The Exiled Heir (Autumn's Fall Saga)

by Jonathan French

  “Black Pool was an orphan. A cast off. Unwanted by the Seelie Court after the Restoration. Maybe they thought it had been stained by the Goblin Kings or maybe even then they were too weak to build it back to glory. I was born here, sir knight. I was born here when the city was divided between two lecherous humans; childish mortals playing with Magic too great for them to understand. I watched as over the decades my race licked the boots of these would-be sorcerers, and I came to a great understanding.

  “We goblins have never had our own leader. We crawled up from the center of the world and followed anyone of strength. That is our pathetic legacy! The Red Caps would see us all cast back into thralldom and once again place a crown upon a mortal’s head. Others,” his eyes flicked over to Muckle, “would have us swear loyalty to the gnomes. Rejoin our cousins and our lost heritage and play into Hob’s foul scheme to see the end of goblinkind by breeding us out of existence. I will not let that happen. Toad Holm is not a haven for us. Black Pool is! And I will spread that word to the corners of this isle and beyond. If you would report anything to your Order, sir, I hope it will be that. And you…,” he said to Muckle, “can tell Hob the same. I will not follow a man. I will not follow a gnome. I am a goblin and my people can follow me.”

  Rosheen winced at the sound of Muckle slowly clapping his meaty hands together. He is going to get us killed.

  “Will you fight for that belief?” Sir Corc asked.

  The Lord of Pile regarded him for a moment, an expression passing across his face that Rosheen had not yet seen.

  He doubts.

  “The Red Caps,” Sir Corc continued. “They are heading for the city in force. You have ten days, maybe less before they are at your gates.”

  Rosheen felt bile rise in her throat. Fafnir you fleeing coward.

  The Lord of the Pile searched the knight with his eyes. Sir Corc remained unreadable. “You know this? How?”

  “Fat go-betweens have their uses,” Muckle said, his smile not reaching his voice.

  The Lord’s eyes flicked up to one of the Middangearder warriors and the man turned and left without a word. “I shall look into these claims. But be assured, even if you speak true this city is well defended.”

  “From without,” Sir Corc said. “What about from within?”

  The Lord found the question amusing. “You think I should fear insurrection?”

  “Black Pool is home to many,” was the knight’s reply.

  “And,” Muckle put in, “a great many of them look a lot like you and I, my Lord.” Muckle glanced down at his own ludicrously long shoes. “Well…more like you.”

  “Ah,” it was the Lord’s turn to feign surprise. He wagged a finger at them. “You think that a city full of goblins must also be rife with Red Caps.”

  Yes.

  Sir Corc said nothing.

  The Lord of the Pile smiled sadly. “Come with me, please.”

  They followed the Lord out of a small opening in the side of the building and came into a mud clogged field. The Lord of the Pile trudged away from the pens, the hem of his robe dragging through the filth. After a few dozen paces he paused and turned back towards the building, his gaze resting high and he motioned for them to do the same.

  On the roof of the building seven goblins stood precariously near the edge. Two large men stood behind them, sharing a bottle back and forth. The goblins’ hands were bound behind them and Rosheen shuddered when she saw that each wore a noose around their necks. The ropes fell down their chests, over the roof edge and looped back up under the eaves, tied to the rafters. A sack covered each of the goblins’ faces, painted a garish red.

  The Lord of the Pile extended a hand towards the roof. “Is this what I have to fear?”

  “So they are in the city,” Muckle said.

  “Who?” the Lord of the Pile asked mildly. “Red Caps? It is possible. By your logic at least one of these seven must be.” He waved a hand and one of the men on the roof lazily put a boot into the back of the left most goblin, kicking him off the edge. There was a squeal of terror from beneath the red hood, cut short when the poor wretch passed the eaves and the rope jerked taut.

  “Stop this!” Rosheen said to Sir Corc.

  “My Lord,” the knight said. “You need not do this for our benefit.”

  “Yours?” the Lord waved again. The second goblin fell awkwardly, almost spilling from the roof. He dangled from the end of his rope, feet kicking hopelessly as he slowly strangled. “The benefit is entirely for my city.”

