The Exiled Heir (Autumn's Fall Saga)

by Jonathan French

  The old habits returned swiftly and Pocket found himself melded into the deep shadows of Black Pool’s streets. Flyn and the watchman were ahead of him now and pulling further away with every step. Pocket let them. If he revealed himself too soon he might be sent back, and he could not have that. Whether he knew it or not, Flyn needed a squire now that he was acting like a true knight. After they drove the pirates out of the city, there would be a feast, and Pocket would be needed to fill Flyn’s cup and care for his weapons. Maybe he would even bear a shield and save his knight from an arrow aimed for his heart in the press of battle.

  But the battle still lay in front of them, and the figures Pocket followed were making for it in great haste. Pocket had expected the streets to be alive with fleeing people and shouting watchmen, but word of the attack must have spread quickly, and the streets lay abandoned. Even the beggars and urchins had found some place safe to hide. The houses and storefronts were closed up, barred against danger with nary a candle glowing behind the shutters. It was as if the entire city closed its eyes tight and held its breath, waiting for the danger to pass by. Flyn and his guide were making their way quickly out of Sweynside, heading for the bridge that crossed over the river into Hogulent and beyond to the docks. The watchmen bore a lantern and soon only a bouncing glimmer marked the pair he pursued.

  A dull orange haze began to swell in the sky above the distant buildings. Pocket stopped and watched as the black outlines of rooftops and chimneys stood out meekly in front of the threatening glow.

  Black Pool was on fire.

  Pocket could not yet see any rising flames, but the light on the horizon was unmistakable. Somewhere beyond the river, the raiders had begun putting the buildings to the torch. He looked back to the street and his stomach lurched. The lantern was gone. Ahead of him, the streets were completely black. The shadowy figures of Bantam Flyn and the watchman had vanished. Pocket broke into a run, pounding down the wet cobblestones as fast as he was able, keeping his eyes forward and hoping to see the little beacon return, but only more empty streets rushed to meet him. He slowed his steps, plodding to a halt as he looked sharply to left and right at the countless narrow alleys and twisting side streets, any one of them a possible path. Surely, Bantam Flyn had taken one of them…or one of the dozen he ran past before stopping. How was he going to choose? He knew the way to the docks, so maybe he should make his way there and hope to find Flyn. He would be where the fighting was thickest, that much was sure. Pocket looked back down the main street where Hogulent lay under an angry, red sky. That was his course.

  He had not taken four steps when a sharp hissing sound shot at him from the dark. He stopped and immediately the sound came again, from the left. Looking over, he found a plump young woman staring fearfully out at him from the shadows of an alley. Her eyes were huge and round in her pale face and she gestured fretfully for him to approach with her free hand.

  “Are you alright?” Pocket asked.

  “Not so loud,” she whispered. “They might hear.”

  “Who?” Pocket asked in a lower voice and took a step forward.

  “Those marauders,” she answered, poking her head out of the alley and glancing quickly down either side of the street before ducking back again. “Killers and rapers. You should come off the lane, boy. It is unsafe.”

  “Do not fear,” Pocket told her. “They will be driven off. Why are you out of doors?”

  The woman fidgeted nervously with the handle of the bucket she carried, her fear slightly offset by a look of disgust. “My mistress bade me fetch water for her bath. At this hour! She’s shot her bolt now, the shrew! Left me out here alone. Come now, come in here with me where it’s safer.”

  “I cannot,” he told her. “I must get to the docks and…did you see a man of the watch and a coburn come by this way?”

  “Yea,” she answered brightly. “I did at that.”

  “Can you tell me which way they went, please?”

  “Come,” the woman said, extending her hand. “I will take you myself, so neither of us is alone.”

  Relieved, Pocket stepped forward and went to take the frightened woman’s hand, then pulled away as a thought struck him.

  “If you saw them,” he asked. “Why did you not ask them for help?”

  The woman’s face scrunched in puzzlement and then was gripped once again with dread. “I thought they might be raiders.”

  “A member of the city watch?” Pocket asked taking a step back. “And a knight of the Valiant Spur?”

  The woman’s fear melted and a grin curled her lips. “Clever boy.”

