“Sorry to disturb,” Deglan muttered at the dog. Panic simply lay her head back down. He turned and left the room, though with no roof it hardly qualified. He used the doorway, though there were half a dozen other holes in the three remaining walls just as large. Coltrane stood at the edge of the ruins, his back to Deglan, looking off at Castle Gaunt. Over a mile in the distance, the great fortress was nothing but a jagged black hole in the purple-hued curtain of stars.
“Might be better if you didn’t look at it,” Deglan told the Forge Born. “I don’t fancy trying to stop you if you start marching that way.”
“Over eight centuries,” Coltrane tolled, “since last I was there.”
A bad taste filled Deglan’s mouth. “Home sweet home.”
“You mock me,” Coltrane replied in a voice devoid of pride.
“Your kind was always a mockery,” Deglan returned, enjoying the barb far more than was warranted.
“They were as they were made,” Curdle stated, stepping out of the darkness.
He came to stand beside Deglan. The hobgoblin looked out across the black expanse of fields towards the object of the Forge Born’s temptation.
“Such a dreadful, impressive sight,” he said with quiet regret.
“The exact qualities I wanted for my tombstone,” Deglan said dryly.
Curdle hummed a laugh, then reached into his robe, producing a small flask. He pulled the cork free and offered it to Deglan.
“Root whiskey?” Deglan said after sniffing the contents.
“The best in Toad Holm,” Curdle said wistfully.
Deglan took a pull, enjoying the smooth heat spreading down his throat and into his chest. He passed the flask back with a nod of gratitude, not trusting his voice. Curdle took a sip, looking down at the flask and nodding appreciably as he swallowed.
Deglan cleared his throat. “What was the occasion?”
Curdle shrugged. “Might be the only funeral we get.”
Deglan nodded darkly, glancing around at the sprawl of depressing ruins surrounding them.
All that was left of the Kings’ Stables.
Established by the fourth man to rule the goblins, the Stables began as little more than a camp where the king kept his living entertainments. Ebraucus the Unspent was one of the most perverse of the warlocks, his carnal tastes varied and numerous. The Stables became his personal retreat, a place where he could indulge in his decadent pleasures in comfort, only a short ride from the castle. Here he housed a menagerie of beasts to fight before his eyes, while his collection of women from every race serviced his unspeakable desires. It was said that Ebraucus grew easily bored, and soon the animals became his lovers while the women fought to the death at his command. The Stables grew more lavish as arenas, feasting halls and living quarters were constructed. It became a veritable village, a community of wranglers, slaves, whores and pit fighters, all living in service to the Goblin King. Ebraucus the Unspent was greedy, licentious and cruel, and a lamb compared to the son that followed him.
Prasugut Daughtersbane expanded his father’s retreat, bringing the orgies of flesh and death to a pinnacle of unimaginable debauchery. He had the Red Caps searching the known world for the most comely children, wanting to possess them early so that they might know a life that was meant only to please him. But the Stables and Prasugut’s reign came crashing down not long after he stole the twin daughters of a fomori widow.
Neavain was a celebrated beauty amongst the fomori clans. Her husband had been a blacksmith and was executed by the Red Caps for providing weapons to the Fae rebels. Faabar often spoke of him with respect, and his wife with something near to reverence. If she was anything like the female fomori Deglan had seen, she must have been magnificent. Tall and statuesque, with manes of thick curls, fomori women an impressive sight. They have few children, and Neavain’s twin girls were a rare treasure. When they were stolen away to become Prasugut’s unwilling consorts, Neavain flew into a frenzy, taking up her husband’s smithing hammer, and tracking the Red Caps to the Kings’ Stables. She slaughtered the goblin garrison, freeing her daughters and all the other slaves, who rose up, tearing the Stables down in a fury of liberation.
None of the following Goblin Kings ever rebuilt them.
Deglan now stood in the ruins, looking at the distant silhouette of Castle Gaunt, wishing he could reduce it to rubble. How they hoped to storm that cursed citadel, even with the help of a Forge Born, was something Deglan had pestered Curdle about for days. The seer had only told him to remain patient, which, of course, had the opposite effect.
