Flyn’s face remained dubious, but he said no more.
They stood listening to the sounds of the struggle above, unable to tell which side laid claim to the shrieks of the dying. Then there came a deafening crash of sundered wood, followed by a bloodthirsty roar and the pounding of countless boot heels. Sir Corc waited a handful of breaths then drew his sword and started up the ramp. Bantam Flyn stuck close to the knight and Pocket followed behind, dragging Backbone with him.
Nothing greeted them at the top but the bodies of the slain, most wearing the livery of the watch. Broken weapons and bodies lay strewn next to the toppled barricade. Dropped lanterns and discarded torches accompanied the moonlight, revealing the scene of slaughter in flickering plays of shadow. Some of the bodies still moved, groaning as they crawled away from their severed limbs. Sir Corc made for what was left of the barricade and picked his way over, clearing a path for Pocket and the mule. Beyond the splintered wood, the far side of the bridge beckoned.
A savage, wordless cry cut through the night before them. Pocket looked, dread seizing him as a mass of large forms came charging out of the darkness towards them. He heard Rosheen curse as at least two dozen Middangearders in mail coats gained the bridge, longaxes swinging over their heads. Sir Corc spun around.
“Back across!” he yelled.
“Damn you!” Bantam Flyn seized the knight by the front of his surcoat. “We can win through if we stand together!”
“This is not the time!” Sir Corc said shoving the squire away.
“Does your cowardice have no end?” Flyn demanded.
Sir Corc ignored him and turned to Pocket. “You must flee. Leave the mule--”
“No!” Pocket gripped the guide rope tightly. “He is my charge. I won’t!”
“Do as I say!” the knight screamed at him and Pocket felt his throat grow thick.
“Wait!” Rosheen yelled over them. “What is he doing?”
They all followed the piskie’s outstretched finger and bewildered gaze.
Muckle sat astride his great club, ribbons streaming behind him as he skipped towards the charging raiders in mock gallop. The fat goblin waved one arm ostentatiously in the air as he bounced forward.
“To me my brothers!” they heard him scream. “To me!”
The Middangearders slowed their pace, the queer sight spreading confusion across their faces. They stopped completely when Muckle made a show of reigning up before them, surveying their clustered ranks with a nod. The goblin dismounted and then swung his would-be steed up on his shoulder as he began pacing in front of the confounded raiders.
“Tis a fine night for reaving, eh my lads?!”
The raiders did not respond, glancing at one another for an answer to the corpulent mystery that addressed them.
Undeterred, Muckle spoke again, but this time it sounded to Pocket like gibberish. Whatever the strange words meant, the raiders appeared to understand for they began smiling, looking at the fat goblin with growing mirth. Muckle said something else in the strange tongue, grandly gesturing back across the bridge, his voice rising with enthusiasm. Pocket marveled as the men cheered and Muckle said something else holding up two fingers than clucking like a chicken. The warriors began openly chuckling and looking at one another with approving expressions. Muckle kept up a steady stream of speech, actually going over and thumping one man in the crotch with the back of his hand. The raider flinched back from the goblin’s hand which drew hearty laughter from his fellows, and he joined them, louder than the rest.
Muckle began speaking directly to the man and making coaxing gestures with his hands. A gormless grin spread across the raider’s face as the others began encouraging him with shouts and pats on the back. They cheered when the man finally removed his helmet and handed it over to Muckle. The goblin said something as he held the head piece up and the men laughed in agreement. Then Muckle placed the helmet over the man’s crotch and wrapped on it with his knuckles. This drew guffaws which turned to uncontrolled peals of laughter as Muckle placed the helmet over his own codpiece and began making thrusting gestures with his hips. Finishing with obscene breathing, Muckle tossed the helmet carelessly over his shoulder, then waved the owner over. The other raiders pushed the man forward companionably, and he plodded over to where the goblin waited. At Muckle’s instruction the man knelt on the bridge as his brothers in arms cheered him on. Muckle said something to the crowd, drawing more laughter and brandished his giant club, raising it high above his head. The men began repeating the same word over and over in booming voices, thrusting there weapons into the air.
