Deglan set to work gathering fire wood, keeping one eye cocked at Blink and her playmates. Curdle set about digging through their provisions for the evening meal, but most of them would end up being packed right back up. Madigan always returned with fresh game.
He did not arrive until after dark. Deglan had the fire going strongly and after glancing down to shift a log with a stick, he looked up to find the huntsman standing over him, a brace of rabbits hanging from each fist.
“That trick,” Deglan said casually, “no longer surprises me. But don’t worry Sure Finder, I am still shocked you cook your meat.”
Madigan said nothing. He tossed one of the rabbits to Sweat and another to Panic. The dogs caught them cleanly in their jaws and padded away to eat outside the light of the fire.
“Good evening, Madigan,” Curdle said pleasantly from his seat on a log.
The hunter gave the hobgoblin the same response he had given Deglan, and strode over to a low hanging branch where he deftly hung the remaining two rabbits. He pulled a long iron knife from his belt and was about to skin the animals when Deglan saw him toss a glance at he and Curdle. Madigan sheathed the iron blade and drew a second, this one of bronze and set to work without further delay.
“Most considerate of you, Madigan,” Curdle said. “We thank you.”
Deglan frowned. He did not remember thanking anybody.
“He knows iron is poison to us.”
Deglan looked over the fire and found Curdle looking at him.
“Not unless he stabs us with it. Which I am still not sure he won’t do.”
Curdle did not take the bait, merely wrinkling his brow with resignation and going back to his scroll. Damn albino was always reading.
Deglan looked back to Madigan and tensed when he saw Blink standing at the man’s leg, looking up intently as he skinned the rabbits. They made a contrasting pair.
Dressed in skins, lean with muscle, every inch of him full of feral strength, Madigan was as savage and hard as Blink was precious and frail. His chin and lip were shaved to rough stubble, but his straw colored hair hung in long whiskers from his cheeks and in twisted locks from his head. He appeared not to take notice of the child’s presence, but Deglan thought he saw the man pause in his task a few times as if giving Blink time to absorb his actions.
She became more reserved when the huntsman was around, her gaze more fixed, but it was not the withdrawn stare of the little girl Deglan had rescued. Rather, she was concentrated, determined, intently curious. But as encouraged as he was with her recovery, Deglan was concerned about its source. Madigan the Sure Finder was not someone he could ever trust.
When Curdle explained that the man had been hunting him, Deglan could not suppress a shiver. And it was not skill or cunning or even luck that had saved him from Sweat and Panic, no, it was two damn Red Caps. From Madigan’s thoughts, Curdle had learned that the huntsman had been set on Deglan’s trail by Acwellen for conspiring with the Red Caps to destroy Hog’s Wallow. But then he witnessed Deglan kill Nape and Canker, rescuing Blink in the process and Madigan began to doubt. He followed all the way to the entrance of Toad Holm where he could not enter, but Curdle sensed him and his dogs.
“Three minds that function as one,” Curdle had explained. “It is a rare and singular sensation. Difficult to ignore.”
Deglan had not wanted to explore that notion further and let it lie, still disturbed with the thought that the man had been hunting him. Now, it seemed, Madigan wished to help them, and the seer was all too willing to allow him. It was not a company Deglan relished being amongst, but he suffered it because he believed the hobgoblin mystic truly wanted to stop Torcan Swinehelm, and that was alliance enough.
After the rabbits were dressed and allowed to roast over the fire, they all ate. Blink fell asleep in Deglan’s arms with the grease still on her fingers. Madigan lay down on the bare ground close to the fire, Sweat and Panic curling up around him. Deglan was never certain that they actually slept, but all three lay still enough with their eyes closed to make a good show of it. Curdle continued to read by the light of the fire. The seer was always awake when Deglan closed his own eyes and when he opened them in the morning. Probably why he was so blasted pale.
“That something to help us stop the Flame Binder?” Deglan asked, pointing at the scroll.
“This?” Curdle said, looking up and smiling shyly. “No. It is treatise on the properties of yarrow root.”