“So if we are having our funeral,” Deglan said, reaching over to take the flask again, “we must be ready to make a move.”
“Nearly,” Curdle replied. “We must do something soon or the Swinehelm will act unimpeded and we shall miss our chance.”
“To do…?” Deglan fished.
“Anything we can,” the mystic replied vaguely. “But for now, we are waiting.”
Deglan was getting tired of his own questions, but he asked anyway. “For what?”
“For them,” Curdle replied, turning towards the dark just as Sweat came padding silently forward. Madigan was close behind, and following him was the fattest goblin Deglan had ever seen. He smiled broadly over his chins when he saw Curdle, and dropping the huge club in his hands, he bounded forward, gut bouncing and wrapped the seer in a hug.
“Milkthumb, you candle-colored flirt,” the sack of lard said, hoisting Curdle off the ground. “Give us a kiss.”
Curdle suffered the embrace stiffly, adjusting his robes primly after being set back on his feet. “A greeting as enthusiastic as it is dignity-robbing. As always.” The mystic gave a resigned sigh than looked up at Deglan. “Master Loamtoes, may I present Burden Dughan.”
“Yelch!” the fat goblin grimaced, before extending his hand.
“Please, call me Muckle…or Mule or Dandy Breeches or
Fishfucker….call me anything but that!”
“You sit on King Hob’s council?” Deglan asked incredulously.
“Not often,” Fishfucker replied cheerfully. “That damn
Moot chamber makes my ass itch.”
Deglan was saved from a response by the pair of coburn approaching. One older and stern, the other young and brooding, but both armed and wearing surcoats of crimson and grey. Curdle introduced them as well, but Deglan did not hear their names. His attention was entirely devoted to the last newcomer, flying up to greet him.
“I’ll be buggered.”
Rosheen planted a kiss on his cheek. “I should have known you were too stubborn to die.”
“I’ll be buggered,” he said again, slack jawed.
Rosheen wasted no time once she pulled the gnome aside.
“Padric?” she asked.
Deglan looked at her for a moment and she witnessed the surprise on his face chased away by pain.
Do not say it.
“The Wallow,” Deglan began slowly, “was ash. The bodies burnt--”
“He might have escaped,” Rosheen cut in.
The gnome opened his mouth, lost his words, struggled to find them.
No. “No.”
“Faabar,” Deglan managed.
Yes, he was with the fomori.
“Rosheen, even he did not make it.”
And it fell over her, the fear made solid, becoming knowledge. Spoken on the lips of another, it became real and terrible. She had held onto him in her heart, a vision of hope, healthy and whole. Now he was gone, nothing but a memory of the last time she saw him in a night covered forest. A face, a known and loved face, gone forever, nothing now but a skull lying in a pile of indistinguishable bones. Why had she left? She could have gone back, been with him at the last, burned away at his side never having to wonder whether he was alive or dead, never having to imagine searching in vain for some semblance of him in a sooty pile of fleshless, faceless corpses.
“I should have stayed with him. Deglan he was so young.”
&
nbsp; The gnome looked at her, eyes trying to pull her sorrow away. “I am sorry.”
She nodded once. “We have to get him out of there.”
“He is dead, Rosheen.”
“No, not Padric. Pocket. Pocket is in the castle.”
Deglan shook his head. “Who is Pocket?”
“He is just a boy. Ten years old. He doesn’t belong in that place.”
“Well,” Deglan said, looking over her shoulder at the others, “if you want to assault Castle Gaunt this is the lot to be with.”
Rosheen turned, her eyes settling on the Forge Born standing silently off to the side.
“You have fallen in with some unlikely allies,” she told the gnome.
Deglan shot a scowl at Muckle and the coburn. “Like you haven’t. That damn goblin looks right touched.”
Better to get it over with. “He’s a Jester, Deglan.”
“Buggery and spit! Well, mine is a damn seer so be mindful of what you think.”
“Do you trust him?” Rosheen asked.
Deglan thought about it for a moment. “Curdle, yes. Haven’t quite gotten used to the Sure Finder.”