Pocket heard Rosheen suck air sharply between her teeth. “Is he--?”
“Yes,” Sir Corc said. “He is.”
“Pocket!” Rosheen was suddenly hovering directly in his face. “Do not look!”
“What?” Pocket leaned past her. “Why is he--?”
“No,” Rosheen darted back into his vision. “Sweetling, avert your eyes!”
The men’s cheering reached a fever pitch and Pocket dodged past Rosheen’s wings just as Muckle brought his huge club down with all his weight. The knotty wood impacted into the kneeling raider’s head with a sharp, wet crunch and he dropped limply to the bridge, his legs twitching.
Pocket giggled.
He did not know why, but the horrible scene filled him with joy, and the other raiders must have felt the same for they too were laughing. Muckle raised the club high again and brought it down on the fallen man’s broken skull. A red spray shot into the air on the second hit and the men howled with glee, holding their stomachs, eyes streaming tears. Pocket felt the laughter rising to his cheeks and eagerly awaited the third fall of the club, when Sir Corc’s strong hands pulled him around and hugged him close.
No longer a witness to the bloody display, Pocket suddenly felt sick as he continued to hear the club bash into softening bone over and over again accompanied by a chorus of voices lost in hilarity. The sounds of those voices, given over to awful abandon rang painfully in his ears, growing hoarse and breathless with each new rising wave. He heard coughing and gasping begin to mingle with the laughter, quickly supplanting it, and he heard Muckle scream over the din. The goblin’s voice rang out, a mix of fury, lust and ecstasy and then...
Silence.
Pocket felt himself being guided forward, half lifted over the remainder of the bridge. He kept his face pressed close to Sir
Corc, but the corners of his vision still caught harrowing glimpses of sprawled forms with blue faces and black lips, throats raked with the deep gouges of dying fingers and curled hands clinging to thick, pale, ropey entrails spilled upon the cobbles.
Pocket was dimly aware of descending the steps to the riverwalk and entering the chandler’s shop. Sir Corc spoke briefly with the candle maker and then Pocket was being ushered into a damp, reeking tunnel. Sir Corc held his hand as they traversed a narrow walkway of slimy bricks, a broad channel of waste-choked water only a step to the right.
“Ah the sewers!” Muckle’s voice echoed of the close, stone walls. “Do you know what a crocodilisk is, my young cock?”
“No,” Bantam Flyn’s voice answered.
“Pity,” Muckle said. “Neither do I. But I hear they live down here.”
The squire seemed to find this amusing and he let out a chuckle.
Pocket winced. It was the worst sound he could imagine.
Curse all cities and their tight, stinking tunnels.
It was morning before they emerged from hours of following Sir Corc through the twisting dark. When Rosheen saw the hazy light of early morning glaring at them from down the passage, she began to breathe easier. They came out well away from the city walls, in a rocky depression choked with scrubby tress. The mouth of the tunnel on this side was well hidden by boulders and weeds, appearing to be no more than a natural fissure in the hillside. Black Pool loomed in the distance.
Muckle was the last to come out, and he stepped forth taking a deep breath, smiling and about to speak
some nonsense. Sir Corc silenced him with a hiss and pointed up into the fields bordering the city. Rosheen followed the knight’s gesture, squinting across the landscape, but even from their low vantage and across such distance the army assembled before the city was clearly visible. Rosheen could not guess at their numbers, but if they stormed the walls, she doubted the defenses could repel them.
Sir Corc motioned for them to stay quiet and turned away, picking his way through the dell. Pocket stayed close behind and Bantam Flyn came next. Muckle waited on Rosheen, but she kept her gaze fixed on the walls, wishing no contact with the goblin.
After a long moment, she heard him turn away, plodding heavily into the brush.
Rosheen lingered, not knowing why. She hated the city and was glad to be free of it, but leaving it to so cruel a demise made her heartsick for the people who called it home. At last she began to turn, but something caught her eye, floating on the morning breeze. It drifted down into the dell, settling on the ground where it was snagged by the wild grass. Rosheen flew down and plucked it up; a ribbon, finely woven in patterns of green and gold. She ran it through her fingers, feeling the embroidery and then tied it around her waist before flying off after the others.
