The Exiled Heir (Autumn's Fall Saga)

by Jonathan French

  “I see your lord father is somewhat recovered,” he said courteously.

  “And in no mood for company, goblin,” Kederic spat.

  Torcan smiled thinly. “Then I must offer pardons, for I am afraid His Grace has a visitor.”

  Padric could not keep the frown from his face. “Visitor? Who?”

  “One who wishes to pledge his allegiance,” Torcan replied and opened the door.

  Kederic cursed and Padric’s mouth went sour as Acwellen stepped into the room, travel stained and smiling. When he reached the center of the chamber, he knelt, bowing his great shaggy head.

  “Hail Padric Goblin King,” his deep voice filled the room. “I offer my service to you and bring two hundred armed riders to your cause. Please accept this gift as a token of my loyalty.”

  Acwellen held out his hand. Padric looked down at the seax for a moment, its scabbard more worn than last he looked upon it.

  “A worthy gift,” Padric said, reaching down and taking the weapon from Acwellen before looking to Torcan. “My lord Swinehelm, see that Acwellen’s men are well looked after. I would speak with my huscarl alone.”

  “Your Grace,” Torcan bowed and left.

  Acwellen waited for the door to close before rising swiftly, fixing Padric with a mocking grin. The big man turned slowly, looking appraisingly at the chamber, his smile widening when he saw Svala.

  “Kingship has its privileges,” he said laughing.

  “What do you want here?” Padric asked through clenched teeth.

  “Why to pay tribute, of course,” Acwellen replied pointing to the knife in Padric’s hand.

  Padric scoffed at him. “You would give me what was already mine?”

  “Tis no mean gift,” Acwellen said with mock exasperation. “Drefan was loath to give it up. Forgive me, Winetongue,” he continued cheerfully, turning to where Kederic sat by the fire. “I would have brought a gift for you, but I did not expect to find you alive.”

  Kederic rose, his hatred giving him strength and took a step towards his former huscarl.

  “You bring me what is mine as well, dog,” he said. “Those two hundred riders. I will have them back.”

  Acwellen grinned down at him. “But will they have you?”

  “I am their Thegn,” Kederic growled.

  Acwellen snorted. “You are a beardless, bald babe. A wasted old man. They will see no lord in you.”

  “My men will never fight for a goblin,” Kederic said, quivering.

  “Your men,” Acwellen returned, “are ten years living in peace! They have grown comfortable, Winetongue. You gave them a fort, livestock, good drink and wives. They do not wish to return to war! So they will guard an ancient rock, while these Fae bastards dance about their flames. Then we go home, and they leave us in peace. Far better than the battles you would have them wage.”

  Kederic stared at him, his body unable to exact the vengeance his heart desired.

  “Traitor,” he said at last.

  Acwellen shrugged the accusation off. “It was either stand loyal and die, or betray you and prosper. Simple choice.”

  Padric stepped between them. “You were a fool to come here, Acwellen. One word from me and the Swinehelm will spit you over a fire.”

  Acwellen shrugged carelessly, turning away to swagger about the room.

  “Will he? I very much doubt it. He needs me too much, me and my men. Look at this place,” Acwellen spread his arms, going to the window and nodding out. “A huge, crumbling ruin. That rodent cannot hope to defend it all, even with all his damn Red Caps. He has us camped below, outside the walls to patrol the approaches. I do not think he will give that up for you, boy.”

  Padric stepped up, right in the lout’s bearded face. “Are you blind? Did you not see the work that is being done…the living iron?”

  “You are the blind one, whelp,” Acwellen said. “There is nothing living about those rusted toys.”

  “As soon as those Fae bastards dance about their flames,” Padric said, throwing the man’s own words back at him, “you will see how wrong you are. And it will be your last mistake.”

  The big man looked at him for a moment, his eyes twinkling with private glee. He looked over Padric to where Kederic stood. “The memory is a tricky bugger,” he said. “See…I remember all those years we fought together. All them strange lands. Bloody bad times, I recall.” Acwellen stepped around Padric and approached the Thegn. “I also remember your wife, Kederic. Pretty lass. No, that is not worthy of her. She was beautiful. What was her name?”

