The Exiled Heir (Autumn's Fall Saga)

by Jonathan French

  “COLTRANE!”

  The massive arms pulled high over the thing’s head, metal fingers interlaced into a single giant fist, poised for a final, dooming strike. Deglan threw his own arms over his head, preparing for the crushing weight of the cave to fall in on him, but the concussive slams ceased, and suddenly there was only the sound of his ringing ears. Deglan peaked up and found the Forge Born lowering its arms.

  “Leave,” it said without turning, the deep, slow grind of its voice mixing with the fading echoes of its blows.

  “Bugger you!” Deglan spat, and then took an involuntary step backwards as the Forge Born slowly turned. He could barely make it out in the recess of the cave, its towering bulk wrapped in shadow. It said nothing more, seeming to wait. Deglan felt a hand clutch his shoulder and turned to find Curdle standing next to him, gaze locked on Coltrane. The hobgoblin was covered in grit, but appeared unharmed.

  “We would speak with you,” he said. “We must beg your help.”

  “I,” the ponderous voice answered, “will not go.”

  “I know you are being drawn,” Curdle pressed. “And that you do not wish to go. But destroying yourself is not the answer.”

  “Go?” Deglan turned to Curdle. “Go where?”

  “To Castle Gaunt,” Curdle replied in hushed tones before raising his voice again to address the machine. “You have resisted valiantly, but eventually the pull will be too great.”

  Deglan took a step forward, new understanding dispelling his fear. “The Tor,” he declared, thrusting a finger at Coltrane. “That is why you were there. Because of the Flame Binder.”

  “Yes,” Curdle agreed. “The wizard’s reemergence in the world beckons you. He seeks to bring all of your kind back. You can feel it?”

  The Forge Born was long in answering. “Yes.”

  “We would stop him,” Curdle said. “But we dare not try without your help.”

  “I,” the halting tones said, “will not fight.”

  “Why?” Deglan demanded.

  “They told us to fight,” the Forge Born said, its voice slowing and deepening with every word. “And we fought. Others told us it was wrong to fight. I…do not fight.”

  Deglan’s mouth snapped shut.

  “Coltrane,” Curdle continued. “The choice not to help is yours. But that choice will soon be taken from you, along with every other choice. You will once again be a slave and you will fight whether you wish it or not. And you will kill. Is that what you want?”

  “No.”

  “Then I beg you,” Curdle said. “Help us! Together we can ensure your freedom and the peace of the isle.”

  “I will not fight.”

  Deglan saw Curdle’s face struggle with the finality of the thing’s words. The seer’s mouth quivered, searching for more words. The hobgoblin hung his head when he found none and turned to go.

  Deglan looked up at the Forge Born and found no more anger. He was weary and had been devoid of hope for longer than he could recall, but Curdle had believed, truly believed, that a chance could be found within this living iron. Deglan had just watched that hope die. He did not need to wonder who had been witness the day that light went out of his own eyes.

  He knew the answer.

  “You were built for war,” he told Coltrane, his voice tired even to his own ears. “And war has come again. Our side needs a champion, and the one I would stand with is not here. You helped me bury him, remember? And now you wish to bury yourself.” He waved a hand dismissively. “Go ahead. It’s a useless gesture. It won’t kill you. Won’t even stop you for very long. Eventually the goblin’s call will be too great and you will go. There are two choices here, Forge Born. Help us now…or help them later. There is no middle ground.”

  They stood in the silence of the cave for a long time. Deglan stared up into the shadows, wondering if the thing had finally stopped working. He turned to follow Curdle when there came a scraping thud as the Forge Born stepped forward. The weak light from the distant sun revealed its strange face, fashioned with rivets, deep black slits serving as eyes. It still wore the shabby piece of wool over its body and the tip of the scabbard Deglan knew to be empty poked from behind its iron leg.

  “I will help.”

  Curdle bowed his head in relief and his voice was barely above a whisper. “Thank you, Coltrane.”

  The hobgoblin led the metal brute out of the cave and into the light of day. Deglan stayed behind, watching them.

