The Exiled Heir (Autumn's Fall Saga)

by Jonathan French

  “We are betrayed,” the man said, his voice quivering and strangely high. He turned, revealing piercing eyes, one completely bereft of color. His face was aquiline, sallow and sunken from care, but retained an unnatural youthfulness. A simple iron band sat upon his brow. The same crown Padric had seen in the hands of the girl.

  “Jerrod,” Slouch Hat’s voice was full of wonder.

  The man gave no sign he had heard the husk.

  “Come,” he said holding his hand out, a thin smile playing across his lips. “Comfort your king.”

  Padric jumped as the girl passed him, taking the king’s hand and leading him over to a chair made of animal bones where he sat. She knelt at his feet, leaning back against his knees as his fingers played across her dark hair, the curve of her cheek, his thumb gliding into her mouth as he brushed her lips. Her eyes looked directly at Padric, watching him as the king caressed her.

  “They will come for us now,” Jerrod said sleepily, hand lolled against the chair back. “Irial and his minions. We cannot stop them. They will sing us to death with their Fae songs, make us swell with honey until we burst, then transform themselves into bees so they may lick us into never being.”

  “Your son will stop them, my lord,” the girl droned, playing her part and no more.

  The king smiled at that, his eyes closing in some imagined rapture. “Our dread son. We made him tall and terrible…so lusty is our Gaunt Prince.”

  The king sat forward, cupping the girl’s cheeks in his hands, leaning over her upturned face, his white hair falling around her.

  “Do you find him delicious?” he hissed. “Do you wish to be his?”

  “If my lord tires of me and commands it,” the girl replied, “I would go to him. Had I a choice, I wish to stay here with Your Grace.”

  “Yes,” Jerrod hissed. “And you shall. We will bid Heggle make for us a feast and place it upon the bed where we can devour it in our ravishing! She will serve it raw, that our flesh might press against it and know bliss!”

  Padric felt bile rise in his throat. Were she a farmer’s daughter, this girl would be a year or three from taking a husband and yet here she sat, the plaything of a lecherous tyrant.

  “And what should I tell the Swinehelm, my lord?” the girl asked. “Is he to march?”

  Jerrod lurched back, throwing himself against the chair in a fit. His jaw clenched, hissing spit issuing from between his teeth. His hand clenched into the girl’s locks and he sprung to his feet, pulling her up roughly by the hair before flinging her to the ground.

  “We are betrayed!” he screamed down at her. “Irial has robbed me of my Forge Born! My glorious warriors of living iron beguiled with charms and sweet words! My goblins will die in droves and it will not be enough!”

  The girl did not cower, or whimper or hide herself behind her arms. She simply stared back at the raving king with the resigned expression of long practice, waiting for his tirade to end.

  Jerrod straightened, his face flushed with fury, then it suddenly fell as a realization dawned.

  “They will come for our crown,” he said with quivering lips, removing the iron ring from his head with trembling fingers and gazing at it with covetous wonder. “They will snatch it from our dead skull. We will not allow it!”

  He whirled around, his cloak billowing behind him as he strode out onto the balcony. The girl picked herself up, watching her king as he raised his hands towards the night sky squealing with mindless glee.

  “We will give them no prize!” Jerrod squealed. “Do you hear me Irial Elf-king! Airlann is mine! Her people are mine! IT IS ALL MINE!”

  The girl’s placid countenance did not waver. She rushed forward, her arms outstretched. Jerrod turned at the last moment, his deranged face melting into confusion as she pushed him over the railing. The crown fell from his grasp and hit the stones of the balcony with a toneless clatter. A scream cut pathetically across the sky as he plummeted out of sight. The girl stood a moment, waiting as the sound dwindled to an echo than ceased. She knelt slowly and plucked the crown from the balcony, cradling it in her delicate hands.

  Padric released his breath as the candles in the chamber began to dim and as their light faded, so did the opulence of the room. The lush carpets, the chair of bone, the terrible bed, all diminished until only dust remained. Padric looked to Slouch Hat and Svala, finding them stunned yet unharmed. The husk nodded slowly towards the balcony and Padric looked to see the girl still there.

  “And so ended the reign of Jerrod, the Second of His Name, last of the Goblin Kings.”

