Padric looked at Torcan. “What would you have of me?”
“First,” the goblin smiled. “Come and see justice done on our enemies.”
Padric spent the day watching others die and fighting the urge to vomit. Torcan had the former leaders of the city held under guard in a large square near the docks. Padric and Svala were given seats on a hastily constructed platform, so they could view the executions unimpeded by the crowd forced to attend by the Red Caps. The humans were tied to stakes and burnt, they’re screams echoing off the walls of the surrounding buildings until the smoke stole the air from their lungs and they became nothing but slumped, black figures encased in hungry flames. The Fae were likewise burnt, but instead of tying them to wooden beams, Torcan had them impaled on iron spikes tall as a grown man. Padric had seen a few undine in his life and always found their lithe forms, large eyes and sea-colored skin exotic and queerly beautiful. The four which hung in the air, run threw, writhing and choking were robbed of that beauty as their lives slowly slid down the iron which transfixed their bodies.
Five dwarrow were also held in shackles, and when they were led into the square by their Red Cap guards, Svala leaned forward slightly, mumbling a few words in her own tongue that Padric could not make out. Oddly, Torcan ordered their lives spared, declaring they should be made to labor in the mines beyond the city walls. Svala seemed relieved as they were led away, continuing to mutter softy, her hands tracing a pattern in the air in front of her chest.
A score of goblins followed, the last of which was dressed in rich robes and heavily bejeweled, thick black hair heavily curled and shining with oil. As his brethren were raised upon the tips of iron pikes, wet shrieks of agony gurgling from their lungs, he was led before the Swinehelm and forced to kneel.
“I never would have thought you to be so pretty,” Torcan said as he circled slowly. “Should have called yourself the Whore of the Pile! What have you to say, blood traitor?”
The goblin raised his head slowly and his eyes locked on Padric.
“Do not speak to me of blood!” the kneeling goblin said, voice carrying over the crowd. “When it is you who would bend the knee to a mortal. May woe fall upon all who don the Cap! Curse you!”
Torcan laughed as he dragged his axe off his shoulder. “Curses, eh? Let them see where following a prim and proper fop will lead. Come! Give the Swine’s Wife a kiss!”
With that Torcan swung his axe in a vicious arc. The goblin twitched as his body fell forward, the head striking the cobbles with a dull thud and rolling a few paces before Torcan snatched it up by the luxuriant hair, holding it high and showing it dripping to the crowd.
“The Lord of the Pile is dead!” he shouted, then turned towards the dais, looked at Padric and raised his gory axe in salute. “Long live the King!”
The Red Caps in the square raised their voices in response, and to Padric’s dismay, they were joined by the gathered citizens of Black Pool. Poor wretches were too afraid to do anything but obey.
“LONG LIVE THE KING!”
Dusk was near by the time Torcan had dispatched all his captives and seen that the Middangearders received their fair share of slaves from amongst the women of the city. Several men were cut down trying to rescue their sobbing wives and daughters from being dragged to the raider’s ships. Padric’s blood burned with shame and fury at each act of cruelty, each death, each crying child, his teeth near to breaking as he ground them together in hapless frustration. He dared not venture so much as a glance in Svala’s direction for fear of what he might find etched into her face.
At last, near sick with the sorrow and death he had witnessed throughout the day, Padric was ushered back into the chariot. Svala climbed in next to him. They followed one of the rivers towards the heart of the city and finally came to the deep pool that formed where the two rivers met. Here, upon a heavily fortified island at the center of the true Black Pool, the Tower of Vellaunus rose arrogantly into the sky; a twisted old man daring the world to call him weak. The Tower was darkly spoken of across the tales of his boyhood, but Padric could recall none of those tales now. Seeing it with his own eyes, he found it difficult to muster a suitable amount of awe. He was growing weary of legends.
A pair of Red Caps with river poles in their hands waited upon a skiff moored to a rotting jetty.
“Come,” Torcan said, motioning towards the skiff. “We will see Your Grace safely lodged for the night.”
Padric did not hide his distaste as he looked up at the ancient tower. “There?”