Deglan raised his eyebrows. “The bad gnome’s plaything? Old noble yarrow!”
“Yes,” Curdle said enthusiastically. “It is a fascinating substance. I was just reading that it can help cure even the most grievous of wounds.”
“Only if it is harvested at noon on a bright day,” Deglan said. “Preferably near the full of the moon. And it works best on bleeding injuries.”
“Ah yes,” Curdle looked down excitedly at the scroll. “It says here it is a fine cure for nosebleeds.”
“If you make a potion of it,” Deglan agreed. “Need to be careful though…take too much and you will end up flaccid for a fortnight.”
The seer blinked at him questioningly.
“You know,” Deglan said, raising his fist in the air and then letting it go limp.
“Ah,” Curdle nodded in understanding. “Yes. I see.”
“Was going to have to brew some myself if I spent another day around a certain piskie,” Deglan said almost to himself.
Curdle seemed a bit embarrassed. “They are truly very comely creatures.”
“This one,” Deglan whistled low and shook his head. “’Course, that is the tease with piskies. Too small to do right with…but the thoughts you have!”
The thoughts seemed to make Curdle uncomfortable, for he smiled, but looked back down at his scroll as if it could save him from wanton winged women. Deglan decided to be merciful, though he enjoyed watching the mystic squirm.
He cleared his throat, returning to a more serious tone. “You think we can stop Torcan?”
Curdle looked up. “I know that we must try. Same as you.”
“I do know,” Deglan said. “But, is this Forge Born I saw truly the answer?”
“If he is the last of his kind,” Curdle nodded. “Yes.”
“How?”
Curdle put his scroll aside, collecting his thoughts. When he began speaking, his words were slow and measured.
“The resurrection of the Forge Born would be a woeful turn for this isle. And we must do all we can to stop that from happening. But of even greater import is not whether they awaken…but how they will function if they do. Certainly the Red Caps want them as the mindless drones they were at their creation. An army they can control. But will they wake so? Or will they still possess the mystical heart placed upon them by the Seelie Court? The heart that granted them free will. Or worst of all, will they awaken in that terrible condition so many of them succumbed to in their final years? Bloodthirsty, berserk, unfeeling…”
“Unwound,” Deglan finished.
“Yes,” Curdle nodded.
“Could a Goblin King control them in such a frenzy?”
“No,” Curdle answered. “That state of their being was never intended.”
Deglan watched something haunting play across the mystic’s face. “Intended?”
Curdle looked at him for a moment, choosing his words. “The Seelie Court was ever of just intention,” he said at last. “But they were not infallible. Mistakes were made, especially with the Forge Born.”
“Damn right,” Deglan said a bit too loudly, and Blink stirred slightly. He waited for her to settle once more before he continued in a quieter voice. “Should have destroyed them all after the war was won. Not forgave and forgot, giving them the run of the isle. Enemies are enemies, and they should be treated as such, not welcomed to the victory banquet with open arms.”
Curdle fixed him with a sad expression.
“I think,” he said, rolling up his scroll. “That I shall try and sleep. Pleasan
t night, Master Loamtoes.”
Too late, Deglan realized the meaning of his words, and felt suddenly ashamed of himself. Why should he? He spoke the truth. The Seelie Court should have no more forgiven the goblins than they did their creations. He always believed that, and still did… and yet, here he was, camped out in the wilderness on some desperate quest to save Airlann from further war and degradation, aided by a goblin and a mortal man; the condemned of history.
Deglan remained awake for a long time.
Madigan and the dogs were gone when he awoke in the morning. Blink was helping Curdle pack their camp kit, handing the hobgoblin blankets and cooking implements. The seer always thanked her with a smile. Blink turned, and, seeing Deglan awake, tramped over and offered him an apple. He stood, brushed the dirt and leaves from his clothes and took the fruit from her outstretched hand.
“Good morning,” he said, brushing her cheek with his thumb. “And thank you.”
Holding the apple in his teeth, Deglan walked over and helped Curdle get his pack over his shoulders. The hobgoblin turned and nodded cordially.