  Pocket backed away as the woman dropped her bucket and stepped out of the alley. Two men emerged from the shadows behind and followed her out into the street. The first was slight, bald and covered in ashy dirt while the other was thickset, bushy brown hair and beard adorning his large head. Pocket felt more than heard the movement behind him and turned to find four other humans stepping out from another alley. Two of them were women with painted faces, unbound hair and slit skirts. The third was a fat man wearing the stained apron of a butcher and the last a boy, not much older than Pocket, wearing the rags of an urchin. Pocket’s head whirled, struggling to keep them all in sight as they quickly surrounded him.

  The old fear grabbed hold of Pocket. This is what returning to creeping through the dark had gained. Malice. Lies. Distrust. He thought Black Pool different from the Roost, but it was not true. A changeling was hated everywhere.

  “You need to come with us now,” the plump woman’s voice was a soothing threat.

  “I never did anything to you,” Pocket said, his voice near panic. “Leave me alone.”

  “We cannot.”

  They were closing in. Pocket spun, looking for an opening, a means of escape. The man with the bushy beard reached for him.

  “You found him!” a familiar voice rang out.

  The seven strangers paused, turning and Pocket followed their gaze. Bantam Flyn strode down the street, his quarterstaff propped lazily over his shoulders. He made straight for the group, which once again spread themselves out. Flyn did not even glance at them as he walked towards Pocket wagging his finger.

  “You know better than to be sneaking off in the middle of the night,” the squire chastised him. “What would you have done if these gentles had not come along?” He reached Pocket and clapped a hand behind his neck, before looking at the strangers now surrounding them both. “Truly you must be good folk. Our little page here is rarely so ready to trust.”

  “You,” the serving woman told Flyn, “best move on.”

  “Yes,” Flyn said with a deep sigh. “You are right. We should be on our way. Sir will be most anxious to punish this rascal for his disobedience. Twenty lashes, I’d wager. And not tongue lashes either. Our good knight is not one for words.”

  Flyn stepped towards the edge of the group, guiding Pocket by the neck, but the dirty man blocked his path. “Boy stays.”

  Flyn reached over casually and brushed some of the soot from the man’s shoulders. “No, good man,” he said amiably. “We are quite fond of him despite his recent behavior. So, my thanks again! Please step aside.”

  The filthy wretch did not move nor reply. He just stared up at the squire, beady eyes locked. Flyn smiled openly, not breaking from the man’s gaze.

  “Here now!”

  Pocket was surprised to see Old Lochlann push his way past the urchin, giving the rest of the ragged group distasteful looks as he did. “What’s all this then?”

  “Lochlann!” Flyn announced happily. “So glad you are here.”

  The old man waved a hand at Pocket, a confused expression on his face. “Sir sends me out looking for this one and what do I find? Some rabble…and you in the center of it.”

  “I know,” Flyn agreed. “Shameful. Lochlann, if you would see Pocket safely home? I think I will stay and make sure these people get a proper reward.”

  Lochlann cast squinting eyes at the surrounding group then le
aned in, almost reluctantly and took Pocket by the hand. “Come ahead,” he said, pulling Pocket out from the middle. The peasants made no move to stop him, their eyes locked on Flyn, all save the serving woman. Her gaze followed Pocket, an odd smile hinting at the corners of her mouth. Pocket held Lochlann’s hand as they backed away, watching as Flyn remained surrounded.

  “Do you think he will be alright?” Pocket asked.

  The old man looked down to answer, but before he could speak two large, feathered hands wrapped around his face, seizing him by the forehead and jaw. The hands twisted sharply, and Pocket winced as Lochlann’s head turned unnaturally around, accompanied by the muffled crunching of bone. Mouth slack and eyes staring, the old man fell limply to the cobbles. Pocket found Sir Corc looming over the body, armored in mail.

  “Stay behind me,” he said, advancing on the peasants.

  The seven saw him coming and backed away from Flyn, who stood with staff in hand and confusion across his face. Sir Corc came steadily on. Pocket did as he was told and stayed a pace behind the knight. He saw doubt play across the faces of his assailants and they continued to retreat slowly towards the alleys.