  “You cannot do this…,” Muckle began.

  “Without proof?” the Lord interjected. Rosheen winced as another spine snapped, but the goblin pressed on, unaffected. “Why? You come to me with no proof. Only accusations. These seven are goblins. What more proof do I need?” He waved again and the fourth rope claimed a life.

  “We came to you with a warning,” Sir Corc said, anger spilling into his voice. “And you give us this vile show!”

  The men on the roof were laughing now as they kicked the remaining three to their deaths. “The only warning, Sir, will be the bodies of these seven strung up on the gates and bridges of Black Pool. You tell me my people are sympathizers to an army of blind fanatics? After today, they will not dare.”

  Five bodies hung limply from under the thatching, the contents of their bowels running down their legs. The other two gurgled and twitched in the air, spinning hopelessly in agonizing death.

  “Come away,” Muckle shoved past the guards. “I am not one for gallows humor.”

  Sir Corc stared hard and the Lord of the Pile returned his gaze, the knight’s face full of fury, the goblin’s placid. The coburn turned and strode away. Rosheen followed him.

  Even Muckle was silent as they made their way back to the city proper, but the time for tight lips was over. Rosheen wheeled on Sir Corc.

  “Why did you bring me to see that?”

  The knight stopped. “That madness was not expected.”

  “Then what? What did you expect?”

  “You do not trust me,” he replied. “You think I am idle in the face of danger. That I ignore it, but these threats are very real to me, piskie, and maybe now you can believe that. I am not going to help your friend. I ask your pardon, but if he did survive then he is in the Red Cap’s wake and far safer than we are. You saw a village burn, I doubt that not, but this city is next and my duty is to the safety of…others.”

  Something crossed the knight’s face that Rosheen could not place. He had almost said something else and then caught himself. Frustration gnawed at his face and Rosheen waited.

  “Also,” the knight said at last, “I wanted your council. You are wise and I wager, a keen judge. So, I ask you. Is the Lord of the Pile a Red Cap?”

  Rosheen did not hesitate. “No.” Sir Corc nodded, both relieved and troubled. “Will he fight?”

  This time Rosheen did hesitate, but it was not for lack of certainty. No. She shook her head.

  “As I feared,” the knight said.

  “What now?” Muckle asked.

  Shame settled over the knight when he answered, but Rosheen did not judge him harshly. “We flee.”

  Pocket sat in the tiny garret room of the townhouse that served as his bed chamber, looking out the round window at the night covered roofs of the city. He was supposed to be asleep, but he lay in his bed long after blowing out the candle. Bantam Flyn was silent at last, the sounds of his stumbling and drunken singing no longer coming up through the floor from the squire’s room below. He had bought a flagon of wine from a street vendor on their errand for Sir Corc and happily told Pocket his plans to celebrate his brief freedom. The squire’s good cheer had soared upon their return when Sir Corc informed them that they were to be leaving the city within the week and he had spent the night passing the bottle with Old Lochlann.

  But not everyone was filled with such gaiety. The piskie lady had barely spoken a word all day. Even now she sat out on the ledge under his window, staring mournfully at t
he stars. Pocket had not bothered her about teaching him to form a tail, although he had managed to hold the mule’s ears the entire day. She seemed to want peace, so Pocket only smiled when she caught him staring and she always smiled back, but there was something missing. He could see the tips of her wings poking up from the bottom of the window and he watched them flutter slightly in the nighttime breeze for more than an hour before he made up his mind.

  Pocket had spent a lifetime in long, quiet solitude; sitting in dark places, away from the world, hoping not to be disturbed by bad people…and all the while wishing someone kind would come and find him and talk to him and be his friend.

  Rosheen looked up and smiled when he leaned out the window.

  “Trouble sleeping?” she asked.

  “Yes,” he told her.

  She nodded then turned back to the sky, her eyes careful never to look down at the jam of buildings. He watched her for a moment, nervous to speak.

  “You miss him?” he finally ventured.

  Rosheen looked over at him, puzzled but not angry as he feared. “Yes,” she said. “I do.”