  Her words hung in the room as she stood and turned to face them, the crown in her hands.

  “And you,” she said to Padric. “Seek to reclaim his crown.”

  Padric felt his skin grow cold. “No. Never.”

  “You lie,” she said, taking a step into the room.

  “Yes,” Padric agreed, stepping away from her. “But not about the crown. I was forced to come here by Torcan Swinehelm.”

  “He seeks to test you,” the girl replied simply. “He has sent others to me. All have failed. You too will fail, Padric Piskie-kissed, for you are no heir of Jerrod.”

  Padric glanced quickly at Slouch Hat, looking for answers but the husk had his gaze set firmly on the girl who continued her slow advance.

  “I know,” he answered. “But how…I do not…who are you?”

  The girl found the question amusing and she smiled at him. “You seek a name? I answered to the commands of his voice, the striking of his hand, the lusts of his body, but never once to a name. I was his since I can remember, the most honored and most debased of his servants. And in the end I was his undoing and he was mine.

  “With his final breath, he cursed me, binding his crown to me and me to this forsaken tower. Only a legitimate survivor of Jerrod’s bloodline can claim the crown. Until that day I am its keeper and its guardian.”

  She continued to walk towards Padric as she spoke, and he found himself compelled to stay away from her, countering every step with one of his own.

  “Why does Torcan want the crown?” Padric felt it was wise to keep her talking. “Let the bastard fashion another!”

  His back was to the wall now, forcing him to begin sliding along it as she tracked him across the room.

  “The crown is more than a symbol,” she told him. “It is a dread artifact from the first days of blood and betrayal. The first warlock, Penda Blood Coin, forged it with sorcery and sacrifice, passing it down the succession. Jerrod put the last of his Magic into the crown as he fell, making it an heirloom that will bestow its rightful bearer with a power terrible to behold.”

  “You mentioned a test,” Padric said, inching away. “That is why Torcan locked me up here? To test me?”

  “Only the true heir will leave this tower with the crown,” the girl told him. “All others must go the way of Jerrod.”

  Padric felt the slam of the wind and the back of his legs struck something solid. He fumbled for balance and reached out with his hand, finding a stone balustrade. The night sky was all around and panic seized him as he realized where he had been lured. The girl came through the archway and out onto the balcony. The crown was in her hands and she held it out to him.

  “Take it Padric,” she said. “Take it if you can. Take it…or fall.”

  Padric looked behind him, the horrible yawning darkness of the water so far below, the mind shattering distance of the drop, the long, lonely seconds it would take to reach the unavoidable end. He looked back to where the girl waited and willed himself to reach for the crown, but his arms would not obey. It was not his to possess. He did not want it.

  He wanted to fall.

  Padric turned. The balustrade was an insignificant barrier. He could hop over it with ease and then there would be nothing. Nothing holding him, nothing between him and death, and once he made the choice there was nothing he could do to stop it. He placed both hands on the balustrade, gripping the stone and gathered himself to jump.


  “NO!”

  Padric spun and saw Slouch Hat barrel through the archway, slamming into the girl, picking her up, his headlong rush unchecked as they careened over the edge. Padric made a desperate grab and felt the dry crunch of straw fill his palm. Chest pressed into the balustrade, Padric looked over the side and found Slouch Hat’s hand in his, the husk dangling over blackness. Gripping the stone with his other hand, Padric hauled Slouch Hat up, grateful he was not a man of heavy muscle and bone. He pulled the husk over the railing and they slumped down together on the balcony.

  “The girl?” Padric managed.

  Slouch Hat’s head snapped up and looked hard at Padric, rage crinkling across his inhuman face. The husk stood quickly and looked down at his hand where the crown lay gripped in his fingers. Padric rose, staring in confusion.

  Slouch Hat began to laugh.

  Not the dry creaking Padric had heard before, but a full triumphant sound, almost breaking with emotion.

  “Jerrod!” Slouch Hat shouted at the sky. “I found a way! You vile, groping madman, I found a way! You bound my flesh, you bound my spirit and now I am neither! This hollow man shall be my deliverance!”