  “You cannot keep him from us, coburn,” the serving woman spat at Sir Corc.

  “Get you gone,” the knight replied.

  “He belongs with us!”

  “He belongs where he is!” Sir Corc declared, tearing his sword from its scabbard. “Under my protection.”

  The harlots and the urchin had been swallowed by the shadows, the butcher lurking at the mouth of the alley, but he too disappeared when the knight wheeled on him. On the opposite side of the street only the serving woman remained, hovering at the edge of the darkness where Pocket had first spied her.

  “You cannot keep him safe enough,” she threw at Sir Corc. “You cannot run forever. One day, you will have no choice but to give him over.”

  Sir Corc said nothing as he made for her, but before he was within reach the woman fled into the narrow passage and was lost from sight. Sir Corc made a slow turn, looking to all sides, then turned to Pocket.

  “Come,” he said. “We must away.”

  They went back up the street where Bantam Flyn stood over the corpse of the creature that had once been Old Lochlann. In death, it resembled nothing close to human. The limbs had elongated and shriveled to emaciated stalks, the flesh almost black. The belly was horribly distended, bloating out from beneath the tunic. One hand was a shrunken pig’s hoof and the feet had burst the bindings of their shoes, emerging in misshapen lumps covered in scales. But it was the face that Pocket struggled to look upon. The skin had stretched and split over a protruding snout, lips peeled back over a choking mass of thick teeth. A small antler sprouted from under the lank hair and while one eye retained its human appearance, the other was bulging out of the socket with the slit iris of a predator.

  “Gruagach,” Flyn said, looking up at Sir Corc. “How did you know?”

  “His cooking had improved,” Sir Corc said, sheathing his sword and striding past the squire without a glance.

  Pocket kept to the knight’s heels, his pumping heart competing in a race against his whirling mind. All of those people were changelings? What did they want with him? Pocket had never even met another gurg before, not even in Black Pool, much less a full blooded gruagach. It seemed he always had questions for Sir Corc, but he was not about to risk speaking when the knight seemed so wroth.

  Bantam Flyn also followed, his eyes scanning the alleys.

  “How did you find me?” Pocket asked before he could stop himself.

  “You shot past like a sparrow,” Flyn laughed lightly. “We took a turn and then heard something run down the high street. Something that looked shockingly like you. My watchman friend was not so keen on investigating.”

  “Enough talk,” Sir Corc said without looking back.

  He led them back the way Pocket had come, but long before they reached the townhouse, the knight turned down a side street and kept making turns until Pocket lost all sense of direction. At last, Sir Corc approached a common green; one of the many little islands of flowers and preened trees that dotted the wealthy districts of Sweynside. It might have been pleasant to look upon during the day, but Pocket saw only dark bushes where unseen eyes could stare out at him hungrily, waiting to pounce. He breathed easier when they came around a hedgerow and found Backbone making a meal out of a flowerbed.

  “You found him!” Rosheen breathed a sigh of relief and flew over to meet them.

  Sir Corc nodded once, then glanced around the green, frowning. “Where is Muckle?”

  The piskie cast a disgusted look into a grouping of ferns, just as the ferns said, “Right here” and shook slightly.

  “Make haste,” Sir Corc snapped.

  “These processes should not be rushed,” the ferns answered.

  Sir Corc turned away and looked down at Pocket. “Backbone is your charge. Need I remind you?”

  Pocket shook his head and rushed over to grab the mule’s guide rope.

  “Good,” Sir Corc continued. “We go to the chandler’s under Ten Ferries Bridge. Do you remember the place?”

  “Yes,” Pocket said assuredly.

  “If we should become separated that is where you must go. The proprietor will know what to do.”

  Muckle emerged from the foliage still belting his patchwork breeches under his gut. “The greens keeper should thank me,” he said with a satisfied sigh. “My fertilizer is much prized. Tomorrow those ferns will reach the roofs.”

  Pocket stifled a laugh as Rosheen wrinkled her nose.

  “We move,” Sir Corc ordered. “I will lead. Muckle, rear guard.”