  “I hate this thing,” he grumbled at last, shaking his head as he left the cave.

  TWENTY ONE

  The old elf road crawled defiantly between the low hills, struggling against the weeds and roots which threatened to consume its once smoothly laid stones. In Ages past, all of Airlann had been connected by such roads, but their caretakers had long since abandoned them, the Magic which sustained them slowly unraveling.

  It is all fading.

  Rosheen sat inside what was left of one of the intricately carved stone lampposts that stood beside the road. In bygone days, they marked every mile, glowing with Fae light after sunset to offer comfort and safety to travelers. This was the first Rosheen had found still standing after countless miles, and she took shelter against the cold, spitting rain under its crumbling roof. She wondered if it still came to life at night, shining with pale blue fire. There would be no knowing. Sir Corc had them traveling quickly, and they would be a long way from this spot come nightfall. Barring the rivers, the derelict roads were still the swiftest way to travel overland, but they were exposed and easy to watch. It was a risk to be on them with unknown numbers of Red Caps loose across the isle, but sticking to the cover of trees and wild hills would be slow going. Too slow for Sir Corc’s liking. Wherever their destination, the knight wanted to reach it sooner rather than later.

  Rosheen had been asked to scout ahead for signs of goblins or other eyes watching the road. So far they had been fortunate, encountering nothing but a fox slinking across the stones. She had been flying back regularly to report, but her wings were growing tired.

  Let them catch up to me.

  She plucked idly at the ribbon she now wore as a sash and stared miserably out at the rain. Cold, clinging and constant, that was rain in Airlann. Rosheen recalled the days when it had not been so. Spring rains had been frequent and refreshing, bringing new life to an innocent world. In Summer, the sky did not often open, but when it did the drops were heavy and warm, sliding seductively down the skin, a wet end to hot days. Rosheen still remembered the dances and feasts and lovemaking of those lost Ages, but she no longer yearned for them as she once did. The ache in her loins had been replaced by pain in her heart as the isle slipped further and further towards a frozen death. Autumn had begun the day the warlocks made themselves masters of the goblin race, stealing the throne and sending the elves into hiding. Chill winds arose, sweeping leaves stained red to match the ceaseless bloodshed over the abandoned bastions of Fae-kind.

  Word traveled quickly in those days. The dread news of Penda Blood Coin’s treachery was spread across the isle by fleet riders, the mind speech of mystics, sewn through ancient ley lines, whispered by the woodwose in the forests, and borne by the undine on the wind. Murder. Treason. War. All of Airlann knew within hours and still it had not been enough. The goblins were too many and their human leaders too powerful, swollen with ill-gotten Magic. Centuries of battle, slavery, injustice, starvation and depravity were to rule the isle.

  And now will again.

  There was no strength left to prevent it. Airlann had backslid into a pastoral wilderness. The human settlements were few and far between, the Fae driven away or in self-imposed isolation. The roads were ruined, the ley lines dissolved, and the woodwose slept. There was no one left to carry the news of the Red Cap uprising. The goblins would control the isle before any sizable resistance could be raised.

  No matter. There are none left to fight.

  They had such hope when Irial was returned to kingship, trusting that th
e bleakness so long remembered would be driven away by sun and warmth and song, but it was not to be. The might of the elves continued to wane, and the isle withered with them. The clouds did not lighten, and green did not return to the forests. Many said the death of Princess Aillila was to blame. The king’s grief for his only child was too much to bear, dooming the isle to these endless days of decline. Whatever the cause, the deterioration permeated the Fae peoples.

  The fomori, always so few, had retreated to the coastal crags. The gnomes, divided by their cultural controversy, retired to their underground city, and the ever fickle sylphs went to play in the winds over other lands. Without the guidance of the elves, the undine had become an unpredictable presence, changeable as the tides in loyalty and temperament. They may fight one day, but stand idly away from danger the next. The gruagach would challenge the goblins and fight as they always had, but theirs would be a personal war, ignoring the well-being of any but their own kind. They would skulk in the darkness and wage their shadow war with trickery and quiet murder, but it would amount to little. There were simply too many goblins in the world to throttle in the night.

