The Exiled Heir (Autumn's Fall Saga)

by Jonathan French

  “Weapons?” Pocket glanced dubiously down at his stunted body. “How?”

  “To make mankind distrust,” Sir Corc answered. “Their own neighbors, husbands, wives…children.”

  “It is working,” Pocket mumbled. “Humans hate gurgs. Maybe the gruagach would be kinder.”

  Sir Corc stopped and turned, kneeling down to look him square in the face. “You must not think that. Ever.” The knight placed both of his gauntlet-clad hands on Pocket’s shoulders and clutched him tightly. “Pocket, the elves have known several kings and more than a few gnomes have ruled in Toad Holm, but the gruagach have only ever followed one lord. One, in tens of thousands of years.”

  “Festus Lambkiller.” Pocket had read about him, too.

  Sir Corc’s eyes suddenly turned sad. “Yes. He is one of the most powerful and dangerous beings alive, and the gruagach are completely loyal to his every command. He wants all gurgs returned to him, and his subjects will stop at nothing to please him. We do not know his intentions, but they can only be designs of evil. You have to stay away from him at all costs.”

  Pocket nodded quickly. “Well then, can I stay with you?”

  “Only if you do not go running off again.”

  It was strange having Sir Corc so close. “I promise.”

  “Good.” The knight released him and stood, turning back to the road. “We should be…”

  He trailed off, and Pocket followed his gaze up the road to find Rosheen speeding back towards them, her wings a furious blur.

  “Red Caps,” she said when she reached them. Despite the urgency of her movement her voice remained calm. “A mile ahead. Four of them guarding a large wagon.”

  “A road block?”

  Rosheen shook her head. “The horses are still attached and traveling the same direction we are. It looks like they just stopped…waiting.”

  Sir Corc took only a moment’s time to think. “If you would go and get Flyn. Bring him here. We will await you off the road…,” the knight scanned the landscape and pointed, “…there, in that copse of trees.”

  Rosheen left without hesitation. Pocket wrapped Backbone’s guide rope tightly around his hand and led the mule off the road, following Sir Corc into the dense thicket nestled in the low hills. They did not have to wait long before the piskie returned, the squire close behind her at the run.

  “Only four?” the squire asked as he slid to a halt. “What are we waiting for?”

  “You,” Sir Corc told him. “I need you to stay here with Pocket. Muckle and I need to go ahead for a better look. Rosheen, I want you to go with us. As soon as we find a way around, I will need you to come back here and fetch these two.”

  “You mean not to take the wagon?” Bantam Flyn asked.

  “No,” the knight replied flatly.

  “But there could be prisoners inside!” Flyn declared. “Slaves!”

  “It could be barrels of headcheese,” Muckle told the squire dryly.

  Flyn remained resolute. “So…supplies. Those should be denied an enemy during war! It is worth a look!”

  “Yes,” Sir Corc agreed. “And it is a look I am going to take.” He motioned at Muckle and Rosheen. “Come.”

  Flyn scowled at the knight’s back as the trio made their way through the copse. They stuck to the trees where they could, keeping the road a good distance to their left. Pocket had a good view of them as they entered the hills, but they were soon lost to sight over the rolling landscape.

  “Left with the baggage.” Flyn gave a self-mocking laugh and pulled lightly on one of Backbone’s ears.

  “They will be back soon,” Pocket told him. He did not know what else to say.

  Rosheen led Sir Corc and Muckle to a heavily wooded ridge from which they could view the wagon unnoticed by the four guards. The knight stared at it for a moment, watching intently.

  “There are more somewhere nearby,” he whispered. “A wagon that size would need a sizable escort.”

  “Red Caps do value their headcheese,” Muckle said, nodding sagely.

  “There are no barrels in there,” Rosheen said. “Look at the covering…too irregular to be barrels.”

  “And heavy,” Sir Corc agreed. “That is why they are stopped. The road grows worse ahead, look.”

  Rosheen saw large patches of muddy ground between the thinning stonework.

  Might get stuck.

  “The others may be out looking for stones to bridge the gaps,” Sir Corc said, almost to himself. “This is good. They will be slow moving. If we can get around them without being seen and put some distance between us, then we run no risk of them overtaking us further on.”