Rosheen could not help but laugh. “I about had a fit when he and that dog of his found us.”
But Deglan was not listening. She watched as he took a step forward, concern spreading across his face. A little girl emerged from one of the ruined buildings, wiping sleep from her eyes. Madigan’s other dog was at her side, and the child kept a hand on it as she looked doubtfully at all the new faces. The coburn seemed to scare her the most, but Sir Corc held his hand out to the dog who sniffed it carefully. Seeing this, the girl relaxed. Muckle tried to greet her, but Panic nipped at him sending the fat goblin dancing backwards. Deglan’s relief was palpable, and Rosheen saw on his face an expression she had often worn.
“What is her name?” she asked gently.
Deglan looked over at her, still distracted and cast a few more glances back at the girl before answering. “Never told me her given name. Red Caps did for her family. I think she saw it happen. I call her Blink.”
“She is adorable.”
A self-conscious smile split the gnome’s face, and they both turned back to watch as Blink chased Muckle around the ruins with the dogs. Sir Corc was deep in conversation with the other goblin, the one Deglan called Curdle. Bantam Flyn sat upon some rubble, completely detached.
“Those coburn,” Deglan pointed with his chin. “Knights?”
“The older one is,” Rosheen replied. “Sir Corc. Order of the Valiant Spur. The other is his squire.”
“Bad blood between them,” Deglan stated.
“Flyn is learning the sobering effects of shame,” Rosheen said sadly.
Deglan squinted at the group and clicked his tongue. “A seer. A Jester. Two trained coburn. Madigan Sure Finder.”
“Formidable company.”
Deglan nodded. “And they are all kittens compared to that.”
Rosheen did not bother looking at the Forge Born. Its very presence was already making her head ache. Deglan must have noticed her wince.
“I have a remedy for the pains,” he said, starting for the ruined building. “Let me fetch my satchel.”
Ever the healer.
The goblin seer pulled Deglan aside when he reappeared and the two spoke briefly. Nodding, Deglan looked up and waved her over.
Time to talk.
They all gathered inside the ruin so that the tumbled walls might mask the fire that Madigan had kindled before drawing off to a far corner with his dogs. Rosheen saw the little girl Blink was also with them, and watched as Deglan went to pull her away, leading her closer to the fire before sitting down with the child in his lap. Sweat and Panic watched her go, noses sniffing, but Madigan’s eyes were cocked in the opposite direction.
Indifferent, Sure Finder?
Rosheen was relieved to see the Forge Born had not moved from his silent vigil. Muckle flopped down heavily by the fire, while Flyn leaned against the wall near the hole that was once the entrance. Sir Corc stood further in, arms crossed. Rosheen fluttered over to Deglan and kissed Blink lightly on the nose.
“Hello, sweet one,” she said, and the chubby cheeks creased with delight. “May I sit with you?”
Blink nodded, eyes wide, and Rosheen settled down in her lap, smiling to herself as she felt a finger slide gently, curiously down her wing. The pale goblin approached the fire, the shadows settling deeply in his wrinkled face.
“We have come together in defiance,” he began, looking to each of them and nodding respectfully. “Defiance of a past that must not darken our future. As I speak, Torcan Swinehelm and his followers are preparing to awaken the Forge Born. We have little time, so I will be brief. The Flame Binder allied with the Red Caps will soon ignite the fires of life within the most dangerous foes this land has ever known. The Seelie Court remains silent. Toad Holm lies corrupted, and the race of man is divided, unprepared. All that stands between Airlann and cruel domination are we few, brought together by roads of fortune, retribution, desperation and design. We can stop this. We can stop this, if we are willing to risk all.”
It was Sir Corc who spoke. “What do you propose?”
“Kill the Flame Binder,” Deglan said gruffly.
“Impossible,” Curdle said sadly. “He very well may be the last vessel of the purging element. The sole wielder of Fire. The power within him is more than any of us can contend. I doubt even Muckle could stand against him.”
“You never know,” the fat goblin said, his face considering.