“Oh yes,” Torcan said grandly. “Since the day it was first raised, the Tower of Vellaunus has ever been the residence of the Goblin Kings in Black Pool. I assure you, my lord, there is no safer place within the city. And you shall not be without company.”
Torcan motioned and one of his Red Caps took the banner from Slouch Hat. The husk looked at the goblins surrounding him and seemed to consider for a moment, then stepped onto the skiff without a word. Padric helped Svala aboard, then stepped down onto the bobbing craft.
“Rest well, my lord,” Torcan said from the jetty.
Padric merely nodded as the two goblins began to pole the skiff across the inky water. Only two, and their attention was diverted. There would never be a better chance for escape. He and Slouch Hat could easily overpower the goblins. Padric looked back to the jetty where Torcan and a score of Red Caps continued to watch their crossing. It was no good. They would have a slow, ponderous vessel and nowhere to go.
The skiff bumped roughly into the stones of the island, slime covered steps marching down into the water. Slouch Hat disembarked nimbly, then turned and helped Padric before the pair of them lifted Svala onto land. The girl looked up with fearful wonder at the tower, clutching Padric’s cloak tight under her neck. Padric craned his neck and followed her gaze. This close, the tower looked as if it would topple at any moment, rising into the sky at such an alarming angle. Padric looked away quickly, and shook off the hackles that played down his spine.
They ascended the stairs to the base of the tower where another pair of Red Caps waited next to a single door of tarnished bronze set deep into the blocks of the tower. The guards at the door were two of the burliest goblins Padric had ever seen, and he noticed a heavy maul and mattock resting against the stones near the door. Discarded in weeds creeping from between cracks in the masonry, lay a great, rusted chain, recently sundered. He was given no time to investigate further as the goblins quickly opened the door and escorted them inside.
Torches burned in the wide gallery within, revealing nothing but dust, webs and the refuse of vermin. The goblins grabbed the torches and immediately made for an arch at the back of the gallery through which the spiral stairs waited. The burly goblins led and Padric followed close behind them. He was several steps up before he realized he held one of Svala’s hands in his own, leading her. He glanced back as he continued to climb and she gave him a tremulous smile. Padric squeezed her hand gently and saw that Slouch Hat came next, followed by the skiff pilots bringing up the rear. They passed other arches which led to the increasingly narrow floors of the tower, but the goblins never paused. Padric only had a brief glimpse of rotted wooden flooring and dank stones before the torch light moved on around the curve of the wall, plunging the abandoned rooms back into the darkness they deserved.
Padric’s legs burned tightly, and the close, curved walls of cold stone began to steal his breath as they ceaselessly climbed. At last, the stairs ended on a small landing where another heavy bronze door greeted them. One of the burly goblins unlocked it with a key from his belt and opened the door to reveal a circular chamber lit from a fire already burning in the elaborately carved stone hearth. The wooden floor had been hastily swept, the dust of years still lying thick near the walls. A palette of straw and furs had been placed in the room, a pitcher and a goblet nearby. Otherwise the room was empty.
Padric entered leading Svala, and as soon as Slouch Hat crossed the threshold, the goblins pulled the do
or shut swiftly, the latch grinding into place and locked. Padric looked around and shook his head. Another archway led out onto a balcony and he stepped out carefully. The wind whipped at his hair as he looked down on the dark, cowering buildings of the city spread out before him. The night sky was devoid of stars, and only the palest glimmer of moonlight shone off the water a dizzying distance below. His knees suddenly buckled and he felt queasy, all but stumbling back into the chamber away from that awful drop.
Svala sat on the floor before the fire, trying not to look at the grotesque faces carved into the hearth. Slouch Hat approached with the goblet in his hands and offered it to Padric.
“It is wine,” the husk said, but Padric waved it off, nodding to Svala. Slouch Hat offered her the cup, and she took it from him, but did not drink.
“This is a fine prison,” Slouch Hat continued. “Few men have ever stood so high.”
“Any who wish to are mad,” Padric replied.
“History would agree with you,” the husk said dryly.
