away. He had not died straight away. The spear Nape had claimed to throw had pierced a lung and Deglan had watched as the helpless man twitched, trying to pull himself away by his fingertips, slowly, almost noiselessly, drowning in his own blood. He was still at last, but his paling eyes stared at Deglan, pitiful and accusing. Deglan tried to ignore the dead gaze. Even in the man’s final moments it would have been impossible for the collier to see him. The Earth embraced him. Hid him. Allowed him to watch from safety as this innocent man died within reach while he did nothing.

  He had been traveling through the wilds for near a fortnight and everywhere was signs of Red Caps. Homes and villages were razed, livestock herded over cliffs and the half-burnt bodies of travelers hung from trees. Deglan had not dared use the old elf roads, but even in the backcountry the goblin presence harrowed his steps. He should have reached Toad Holm by now, but too often had he been forced to hide from a patrol or go long miles out of his way to skirt a goblin encampment. Deglan now realized the band that had burned Hog’s Wallow was just the tip of the sword. There was no way to know how many goblins Torcan Swinehelm had wearing the Cap. The presence of a Flame Binder would have brought fanatics out of hiding from across the isle, all ready to marshal under such power. The exact count made little difference. When it came to goblins, you were always outnumbered.

  But two to one were the best odds Deglan was likely to get. He had heard the attack through the trees and cursed himself for being unaware the enemy was so close. Had it not been for the charcoal burner’s hut, Deglan might have stumbled on the raiding party unawares. Lynched and burnt was a merciful end compared to what Red Caps were known to do to gnomes. He asked the Earth to accept him and hid, waiting for the sounds of slaughter to cease and soon the patrol marched past, blood on their weapons, laughter on their lips. He hated them almost as much as his own helplessness. There was little hope of survivors, but the habits of a healer do not cower and Deglan snuck close to have a look. He found these two murderous lice taking their ease amongst the remains of their victims. He could have snuck off and been back on his path, but this was a rare chance and Deglan meant to take advantage of it.

  The Red Caps had not yet burnt the collier’s hut, nor the pair of outbuildings. Likely these two meant to spend the night in the hut before putting it to the torch, but for the present they sat outside, making it difficult for De
glan to make any move. His skin had darkened to the color of rich soil and his body was entwined with a thicket of brambles and saplings. Dead leaves crowded around him as he lay close to the ground, shielding him from Canker’s nervously roaming eyes. It was blood Magic, ancient and pure, but only effective if he remained quite still, so he waited and watched.

  Soon, Nape was snoring and Canker paced about, bored and agitated. He kicked at stones, poked at the dog’s remains with the butt end of his poleaxe and nosed through the outsheds. When he finally shuffled into the hut, Deglan wasted no time. Careful, cleverly timed plans had their place, but also too many details that could go wrong. Sometimes, it was better to simply move.

  He darted out from the tree line, bent low and felt the Earth release its ward. Keeping his eyes fixed on the sleeping goblin, Deglan plucked the spear from the collier’s back on the run. Nape’s eyes popped open the instant before the spear head pierced his throat, bursting out the back of his neck to imbed in the woman’s corpse behind. Nape’s cry of surprise died in the ruin of his jugular, his hands jerked up to the spear shaft, but the spasms of his dying fingers would not allow him a proper grip. His frothy tongue pushed forward, flecking blood into the air as he gagged on a foot of metal. The wound hissed and burned around the broad iron head, the pumping blood steaming as it flowed down Nape’s chest. Deglan gave the haft a sharp twist and wrenched the spear free. Nape vomited a torrent of thick crimson and went limp. A quick glance to the door of the hut showed no signs of Canker. Deglan caught Nape’s ankle and dragged him into the trees, dumping the spear in the brush alongside the corpse. Snatching the shapeless cap from Nape’s head, Deglan donned it with repressed revulsion. Wordlessly, he asked the collier’s wife for forgiveness and lay down.

  It was some moments before he heard the door to the hut creak open and Canker’s heel-dragging steps. Deglan kept his eyes closed, feigning sleep and tried not to think about the heavy poleaxe that was doubtless in the goblin’s hand.

  “Found some turnips in’ere,” Canker said as he approached. “And some beans. What say to a little pottage, eh? I fancy we…bugger me!” The footsteps stopped abruptly and there came the dull thuds of dropped turnips. Deglan willed his heart to calm and stretched slowly, opening his eyes lazily.

  “Sounds grand.”

  Canker’s mouth went from gaping to tight lipped and back again. The poleaxe was nowhere in sight. The goblin’s hands hovered empty near his waist, clutching turnips that were no longer there.

  “Well,” Deglan said. “Fetch some water.”

  Canker blinked and the air pushed around in his throat with half formed words.

  “N-nn-nuh-Nape?” he finally manged.

  “What?” Deglan aimed his voice for mild irritation and hit ignorant anger. “Fetch the water, I said.”

  “Fire claim me,” Canker stammered. “Please don’ drowned me!”

  “Why would I?” Deglan made a show of looking at his hands, then put them to his face, feeling his features. “Oh! Well, that is what I get for sleeping. Gone and formed a gnome. So similar to you goblins! Both despicable, stunted. It is a disgrace to wear your skins, a humiliation!”

  Canker tried to glimpse the trees without moving his head and Deglan saw his weight shift.

  “Do not try and run. I would be upon you before you could make a pair of steps. We gruagach are very fast, Canker.”

  Canker did not run. His legs gave out and he hit his knobby knees, his hands raised in appeal. “No! Don’ drowned me! Don’ I beg, don’…don’ drowned me!”

  “I’ll not,” Deglan said and hope flitted across the goblin’s face. “If you answer my questions.”

