With those words Torcan turned and walked out of the longhouse.
Padric slumped to the floor where he stood, cradling his face in his bruised hands. There was nothing he could do. He had no power, no skill, no allies. All he had was a lie and he wielded it clumsily enough to get innocents killed. Slouch Hat was wrong. There would be no moment for glory. All there would be was an ugly death after helplessly witnessing days upon days of other ugly deaths.
Something brushed his knuckles. The touch was slight, trembling. He looked up and found the blonde girl crouched in front of him on the floor. Her hand floated reluctantly between them, her face ready to dart back into hiding. He reached up slowly and took her hand, wrapping it in his own, uncertain whether it was comfort she sought or meant to give. Their eyes met and Padric looked at her for the first time. Her eyes were blue and bright and he found compassion beyond the fear; a recognition of despair.
Padric could not save Hog’s Wallow. He could do nothing to warn Black Pool. Airlann would need to be saved by greater champions than he. But this woman, this one unfortunate person, her he could save. He took one hand away from hers and touched his chest.
“Padric,” he said and then gestured to her.
Her mouth worked slowly, her chin dipping slightly, coaxing the words out.
“Svala.”
“Svala,” he repeated softly and smiled. She smiled back, and he found it beautiful.
EIGHTEEN
Backbone stood patiently while Old Lochlann loaded him down with sacks of provisions. Occasionally, he would twitch an ear or offer a slow blink, but he did not budge one hoof or voice one bay of complaint. Pocket thought he was the best mule in the world.
“Are you coming with us?” he asked Old Lochlann while handing him another bundle.
The old man shook his head. “My place is here.”
“But are you not afraid for when the goblins come?”
“Not my first siege,” Lochlann shrugged. “And if it’s my last, more’s the good. Unpleasant is a city under siege.”
“Well,” Pocket said. “I wish you were coming with us.” Just so long as someone else did the cooking.
“Sir said wither you are bound?” Lochlann asked with a grunt, cinching at the load ropes.
“No,” Pocket replied. “Only that we are leaving tonight. He wants to go when it is dark. Lady Rosheen is coming with us!”
Lochlann did not respond to that, just creased his wrinkled face further in concentration at his task. Pocket went to stroke Backbone’s nose, wishing he had an apple to give him. It was hours before sundown and Pocket was worried the mule would have to stand with his burden for too long, but Sir Corc had instructed that everything be prepared lest they have to leave suddenly. The knight had taken Bantam Flyn into the city so they could visit the foundling houses and warn the matrons of the impending attack. Flyn had complained about the errand, calling it ‘noble and useless’, a phrase he had often uttered since being told of their departure. Actually, the squire was quite happy to leave Black Pool behind until he discovered that their flight was a response to the coming Red Cap attack. Now, he wanted to stay, and constantly urged Sir Corc that they would be of greater service in defense of the walls. As always, the knight remained immovable.
Pocket felt confused and a little ashamed. Sir Corc was running from a fight. Pocket had never heard of a knight fleeing before. Bantam Flyn was only a squire and he wanted to stay and fight the goblins, defend the people. No one could question his bravery. Pocket had seen him fight with his own eyes in the tourney where he had won Coalspur; a tourney that Sir Corc had not even entered. During his long days in the Roost, Pocket used to dream of Sir Corc’s visits, awaiting his return with barely contained excitement. Moragh used to tire of his asking when the knight would next appear at the castle. The day he left the Roost was the saddest of his life, until he realized he would be accompanying the knight on grand adventures in Airlann. Then his spirits soared, but thus far, nothing had been so grand. Pocket often found himself wishing he was with Bronze Wattle or Blood Yolk. Surely, they would not be skulking away from Black Pool in the middle of the night.