  “Me too,” he said, then realized his mistake. “I mean, I miss my friends sometimes too.”

  He watched her watch the stars for a long time and worried that she was ignoring him, that he was bothering her. His heart fell, and he was about to duck back inside when she spoke.

  “Everyone keeps telling me he may be dead,” she looked over at him, her eyes bright and wet. “But I would feel it, were it true. I know I would feel it. He is alive.” She nodded firmly, dislodging a single tear. “He is alive.”

  “Sometimes,” Pocket said. “I talk about them. My friends that are not here. I tell Flyn about them or Lochlann. Sometimes even Backbone, because he listens best. He seems to like the stories about Napper.”

  “Napper?” Rosheen asked.

  “He’s a cat,” Pocket said. “My best friend. He and Moragh.

  She was like you. She was very kind to me.”

  “I wish I knew them, then.”

  “They would like you,” Pocket said. “But it helps. To talk about them with someone. It helps even if they do not listen. But I would listen.” Pocket took another nervous breath. “Would you like to tell me about him?”

  Rosheen smiled at him and this time, nothing was missing. “Yes,” she said. “I would.”

  SIXTEEN

  It had been well over a thousand years since Deglan Loamtoes last set foot in the Burrow of the Wise. The vast, domed ceiling, roofed in intricate patterns of interlacing roots had been reshaped and restored to its former glory. The expertly carved lamps of thin amber were replaced, each hung from bronze fixtures and filled with a dozen mature moonbacks, casting a warm, steady light across the breadth of the cavern. All of the stone benches that were cracked or broken were now whole and covered with a cushion of fresh moss. In the center of the circular chamber, the Speaker’s Mound was newly laid with rich, fragrant soil, giving and soft to ease long hours of standing.

  Deglan’s feet still hurt.

  The chamber may have been lovingly crafted in the centuries since the Restoration, but the occupants had not been likewise improved. This place was still full of fools.

  “Tell us again,” Burden Dunloe droned from the third gallery. “Who this supposed goblin was that gave you this information?”

  Deglan had to stop his eyes from rolling. “As I said… he was a Red Cap. Canker, was his name.”

  “And this Canker.” Dunloe sounded as if he were about to fall fast asleep. “He was high in the Red Cap ranks?”

  “What? No. He was a foot-stomper. Just another gibbering killer with a torch.”

  The assembled buffoons, crowded rump to rump on the benches, mumbled and murmured and harrumphed to one another. Burden Dunloe sat back, resting his heavy lidded eyes along with whatever argument he thought he had made. For every ten gnomes in attendance, Deglan spied at least one hobgoblin wearing the robes of a Burden. Likely, they were none too fond of Deglan’s last remark. Let them be offended. Deglan spoke only the truth.

  Another of the King’s advisor’s leaned forward. “And you say these Red Caps claimed to be under the command of Torcan the Swinehelm?”

  Deglan did not recognize this particular windbag, but he grit his teeth and answered. “Yes. But that I did not need to be told. For the fourth time, I saw Torcan with my own eyes.”

  “On the same night you saw the Flame Binder?” Burden Windbag confirmed.

  “Surely,” Deglan said with a bitter smile. “I do not need to convince you I saw him. Unless I must offer proof of your own mistakes?”

  Windbag’s eyes widened as if he had been struck with a fistful of something smelly and the benches erupted with shocked cries of protest. Burden Dunloe woke from his nap long enough to calm the assembly and come to his offended colleague’s rescue. “And now you say that the Red Caps are marching on Black Pool! Tell me, Master Loamtoes, why would a powerful warlord like Torcan Swinehelm reveal such plans to some lowly follower?”

  “I have a question of my own, good Burden,” Deglan smiled bitterly. “Have you ever been to war?”

  Dunloe seemed to find this question amusing and chuckled softly, looking around to see his fellows on the benches were equally entertained. “I was present during the Rebellion, Master Loamtoes.”