  “Yes! I will. Ask anything, I’ll speak it true by my bones. I’ll speak it true and if I says a’right you’ll not drowned me?”

  “No, Canker. I will not drown you. Now into the house so we may talk.”

  Canker went within all too eagerly. Deglan asked his questions and Canker answered them. He had to keep his face a mask as the goblin spoke, but his guts turned to sickening liquid with every response. Deglan got his answers and kept his promise. He did not drown Canker. He slit his throat to the bone with his cleaver.

  Night was coming, but Deglan remained in the hut, his thoughts spreading as darkly as Canker’s blood. Lingering was likely to prove fatal if the main group came back in search of these two, but he could not bring himself to stand. It felt as if he had been on the run forever, as if the intervening years of peace between the last war and now had never transpired. It had felt good killing Nape; a tiny measure of revenge against all the sorrow goblinkind had heaped upon him. But by the time he opened Canker’s throat, vengeance offered no more succor. All the blood in the world would not be enough to weigh against what had been and what would be if Canker’s final confessions could be believed.

  And Deglan believed.

  He shook his head roughly. “Enough of this wallowing! Miles to go and sitting here will not remedy that.”

  Deglan pushed himself to his feet and went out the door.

  The little girl stood next to the corpse of the collier’s wife, looking with lost eyes around the ruin of her life in the last ugly orange light of dusk. Deglan froze, afraid she might bolt, but she did not seem to see him. She walked in a nightmare, a frozen painting of the familiar posed in awful mockery of itself. Physically, she was unhurt, but Deglan’s eye took in deep injuries of the mind. So, this was the cat. Deglan should have taken more time with Nape and Canker. They died too easy, damn them.

  He approached at a careful pace, not so fast as to frighten her or so slow as to appear the hunter. She did not resist when he scooped her up, her face vacant. She could not be more than three, which was fortunate. Mortal children grew so quickly. Any older and Deglan would have been hard pressed to carry her, but carry her he did, out into the woods and away from the gory remains of her world.

  He walked for a few hours through the night with no direction in mind. Putting some distance between the child and her home was his only concern, so that she could not find her way back. Eventually his arms began to quiver from the limp burden and he stopped walking, settling down into the cradling roots of an ancient edad filled with fallen leaves. Breathing a sigh of relief as the tension left his muscles, Deglan risked a glance at the girl. She did not sleep, as he hoped, but continued to stare into the trees. He held her close with one arm and used the other to pull the leaves about them for cover. Deglan settled back and closed his eyes, stroking the child’s smooth cheek with his thumb and asked the Earth to guard her against the perils of a long, chilly night.

  He awoke to mist laden rays of sun rippling through the branches. A warm weight lay comfortably atop him and he looked down to find the girl sleeping soundly. She still had the chubby cheeks of youth, rosy from the cold air and her hair was the golden red thought to be lucky by many human tribes. She certainly was lucky to have survived, although she may well wish she had not. Deglan was tempted to let her sleep, but they had to be on their way. Placing a finger gently between her eyes, Deglan lightly rubbed down her nose.

  “I am sorry, seedling. It is time we were awake and away.”

  The girl’s eyes fluttered open, cloudy and unfocused. They were the color of burnt chestnuts and Deglan smiled down into them. His smile faded when the blankness returned to the child’s face. He rose and carried the girl up with him, but immediately placed her on her feet. She stood silently, barely taking in her surroundings. Her dress was simple, but sturdily made of wool and her shoes were still sound. Deglan pulled a piece of cheese from his satchel and held it out to her. She looked at it and then up at him, but made no further move.

  “My name is Deglan,” he ventured. “Deglan Loamtoes. What is your name?”

  She blinked.

  He nodded. “Blink it is then. Well met. So Blink, I need some help. I have a long way to go today and no one to talk with, which can be very lonely. But if I had you to keep me company, then I believe the day would be much br
ighter.” Deglan held out his hand. “Will you walk with me?”

  Her little hand came up and clutched his gently. He nodded and started off at an easy pace and the girl stayed right by his side. As the morning drew on, they stayed hand in hand and Deglan told her the names of every tree and plant they passed, trying to sound as light as he could while still staying alert for danger. While he spoke, he casually offered her the cheese again and this time she took it, munching quietly as she put one small foot in front of the other. She never looked around, her gaze fixed at a point just beyond her feet, but she trudged dutifully along, keeping the pace. Deglan stopped regularly to make sure he did not over exert her and managed to get her to take some water from his skin. He had little in the way of provisions left, but the forest would provide long enough for them to reach their destination. Or so he hoped.

  Deglan had not been this far away from Hog’s Wallow in centuries. He did not know which of the human clans, if any, dwelled in these lands or what their customs were. And he would not have left Blink with them even if he did. No one was safe in any community. Their only hope was Toad Holm, if it was still there.

  After the revelations of Canker, Deglan was more anxious and determined to reach the city than before. He had intended to deliver a warning, but now it was impossible to fathom that the whole isle was not aware of the Red Cap’s presence and still none stood against them. Surely, there was enough strength left within his people to resist one Flame Binder. The thought set Deglan’s teeth to grinding. They were fools for ever locking him away and allowing him to live. Should have taken his head off and had done! Too many acts of mercy followed the Restoration of the Seelie Court. Irial’s benevolence was well chronicled, but the forbearance he showed his enemies at war’s end bordered on madness. Elves were a strange lot, for all their wisdom, and Deglan often counted himself lucky not to be born amongst their number, preferring the more practical ways of his own people. That is, until that practicality was replaced by the same blind acceptance that Irial preached. Madness, it seemed, was contagious.