  The laughter rang out once more, then abruptly ceased as the husk suddenly collapsed. Padric caught him as he fell, lowering him gently to the stones. Slouch Hat’s sack face was slack for a moment before expression returned and he looked up at Padric.

  “She is…with me, Padric,” the husk’s voice was strained, worn thin. “By the Hallowed, she is with me.”

  “What does that mean?” Padric asked. Slouch Hat smiled. “It means…we are no longer drowning.”

  Torcan Swinehelm was there to meet them when they emerged from the tower at dawn. The goblin leader’s face was a brazen mask of avarice and glee when Padric stepped through the door alive, Svala on his arm and Slouch Hat following, bearing the iron crown. Torcan gazed at it with hungry eyes, lost for a moment in victory.

  “I have claimed my birthright, Swinehelm,” Padric snapped. “And passed your test. The crown is mine.”

  The goblin seemed to remember something, and then went to one knee. The Red Cap guards also knelt.

  “Your Grace,” Swinehelm said with head bowed low. “We shall arrange a coronation immediately.”

  “No,” Padric said firmly. “Fool, I dare not wear it. I am untutored in the ways of sorcery. Would you see me destroyed and the line ended?!”

  Torcan looked up, shaking his head quickly. “No! Of course not. I misspoke. Forgive me, Your Grace.”

  Padric gave a satisfied nod. “Now, get my lady some proper clothes. If she is to be mother to the one who will wear this crown, I will not have her gawked at like a common strumpet.”

  “At once, Your Grace. What else would you require?”

  “What else?” Padric gave the warlord a mocking smile. “My lord Swinehelm, have you so easily forgotten your own schemes?”

  Torcan gave a puzzled shake of his head.

  “We finish what you started,” Padric told him. “We go to Castle Gaunt.”

  TWENTY

  “Foolish chase,” Deglan muttered, his words caught and swallowed by the wind. He squinted hard across the rocky expanse of the ridge top, searching for the next of Madigan’s damnable piles of stones. The crest of the mountain was a sprawling, windswept march of boulders, interrupted only by ugly, dead moss and ankle-busting cracks. The ascent to the summit had been a grueling scramble up switchbacks littered with loose pebbles and dirt. Deglan’s legs and back ached without remorse. He had been glad to leave Toad Holm with a fully replenished herb satchel and a pack full of provisions, but now it all seemed like a dragging, painful weight, crushing his joints into meal. He considered pitching his burdens off the mountain, but was forced out of his bitter musings by the sight of the little figure ahead of him, practically skipping across the rocks without a care.

  “Blink!” he shouted fruitlessly across the wind. “Do not get too far ahead!”

  “I have reminded her to stick to the cairns,” Curdle’s voice popped into his head.

  Deglan turned as the pale hobgoblin approached, pulling himself along by his stout walking staff.

  “Tell her not to get out of sight, dammit!” Deglan yelled aloud and turned back to see Blink stop.

  “She is waiting at the next cairn,” Curdle told him, drawing up alongside.

  “I am right damn next to you,” Deglan snarled. “No need to buzz about in my brain.”

  “Apologies,” the seer gasped. “But I am finding my breath very precious at the moment.”

  “Well you can thank your huntsman friend for that,” Deglan replied. “Trekking us up this bloody hill.”

  “Is it only a hill?” Curdle asked, sucking in air. “Pity. I thought I had accomplished something.”

  “We have accomplished the same wondrous feat today, as yesterday,” Deglan waved a hand scornfully at the mountain top. “And the day before and the day before that! We have walked ourselves sore, following a madman and his dogs in a pointless search for a metal giant that is best avoided!”

  Curdle smiled at his rant. “Madigan Sure Finder is no madman.”

  “So you think.”

  “He believes we are close,” Curdle said. “We will soon find your Forge Born.”

  Deglan did not much like hearing it referred to as his Forge Born, but he said nothing, instead placing his energy in continuing across the ridge. A moment later, he heard the tapping of Curdle’s staff as he followed behind.

  Their journey had brought them far from Toad Holm; long days of travel that showed no signs of their quarry, at least none that Deglan could see. Madigan and his dogs always stayed well ahead, marking a trail for them to follow, only reappearing at nightfall after they made camp. His mountaintop markers were carefully stacked rocks, placed in regular intervals across the ridge and Deglan found Blink standing near the next such pile as promised.