  “Do not,” Kederic warned through his teeth.

  “Beladore,” Acwellen breathed the name and Padric watched Kederic’s fists clench.

  “Found her in Sasana,” the big man continued. “Quite a prize. Quite a bride. You were so happy, and she must have squirmed like a weasel in bed, for you had her with a swollen belly right quick. And then, the babe was born and something just…changed.”

  Kederic was not even looking at the man now. His eyes were downcast and far away, lost in some bitter memory. Acwellen turned and looked at Svala, continuing his story with relish, though the girl looked at him quizzically, his words lost on her.

  “The babe was sickly, and they kept it confined…until it died, only days old. Tragic. Beladore, she was hardly recovered herself when she vanished in the night. None saw her leave. None but me that is! So, I tells the Thegn, and he goes after her. But he did not want me along, nor anyone else.”

  Acwellen turned to Padric then.

  “It was weeks before he returned,” he said. “And with the most grievous wounds I ever saw on a living man, hole through his shoulder wide as any spear could do. And he’s alone. No Beladore.” Acwellen knocked pretend dust from his hands. “Told me the Fae enchanted her, led her away, and murdered her and nearly him, too. Never spoke of it again. We leave Sasana, settle in Airlann, and some years later, imagine my surprise when that sheep-stinking Brogan starts asking me all secret-like about our Thegn’s dead wife. Says he read in some dusty book that husk kept about the descendants of the Goblin Kings, and has a thousand questions about Beladore that I cannot answer. Then Brogan, he goes and offers me the fort and all the land if I help him deliver Kederic to some goblins he’s been talking with.”

  Padric had never known the man in life, but he found it difficult to believe.

  “Brogan?”

  “Liar,” Kederic said.

  “He betrayed you first, Winetongue,” Acwellen said. “Said the Red Caps would reward us handsomely for you.”

  “And you murdered him for it,” Padric accused.

  Acwellen looked genuinely offended, casting an angry look at Padric. “Damn husk did that! Must have found out Brogan was reading his books and consorting with Red Caps. I never touched the man. We had an accord.”

  Padric’s mind was racing. Lies came easy to Slouch Hat. The Thegn was right, he was too clever.

  “So, I managed without him,” Acwellen went on, “and upheld my end…gave you over, Kederic.” The big man reached up and made a show of scratching his temple. “But here is where the memory plays tricks. That business with your wife, see I recall that being just before we came to the isle, some what…ten years ago now? Red Caps wanted your wife, and they get your long lost son instead.” Acwellen fixed a bemused face on Padric, teeth showing through his beard. “Passing queer that he’s twice too old.”

  Padric raised a hand and glanced worriedly at the closed door.

  “Acwellen,” he said quietly. “You mention word of this and we are all dead. You as well.”

  The man shook his head. “Oh no. I intend on coming out of this alive. Always did. So you keep your secret…long as you can. I got no ken for spells and wizardry, but I know you are not who they need to bring those metal buggers to life. I am guessing they kill you all when they find out.”

  “They will kill you, too,” Padric pointed out.

  “They might try,” Acwellen agreed. “Me and my men are gonna be read
y to put heel to horse when they do.”

  Acwellen smiled, bowed, and left the room.

  Kederic sank back into his chair, face haunted by the past. Padric had no time for him. He tried to give Svala a comforting look, failed, and walked out of the chamber. He made quickly for the end of the hall to the spiral stairs and took them two at a time, passing several galleries before finally coming to the upper most floor of the keep. Coming into a great antechamber, Padric approached a set of double doors flanked by half a dozen guards.

  “See that we are not disturbed,” he told the goblins as they dragged the doors open to admit him. Within was a vast solar, tall, narrow windows set high on every wall. Torcan had told him this room once housed countless tomes, scrolls and other relics of the warlocks’ collected knowledge. All destroyed after the Rebellion. The room housed nothing now but dust and its new steward.