  “I remember,” Deglan said. “And you sat around flapping your fat mouth then as you do now!” That sparked more grumbles, but Deglan rode over them. “There is such a thing as marching orders, Burden. I doubt if Canker was told anything by Torcan directly, but the Red Caps are spread out in raiding parties across the countryside. Their leaders would have been given a point of convergence. They are to gather four days march from the city. I tell you, Torcan means to take Black Pool.”

  “To what purpose?” Burden Calum asked. Deglan relaxed a little. Calum was old, but practical as ever. Maybe there was some sense left amongst the King’s advisors.

  “Recruitment,” a gravelly voice answered. Deglan turned with the rest and looked to Durock Moundbuilder, standing by the entrance to the galleries. “If he can take Black Pool, then he can swell his ranks. Convince or threaten the goblins there to don the Cap.”

  Deglan nodded gratefully, taking comfort in the general’s presence. Durock’s broad forehead now sat below a bald pate, but the fierce, black hair that had retreated from his head now covered his cheeks in bushy whiskers.

  “Which is why you must strike now,” Deglan urged the assembly. “Before his forces gain further strength.”

  “We still have been given no proof to this report,” Burden Dunloe said.

  “Then send riders to confirm it!” Deglan thundered. “If my word is no longer good in this council!”

  “No,” a frail looking gnome said from the back gallery. Deglan could not believe that after all this time Burden Feeney still shook when he spoke. “We must not send our forces out needlessly. Not with Red Cap patrols on the loose.”

  “So!” Deglan threw his arm angrily in Feeney’s direction, causing the whelp to flinch. “The Red Caps are out there, after all. Just not where I say they are!”

  “Sit down, Burden Feeney,” Dunloe scolded and waited until his instructions were followed before turning back to the room. “If this army is marshaling where you claim, then it will reach the city long before our troops could muster. The Red Caps would hold Black Pool and we would be forced into a siege.” Dunloe hung his head sagely and then shook it before looking back at the assembly. “Too costly.”

  “You need not risk a siege if you ride now,” Deglan could hear the plea in his own voice. “The Wart Shanks could cover the distance and with luck take the Red Caps by surprise. They would be caught between us and the walls of the city. You could end this with one crushing blow.”

  “We have no assurance that Black Pool will offer any resistance,” Windbag threw down. “They may simply open their gates to the Red Caps.”

  “And,” Dunloe added, “a foe
as seasoned and dangerous as Torcan Swinehelm, if it is indeed he with whom we are matched, would never fall to such a trap.”

  “Perhaps,” Deglan snarled, “we should let our own very capable General decide that. Durock,” Deglan turned to the lined face of the old campaigner, “tell them--”

  “General Moundbuilder,” Dunloe snapped, “does not sit on the council that helps bear the King’s Burden! He is here to answer questions regarding the strength of our troops and to march when and if the King so chooses. Nothing more.”

  Deglan looked into Durock’s weathered face as the councilor spoke. The General did not look away, but in his eyes was a weary resignation, a shamed acceptance of the folly that surrounded them. Deglan had fled this inanity long ago. A wise choice if what he now looked upon was the result of dealing with such absurdity for centuries.

  Deglan turned away and looked up to the King’s Seat above the sixth gallery.

  Empty.

  Empty as the heads of everyone in this room, including himself. He was the greatest fool for coming here. Airlann stood on the brink of repeating a nightmare. Already, the lives of mortal men had been pounced upon and what did his people do? They hid, content to keep their heads as buried as their city. King Hob was probably tending his mushroom garden, blissfully unaware that the world above was beginning to burn.

  Burden Dunloe had continued to prattle on for the benefit of his captive audience and Deglan had ignored him until he heard the useless sack declare, “We dare not act upon the words of a Red Cap spoken while under torture!”

  Deglan gawked. “Torture? I never said I--”

  “Did he survive your interrogation?”

  “No, but--”

  “Do not try to dissemble with me, Master Loamtoes,” Dunloe barreled over him. “Your reputation during the Rebellion is well known by this council as is your hatred for goblinkind. No doubt the grievous pains inflicted on your prisoner conjured up all manner of falsehoods just so you would put an end to his misery.” He swept the seats. “We cannot take faith in this report!”