  “Should I go back and get our wayward babes?” Rosheen asked.

  Sir Corc shook his head. “Not until I know where the main body is. If they are ahead, we may stumble right into them.”

  “Well,” Muckle said lightly. “You could always just walk up and ask those four.”

  Rosheen shot the goblin a venomous glare. “Only you would be fool enough to think of that.”

  “Oh,” Muckle gave an exasperated sigh, “I doubt I am the only one.” He pointed.

  Damn strutting bravo!

  Bantam Flyn came striding casually down the road, heading towards the wagon. The two Red Caps at the rear saw him coming and alerted the other pair. The four leveled their polearms and began converging on the squire. Flyn waved at them cordially and kept walking.

  Sir Corc stared balefully for a moment, then turned and began making his way down from the ridge. Muckle shrugged and followed.

  By the time they reached the road, it was all over. Bantam Flyn was perched up on one of the wheels, working to pull the covering away. The four Red Caps lay in broken heaps near the wagon.

  He is good. Empty-headed, but good.

  “Where is Pocket?” Sir Corc demanded, coming around the wagon.

  “Back in the trees where you left us,” Flyn said dismissively, not pausing in his efforts to uncover the wagon.

  “You left him alone?” Sir Corc reached up and grabbed the squire by the belt, yanking him off the wheel and spinning him around so that they were almost beak to beak.

  Bantam Flyn remained nonchalant. ““Do not worry. He will stay there until we get back.”

  Rosheen watched as the coburn faced off, one pair of eyes burning with repressed fury, the other twinkling with naked challenge.

  “Corc!” Muckle’s voice barreled between them. “You should see this.”

  Rosheen flew over to where the goblin stood atop the driver’s bench. He held the sail cloth covering in one hand, exposing a corner of the wagon bed.

  The Hallowed save us!

  The massive forms of several Forge Born lay in the wagon, as menacing in silent stillness as they were in violent motion. There were separated arms and heads, but Rosheen could see that at least two were whole, their heavy iron bodies reclined in this rolling casket.

  But they do not intend to bury them.

  Sir Corc came and looked, Bantam Flyn marveling over his shoulder.

  “Are those Unwound?” the squire asked, voice full of awe.

  “If they were, we would all be dead,” Muckle replied without a trace of mirth.

  “Come,” Sir Corc said. “We must get back to Pocket.”

  Flyn was at his heels. “What about the wagon?”

  “Leave it,” the knight said brusquely, avoiding secrecy and heading back down the road.

  Rosheen went to follow him and stopped short. A mass of goblins was marching down the road directly for them. Sir Corc turned on his heel.

  “Off the road,” he commanded.

  A horrible, cackling cry wiggled in the air as the Red Caps caught sight of them and Rosheen saw them break into a run.

  “Go!” Sir Corc yelled.

  Bantam Flyn ran up to him. “We could take the horses!”

  “No,” Sir Corc barked, shoving the squire towards the roadside. “They will not abandon this cargo! If we take the horses, they h
ave no choice but to follow. Now do as I say! Go!”

  They all slipped off down the side opposite from the ridge and fled over the downs.

  Rosheen flew even with the knight, yelling next to his head. “They came from behind us! They might have seen Pocket!”

  Sir Corc quickened his pace. “We will go back for him! But we must be sure we are not pursued!”

  “I can go!” Rosheen said. “Make sure he is safe!”

  The knight looked over at her. “Do it! We will lead these vermin a chase!”

  Rosheen nodded and peeled away, flying high. She risked a glance back. Below, the Red Caps had circled the wagon, thirty at least, while a smaller detachment broke away in an attempt to run down her companions. She was surprised to see Muckle well ahead of the two coburn, sprinting nimbly despite his bulk.

  Pocket went over to Backbone and stroked his nose while the mule sniffed at his other hand.

  “Sorry, friend,” Pocket told him. “I don’t have an apple for you.”

  He giggled when the mule gave him a gentle push, glad that he was not totally alone. He had tried to tell the squire not to go, but Flyn would not listen, making for the road when his impatience got the better of him.

  “Wait!” Pocket had called after him. “Sir Corc told us to stay here!”

  “And this will make him angry!” Flyn said over his shoulder. “He will grouse and do nothing! Like he always does!”