Lochlann tied the last of the knots and they left Backbone in the little stone stable behind the townhouse, but not before Pocket made sure he had plenty of water. Noon was only an hour old and the day was surprisingly sunny and warm. Back in Albain, the castle servants would be cleaning for the coming spring, but here in Airlann, where autumn never ended, it was windy, wet and cold more often than not. Not wanting to squander the favorable weather and having nothing else to occupy his time until nightfall, Pocket stayed out in the court garden, sitting in his usual spot along the wall to practice changing his skin. Lady Rosheen had insisted it was most important to relax; that a calm mind was more likely to manifest the change, and, of course, she was right. Pocket had discovered more about his changeling abilities in the short time he had known the piskie than in all the years he struggled with them alone in the Roost.
He started slowly, watching the backs of his hands as the skin darkened, ignoring the itching sensation that always followed as the hairs extended, growing into a thicker coat across his flesh. Rosheen had told him that his skin was not only the surface of his body, but also the surface of his gift. She said that with dedication it would one day be possible to change his muscles, his bones, even his very organs and fully become the object of his mimicry. He was only half gruagach and would be limited by the small stature that would forever mark him as a gurg, but even within the confines of his body the possibilities made Pocket’s dreams dance.
He thought of the small, black dog owned by the rat catcher that patrolled the streets around the townhouse. Despite its lack of size, it was no less fierce than the war hounds which often accompanied the city watch, and Pocket had seen it attack a teeming nest of vicious vermin with no hint of fear. It was always outnumbered and suffered the bites from dozens of assailants as the rats defended their home, but the dog stood its ground, dispatching one enemy at a time until it stood alone and victorious.
The courtyard gate swung in hard, banging into the stone wall with a sharp clang that left it shuddering on its hinges. Bantam Flyn strode hotly through, his arm still thrust forward from its assault on the gate. He glowered at the door to the townhouse and did not even glance in Pocket’s direction as he pushed it open with the same conviction he had shown the previous portal and vanished inside. The vibrating gate had settled down and swung back into place by the time Sir Corc entered the courtyard. He wore the same exhausted frustration that always settled over him after quarreling with the squire. Pocket watched as the knight stood in the yard, lost in thought and wondered what he was thinking. At last, he came out of his careworn mind and looked over. Pocket perked up. Sir Corc had hardly spoken to him since their arrival in the city. Now maybe, Pocket could ask some of the questions that had troubled him. Where they were going? And why? He saw reluctance in Sir Corc’s face, as if the he were struggling over the decision to approach, and Pocket waited patiently. His heart fell when Sir Corc turned and entered the house without a word.
The tight quarters in the townhouse became nigh on suffocating as the smell of the turf fire filled the common room. The silence and boredom had been tedious throughout the day, but now, as night came on, it was becoming unbearable. Rosheen sat as far from the smoky hearth as she was able, atop an oaken cabinet near the stairs. She could hear the old servant puttering about the kitchen, washing up after the hot, brown, bubbling substance he had served for an evening meal. The knight was secluded behind the door of the solar and had not emerged to sup.
Clever coburn.
Pocket had been sent to his bed in the garret before the sun had set, so that he would have the strength for their over-night journey. Rosheen had expected him to offer up some protest, but the sweet gurg had merely mumbled his goodnights and went up without complaint. At least he was away from the sullen gloom that hung in the close air.
Bantam
Flyn sat in a chair by the fire, searching the flames for a culprit to the crimes against his pride. The huge sword that was the young coburn’s shadow sat propped next to the hearth, untended by oil or whetstone. This night, it seemed, Flyn was content to simply sit and brood. She did not know how much Corc had told him about the coming invasion, but whatever knowledge Flyn possessed did not sit well with him.
He wants to fight. It is all he knows.
