“Then take faith in your own failure!” Deglan yelled back. “You know a Flame Binder is free because he escaped from this city! Maybe you should be standing down here answering my questions about that!”
Burden Calum stood up, his hands raised in a calming gesture. “Master Loamtoes, please. You go too far.”
“Forgive me, Burden,” Deglan told the aged councilor, “but you do not go far enough. You must act! And swiftly. Torcan Swinehelm will soon have all he needs to subjugate this isle for a second time.”
“Ah yes,” Windbag seemed to have rallied himself for another assault. “An heir of the Goblin Kings. Tell me, how is that possible when the last of those despoilers was thrown to his death?”
“Jerrod the Second, you mean?” Deglan would put a stop to this worm’s second bout of bravery. “Or did the history book not tell you his name, you suckling child! Yes, he was pushed from a tower and his son--”
“The Gaunt Prince,” the stripling councilor cut in angrily.
“Very good!” Deglan praised him ruefully. “He was killed in the Battle of Nine Crowns. But…both King and Prince had children that were never found at war’s end and fanatics like Torcan have never stopped searching for them.”
Burden Dunloe scoffed. “Nine hundred and more years is a long span for mankind. Countless generations! It is most unlikely the line has survived.” The gaggle of advisors surrounding him nodded most agreeably. Deglan wondered if Dunloe had their heads attached to a string running up the sleeve of his robe.
“If I may,” Burden Calum cleared his throat. “The progeny of the Goblin Kings has ever proven more gifted than that of most humans. Their talents with Magic were beyond what most mortals could ever achieve and it did extend their lives most incredibly.”
“At a cost,” Burden Dunloe grumbled.
“True,” Calum continued. “Madness, physical deformity, all of these maladies and more plagued the Goblin Kings, but even then they remained quite resilient. It is not impossible to believe that their descendants have managed to thrive. And let us not forget, the line of the first usurper, Penda Blood Coin, was not the only family to wield sorcerous powers. Twice there was a schism in the succession of the Goblin Kings. Once with Hogulent the First and Only and then again with the peerless rule of the Goblin Queen. Their seed, along with that of the Gaunt Prince and his father may very well endure.”
“Well then,” Dunloe’s tone was placating. “Master Loamtoes, did your…prisoner tell you who this heir might be?”
Deglan swallowed hard. “No.”
Burden Dunloe’s grin widened as he allowed the effects of the admission to pass through the chattering chamber. “And why not? You seem to know everything else from his lips. Why not this most important of facts?”
“I asked,” Deglan told him, “but he did not know.”
“Because there is no such person,” Dunloe told the chamber. “This heir is nothing but a myth told to the Red Caps to stir them into further frenzy. Well, I refuse to be taken in by such delusions! I will not believe it!”
“Nor I!” Burden Feeney squeaked.
“Hear, hear!” Windbag was on his feet along with the rest of Dunloe’s sycophants. Support was spreading through the galleries, but there was doubt in the faces of many of the assembly. Deglan needed to act quickly.
“Peace!” he yelled. “Peace! Listen to me! It makes no matter whether we believe. Do you not see? Torcan believes! And that is more dangerous than all the goblins under his command. Because a thousand Red Caps, a hundred Flame Binders, is nothing compared to the might of just ten Forge Born! And that is what Swinehelm intends to do… crush this isle under an army of living iron!”
“Do not embarrass yourself, Loamtoes,” Dunloe chuckled. “The Forge Born are no longer a threat to this isle. The Magic of the Seelie Court saw to that a thousand years ago.”
“If you think they are not a threat, then you have clearly never seen the havoc a single Unwound is capable of.”
“The Unwound,” Dunloe spoke as if to a child, “were a rare abomination. The violent result of a few Forge Born in their death throes. There has been no report of an Unwound on these shores in close to a hundred years and no functional Forge Born has been sighted in twice that time. They are gone, rusted to pieces.”
Deglan’s mind went to the Forge Born that had dragged Faabar away from the devastation of Hog’s Wallow. The one with the empty scabbard who had spoken to him and led him to the barrows and handed Faabar his sword, helped to bury him.
Coltrane. It had called itself Coltrane.