  Pocket opened his mouth to protest further, but the squire had already reached the road, tail feathers bouncing jauntily as he quickened his pace. Pocket frowned after him, but made no move to follow. He had learned his lesson, even if Bantam Flyn had not. So he waited, and he watched.

  It was not long before movement in the hills caught his eye and he looked, expecting to see Sir Corc returning with the others. He hoped Flyn would be with them. He did not want to have to explain to the knight that the squire had run off again, but at least this time he would not have to make excuses for his own behavior.

  But it was not Sir Corc.

  Pocket crept to the edge of the copse, heart beginning to quicken as he watched a large group crest one of the hills and he got a good view of some forty goblins, each wearing that unmistakable hat. They were heading for the road. Rosheen said the four Red Caps at the wagon looked as if they were waiting, waiting on the main group to return! They might catch Sir Corc unawares or spot them as they returned. They would be caught out in the open, Pocket had to warn them!

  Even if he ran down the road, he might not make it in time and he did not know where the others had hid themselves. Besides, the Red Caps would see him coming. But he could not just stand here and do nothing while his friends were unknowingly trapped. He had to move fast. Leading Backbone would be slow, but he would not leave him behind. The mule was Pocket’s charge, and he would not disappoint Sir Corc again. They would have to go together.

  His decision made, Pocket snatched a good stick off the ground and led the mule out of the copse and back out onto the road. The Red Caps were still some distance away and had not yet gained the road themselves. Hoping they had not yet seen him, Pocket took Backbone’s guide rope in his teeth and grabbed hold of the lines securing their supplies to the mule’s back. He jumped, using his arms to haul himself and clambered up to settle amongst the loads. Backbone whined in complaint and took several awkward sidling steps in response to the new weight. Pocket took the rope from his teeth and bent low over the mule’s neck, before reaching back with his stick and giving him a solid swat.

  Backbone lurched forward, away from the snapping stick. It took several more hits before he gained a decent speed, finally picking up into a steady trot. Pocket jostled along, their supplies bouncing beneath him and struggled to keep the animal following the road and himself firmly seated. He scanned to the left of the road for the goblins, his racing heart leaping to his throat when he saw them. Backbone was not going fast enough. They were going to reach the goblins right as they gained the road! Pocket laid into Backbone’s flank with the stick, driving him to greater speeds. There came a cry of alarm as the Red Caps saw them coming, a few rushing up and spreading out to intercept them. Pocket urged the mule to barrel right over them, but Backbone spooked at the last moment, turning away from the nearest goblin and running off the road. Pocket felt a sudden impact behind him and Backbone screamed in protest as they shot down the grassy embankment off the roadside. Pocket looked over his shoulder and cried out when he saw the goblin clinging to the load ropes near the mule’s rump. He swung at the wickedly grinning face with his stick, but the goblin merely flinched away and struggled towards him. He risked a look ahead and was almost thrown off as Backbone flew headlong across the sloping fields. A hand seized the back of his tunic and yanked him backwards, causing him to pull up hard on the guide rope. The sharp, ornery cry of an angry mule filled his ears, and Pocket was flung off the lurching bundles, sky and ground trading places dizzyingly in his field of vision.

  He did not remember landing, only picking himself up painfully from the wet grass, right knee and both wrists throbbing. He stood in a grassy depression, gently sloping hills on all sides. Relief flooded over him when he saw Backbone standing some yards away, looking winded and annoyed. His loads were loose and dangling, several of the bundles spilt upon the ground. Pocket approached slowly, hands outstretched. As he drew nearer, he saw the Red Cap’s leg had become caught in the load ropes and the body lay awkwardly, head dashed against some nearby rocks. Pocket felt his own head, grateful for his luck. Backbone shied away from him, dragging the limp goblin a few yards further. With many soothing words, Pocket managed to get close enough to grab the guide rope and calm the mule down. Face wrinkled in disgust, Pocket untangled the Red Cap and was about to begin gathering the fallen supplies, when he heard harsh voices coming towards him from beyond the rise. Hails and calls drew closer and it would not be long before the Red Caps found him at the bottom of the bowl. There was nowhere to hide and he could not run anymore. They would see him soon. There was no way to avoid it.