Rosheen had known some coburn in her time, but never long enough to call them familiar. They were not Fae, and thus their years were short, often dying well before what a human would call elderly, but that was mostly due to their warlike ways. The origins of the coburn were murky and not even the elves could say from whence they came. The first of them were not encountered until after the Usurpation, during those awful years when many Fae were forced to live wild in the forests and mountains for fear of the Red Caps and the unjust laws of the Goblin Kings. The first coburn was quite literally stumbled upon by chance. In those days, they were uncouth and barbarous, the males jealously guarding their clutches against outsiders and others of their own kind, wielding nothing but crude clubs and their deadly spurs. But the Seelie Court, even one dispossessed and hiding, was wise and saw much capacity for good within this proud race. They slowly gained the trust of the coburn and taught them language and many of the males took well to the elvish ideals of honorable combat. After many years of tutelage and careful interference, the elves were able to forge the Order of the Valiant Spur, and the coburn that fought under its banner helped win the Rebellion.
The coburn had never known community, as each male individually governed and guarded his mates and their young, an instinct which persisted. Rosheen knew the oaths of the Order forbid coupling, and no female coburn were allowed in its stronghold as it would awaken the warriors’ territorial nature and destroy their brotherhood. Many coburn still lived in the old way, and, indeed, must for the race to survive. Only the most strong-willed males show up at the Roost, forsaking their drive to breed and covet. Flyn was most certainly an exceptional individual, but that heat remained in his blood and Rosheen saw it well. She only hoped Corc did, too.
Rosheen stifled a yawn and flapped her wings to dispel her weariness. At Sir Corc’s request, she had spent the entire day perched on Black Pool’s outer wall, watching for some sign of an approaching army. According to that ridiculous hobgoblin, Muckle, they still had at least another day before the Red Caps would reach the city, but the knight was not taking any chances and instructed Rosheen to fly back and report to him at even the slightest inclination of attack. So she had flitted from turret roof to battlement to gatehouse and back again, watching the horizons from west to south. The men and goblins of the city watch also walked the walls in greater numbers, and Rosheen was relieved to see the Lord of the Pile had not completely dismissed their warning. But she was still not convinced the city could hold. It was fortified well enough, with thick walls of stone guarding every landward approach, tall as ten men and interrupted by only two gates, each protected by a portcullis and strong doors banded in iron. In addition to the city watch, Black Pool was home to scores of mercenaries from across the Tin Isles, but rather than add strength to the city they offered only more uncertainty. A sellsword swings to the side of the last coin it was dealt. By its very nature Black Pool was a haven for the itinerant, each resident using the city as a refuge for whatever private ambition they pursued or crime they fled. Could the city’s discordant inhabitants rally under the common cause of saving their home? Rosheen dared not hope.
By dusk, she had seen nothing to alert suspicion and had returned to the townhouse as instructed to await the fullness of night. Sir Corc wanted to leave when most of the city slept for reasons he would not share. Rosheen wondered how he planned on exiting the city, as the Lord of the Pile had ordered both gates shut and barred after sundown. Some of her ire for Corc had dwindled since their meeting with Black Pool’s disturbing potentate, and she no longer questioned his every decision, but the knight’s laconic manner continued to annoy her. She trusted him, she would be foolish not to, but that did not mean she was unaware that he kept secrets.
Perhaps that is why the Order chose you, you tight-lipped rooster.
Rosheen was startled out of her revelry by the sudden and strong hammering of a fist beating repeatedly against the door. Bantam Flyn glanced up from the fire carelessly as Old Lochlann made his creaking way over to answer the violent knocking. By the time the old man opened the door and admitted a sweaty, out of breath man, Sir Corc was already standing in the common room. The desperate looking visitor wore the doublet of the city watch and he looked hard at the knight as he sucked in air.
“Sir—” the man managed between gasps.
“An attack?” Corc asked pointedly.
The man nodded deeply, his expression as dire as his message. Bantam Flyn shot up out of his chair.
“Do the walls hold?” Sir Corc pressed.
“Not…the walls,” the man was finding his lungs. “The port. Men attacked the port.”
“Men?” Rosheen asked.
The man glanced quickly at her and looked back to Sir Corc before answering. “Aye. Middangearders. They came in ships painted black. Black sails…before the moon rose. Some of them were already docked, sir…disguised as merchants. All at once they were everywhere!”