There was nothing rusted about it and if there was one there could be others. Deglan would make this council understand that if he had to stand on the Speaker’s Mound forever.
He took a deep breath.
“Say nothing.”
Deglan glanced up angrily at Burden Dunloe, but found he had once again taken his seat, conversing quietly with his lackeys.
“Do you have anything else to say to us, Master Loamtoes?” Windbag jeered.
“Yes,” Deglan said. “There was--”
“They cannot be trusted.”
Deglan whirled around to the seats behind him and found a hundred faces staring back at him expectantly.
“We are waiting, Master Loamtoes,” Windbag urged.
Deglan turned back and opened his mouth.
“For Airlann’s sake, say nothing of what you saw.”
Deglan shook his head roughly, trying to dislodge the voice.
“If there is nothing more,” Windbag said primly, “this council will conclude.”
“Wait!” Deglan exclaimed.
“No!”
“I have other--”
“Silence!”
“There is--”
“I believe you.”
Deglan stopped. The Wisemoot stared down at him impatiently. Even Burden Calum seemed perturbed and Durock Moundbuilder would not meet his eyes.
“Look up,” the voice urged. “Fifth gallery. To your left. I am scratching my right cheek with two fingers.”
Deglan scanned the fifth gallery and there, sitting amongst the rest, was a wizened hobgoblin scratching his face lightly with two fingers.
“This Wisemoot shall retire,” Windbag declared. “And these matters brought before King Hob by the Chief Burdens.”
Deglan remained on the Speaker’s Mound as the councilors filed down from the galleries. He was confused and grew angry at each sidelong glance and backhand whisper cast in his direction. In retaliation, he shot a sharp look at Burden Feeney and was rewarded when the little squint tripped on the hem of his robe. It only made him feel slightly better. He caught sight of the hobgoblin again amongst the exiting crowd. He possessed the wide head, protruding nose and bat-like ears so prevalent in goblinkind, but unlike most of his race, whose skin was usually a mottled grey, this goblin’s flesh was a dingy white, his pale hand poking out from the sleeve of his councilor’s robe and gripping a gnarled root staff. He did not look at Deglan, but watched his feet as he carefully made his way down the steps.
“We must talk,” the voice filled his head again. Now that Deglan could concentrate he found the tone gentle and refined. “Meet me in two shadow’s turn at Salt Well.”
Deglan watched him descend the final steps and wondered what the old albino would do when he found himself alone in that briny cave.
“I am not an albino, Master Loamtoes,” the polite voice corrected him. “And you would be wise to meet me. Oh! Bring a fishing pole.”
Deglan scowled at the hobgoblin’s back as he left the chamber. Mind speech was a seer’s trick and quite common amongst the elves during the height of the Seelie Court, but he had never known a gnome or a goblin to be capable of such craft. This hobgoblin deserved no more trust than the council he warned against, and Deglan had no intention of meeting him anywhere. He lingered a moment longer, taking one last look at the King’s Seat. He remembered the days when a better gnome occupied the chair, wishing he sti
ll did, then turned his back and left the Burrow of the Wise.
Durock Moundbuilder awaited him in the entrance tunnel wearing the heavy bladed falchion not permitted in the Moot. Seeing the General armed and flanked by two soldiers clad in bronze plate and bearing menacing halberds made Deglan’s heart jump to his throat but he pushed it down.
“Am I to be taken into custody?” Deglan asked without breaking stride. He walked past Moundbuilder and his guards without waiting for a response.
The General caught up to him, his escort staying a respectful distance behind. “Still cranky as ever, Staunch.”
Deglan kept his eyes forward. “I am not cranky. I got piss in my veins and shit in my craw. All I been fed for half the day.”
Moundbuilder said nothing. After another dozen strides, Deglan stopped abruptly and spun to face him. “Since when is the Marshal General not also a Bearer of the King’s Burden?”
Durock’s jaw muscles bulged underneath his whiskers. “Things have changed,” he said slowly. “His Grace no longer feels the army should have a voice in such matters. We are the hammer…he is the hand. His words.”
“Put a hammer in my hand and leave me alone with His Grace,” Deglan muttered. “Knock some sense into him.”
