The Exiled Heir (Autumn's Fall Saga)

by Jonathan French

  Deglan glanced down at Blink and it occurred to him that he had a problem. She was the daughter of a charcoal burner, spending her heartbeat of a life in relative seclusion. Deglan did not know if she had ever met any other mortals besides her parents, much less Fae-folk. Certainly there was a settlement near to her father’s hut where he went to trade, but how often had she been there with a mind to remember? She seemed to have accepted his own presence, but he was quite sure her mind had been damaged by the loss she had suffered and there was no way to tell if that damage would ever mend. He was trying to save her life, but where they were bound contained sights that might destroy what was left of her sanity forever. Goblins lived in Toad Holm. Or hobgoblins did, if you used the proper term, but the difference would be lost on her. And why should it not? It was lost on Deglan. Still, she deserved every chance. If there was a shred of rational thought left in her wee skull, she needed to be prepared.

  “I have a story for you, Blink. Would you like to hear it?”

  She did not divert her attention from the spot in front of her feet.

  “Many, many years ago…,” he began, feeling foolish, but why bother explaining the Age of Spring, tens of thousands of years ago, to a child not yet four? “…the elves ruled this island that we now call Airlann. They were good rulers and just and everywhere was sun and warmth and bounty. The elves were the stewards of Magic, which made the world, and the tools it used were the Elements. The Elements were powerful and precious and needed to be kept safe, so the elves entrusted them each to a separate race. My people, the gnomes, looked after Earth and lived deep underground. In the seas and lakes and rivers, the undine watched over Water while high above in the sky the sylphs guarded the secrets of Air. And far, far below at the core of the world was the source of Fire and its keepers were the dragons!”

  He gave the last word a wondrous quality and leaned in close to the girl, wiggling his fingers like some daft hedge magician. Blink was unimpressed. Deglan’s face withered. Faabar would have been better at this.

  “The Elemental Guardians,” he continued, more subdued, “were allowed to govern themselves and each had a king or queen of sorts to lead them. The gnome king at this time was named Ghob, and Ghob was a right greedy bastar--that is, Ghob was greedy. He went to the elves and asked permission to delve deeper underground so that he might expand the holdings of the gnomes and make them richer, but the elves refused him, fearing he would encroach…I mean, bother the lands of the dragons. Ghob bowed his head and left the Seelie Court, that is what the elves called their kingdom, and he vowed to obey, but when he returned to his own kingdom he announced to the gnomes his plan to go against the wishes of the elves and venture deeper underground. Many of the gnomes were angry with King Ghob and called for his removal, and Ghob soon found himself an outcast without a crown or a throne. But there were those loyal to him, and in disgrace, Ghob took his few subjects with him into exile, sneaking away where the elves forbade him to go.

  “Many, many years passed and Ghob was forgotten and the land was peaceful. Until one day, a group of strange buggers came up from the deepest tunnels of the gnome city. They were grey and bent and misshapen and spoke queerly. They claimed to be Ghob’s kin, but to everyone it sounded as if they said goblin. Somehow they had survived and even thrived as there were many and more than what had followed the fallen king so many years before. But more terrible than their numbers was that they wielded Fire. How the goblins could have taken it from the dragons is not known and the elves were deeply disturbed, but they allowed the goblins to live in Airlann, which was bloody stupid and they paid for their mistake.

  “The goblins helped some evil humans take over the isle and called them their Kings. A terrible war was fought over many years, and eventually the Goblin Kings were all defeated. The last was called the Gaunt Prince, and he was slain by the gnome king of that time, a powerful warrior named Goban Blackmud. A damn fine king! After the war, Goban took his hammer and struck off for the center of the world, claiming he would not return until Fire was taken away from the goblins, and, if they still lived, placed back under the care of the dragons. He has not been seen again to this very day, but do not give up on him, Blink. Some of us never have.

  “Now Goban had to leave his crown to someone before he left, so he put it in the hands of his brother, an empty headed lack wit named Hob. Hob got to talking with the newly restored king of the elves and thought that it would be a right grand idea to offer an invite to any goblin who wanted it, to come back and live with the gnomes, so as to get reunited with their long lost cousins. Nevermind that the goblins were responsible for hundreds of years of oppression and bloodshed and were nothing but an unwashed rabble of bandy-legged, sister-shagging, gap-toothed, flat-headed, Fire-loving murderers!”

