The Exiled Heir (Autumn's Fall Saga)

by Jonathan French

  Rosheen felt herself and Blink being shifted as Deglan stood. He approached the hobgoblins, looking Curdle square in the face.

  “You have always told me the truth,” the gnome told him. “Even when it was difficult to hear.” Deglan turned to face the rest of them. “I say we trust this damn albino.”

  “And I think you are all mad for following us anywhere,” Muckle chuckled, “which makes you my kind of crazy.”

  “To do this,” Rosheen said. “Cast your spell…you will need to be close?”

  “Yes,” Curdle confirmed. “Coltrane, Muckle and I will need to be inside the castle and in the path of the Flame Binder’s spell.”

  “How are we going to accomplish that?” Deglan griped. “You two might be able to sneak in, what are two more ugly goblins in a castle full of Red Caps!”

  “Oi!” Muckle threw in.

  “But Coltrane?” Deglan continued. “He cannot just go striding in!”

  “Not a problem,” a voice said from the back. They all turned towards Bantam Flyn. “Now what about Pocket?”

  “Half a moment,” Muckle looked intrigued. “Did you just say, not a problem?”

  “Yes,” the squire returned. “I know how to get you two and the walking anvil inside. Now what about Pocket?”

  Curdle gazed for a moment at the young coburn, his face a mask of concentration.

  Reading his cocky mind.

  “Yes,” the seer said hopefully. “I do believe that will work!”

  “I know,” Flyn said impatiently. “Now answer my question about Pocket.”

  “I am going in to get him,” Sir Corc said simply.

  Bantam Flyn looked at the knight for a moment. “Good enough for me.”

  “There is something else,” Deglan said. “Curdle said we have to be willing to risk all…and we are, but there is still a great chance this will fail. Whatever happens there is an opportunity here that we cannot miss. The Flame Binder is strong, and should our hobgoblins’ spell falter, the Forge Born are worse. There is nothing any of us can do against them, but there is somewhere we can strike…a weak and vital link in the Red Caps’ plan. No matter what happens one of us must make sure it is severed.”

  Of course.

  “What are you saying?” Sir Corc asked.

  “He is saying,” Rosheen said. “For the sake of the isle, the Gaunt Prince’s heir must die.”

  TWENTY FOUR

  Padric’s thoughts were of home. He wished he were back there, helping his father and the other men, coming home sore and soiled to find a warm meal waiting, his mother’s easy smile and quiet acceptance filling their small house. The ciderhouse would be up in the fort and the warriors as well; other men to do the fighting, the killing, the dying. He would learn all the things he had ignored or been too downtrodden to pay any mind. His father would help him build his own house, and he would take Svala inside each night and feel no guilt or shame or fear. They would not seek comfort in each other, it would simply exist between them, and he could allow himself to love her. He would walk into the still woods alone and hear that bright laugh, her laugh, and he would look up to see his friend smiling down from the branches, eternally playful.

  Like him, the thoughts were a lie. He could no more be a contented farmer than he could a king. Stone Fort may have suffered the same fate as so many other villages; burned by the very maniacal immortals that now sought to serve him. It was a maddening thought, and he pushed it away, willing his family’s survival by stripping it of the sweet dream he drizzled upon it. His father did not need his help. Padric had been nothing but a breathing misery to his mother, a burden she had been too kind to put down. He hated the fort and the ciderhouse and the warriors. The day he turned his back on them had been a cause for rejoicing. Svala would never be his wife, and Rosheen was gone. Even if she lived, he would never hear her laugh again. That chance had ended the night he first saw Torcan Swinehelm and the Flame Binder.

  Both goblins waited on him now. The wizard was outside in the Cog Yard amongst his sleeping children while Torcan stood in Padric’s chamber, watching as Svala helped him don the raiment provided for the ritual. No fur trimmed robes of soft cloth for him. Torcan wanted the king to greet his army as a warrior. Boiled leather, studded with iron over blackened mail. Gauntlets covered his hands and a heavy cloak of crimson hung from silver brooches.

  His seax hung from his belt and Torcan had given him a heavy iron mace to carry as both weapon and scepter. Svala tied his hair back with a simple strip of leather, brushing the cloak smooth across his shoulders when she was done. Padric turned and looked at her, receiving a smile and an appraising look from her blue eyes. He had ordered she stay in the keep to attend to Kederic Winetongue. The man had not spoken nor hardly moved since Acwellen’s visit, and Padric had leapt upon his infirmity to ensure Svala was well away from the ritual. Padric worried that Torcan would require her presence, but thankfully he did not raise any objections. The goblin thought his plans were finally coming to fruition, and he stood in full bronze armor, eagerly waiting to escort Padric down to the Cog Yard.

  Slouch Hat also stood by. The goblins had not seen fit to offer him fresh garments, so he still wore the stained, threadbare shirt and breeches and his rumpled, filthy hat. The husk held Jerrod’s crown steadily in his hands, holding it before him with solemn respect. Padric tried to read some hint in the pits of Slouch Hat’s eyes, but there was nothing. No spark of hope nor sign of the phantom servant girl now residing within his stuffed body. Padric suppressed a shiver, grateful that Svala would be nowhere near them during whatever end was fast approaching.