  Bundled against the wind, the girl looked far less starved and pitiful than the day he found her. A light had begun to grow behind her previously abyssal eyes, and she had rediscovered some expressions. She fixed him with one now, a mix of wonder and even a little confused impatience, as if she could not understand why he and Curdle were not in a bigger hurry to see what lay over the next boulder. No sooner had they caught up and she was off again, making for the next cairn with the surefooted steps of youth.

  He had never intended to bring her along, but on the day he was to part Toad Holm, Curdle took one look at the child and insisted she go. Deglan had wanted to throttle the pasty faced mind reader, infuriated that he would contemplate putting the girl at such risk on a dangerous hunt, but before he could voice his anger, the hobgoblin held up a calming hand.

  “The danger to her body out in the world is possible,” Curdle said gently. “But, the danger to her mind if you abandon her is certain. She will not survive it, Deglan.”

  Deglan had taken a long look at Blink’s lost face, knowing the seer spoke true, and made the only choice he could. As a healer, he could not deny the rejuvenating effects the journey had so quickly bestowed upon his foundling. She marched along with bottomless vigor throughout the days and slept soundly at their nightly camps, disturbed by neither darkness nor dread. The girl had still not spoken a word, despite her reconnection to her surroundings. Curdle was able to discern her basic thoughts and feelings, but Deglan had warned him off mucking around too deep. He did not truly believe the hobgoblin wished her any harm. He had been nothing but forthcoming since their meeting, but Deglan’s sense of distrust was slow to die. He might be an insufferable bastard, but if it meant Blink’s safety, Deglan Loamtoes would play his strengths to the hilt.

  The day was old before they finally saw the downside of the mountain and the descent was every bit as spiteful as the climb. Deglan and Curdle arrived on flat ground weary and footsore. Blink awaited them at the bottom, fresh faced and bright eyed.

  Curdle gave a tired chuckle. “We are two old dotards, Ma
ster Loamtoes.”

  “Speak for yourself, Milkthumb,” Deglan replied. “I still got my teeth.”

  The seer smiled broadly at that, showing he still had his as well.

  “Well, then let us honor our Fae blood,” Curdle rallied. “Onward!”

  Deglan shook his head, but could not quite manage the scowl he had intended. They walked on, following a heavily wooded track at the base of the mountain. Sticks had been laid to lead them and Deglan watched with fascination as Blink bent to retrieve each marker, flinging them into the underbrush.

  “It appears,” Curdle said with amusement. “That our path is only ours to know.”

  Deglan felt an odd mixture of pride and worry. “Madigan teach her that?”

  Curdle shrugged. “I do not know.”

  As they travelled the sun began to set, throwing the last of its brightness through gaps in the leaves. They found Sweat and Panic waiting for them in a snug clearing off the track, showing where Madigan meant for them to camp. Blink rushed forward and the dogs bounded to meet her, sniffing and licking, circling and nuzzling. Blink patted at them, leaning away from their rough tongues, smiling with delight. She put her arms around Panic’s neck, while Sweat laid down, exposing his belly until Blink took notice and went to her knees, hands rubbing freely.

  This nightly ritual still made Deglan nervous. The hounds’ noses overtopped the child’s head and he knew the animals to be tenacious hunters. Madigan’s dogs frightened even Kederic’s warriors. It was the men of the fort who had named them, claiming that a man would only succeed in two things if he ran from them. They gossiped that Madigan had freed a barghest matriarch from a hunter’s trap and she had gifted him with two of her pups in gratitude. Other versions had him coupling with the animal after freeing her and said the dogs were his own offspring. Whatever the truth, Sweat and Panic were two of the canniest beasts Deglan had encountered, and, like the men of the fort, he was uneasy in their presence. But what bothered him most was how normal they became when Blink was around. They scampered and hopped…their tails wagged and they played with the child with something that could only be called tenderness. A little girl playing with the dogs; a common sight across the farms and feasting halls of the known world, and yet, something remained off. Like their mysterious master, Sweat and Panic had no voice. They were as silent as the death they brought to those they pursued, as silent as the child they now played with.