Moundbuilder glanced over at the soldiers standing fifty paces off, then back at Deglan. He took a step forward and Deglan was suddenly reminded why Durock had risen so high in the ranks. He was bloody big for a gnome; thick arms covered in muscle and black hair. His flat face, framed in whiskers and dominated by dark eyes gave no doubt as to why his troops called him the Old Badger.
“Careful, Loamtoes,” he rumbled quietly. “Not all ears are friendly. And I cannot protect you from your own treasonous tongue. For all his faults, I still serve the King and I will take you into custody if you insist on making more enemies.”
Deglan nodded and Moundbuilder backed away. Then a grin split his craggy face, and he clapped a weighty hand over Deglan’s shoulder. “It is good to see you again, Staunch. Did you not make a vow never to return Holm?”
Deglan could not return the smile. He shook his head and continued walking. “A vow I would have kept if you lot did not have rocks in your skulls. By the Stone! Durock, how ever did you allow a Flame Binder to escape?”
“Over eight hundred years entombed and then one day,” the general punched his fist forward and splayed his fingers wide. “He was gone. Cell was empty and none of our own were dead.”
“Why was he even here?” Deglan struggled to keep his voice down. “They should have all been put to death! Why did you not go after him?”
“I was forbidden,” Durock said simply. “The Moot thought it best to wait for aid from the undine and the Waywarders, so that we might combine our strength.”
“And have they come?”
Durock’s brow buried itself between his eyes. “The undine, yes. Of the dusk elves we have seen naught.”
“And while you tarry, Torcan is using the Flame Binder to turn the mortal world to ash.”
“The Red Caps would not exist were it not for man,” Durock said gruffly. “They are no strangers to war, fighting amongst themselves as they so often do. And they have their precious iron. Let them fend for themselves.”
“They are not the only ones who suffer, Durock. Black Pool is home to mortal and Fae alike.” He stopped and turned to the general. “That Flame Binder killed Faabar.”
The Old Badger took the news like any commander. “Shame. We could have used him in the times ahead.”
“What times are those, General?” Deglan asked. “Hunkering down here and holding councils? Faabar died fighting and he took a goodly number of goblins with him. To my mind, he struck the first blows of this war for our side. You say you could have used him? I say he could have used you. And where were you?”
“Serving my King,” Durock glowered back. “Something you seem to have forgotten.”
“Your king,” Deglan countered, “is not his brother and last I knelt, it was to Blackmud. The King that fought. The King that had you on his council and not just as a tool to brandish. But this is not about rulers, Durock. Faabar remained loyal to Irial and the Seelie Court to his last breath, but I think he had a far deeper allegiance and one which no monarch can surmount. He was loyal to this Isle…to Airlann herself and all her peoples. And he understood something that no one down here seems to comprehend.” It was his turn to step forward and get in the general’s face, thrusting a finger towards the roof of the tunnel.
“The mortals that are dying up there…Faabar gave his life to protect them. And why? Because he knew that not one of them was alive during the reign of the Goblin Kings. They are not responsible for the deeds of their ancestors. Ancestors that lived so long ago they appear as legend to mortal eyes. Mankind is guiltless, Durock. Can we, who have lived so long, say the same?”
Moundbuilder’s jaws worked under his skin, as if chewing Deglan’s words to mush. “What would you have of me, Staunch?” he asked. “Defy the will of Moot and King? Take the Wart Shanks into the field and make merry chase of Torcan and his army? Leave Toad Holm defenseless?”
Deglan smiled for the first time. “Sounds good.”
The Old Badger snarled and turned away. “I cannot.”
Deglan looked at his former General and did not recognize him. Durock stared at the ground, frowning at nothing but his own indecision.
“General Moundbuilder,” Deglan began slowly. “I have removed no less than four arrows from your body. Not to mention the spear that took you through the shoulder. I brought you around when a goblin mace near showed your brains to the sun. I have stitched your wounds, reset your bones and relieved your fevers. And I was proud to be of service. But this wound from which you now suffer, no skill of mine can mend. I have no remedy for broken resolve. There is no cure for cowardice.”
Moundbuilder’s head shot up and his hands curled into meaty fists. “Burden Calum was right,” he growled, eyes full of fury. “You do go too far.”