  Rosheen’s own people and the other lesser Fae had never possessed the might needed to wage wars. They were steadfast allies and were much prized where they lent aid, but without a formidable force to rally behind they were of little use.

  We watch roads.

  Rosheen poked her head out of the lamp house. She found Sir Corc and Pocket, still some distance away, trudging through the rain, the boy leading the mule. Muckle’s rotund form was visible just behind them, but Bantam Flyn was nowhere to be seen. The knight had ordered him to walk a fair distance behind so that he could rush forward with warning if anyone tried to overtake them on the road. It was a solid act of caution, but Rosheen was certain that Sir Corc had given him the rear guard for less strategic reasons. She waited until she could hear Backbone’s hooves clomping on the uneven stones before leaving her dry shelter.

  “Clear to this point,” she said as she flew towards the trio.

  Sir Corc only nodded, looking past her to the unexplored road beyond. He still wore mail, despite the rain, the metal rings already beginning to show signs of tarnish from the damp. Rosheen looked down at Pocket. He stood cold and miserable, eyes wide to fight his obvious weariness. The mule’s guide rope was clutched almost desperately in his thick fingered hands, and Rosheen frowned in concern over the shivers he fought to hide.

  “We need rest,” she told Sir Corc. “Food and warmth.”

  “Beef and bacon pastie,” Muckle licked his lips. “And a horn of hippocras. Go down nicely.”

  “Not here,” Sir Corc said simply.

  “When?” Rosheen pressed him. “Pocket cannot handle much more.”

  “I am fine,” the gurg said bravely.

  Without taking his eyes from the road, Sir Corc placed an armored hand on the boy’s shoulder.

  “Soon,” he said. “We have put some miles between us and Black Pool, but we are far from outside our enemy’s reach.”

  “Perhaps if you tell us where we are going,” Rosheen said.

  “Out of Airlann,” the knight replied. “To Sasana or the Knucklebones. All the way to Middangeard if we must.”

  Muckle let loose a mock shiver. “Don’t fancy freezing my bollocks off.”

  Sir Corc ignored him. “Getting off the isle will take some doing. With Black Pool overrun, finding a ship will be difficult. If Seanach’s Ford remains unmolested we may have a chance.”

  “That is on the far side of Airlann,” Rosheen pointed out.

  Sir Corc started up the road. “Best be on our way.”

  Pocket rubbed his face before ambling after the knight, Muckle following behind the mule.

  “How about the Isle of Mad Women?” she heard the goblin call after Sir Corc. “We could go there! They might be…lonely.”

  Rosheen considered waiting on Flyn, but thought better of it. The squire would not take well to the idea of leaving the isle. To him, everything was a retreat. Besides, he had his job.

  And I have mine.

  She flew up the road, bypassing the others without a word.

  “…and that is how you tickle a troll with a toothache!”

  Pocket nearly lost his footing when Muckle slapped him merrily on the back. He was saved from having to pretend to laugh when Sir Corc shushed the goblin and not for the first time. Muckle turned to Pocket, teeth clenched past downturned lips as if he were about to be struck on the head. Pocket smiled, hoping it would appease him for a while. He had liked Muckle the day he first met him, with his endless antics and rude humor. The goblin had offered him aid and companionship when he most needed it, and that was something new to Pocket. Now he was fairly certain that Sir Corc had asked Muckle to follow him all along, so the unsought help of a stranger was actually the watchful eye of his keeper. Pocket was not upset about it. Black Pool had been a dangerous place. He understood that now, and he knew why Muckle was an effective protector.

  He was dangerous.