  The husk stood in the center of the room, his head bowed, face hidden under the floppy brim of his hat, staring down at the iron crown grasped in his thin hands. As the doors closed behind him, Padric approached and the sound of his footsteps raised the husk’s head.

  “Secrets,” Slouch Hat whispered. “She shares such secrets.”

  “Time you shared some of your own,” Padric said.

  Slouch Hat seemed to blink, the wrinkles of his sack face smoothing into awareness.

  “Padric,” he said tonelessly.

  “You killed Brogan.”

  “What?” the husk said. “No.”

  “No more lies, Slouch Hat. He betrayed Hog’s Wallow to the Red Caps and you killed him.”

  “No,” the husk continued to protest. “I was not even there. Why is this suddenly important?”

  “Acwellen is here,” Padric had to remember to keep his voice low. “He knows I am not the heir. He claims Brogan betrayed Kederic, and that you killed him.”

  The husk held up a hand. “Padric listen to me. Had I known this, I would not have killed him, I would have exposed him to the village, taken him to the fort, warned them of the goblins. I would not have slain him and fled, leaving the village to its fate. Why would you listen to a man like Acwellen?”

  “Because he could not have known about the heir! The man is a fool! But Brogan did know! He read your first master’s work...reasoned it out, somehow discovered the truth about Kederic’s wife.”

  Slouch Hat looked away, thinking. “The histories were buried with my master in the barrows near Hog’s Wallow. I was away looking for them when Brogan was killed.”

  “Looking for them? In the barrow…why?”

  “Jileen,” Slouch Hat said. “Jileen said she had found my dead master’s tomb open while visiting her parents’ barrow. I went to look, and the works were gone. When I returned, she told me about Brogan and told me to flee, as I was suspected. I did not kill him, Padric.”

  Padric spun on his heel, pacing in frustration, stifling a scream. “Enough,” he said, turning back. “It does not matter now. I should not have bothered with it. We are here now, whoever betrayed Kederic. Acwellen is a lout and a liar, but he does know I am false. He says the goblins cannot bring the Forge Born to life without the rightful heir. Is that true?”

  Slouch Hat shook his head. “No. The Flame Binder will awaken them, but the Goblin King must command them.”

  Padric thought furiously. “You possess the crown. Can you not command them? Turn them against the Red Caps?”

  “The crown is only an artifact, Padric,” Slouch Hat told him gravely. “There is Magic within it, but the power to control the Forge Born lies within the bloodline of Jerrod the Second. Whatever sorcery he poured into this crown, it is not his seed.”

  “Then what will happen?”

  Slouch Hat’s face went slack, his hollow eyes stretching into long pits. Padric grabbed the husk by the shoulders.

  “Slouch Hat,” he said, shaking him. “What can we do?”

  The husk regained himself, pulling away from Padric’s grip. He raised a hand to his face, the other holding the crown limply by his side.

  “She whispers to me,” Slouch Hat’s voice was tired. “She wants her freedom. But more than that, she wants revenge. Such hatred…”

  “What does she intend?” Padric asked, fearing the response.

  Slouch Hat looked up at him. “I know not. But…we will not survive it.”

  “No,” Padric said. “But this is the moment that dying will matter most.”

  Among fifty Red Caps there was no place to hide.

  Pocket wore his fear as he wore the goblin face. It was on his shoulders, calling out, pointing at him, encouraging the goblins to come look at the impostor in their midst. Every moment became the last moment before he would be discovered. One of them would look at him and see him, really see him and those eyes would fill with hatred and cruel intent before he brought the others running with his shouts, so they might descend upon him with their brutal weapons. Pocket had a weapon, too; an ugly iron blade atop a long wooden pole, thrust into his hands the moment he reached the wagon. It was heavy, but not as heavy as the boots on his feet. They marched and the boots bit, bashing his toes.

  The wagon creaked along ahead and sometimes Pocket had to help push, straining with the others, coaxing the large wheels out of a hole or over a rock. The goblins complained and cursed, spitting on the ground and cuffing each other more and more as the march drew on. They never stopped. Not for rest, not for food, and not for sleep. They crawled atop the wagon in small groups, allowed to catch what sleep they could for an hour. Pocket never took his turn, fearing he would lose the change if he nodded off. So he marched. He marched and he pushed, feet and hands beaten into broken blisters and raw, open flesh.