  Working frantically, Pocket stripped the goblin of his leather jerkin and iron plated boots. The blood colored cap was nowhere to be seen, and he had no time to search for it. Pulling his own tunic over his head, Pocket quickly dressed the body in it, hoping Sir Corc would forgive him for putting the colors of the Valiant Spur on a Red Cap. Lifting the twisted leg, Pocket again tied it to the mule.

  “Sorry Backbone,” he whispered and slapped the animal as he hard as he could on the rump, sending him bolting up the easiest slope and out of sight.

  Pocket fought to stay calm and clear his mind as he put the goblin’s armor on. The voices were almost on him, the sight of the running mule bringing them swiftly in his direction. Pocket closed his eyes and took a deep breath, remembering everything Rosheen had told him.

  “Oi!” a voice shouted down at him.

  Pocket opened his eyes and looked up to find a half dozen Red Caps staring down at him, weapons in hand.

  “Daft bugger!” one of them said. “What were you on about, leapin’ on that critter?”

  Another of them laughed. “Even he don’t rightly know! Lookit!” he pointed. “His hands are still shakin’, the crazy bastard!”

  The others found this equally funny, and all had a good chuckle.

  Pocket looked down at his hands. They were shaking; every knobby-knuckled, grey-skinned finger.

  It was ugly afternoon by the time Sir Corc returned to the copse. Rosheen was glad to see Muckle and Flyn with him, the goblin looking as if he were about to vomit at any moment. The knight hurried into the trees, concern overpowering the weariness on his face.

  This will not be easy.

  Rosheen fluttered down from her perch on the branch of the tree where she had tethered Backbone. The charm she had woven to make the animal follow her was still strong, and he only blinked sleepily as the others approached.

  Sir Corc came up to her, his entire being asking the question before he gave
it voice.

  “Pocket?”

  Rosheen willed herself to look at him, then slowly shook her head.

  Defeat settled on the coburn’s shoulders, dragging them down as loss spread across his countenance.

  “I left him,” the knight’s voice was a whisper. He turned and raised his head, looking at Bantam Flyn. “You. You left him.”

  Rosheen watched as guilt and pride wrestled across the young coburn’s face, knowing which would win.

  “Had the boy come with us he would still be safe,” Flyn threw at the knight. “If you had not been too afraid of four goblins, we would be well on our way! Together!”

  Sir Corc took a step forward. “You have called me liar.” He stepped again. “You have called me craven.” Another step. “And I have suffered it. You have impugned my honor at every turn. You, who could not stoop to safeguard the life of one little boy!”

  Sir Corc darted forward, grabbing for the squire. Bantam Flyn sidestepped quickly, his staff moving faster than Rosheen could follow. She shut her eyes tight at the sound of the impact and opened them with sorrow. But Sir Corc still stood, the staff caught deftly in his fist. The knight jerked the staff from the squire’s grip and split it over his leg, casting the splintered pieces aside as he advanced. Flyn danced agilely backward, hand going to the haft of the greatsword poking over his shoulder. Sir Corc kept coming, his own hand going nowhere near the blade at his side. Flyn pulled up, the blade shining as it rose from its scabbard about two feet before stopping. Confused panic fell across the squire’s face, his fully extended arm unable to draw the long blade completely free from across his back. Sir Corc took a final step, then slammed his fist into the squire’s gut, bending him double before felling him with an elbow to the back of the head.

  Flyn sprawled face down in the dirt, but recovered quickly, rolling into a crouch and shrugging the harness off his shoulder. Sir Corc stood over him, waiting as Flyn drew the greatsword. The squire stood, naked steel in hand, pain on his face. He swung. Corc stepped into the blow, allowing only Flyn’s swinging arms to strike him, grappling them quickly then ducking low, tossing the squire bodily over his shoulder. Rosheen heard the wind rush from Flyn’s body as his back slammed into the ground. Sir Corc now held the greatsword but tossed it aside, wasting no time in hooking his hands under Flyn’s beak, dragging him across the rotting leaves. The squire kicked and struggled feebly as the knight hauled him up, locking his thick arms around Flyn’s neck and head. He buffeted weakly at the hold, struggling to breathe, but Corc did not release him.