  Since the night on the bridge, Pocket found it troubling to look at the goblin, afraid that he might find himself entranced. The prospect of laughing at anything he said filled Pocket with a dread that made his stomach turn sour. He had spent his life in constant fear of what harmful intentions lay under the surface of people’s every word, every deed, every gesture and expression. The boy who smiled at you was often the first to slap mud in your face, and the man who seemed the most unaware of your presence was watching you closer than any other with violent thoughts in his head. Pocket knew this for truth, and yet he had been drawn in by Muckle, trusting him despite his obvious madness. He had been so confident, so amiable and quick to laugh at others as well as himself. They had eaten so many sweets that first day in the city, all of them gifts from hawkers who genuinely seemed to like the goblin with the fish in his breeches. But Pocket could still see the entrails spilling out of the burst flesh of the men on the bridge, their blue faces and black lips. His appetite fled at the slightest thought of that sight.

  Still, he was grateful he knew. Maybe if he had seen Muckle’s true nature sooner he would not have trusted the woman with the bucket, even for a moment. Pocket had avoided asking Sir Corc about the gruagach, fearing his questions would only lead to a sound reprimand for sneaking away. He deserved one, he knew, but that did not make him want to face it any more. But he had to know! Sir Corc probably would not tell him anything anyway, and better to get his punishment out of the way. It might even take his mind off the blisters on his feet.

  “Sir?” he asked quietly. “Would you tell me, please, why those gruagach wanted to take me?”

  “Because they were given a chance,” the knight replied without looking at him.

  “Thirty lashes for desertion!” Muckle trumpeted, getting a look of warning from Sir Corc in the process. “Sorry.”

  Sir Corc looked back to Pocket and considered a long moment. “They see you as one of them, Pocket,” he said at last.

  “But I am only half gruagach.” Pocket was confused and it must have shown on his face.

  “The Fae-folk,” the knight continued, “have always been fascinated by the mortal races. The elves raised my own people out of savagery. The fomori were even granted immortality as a gift, but humans…humans intrigued the Fae most of all.”

  “Can you blame us?” Muckle muttered. “Ever seen a goblin woman?”

  Sir Corc’s frown deepened and he turned. “Muckle. I have no tongue for stories. Since you seem so keen on wagging yours, please…take over.”

  “Oh!” Muckle seemed genuinely surprised. “Oh! Alright…um, lemme see. In the beginning…No! That is an awful start…erm…”

  “The gruagach were once part of the Seelie Court,” Pocket offered.

  “Yes!” Muckle snapped his fat fingers. “The gruagach were once par…wait, how did you know that?”

  “I read it,” Pocket replied.

  “Ah, books,” Muckle winked.
“Good lad. Well anyway, they were a part of it. Long before us goblins existed in fact, the arrogant pricks. Now they did not guard an Element, but they were favored and powerful nonetheless, and the elves trusted their council…to a point. That point came when humans first came to Airlann from…,” Muckle waved his hand absently in a random direction, “…wherever. The gruagach warned against these mortals, but they were overruled, and humans were allowed to live on the isle. Well, great teachers that they were, after a time the elves decided to tutor mankind in the ways of Magic. The gruagach were not happy with this, and after much yelling and finger pointing, left the Seelie Court in protest.”

  “And began attacking humans,” Pocket said.

  “Well, not at first,” Muckle replied. “It took a certain group of grey-skinned roustabouts with a fascination with Fire to spark that. Get it? Spark that!”

  Pocket just kept walking.

  Muckle was undaunted. “So! The goblins returned from the fiery bowels, the warlocks made a deal and give a hop, skip and a jump and you have the reign of the Goblin Kings. We all know how that ended and when it did, suddenly humans started finding themselves giving birth to odd little blighters with horns and tails and what have you.”

  Pocket knew all this. “Gurgs.”

  “Righto! War was won, but the gruagach were not in a forgiving mood and they started punishing mankind for their role in ruining the isle.”

  “But I thought there were gurgs born before the Rebellion,” Pocket put in.

  “Well, there were,” Muckle agreed. “A gurg is just what happens when gruagach fu…I mean, couple with humans. Like the dusk elves, they are the result of Fae and mortal relations. Irial Ulvyeh’s own cupbearer was a gurg…still is, if they are both alive. Anyway, Fae and man were having litters long before the Usurpation, but it was rare. Not until after the war did the gruagach think to use you little bastards as weapons.”