  Panic grabbed hold of him the first time he was spoken to. He found himself staring dumbly, looking into the increasingly annoyed face of the goblin waiting for a response to something Pocket had not heard. He shrugged, hoping that would be enough. Pain shot dully into his shoulder as the speaker struck him with a hard knuckled fist.

  “Don’ be a closed tight cunny!” the Red Cap complained. “What were on that ass you jumped like a hoppin’ looney?”

  The repeated question drew jeers of approval and Pocket looked around, horribly aware that now some dozen faces were peering at him expectantly, clustering around him as they walked. He swallowed hard, his throat tight and painful.

  “Ehrm,” he stalled and nearly choked at the deeper, rougher sound that emerged.

  Another hard shove rocked him. “Come on, out with it!”

  “Bloody gnome!” Pocket said quickly in a voice that was not his own.

  The Red Caps made noises of disgust. Cursing with bitter ardor.

  “Did you gut him?” the original inquirer pressed as the others pushed in eagerly, some struggling to walk fast enough to hear.

  “Fell offa the mule,” Pocket griped. “Dashed his filthy skull on a rock!”

  The laughter and back slaps went on for some time, and Pocket forced a smile. The talk died as they bent their backs to the wagon once more, each saving their breath.

  Pocket grunted and groaned with his false brothers, wondering how he had saved himself. Rosheen had told him that he would be able to do such things with practice, but Pocket had not been able to practice, and the piskie had said it would take time. Surely the span of days was not enough! How had he managed it? How long could he keep it up?

  Night fell, and still the goblins pressed on, using torches to light their way. Pocket tried to find a moment to sneak away, slip off the road and into the darkness, but the fear hissed in his ear, telling him he would be seen. Why would a loyal Red Cap slip away? Even if they did not see, where would he go? Which way?

  No. No escape. He wore his shadows now. The best hiding place was in the crowd, just another foot soldier grinding ragged behind the wagon.

  The journey was endless. Body past the point of pain, mind near broken with constant worry, Pocket struggled on in a cloud of numb torment. Each step in those torturous m
etal boots threatened to drop him, each jarring bang of the wagon on the brutal road made him wince. He had to keep the whimpers from escaping his lips, fighting back tears of exhaustion and despair. The second day was the start of some long, unending punishment, and Pocket knew that he would march behind that wagon forever, unable to ever stop walking. Neither rest nor death would give him ease. There was only the fear, and it existed in everything.

  The sun was setting when the castle came into view, and the goblins began to complain even more bitterly, as if the end of the road was more terrible than trodding upon it until the end of time. The castle sat atop a great, rocky hill, wider and shorter than the perch of the Roost. A long, ascending bridge supported by arches of stone led up to the gatehouse, a lolling tongue into the mouth of some bloated beast. There were men on horses near the base of the bridge. Pocket saw them staring, each man fighting to hide the confusion, hatred and doubt on their bearded faces. The wheels hit the stonework, and the horses hooves scraped sharply as they pulled steadily up the incline. It was not too steep, and there was no cause to push. Pocket walked wearily along with the rest, but where their heads looked to their boots, his was held up high, staring at the gate.

  The walls of the castle were thick and in poor repair. Towers peaked up over the ramparts, wall-walks and covered bridges linking them to the dominating bulk of the central keep. Inside there would be narrow passageways and turret rooms. Cellars and garrets, lost stairways and forgotten depths. Chambers would be ruled by spiders and the dust of years. Shadows held sway here.

  Pocket smiled as he crossed under the gate. This was his new playground.

  TWENTY THREE

  Panic was her pillow. Deglan reached down carefully, adjusting the blanket so it covered the girl’s shoulders. The dog was awake and raised her head slowly, fixing him with a look that seemed insulted, as if doubting the child’s wellbeing was a personal affront. Blink slept on, her head resting in the crook between Panic’s belly and back leg.