“No,” Curdle defeated the notion with a cut of his hand. “Alone the Flame Binder is dangerous, and within the castle he will be surrounded by Red Caps. We are not an army. Were it possible to slay him, it remains unwise. We do not know what will happen to the Elements if his life ends. It could very well spell the end of all things.” The seer squinted into the oblivion. He shook his head with finality. “No. The chances of preventing him from completing his ritual are near to nothing. I do not think we can stop him in time.”
“Then those towering bastards will awaken,” Deglan said. “And we are doomed.”
“They will awaken,” Curdle agreed, “but we have a chance to affect how.”
“Explain,” Sir Corc said.
“Coltrane is the key,” Curdle said, nodding at the tall form of the Forge Born visible over the crumbling wall. “The Magic within him is still strong. Though he is drawn to the Flame Binder like a moth to a candle, he is not yet a slave. The Red Caps have the Gaunt Prince’s heir secured within the castle. If the other Forge Born return to life they will be servants to his will…unless we can restore their own will to them.”
“How?” Rosheen asked.
Curdle took a deep breath. “By redirecting the Fire that grants them life and channeling it through Coltrane, allowing his heart to flow into them.”
“And who is going to do that?” Deglan demanded.
“That would be me,” Muckle said, standing up next to Curdle.
“You?” Deglan laughed in disbelief.
“Us, actually,” Curdle said, shrugging off Muckle’s attempts to place an arm around him. “It will require both of us to succeed.”
The gnome was still not convinced. “What by Earth and Stone makes you two think you are capable of something like that?”
“Well,” Muckle said haughtily, “we did it once, didn’t we?”
Rosheen frowned up at the goblin. Bag of lard and lies.
“My friend, astonishingly, speaks the truth,” Curdle spoke directly to her. “It was we who first crafted the spell that freed the Forge Born.”
“Toad shit!” Deglan barked. “The elves wove that spell!”
Curdle nodded. “We needed their considerable power to magnify it, push it past the defenses of the warlocks, but Muckle and I created the spell. Only we had the knowledge of the Forge Born required to change them.”
Rosheen did not like the sound of that. “Knowledge?”
/> A deep sorrow filled the white goblin’s face, and Rosheen saw Muckle set his jaw, his normally dancing eyes growing hard.
“Yes,” Curdle said. “Knowledge we gained while in service to the Goblin Kings.”
There was a long silence. All eyes locked on the two goblins standing by the fire, their shadows cast on the ruined stones behind them; black, distorted, flickering imitations. It was Deglan who finally spoke.
“You are Red Caps,” he said, his voice hushed.
“Not my color,” Muckle said, trying and failing to put levity in his voice. “Besides, I look awful in hats.”
“The Red Caps were…are just soldiers,” Curdle told them gravely. “We were more than that. We were councilors…spies, each of us wielders of unique Magic. Muckle began his service with Vellaunus the Cackler, and I with Jerrod the First.”
“Evil bastards,” Muckle said without humor.
“But not so evil as Jerrod the Second,” Curdle’s shoulders slumped with shame. “We knew the isle, maybe the world, would be destroyed the day he took command of the Forge Born.”
“So you betrayed him,” Deglan said.
“No,” Curdle replied. “We stopped betraying the Fae. We went to Irial and placed ourselves in his custody, begging him to listen. It took years before he trusted us for more than spies, but finally, with no other course, he heard our council and agreed to help us cast our spell.”
“And gave the Forge Born a conscience,” Rosheen said.
“It was the only way to defeat them,” Curdle said. “I knew the secrets of the mind. Muckle, for all his buffoonery, is a master of emotion. What is a conscience but the meeting of mind and heart?”
“And now you want to cast your spell again,” Deglan said.
Curdle looked hopeful. “With the elves all but vanished from the world, we lack the power to enchant the Forge Born ourselves unless we use the spell still residing in Coltrane and infuse it directly into the others as they regain their lives.”
“How can we trust you?” Rosheen asked, watching her words sting the mystic.
The goblin only looked at her, knowing nothing he could say would help.
“I have known Muckle Gutbuster for more than twenty years,” Sir Corc said. “He could have betrayed me many times. I will vouch for him.”
The Exiled Heir (Autumn's Fall Saga) Page 44