  Deglan stopped. In his tirade he had let go of Blink’s hand while flailing his own angrily above his head. She had stopped walking and was now standing motionless several dozen paces behind. Deglan’s heart sank. It was all a waste of breath and there was nothing he could do to change that. There was no herb that could cure this poor child. And what had he hoped to accomplish? To explain that she would have to see goblins again? The same pug-nosed bastards that had slain her parents and found the act a lark? But that they were different from other goblins, because they had chosen to accept Hob’s decree and come back to gnomish ways? That they were good goblins? She had no reason to trust that, and Deglan would be lying to her if he said she should, because he did not believe it himself.

  “Forget the story,” Deglan said and walked back to where Blink stood. He squatted down and placed one hand on her face and the other he cupped under her chin. Gently he raised her head until she looked him in the eye. “If you hear nothing else, sweet one, hear this. No matter what we see or who we meet…I will not let anything happen to you. I will keep you safe…or you can kick me in the shins.”

  They spent another night in the woods and this time Deglan risked a fire. They both needed some hot food, so he boiled up a broth with some leeks and tubers he found during the day. It was bitter stuff but Blink put it down without a sign of distaste or approval and slept through the night. The next day brought them to an area of the forest covered in steep rolling hills. The trees marched up the leaf choked embankments and down again, forming deep valleys in the forest floor where thin creeks gurgled with dark water. It took Deglan the better part of the day to find a gate.

  Toad Holm’s greatest defense was its difficulty in locating. There was no great wall or castle or main gate, the city was entirely underground, and though its tunnels sprawled for miles and miles, there were few entrances. Deglan had not been back to the ancestral home of his people for several centuries. In fact, he had vowed never to return, but the most earnest of vows make fools of the forsworn and so here he was, poking around the hills, looking for a way inside. Finally, he discovered a large fallen oak that made his ears itch. The great tree had toppled and its massive tangle of roots now faced Deglan as the tentacle laden maw of some beast. A large furrow was left in the ground where the tree once stood, filled with muddy rain water and forest debris. Deglan let go of Blink’s hand and left her standing on the edge of the depression. He skidded his way carefully down the side and sunk up to his waist in the muck when he reached the bottom of the bowl. He spent a long time inspecting the roots until he was sure. Reaching into his satchel he pulled out one of his bronze lancets and pierced the meat of his palm. Squeezing his hand into a tight fist, he let the blood fall into the water below.

  “I am a rightful guardian of Earth. A chosen protector of the Molding Element. By rights gifted to my people by Magic, I bid you open. Mud for blood. Stone for bone. Soil for soul. Open.”

  The water churned as the red droplets struck and the roots of the fallen tree stretched down, burying deep in the sodden soil of the bowl. Quickly the water drained as the dead tree drank deeply and soon the depression was no longer flooded. A great stone lay near the base of the bowl, just belo
w the roots of the tree. Deglan reached up and helped Blink down as the stone slid open to reveal a damp tunnel, glowing with a soft blue light. Taking Blink by the hand, Deglan led them inside. The stone slid back into place and he breathed a sigh of relief. The forest was behind them and nothing could follow.

  Deglan looked down to make sure Blink was not frightened by the tunnel. He expected to find her usual blank stare, but was surprised to see the little girl wore an expression of mild curiosity. She was staring at one of the large grubs lazily crawling across the tunnel wall. Its entire body shone with a pale blue luminescence, and it, along with the dozen or so of its comrades were the source of light in the tunnel.

  “They are called moonbacks, seedling. My people keep the soil around these tunnels filled with their favorite food, so that they will live here and help us to see. You may take one with you, but do not crush it.”

  Deglan gently scooped up one of the grubs and placed it in Blink’s hand. It all but covered the little girl’s palm, but she held it tenderly and continued to gaze at it with the first real emotion Deglan had seen.