“How many ships?” the knight demanded.
The man shook his head in bewilderment, struggling for an answer. “A dozen at least…maybe more.”
“Did the undine respond?”
Another nod. “They sunk one, maybe two…before they could land, but the others made port and raiders hit the docks running…took the wharf guard by surprise. They were overrun.”
Sir Corc wasted no more time with questions. “Lochlann, get the mule. Lady Rosheen if you would be kind enough to wake Pocket and see that he is ready to leave. Squire Flyn--”
“Is not running,” Flyn finished. He looked to the watchman. “You. Lead me to the battle.”
“No,” Sir Corc took a step towards the squire. “We are going.”
“How can you?” Flyn asked, his voice pained. “How can you just run when the city is threatened?”
“I have my duties, squire,” the knight answered, his voice taut.
“If that lie holds well with your honor, then go,” Flyn said, slinging the greatsword harness over his shoulder. “But I will not so shame myself.”
“Do not defy me Bantam Flyn,” Corc warned. “Your oath--”
“Is to lend aid wherever I am able! Have you grown so feeble minded in your dotage that you have forgotten?”
“Flyn, do not…” Rosheen began.
“No,” the squire said. “Pardons, milady but you had the right of it before. There are no knights in this room.”
Rosheen saw the feathers bristle across Sir Corc’s arms, shoulders and neck at these words. He radiated fury, but remained silent.
It is his way.
“I am just a squire,” Flyn continued, heedless of the elder coburn’s anger. “And I may stay one forever, but I will no longer sit idly by while earnestly asked for aid. Your words, lady piskie, remember? I thank you for them.” He motioned towards the door. “Lead on my brave man.”
The watchman hesitated, eyes wide and mouth slack at the confrontation, but Flyn sidestepped Sir Corc and clapped the man firmly on the shoulder, turning him towards the door.
“Flyn,” Sir Corc said as the squire opened the door. “Leave the sword.”
Bantam Flyn paused for a moment, then spoke without turning. “It is a weapon, Corc. Not an heirloom. Coalspur intended it should bear his name and continue to serve the causes of the Valiant Spur. I go to do just that. I would sooner die than see it dishonored with cowardice. I wonder… would you die to reclaim it?”
Oh, this could get bloody.
Flyn waited, his back still turned. When no answer or challenge came, he stepped out into the dark courtyard and the door c
losed behind him. The room was quiet and no one moved. Sir Corc stood and stared at the door, his fists clenched and then in a heartbeat he shook off his anger.
“Lochlann, the mule,” he said and the old man nodded and went to his task.
“Let me go after Flyn,” Rosheen offered. “Slap some sense into him.”
Sir Corc shook his head. “There is no time. We should have…fled sooner, and now only good fortune will deliver us.”
This sits sore with him. More than with the squire. “I am sorry.”
“You need not ever offer apologies to me, my lady piskie.”
“Rosheen,” she told him. “I have frolicked too many times to be called a lady.”
“Rosheen,” he conceded, “If you would see to Pocket?”
“Of course,” she said and flew up the stairs, but a cold feeling struck her before she reached the first landing. She found the door to the garret room ajar, the window open and no sign of the gurg.
Pocket could not stop shivering. The night was not particularly cold. He had started shaking while still in the garret. He was not afraid, he was certain of that. Sneaking out had taken courage. After all, there was a battle on in the city and he was headed towards it. It was bold of him to leave, and now that he had done it, he found an old feeling returning, the same sneaking anticipation that had ridden between his shoulder blades for years in the Roost. He had spent most of his life alone, avoiding the attention of others in dark places, but lately his days had been filled with open sky, bustling streets, and the gentle, breathing presence of others sleeping nearby. He had just willingly left that behind so he could follow Bantam Flyn to war.
The Exiled Heir (Autumn's Fall Saga) Page 34