  “I can--” Flyn began, but Sir Corc was already heading out of the green.

  Muckle shouldered his huge, garish club and winked at Pocket before urging him out with a wave of his hand. Backbone plodded somberly along, the clopping of his hooves on the cobblestones alarmingly loud in the quiet city. Sir Corc did not waste time with stealth. He made straight for the River Poddle at a quick pace, using the widest lanes. As they drew closer to the river, Pocket saw that the fiery glow in the sky had intensified, covering more of the skyline than before. People began appearing in the street ahead of them, passing them by in their nightclothes or bearing armloads of goods. Mothers dragged children by the hand and men pulled carts, all of them heading away from the river. Some stopped and urged Sir Corc to turn around and flee, but the knight ignored them, pressing his way forward against the tide of frightened humanity. A watchman came running by and Sir Corc grabbed him by the arm, wrenching him to a halt.

  “Have the Middangearders pushed Sweynside?” he demanded.

  “No,” the watchman answered hurriedly. “We hold the bridges, for now. I am to fetch men from the walls to reinforce us.”

  “No!” Sir Corc snapped. “This is all a diversion. The Red Caps will assail the walls as soon as they weaken!”

  The man struggled against the coburn’s grasp. “I have my orders!”

  “Do not be a fool!”

  But the man wrestled free and shot off once more down the crowded street. Sir Corc turned angrily and pressed on towards the river. They came to the river and found the watch had thrown up a makeshift barricade across the middle of the Goat’s Tongue Bridge. Pocket could hear the horrible screams of fighting men as the raiders charged across the bridge to assault the pile of overturned wagons, barrels and planking. The men of the watch held firm, repelling the attacks with spears and arrows. The span was littered with bodies on both sides of the barricade and Pocket could see watchmen running to pull their fallen comrades away from the battle and back to the relative safety of Sweynside where a small contingent of armed men waited in reserve should the barricade be overrun. Across the water, Hogulent was crowned in flames as the roofs of warehouses and foundries burned freely.

  Sir Corc wasted no time at the Goat’s Tongue, turning to put the river to their right and heading away from the bridge. They trave
led along the upper street for several minutes before Sir Corc led them down an uneven boat ramp which dumped onto the riverwalk. Ahead of them, through the gloom Pocket could see the foundations of Ten Ferries Bridge arching above them.

  “The chandler’s is on the Hogulent side,” Bantam Flyn said, hurrying to draw even with Sir Corc. “If the bridge is barricaded, how are we to get across?”

  Sir Corc did not answer, but only quickened his pace. Pocket had to pull sternly on the guide rope to keep Backbone moving swiftly and several times Muckle had to urge the mule on with a few well-placed swats to the haunches. Rosheen flew just ahead, between Pocket and the coburn. She kept glancing back at him, offering a reassuring smile when he met her gaze.

  Sir Corc slowed when they approached the bridge. Another boat ramp led up to the street as well as a twisting flight of stone stairs that hugged the support pillar of the bridge. Above them, men fought on the bridge, the ringing of metal and the cries of battles echoing where they stood under the arch. Pocket jumped when something heavy slammed into the water, sending up a violent splash. When the rippling settled, a man floated face down in the river, arrow shafts protruding from his back. Across the river, Pocket could see the door to the chandler’s shop nestled under the bridge on the opposite side.

  Sir Corc approached and removed his shield from Backbone’s loads. Strapping it to his arm, he nodded to Rosheen. The piskie wasted no time and flew off across the river, keeping directly under the bridge. She was so small Pocket lost sight of her in the darkness, but he thought he saw the distant door of the chandler’s shop open slightly. After what seemed an eternity, the piskie returned.

  “He is there,” she told Sir Corc. “And as yet undiscovered.”

  Sir Corc motioned Pocket over to the edge of the boat ramp. “Get ready to lead the mule up,” he whispered.

  “What?” Flyn hissed. “That bridge is crawling with raiders!”

  “The watch cannot hold for long,” Sir Corc said, keeping his head craned upwards, watching the edge of the bridge. “When the defenses break, the raiders will come rushing across. If we are fortunate they will not leave a guard on their side. Then we cross.”