  “Come,” he said, taking her free hand. “Let us see who else we can find.”

  They struck off together down the tunnel, Blink’s moonback providing adequate light to guide them. The tunnel was raw earth and barely twice Deglan’s height. Thin roots poked through from the ceiling and there were no stones paving the way. It was only wide enough for two riding toads to travel side by side, telling Deglan that this was a remote passage. The absence of sentries was puzzling and he expected they would be challenged at any moment. He was not wrong.

  At the first intersection, they found the tunnel barred with a bronze gate and four guards stood watch, each wearing the heavy leather armor of the Worm Guard.

  “Halt there!” one of them yelled when Deglan and Blink drew within a spear’s throw of the gate. “Who goes?”

  “I am Deglan Loamtoes, master herbalist and former Staunch of the Bwenyth Tor Wart Shanks. Open up! I have information for the Wisemoot.”

  He heard the creak of a key being turned in the gate lock and the bars swung open. He led Blink through and had a moment of worry when he saw one of the four guards was a hobgoblin. Thankfully, the girl was still fascinated by her moonback and took no notice.

  “Which way?” Deglan demanded, looking down both forks of the passage. “I need to get to the Moot and speak with Durock Moundbuilder, if he still commands.”

  “He does,” one of the guards said. “We will escort you.”

  “Not him!” Deglan pointed at the hobgoblin guard, whose face flashed with anger, then settled in an almost sad resignation. The gate commander also shot him an impatient look, but Deglan held the stare and nodded down at Blink. “Red Caps.”

  “Understood,” the gate commander said and looked to the hobgoblin. “Morel, you and Slevin have the gate. Master Loamtoes, if you would follow me.”

  Deglan could feel the hobgoblin’s eyes on him as they left, but he did not return the look. The hobgoblin was quite young, no more than two hundred and was probably born in the city long after the Restoration, but Deglan had no time or inclination for sensitivity, and he meant to limit Blink’s exposure to goblins, any goblins, for as long as possible.

  The watch commander was still a bit put off by him. “May I ask,” his voice was brusque. “What you have to tell the Wisemoot?”

  “What is your name, commander?” Deglan asked as they came to a larger tunnel.

  “Breasal, Master Loamtoes.”

  “Well, Breasal. I have to tell them that Torcan Swinehelm is ravaging the countryside with an army of Red Caps and he is aided by a Flame Binder allowed to escape from this city.”

  “Allowed is not the word I would use Master Loamtoes,” Breasal said tautly. “And the Moot knows all of this.”

  “Well damn, then I have come all this way for nothing.”

  “You know more.” It was not a question and Deglan did not bother to answer. “How?”

  “I found a Red Cap,” Deglan said. “And I asked him impolitely.”

  “What did he tell you?”

  Deglan stopped and whirled on the commander. “That my people need to stop asking questions and start fighting back! Because if they do not, they and everyone else on this island will once again be crushed under the boot heel of oppression!”

  He paused, reluctant to tell a gate commander before he had a chance to speak to the Moot. Then he damned his caution. Let them know! Let them fear! It may be what forces them to act.

  “Torcan thinks he has found the lost heir to the Goblin Kings. He means to bring the heir and the Flame Binder together and reawaken the Forge Born.”

  FIFTEEN

  “There you go! Almost…No! Don’t think about it, just…yes! Very good.”

  Rosheen laughed and clapped her hands together. Pocket’s smile threatened to split his face in two as he turned his head from side to side, trying to see the mule’s ears that now drooped down past his cheeks.

  “I did it!”

  “I told you.”

  Pocket giggled and Rosheen could not help but laugh again. She glanced up and saw the younger coburn trying to suppress his own smile as he pretended not to watch the boy’s progress. Pocket did not give him a chance to continue his feigned indifference. He jumped off the ground and ran over to where the squire trained with his quarterstaff. Where else would he be?

  “Flyn!” Pocket was breathless. “Look!”

  The coburn leaned on the training dummy and smiled down at the little gurg. “I have often been called an ass, but you my friend are the first to make me wonder if it was a compliment.”

  “I am sure it wasn’t,” Rosheen threw at him, smiling.