“I do not know which makes me angrier,” Deglan said turning his back and heading down the tunnel. “That everyone keeps telling me how far I go… or that no one is willing to follow me there.” He did not stop walking.
The tunnel contained no branches to left or right. There was only one route to the Wisemoot, and, at last, Deglan emerged into one of the many huge caverns that made up Toad Holm proper. The passage led onto a walkway along the rim of the cavern. The ceiling was lost in deep shadows above, but the walkway was still high up the cavern wall and Deglan could look down upon the many layers of Toad Holm. Bridges of carved stone, stairs of coaxed roots and walls of molded Earth crisscrossed below, a harmonious jumble that gave shape to the city. Deglan traveled the walkway, heading down the wall in a gentle spiral.
Every street in Toad Holm was paved with flat, uncut stones of every size, each one painstakingly sought after so that it fit seamlessly amongst its brethren without the use of hammer or chisel. After three Ages and tens of thousands of years, there remained gaps in the pavement, brown earth showing through, marking where that one naturally fitting stone was yet unfound. Deglan had almost forgotten how single minded his people could be and how lovely the results were.
When he turned his back on Toad Holm, the city was newly resettled after centuries of abandonment. The long neglect had caused widespread cave-ins, destroying entire districts and the already war-weary gnomes spent years driving off the unsavory creatures that had taken up residence in their absence. Burrowing ballybogs infested many a tunnel and covens of baobhan sith hid from the sun in the once resplendent halls. As Deglan made his way down, he found it difficult to imagine the once decrepit state of the place. He came down into the middle reaches, crossing over one of the many bridges and entering a typical living district. To his left the cozy market burrows bustled with gnomes trading for wool, vegetables and tools, the patrons taking their goods away down the well-lit side tunnels and eventually to the large caverns where their home
burrows lay nestled comfortably next to those of their neighbors.
Deglan meandered around the market and considered making his way back to Ruhle Nettle’s burrow. The fierce old herbwife who had been his unyielding mentor was long dead, but one of her many daughters now dwelt in her house and it was the best place Deglan could think of to leave Blink. She was in capable hands, Deglan was certain. Ruhle had made sure every one of her offspring knew the healing arts, but he still found himself worrying and felt a deep need to check on the child. Maybe he just needed a familiar face that did not fill him with disappointment.
“What may I interest you in, good gnome?”
Deglan turned and found a plump, smiling merchant at his elbow. He regarded the merchant for a long moment and just as the good-natured smile began to lose its sincerity he said, “A fishing pole.”
An hour later, Deglan had trudged down into the lower reaches of the city. The tunnels remained wide and high, but there were fewer lamps, and large sections had yet to be completely cleared of rock spills and uncooperative roots. Feeling foolish with the pole in his hand and not entirely certain he wanted to go through with this clandestine meeting, he had taken a long detour.
Salt Well and that ghastly hobgoblin could wait. There was something else he wanted to see first.
The Gate of Lost Kings was housed in one of the largest caverns in Toad Holm, far below the civilized districts of the city. The Earth of the cave was barely shaped and retained a wild, untamed appearance. Lit only by two large bronze braziers on either side of the Gate, this was the only place in Toad Holm illuminated by Fire and the great double bronze doors shone savagely in the light of the flames. Easily ten times the height of a fomori, the Gate remained a humbling sight.
No one knew exactly where King Ghob slipped away to delve deep into the core of world, but it was well known where his spawn reemerged. The great fissure now sealed by the Gate was the birthplace of goblins into the known world. Since that day, the Gate had been heavily guarded and was the permanent station of an entire contingent of seasoned gnome warriors known as the Kings’ Butlers. Deglan walked past the long ranks of motionless troops, grateful that the right to visit the Gate was still allowed to all inhabitants of Toad Holm. These gnomes were the most well-disciplined veterans in the army, standing the long tedious hours of their watch in perfect silence. Encased in their hulking suits of armor, faces hidden behind the visors of their helms, they reminded Deglan of giant, brazen beetles. Their gauntleted fists gripped broad shields and ornate glaives. All of these armaments were powerful relics from the Age of Summer, emblazoned with protective wards.
The Exiled Heir (Autumn's Fall Saga) Page 30