NINETEEN
The wind was strong in the pale hours of the morning. The sun had risen some time ago, but remained unseen behind a cloak of cold clouds, stained by the smoke from the city. Padric stood uncomfortably in the chariot, waiting as he had for several hours. Before him the impressive gates stood closed, the surrounding walls providing mute reinforcement. He did not know what Torcan was waiting for; by all reports the city had been taken before first light, the Middangearders treacherous assault a success. Now the entire Red Cap army stood marshaled at the southern gate, arrayed in a daunting horde, eager to enter their prize. Padric was surprised Black Pool still stood, as the Swinehelm was notorious for leaving nothing of his conquests but ashes. It crossed his mind that the Red Caps would burn the city once admitted; that it had been saved only because the human raiders valued plunder over fire. Once it was plucked clean, robbed of all it had to offer, they would throw the gates wide and let the goblins reduce it to cinders.
Svala stood shivering at his elbow. The raiment the captains had given her was richly made, but covered little, the skirts slit well passed the poor girl’s hips. Torcan wished to show off his newfound royalty, and for Svala, that granted little care for modesty. Or warmth. Padric had given her his cloak as soon as they both mounted the chariot, but the wind tugged cruelly at the black wool and Svala fought to keep it in place. She did not complain. As yet, Padric had not heard her speak since telling him her name.
He looked over and caught her eye, offering what he hoped was a reassuring smile and was struck with how fine she looked. Arnheir’s women had worked her golden hair into fine plaits and braids, adorning it with ribbons and finely wrought silver combs. The wind had undone much of their labor, giving Svala a regal yet almost savage appearance which somehow suited her well. Padric watched as the wind plucked a ribbon of green and gold from the girl’s locks. He tried to catch it, but the wind was swifter and bore the ribbon aloft, tumbling it through the air. Padric marked its journey as it was carried high and away, finally drifting into a dell not far from the city walls where it was lost from sight.
Padric turned to the tramp of metal boots and found Torcan Swinehelm approaching with his personal guard. The Red Cap leader was clad in full armor, his metal bulk dwarfing the goblins surrounding him. He carried his heavy battle-axe and helmet, his head covered only by the blood colored cap that united his brotherhood of fanatics.
“Your Grace,” Torcan said as he stopped alongside the chariot. “Are you ready to reclaim the city that was once the seat of your forebears?”
Padric continued to stare at the gates. “This is your mummery, goblin. Pull the strings and let’s have done. The lady is chilled to the bone.”
“Aye,” Torcan leered. “She does look…cold.”
Padric did not respond, but turned so that he blocked the goblin’s appraising view.
“I have a gift for you,” Torcan said mildly and gestured.
Slouch Hat came up to the chariot flanked by Red Caps bearing torches. The husk carried a banner before him, a crowned skull wreathed in flame worked upon the rippling cloth.
“A husk is a rare slave,” Torcan pronounced.
Padric merely nodded. The Swinehelm could use Slouch Hat for this fraudulent posturing all he wanted. It only served to bring Padric closer to his allies. The proud bearing the husk adopted with the banner in hand made Padric wonder if he had not somehow maneuvered himself into this position. The husk was frightfully clever and displayed a cunning that was nothing short of deadly. Exactly who that cunning would lead to death was still a question.
A man appeared atop the battlements and Torcan waved his axe over his head. The man yelled something down into the city and there came a grinding squeal from behind the gates before they slowly began to swing open. Torcan and his retinue made for the entrance, followed by Slouch Hat. The goblin driving the chariot gave the pair of black horses a snap of the whip, sending the chariot forward in a start. Padric lurched backward and had to quickly grasp the side of the carriage to keep from spilling off the back. Svala’s feet remained steady. He laughed bitterly in his throat. Let the conquered people of Black Pool see what a buffoon Torcan meant to enthrone. The air grew colder as they passed through the yawning stone tunnel of the gatehouse and it was Padric’s turn to shiver.