  Flyn bowed grandly. “As my lady says.”

  Pocket was feeling the tips of his new ears, his face a mix of pride and amused confusion. “Now all you need is a proper tail,” Flyn told him.

  “A tail!” Pocket ran back over. “Can we? Rosheen! Show me how to do a tail.”

  “Show you?” she said with fake aghast. “I cannot do that. I do not have a tail!”

  She heard Flyn whistle bawdily and fought to keep her eyes on Pocket’s bright face.

  “We can work on it,” she promised. “You should run inside and show Sir Corc.”

  Pocket’s face fell and she could feel Flyn shoot a look at her. Curse me for a manipulative shrew.

  “No! I have a better idea!” she rescued herself. “Run and find Lochlann. He will want to see. And then have him bring you to where Ingot and Backbone are stabled. If you can fool real mules, you can fool anyone!”

  Pocket brightened and made for the door of the townhouse, then turned on his heel so fast, Rosheen thought he might fall. “What about the tail?”

  “Tonight,” she assured him. “But let’s see if you can hold the ears until then.”

  The wide smile returned and Pocket dashed inside.

  “Backbone will never buy it,” Flyn said, looking at the training post and rubbing his hand down the pitted wood. “He has almost less whimsy than his master. Almost.”

  Rosheen did not respond. If mules mocked their masters, than Ingot was likely to smile and promise the world. And lie with every breath. She had spent the better part of a fortnight bumping around in a cage hanging from that beast’s back, but she did not begrudge the mule. Fafnir was another matter. He seemed to believe he had saved her from something, but neither asked for thanks nor offered apology for her confinement. She was out of the cage now, but felt just as trapped. Beyond the wall of the little courtyard, the sounds of the city quaked ceaselessly; cart wheels banging on cobbles, crying babes, hawking vendors, the splash of night soil thrown from upper windows. Rosheen loathed Black Pool. She never saw a reason to be here when it was an elf harbor, much less now that it was a sanctuary for the world’s unwashed.

  Bored with her own tedious thoughts, Rosheen flew over to where Flyn practiced, landing on the top of his training post.

&n
bsp; “You beat most manfully at your pole,” she said down at him.

  Flyn stopped swinging and looked up at her.

  “Most perceptive of you,” he said, impatience edging his courtesy. “And also distracting.”

  “Then I improve the exercise. You do not think it will be distracting when some frothing barbarian is swinging something heavy and sharp back at you?”

  “That,” Flyn smirked, “will just be amusing.”

  “Oooh. Such a cocky one.”

  “Please get down.”

  “I am quite comfortable.”

  “I might strike you.”

  “Well that would be most unseemly of a knight…in training.”

  “In waiting,” Flyn countered. “Waiting for you to move.”

  “Waiting, yes,” Rosheen sighed. “Seems to be a common pastime with you lot.”

  Flyn backed a few paces away from the post and leaned his staff against the wall of the house. He looked towards the door for a moment and then spoke without looking back to her. “It is at that.”

  Rosheen could almost see the frustration resonating off the young squire in waves. It was no wonder he worked constantly at the dummy; any less and he might burst. Rosheen followed Flyn’s stare to the door.

  “What does he do in there?”

  “He listens,” Flyn said, practically spitting the second word.

  He stalls. “Has he always been this…sober?”

  Flyn let out a noise that was half disgust and half dismissal, but said nothing.

  He does not know. “And the boy?”

  Flyn turned away from the door and the swagger returned to his shoulders. “Pocket was at the castle long before me. He and our goodly knight have a history of which the boy knows little and Sir Corc says nothing…not like him at all.”

  Damn peculiar. Rosheen’s hopes had risen when she first saw the coburn and the colors they wore. The Knights of the Valiant Spur were a dwindling sight on the isle, but once they had commanded great respect and a reputation for righting wrongs. But this knight seemed content to languish in Black Pool holding councils, accompanied by a squire he kept in the dark and a gurg page with no talent in actually changing his skin. Sir Corc seemed to be respected by the myriad of visitors that occupied his time, but as for righting wrongs, he had done nothing that Rosheen could tell.