Padric put his back to the wall and slid down onto the ground, weary to his bones. “I have tried,” he said with his eyes closed. “Tried to fashion some means of escape, but…we are drowning.”
“You are becoming a king,” he heard Slouch Hat say. “You are referring to yourself as we.”
Padric opened his eyes and gave a tired grin. “You know my meaning.”
“I do,” Slouch Hat said, coming to sit next to him. “I have also failed.”
“I left my home,” Padric said to his outstretched feet, “looking to be a steel monger’s boy. And that seemed impossible.” He laughed.
Svala looked over at the sound, a confused look of fearful joy on her face. She seemed so small and alone sitting before that great fire in an ancient chamber at the top of the world.
“Slouch Hat,” Padric said, daring to hope. “Do you know the tongue of Middangeard?”
“Crudely,” the husk replied, than looked over at the girl. “Ah…yes. What would you like me to ask?”
“If she is hungry?”
The husk’s sack face stared at him. “There is no food up here, Padric.”
“Oh,” Padric looked around. “Right. Grand. Maybe you should tell her your name.”
“I think the closest I could manage is Soft Helm.”
Padric burst out laughing at that, perhaps longer and louder than was merited but it felt good all the same. When his eyes opened he found Svala still looking over at them, and felt a desperate need to include her.
“Fine,” Padric said. “Perfect. Tell her that.”
Slouch Hat leaned forward off the wall and spoke a few halting words, gesturing to himself. Svala’s teeth appeared when she smiled, but she quickly covered them with her hand and answered.
“She thinks it is a good name,” the husk said amiably.
Padric was encouraged. “Ask her if she is warm enough.”
Slouch Hat spoke again and Padric was pleased to see Svala nod before answering.
“Yes,” Slouch Hat translated. “She thanks you for the cloak.”
“Ask her,” Padric was searching. “Why she was afraid of the dwarrow?”
Slouch Hat looked over at him. “What?”
“During the executions,” Padric felt sheepish. “When they brought out the dwarrow…she seemed frightened. I was…worried for her.”
Slouch Hat nodded slowly than looked over at Svala and started speaking, his words slow, broken and hesitant. The girl’s face fell slightly, and Padric felt guilty for dispelling her smile, hating himself for asking the question, but then she answered and the sound was captivating. It was the most Padric had ever heard her say, and he found he could not imagine her speaking any other language. The words, though a mystery to him, were perfect coming from her lips, folding warmly in the air in tones that pleasantly tickled his ears. Arnheir and his captains spoke brutally. But coming from Svala, the language of the fjordmen was a song that would never tire. Padric was disappointed when she stopped speaking, but relieved to see that the sorrow had fled from her face, replaced with a look of compassion aimed directly at him.
“She says,” Slouch Hat relayed. “That she feared the goblins would kill the dwarrow. Something about dwarrow growing stronger in death, becoming…creatures of death. I am uncertain of her meaning. But she is of Middangeard and her people have dwelt close to the dwarrow for thousands of years.”
“Tell her,” Padric said. “That I am sorry she is locked up here. That she was given to me because of a lie. That she has had to see so much blood spilt. That I will never be able to free her or save her from all this madness. Tell her…just tell her I am sorry for everything.”
Slouch Hat spoke briefly and Svala’s answer was painfully short.
“She does not blame you,” Slouch Hat told him. “And neither should you.”
“I don’t,” Padric said looking over at the husk and smiling. “I blame you.”
The husk gave a derisive creak. “I blame Kederic Winetongue.”
“Please, do not,” Padric said. “That man is suffering enough. And he lied to save us when he had no cause. We tried to murder him, Slouch Hat. He could have let us die.”
“They left him at Reaver’s Meadow,” the husk said.
“I know,” Padric replied. “I was never allowed to speak with him. And there is no telling what will be his fate now.”
“Nor ours,” Slouch Hat muttered.
“Nor ours,” Padric agreed.
They sat in silence for some time and Padric felt his eyelids growing heavy. “Tell Svala to take the bed.”