“Shall we be off?” he asked, pointing to the first of their daily markers with his stick.
Deglan bit through his apple. “Charge.”
Thankfully, their way was flat and even for most of the day, a wandering valley trail shaded darkly by the close trees. Blink stayed ahead as their little forward scout and Deglan was able to walk next to Curdle on the easy path.
“My pardons,” Deglan ventured, breaking several hours of silence, “if my words offended last night.”
“No need,” Curdle replied. “You are welcome to your opinion. I have heard worse, believe me. We hobgoblins are caught between two worlds, and must accept the turmoil of our choice. It is you I feel pity for, Master Loamtoes. Your world has been entirely shattered, and for that, you have my sympathy.”
Deglan shook the comment off. “I turned my back on Toad Holm centuries ago. I should have listened to wiser words and never returned.”
“Perhaps,” Curdle said. “But your anger with your own people did not include the betrayal you now feel. That the gnomes would welcome us goblins back is one matter. That they would aid the Red Caps in freeing the Flame Binder is another entirely. And it is in that matter where I share your feelings.”
“Why was he ever allowed to live?”
“Many were put to death,” Curdle’s tone was resigned. “But with each fall of the headsman’s axe, the others grew stronger, the Fire leaving the fallen to live in the survivors. We goblins are not like the other elementals, Deglan. We stole Fire. It was not ours by right. And though we are kin to gnomes, the blessings of Earth were denied us when Ghob supplanted the dragons. Magic flows through our veins as it does with all Fae, but we remain mongrels, disinherited from Earth and Stone and illegitimate impostors to Fire.
“Even you, a simple herbalist, can call upon the Earth to aid you. While you do not possess the power of an Earth Shaper, the element will not deny your birthright. As a goblin, I can no more call upon Earth than I can Fire, both are denied to me. For my kind, the direct use of Magic must be attained through other means and disciplines. Only a very few of us can manipulate the flames and call them to our will, and the path to such craft is a perilous one. The Flame Binders were a dangerous power in the world, and their greatest act of madness was giving the spark of life to the constructs of the goblin foundries, making them living iron. That they then granted control of the Forge Born to the Goblin Kings only further proves their deranged devotion to their mortal rulers.
“Earth lives in all gnomes. Water flows through every undine and Air exists in all sylphs. But Fire burns in only a few goblins and must go somewhere when its vessel is destroyed. Toad Holm realized this far too late and the last Flame Binder was swollen with purging Magic before they saw their mistake. If he were to die, what would happen? Would Fire be forever extinguished, destroying the balance of the Elements? That could mean the end of all things. Or would it return to the core of the world, free from goblin bondage and back to its rightful keepers? Not even the wisdom of the elves could answer those questions, for their hold on this world was already dwindling. So the Flame Binder was imprisoned until the riddles could be solved.”
“Which is why King Blackmud went underground,” Deglan said. “Not just to bring Ghob to justice, but to see if he still held the dragons enslaved.”
“Yes,” Curdle replied. “Other solutions were sought and--”
Deglan grabbed Curdle’s arm, cutting off his words and pointing up the trail. Blink was running forward and coming towards her at a run was the shaggy grey shape of one of Madigan’s dogs.
“Only one?” Curdle said, concern etched across his brow. It was several hours before dusk and the dogs always waited together when it was time to make camp.
Deglan just shook his head and hurried to catch up to Blink. When they came up, they found it was Panic, panting heavily. Blink tried to pet her, but every time the little girl reached out the dog bounded several paces up the trail before turning back to look at them. Blink turned to Deglan and Curdle, and raising her arm, she pointed down the trail.
“We are to follow the dog,” Curdle said.
“Thanks,” Deglan wrinkled his face at the hobgoblin. “I needed a mind reader to work that one out.”
Panic took off at a swift pace as soon as they stepped towards her, Blink hurrying behind. Deglan’s pack jostled around uncomfortably as he ran to keep up. The dog kept pulling well ahead, often vanishing around curves in the trail. Blink was never far behind, and each time the girl was lost from sight, Deglan used the worry to quicken his feet. They would find dog and child waiting, looking back down the trail, but no sooner did Deglan and Curdle come into view and they were off again.