Before them, the dark cobblestones of a wide street ran between rows of aged structures. Padric was relieved to see that no crowd of beleaguered citizens had been assembled to greet them; no blank and desperate faces staring at him with fear and hatred. Only the Middangearders were present, spaced along every few hundred paces, spears and shields held carelessly. Padric heard the clanging tramp of the Red Caps marching through the gate behind him. It was a force of more than two thousand armed goblins, many of them veterans of countless wars over hundreds of years, and as their foot stomps banged into the cobbles, they announced undeniably that Black Pool now belonged to them.
The section of the city they passed through appeared completely undamaged. Whatever fighting had occurred was over long before it reached the gate. The Middangearders had played their bloody part well. Soon, the sickening victory procession came to where the river flowed through the city, a grand bridge of masterfully cut stone joining the city above the darkly flowing water. Torcan stopped before crossing the bridge, ordering his army to spread through the city. The Red Caps marched off in well-ordered bands of fifty, taking to the streets and avenues with polearms resting on their shoulders. A sizeable group stayed with the chariot and Torcan led them over the river.
Arnheir and several of the other reaver captains awaited them on the far side where they oversaw a bedraggled group of citizens, hard at work gathering bodies into a heap on the street. Many of the corpses were raiders and Padric noticed with curious revulsion that they trailed the tubes of their own guts as they were dragged to the charnel pile. The chariot pulled up near the grisly scene and the horses began to snort and stamp in distaste at being so near the dead. Torcan spoke with Arnheir in the raider’s tongue and their words grew heated, the Middangearder gesturing several times at the pile of eviscerated warriors. Svala kept her eyes away from the discussion, but Padric could tell she was listening, her face paling. Whatever killed these men had raised Torcan’s ire.
“My lord,” the goblin captain threw his voice over his shoulder at the chariot. “Perhaps you should see this.”
Padric stepped down without a word, catching Slouch Hat’s eye as he passed. As usual, the husk’s expression was a mystery. Arnheir stepped to the side as he drew close to the pile of bodies and Torcan gestured towards it with dismissive disgust.
“This,” he spat, “is the death you can expect from elf-friends.”
Padric did not relish conversing with Torcan, but his curiosity
was peaked. “What happened to them?”
“A Jester,” Torcan said with a grimace. “It appears this city was home to at least one of the mad bastards.”
Padric looked puzzlingly at the corpses.
“This is old Magic,” Torcan continued. “Raw and untamed. Deadly to mortals. Aye, and weak-minded Fae as well. You would be wise to come into your power quick, my lord or you can be certain they’ll serve you a like fate.”
“They?”
“The Seelie Court,” Torcan sneered. “Whatever is left of it! They will have killers like these wherever they can be hid. You are marked.”
Padric laughed through his nose. “I thought I was just a figurehead.”
“For now,” Torcan replied. “But you could become more and they will not wait. Do as I say and I can save you from this…you and the wench.”
Padric looked back to where Svala stood in the chariot, eyes downcast, flaxen hair and sable cloak blowing in the wind. She was no more a vessel of sorcery than he, even if she were with child. Fortunately, they had departed Reaver’s Meadow in such haste that the question of his bedding Svala had not again been raised. Heggle had been left behind and without her spying eyes, Padric hoped he could keep from dishonoring the girl just to save her life. But for how long?
Torcan wanted a new line, one unblemished by a life amongst mortals and his patience was thin. The woman would be safer if she carried a child, at least from the Red Caps, but would the Seelie Court pursue the death of an innocent woman and her child just to quell the threat of another sorcerer king? Padric had no answer for that, but the tragic fact remained; Svala’s life was forfeit the moment they took her in thrall. His too. Slouch Hat’s lie had only granted him time, without it he would have been murdered by Acwellen. He could reveal the truth and they would all burn or hold to the lie and survive another day. Day by day. That was all that was left.
The Exiled Heir (Autumn's Fall Saga) Page 36