He barely heard the exchange, but felt the husk’s lean fingers grip his shoulder. “She says you should share it.”
Padric did not bother to open his eyes. “I have no want to move from this spot.”
“Come,” Slouch Hat shook him. “You are in need of rest.”
Padric allowed the husk to help him to his feet and found Svala already huddled under the furs. He looked down at her, nodded and smiled gratefully, then lay down atop the covers, not bothering to pull his boots off. His eyelids settled, blocking out the glow from the fireplace, and he welcomed the release of sleep.
When he awoke, the chamber was dark, the fire out and the air grown cold. He had not slept long, for the full veil of night still covered the sky beyond the arch to the balcony. He rolled off the palette with the intention of stoking the fire, but Slouch Hat must have guessed his purpose for the soft light of flame slowly spread through the room. Padric lay back groggily and mumbled a word of thanks, already drifting back to sleep.
A scream split the chamber and Padric bolted upright just in time to see a figure tumble off the balcony. Padric rushed towards the arch as the scream fell away, and skidded to a halt at the sight of something kneeling out on the ledge. Long, dark hair fell across its back and the head turned towards him. It was the face of a girl, her eyes wide, flesh milk white in the moon. She was so young, barely out of childhood, and she gripped something in her hands.
“My king,” she whispered and held out the object. It was a crown, a simple ring of forged iron.
Something grabbed Padric’s shoulder, and he whirled around in alarm to find Slouch Hat taking a quick step backwards.
“Padric!” the husk said. “Are you well?”
“You!” Padric advanced on him. “Why were you trying to push me?”
“What…Padric! I--”
“Trying to throw me off the tower, you murdering husk!”
“No!” Slouch Hat protested his hands raised. “I saw you make for the balcony in the dark. I was worried.”
Padric looked back to the balcony and found it empty. “There was…I swore.”
He looked over at the concerned face of the husk and shook his head. “I am sorry. Must have been dreaming. Pay me no mind.”
Slouch Hat nodded and walked out to the balcony as Padric settled back onto the palette. Svala rolled over as he stretched out, and he felt a hand caress his ma
nhood. He snatched at her wrist, pulling the hand away and opened his eyes, recoiling at the face of the dark haired girl from the balcony pressed close to him.
“What do you desire, my lord?” she asked in a hush.
Padric pushed her away, holding fast to her wrist and pinning her to the mattress.
“Who are you?” he demanded, and again he was grabbed from behind, pulled roughly off the girl. He stumbled and fell backwards, but the rich carpet cushioned him.
“What are you doing?” he heard Slouch Hat demand.
Padric looked towards the bed and found Svala staring fearfully at him from beneath the heavy canopy. He jumped to his feet and Svala flinched back further. Slouch Hat clutched at him, but he slapped his hands away, casting frantically about the room.
“Where is she?”
“Padric! Dammit, do want to frighten the woman to death?”
“Not Svala!” Padric said. “Younger. Dark hair. Where?!”
The husk grabbed him by the front of the shirt and shook him. “You are seeing things! You are dreaming, that is all!”
“Am I?” Padric shouted, grabbing a candle from the nearby table and thrusting it at the husk. Slouch Hat jumped away from the flame. “You see this clearly! It was not here before! Neither was this!” He kicked the table over, then reached up and tore the canopy from the bed. “Nor this!”
Slouch Hat paused, slowly turning about the room, seeing the rich furnishings, the mirrored glass, the shelves of scrolls. Padric tossed the candle roughly on the carpet that had not been there a moment before. The flame went out, the wick smoking pitifully.
“Tell me you do not see it,” Padric challenged.
“I see it,” Slouch Hat whispered.
Padric turned back to Svala, hoping to make amends for frightening her, but the girl was no longer looking at him. Her eyes stared wide at something behind him and Padric turned. A man stood facing the fire, his back turned. Over his broad, stooped shoulders was draped a fur lined cloak of deep scarlet. White hair hung thickly down, almost to the pale, long fingered hands that were clasped behind his back.
The Exiled Heir (Autumn's Fall Saga) Page 37