At last, Deglan rounded a bend to find Blink and Panic waiting far up the trail, but they did not look back for him. They were turned towards the forest. Winded and sweating, Deglan plodded to a stop next to the girl and looked where she did. A path a blind man could follow was cut through the trees, snapped limbs lying next to a wide furrow ploughed through the carpet of fallen leaves.
“Oh my,” Curdle said when he arrived. But before the hobgoblin could catch his breath, Panic headed into the woods, following the destruction. The dog did not go as quickly as before, and they were able to stay right behind her. Soon she peeled off and headed up a gentle rise where Madigan squatted amongst the trees, spear in hand, Sweat at his side. The huntsman nodded as they approached and then pointed. Deglan followed the man’s finger and found a cave nestled into the neighboring hillside below. The ground became rocky and bare near the cave’s mouth, but the trail of disturbed ground led right to it.
Madigan tapped his finger to his ear, and then held it towards the sky, his eyes never leaving the cave. They waited, and Deglan felt Blink jump when a sudden tremendous boom issued from the cave, trembling the ground beneath them. Deglan shot Curdle a quizzical look and found the hobgoblin deep in thought. The ground shook again as the sounds of another concussion pulsed through the air. Without a word, Curdle slipped out of his pack and then started off down the rise, heading straight for the cave.
“Buggery and spit,” Deglan groaned, dropping his own pack and then looked at Blink. “Stay here…with the dogs.”
Madigan looked at him impassively, apparently taking no offense.
Deglan made his way down and caught up to Curdle before the hobgoblin reached the cave entrance. Another boom rumbled forth.
“You need not accompany me,” the mystic said.
“Nonsense,” Deglan replied. “Who else is going to introduce you?”
The pounding continued, becoming painful to the ears as they stepped into the cavern. It was not deep, barely larger than an outcropping, and the sunlight managed to creep past the threshold. Deglan winced as the cave roared again, bouncing off the surrounding stone and sending showers of loose dirt to fall from above. At the back of the cavern, Deglan could see a huge,
shadowy shape pull back long arms and then slam them into the stones.
“It will bring this whole place down on our heads!” Deglan screamed over the horrible ringing of metal on stone. “We should not be here!”
Curdle pushed determinedly forward, ducked low against the cacophony. Deglan rushed forward and seized him by the arm.
“Do not be a fool! We will die if we stay here!”
Curdle shook him off and continued on.
“Stop!” Deglan heard him scream at the Forge Born’s back. “I beg you, please! Stop! You need not do this!”
But it was no use. The hobgoblin’s entreaties were overcome as the Forge Born continued to slam his fists into the cave wall. An anvil sized rock broke away from the ceiling, and Deglan watched in horror as it fell towards Curdle. He leapt forward, barreling into the hobgoblin, his arms encircling him, flinging both of them away from a crushing death. They landed hard, but Deglan tried to take the worst of it, shielding the frail mystic from the stone strewn floor. Pain morphed into anger, and Deglan shoved himself to his feet. The Forge Born kept up its mad destruction, turning the cave into a dreadful bell, tolling itself to pieces.
Deglan marched forward, heedless of the ear bursting punches and the falling rocks. He had eyes only for this towering machine, this iron brute whose only purpose was death.
He hated it.
He hated hunting it, hated finding it, hated looking at it. The memory of his first sighting of it pained him. Bulge Eye had been with him, and Deglan could still feel the panic that rose when he thought it was Unwound. He and Faabar and the piskie and that coal haired youth had tracked it, hoping to destroy it, but they had found the Red Caps instead; Torcan Swinehelm and his cursed Flame Binder. Hog’s Wallow had burned, the villagers had died, Bulge Eye and Faabar along with them. Deglan’s own people had betrayed him, and it had all started with a distant glimpse of this Forge Born. This thing with a name.
The Exiled Heir (Autumn's Fall Saga) Page 39