  Pocket awoke with a start, the sudden presence of sun and silence startling him. Remaining on his belly, he shuffled forward and peered down at the castle yard from the edge of the shattered tower. It was a good vantage point, and he had chosen it carefully. The stone stairs leading to the turret room were mostly smashed, and anyone wishing to reach his hiding place would be forced to make the difficult climb from the middle landing level with the ramparts. This castle was larger than the Roost, and he had not yet explored it all, but his first discovery was by necessity a seemingly inaccessible hideaway.

  The Red Caps did not have the numbers to cover the entire fortification, and in the hours between coming to the castle and sneaking to this tower, Pocket had learned that they kept their attention directed on patrolling the curtain wall and guarding the central keep. He did not know how he managed the climb, but weary as he was he hauled himself up and collapsed at the top. Sleep came, only to be driven away by the work being done in the forges below. He fell in and out of troubled dreams, aggravated by hunger, thirst and the possibility of being discovered. At some point the hammers must have ceased, for he finally slept, unaware of the rising sun.

  Now, the activity in the yard was growing again. The forges were cold and silent, but the goblins still crawled over them, taking down the canvas coverings, hauling tools and anvils away. When he had come through the gate at dusk, the sight of the metal giants standing motionless around the burning goblin unnerved him greatly, making his skin tingle. That same goblin now stood upon the steps of the keep, no longer bathed in flames, watching the preparations, and gazing lovingly over the ranks of those hulking suits of armor. Pocket had seen drawings, paintings, and woodcuts of the Forge Born. But those did not come close to capturing the cold lethality that radiated from them even after centuries of repose. Some of the most famous knights of the Valiant Spur had fought and defeated Forge Born, but seeing these monstrous killers with his own eyes, Pocket could not help but doubt the tales. How could anyone of mere flesh and bone stand a chance against living iron?

  A stir of activity caught his eye, and Pocket looked down to see another Forge Born being dragged into the yard. Even from a distance it was clear that this one was less rusted than the others and appeared in no need of repair. It lay upon a stout wooden litter attached to a single mule. A mule Pocket knew immediately.

  “Backbone,” he
worried to himself.

  His beloved companion struggled forward, aided by half a dozen goblins pushing at the litter or straining to pull with ropes. Two Red Caps followed the litter, talking with one of the smiths. One of them, Pocket noticed, was quite fat.

  “They are inside,” Rosheen announced when she returned.

  “Bloody wonder,” Deglan said, still not ready to believe it had worked. The young coburn’s idea had been simple and bold, traits the squire fully embodied. Deglan had expressed his doubt that the mule could drag Coltrane at all, but Flyn said the beast need only make it to the castle gate. The Red Caps would help after that, so long as Curdle and Muckle played their parts convincingly. Deglan had doubted that, too, and said as much. Neither of their singular looking hobgoblins fit the muster for the typical foot soldier. He looked to Rosheen for support, but the piskie merely smiled slyly and nodded back to where the goblins stood with the mule. Where once a pale, wrinkled goblin and his bawdily-clad, corpulent companion stood, there were now two average looking goblins wearing filthy armor, iron boots and blood stained hats.

  “Damn albino mind-twiddler,” Deglan scowled at the smaller of the two Red Caps.

  “The mind sees what it wants to see,” Curdle replied.

  “He’s still fat,” Deglan said, pointing at Muckle.

  “Even Magic has its limits,” Curdle said wryly.

  Muckle laughed the loudest but slipped in, “Both your mothers were whores,” between guffaws.

  Curdle looked up at Coltrane, who stood waiting near the mule. “Are you ready?”

  “Yes,” the Forge Born answered. He lay down on the litter and Deglan was struck by how agile the thing was despite its size. The litter Sir Corc had constructed held firm, its inclined design helping distribute Coltrane’s weight. Both the coburn helped push from the back while the mule pulled forward, and the litter got moving. It was a mile to Castle Gaunt, and Deglan waited with the coburn until Rosheen came back with the good news.

  “Now for our part,” Sir Corc said.

  Deglan nodded and went inside the ruined building. Blink was playing with the dogs while Madigan sat off against the wall, sharpening his spear.

  “It is time,” Deglan told him, and the Sure Finder pierced him with his raptor’s eyes for a moment before rising smoothly.

  They crossed the plain together, making no attempt to hide amongst the scrub and boulders. The coburn had donned their full arms. Bantam Flyn wore brigandine and mail, his greatsword unsheathed and propped on his shoulder. Sir Corc wore mail with steel plates covering his arms and torso, a shield across his back, sword, mace and dagger hanging from his belts. Deglan held Blink’s hand as they walked, and Rosheen flew next to them. Madigan led the group, with Sweat and Panic loping on either side. The Sure Finder’s stride was fluid, almost careless. Deglan wished he felt as confident.

  The mile passed quickly and Castle Gaunt loomed ahead of them, the pale morning light staining the thick clouds above it an ugly yellow. Madigan turned before reaching the bridge and made for the horsemen’s camp. Tents and makeshift paddocks covered a large swath of ground in the shadow of Penda’s Rock. Deglan saw warriors, grooms, errand boys and serving wenches going about their morning chores while the warriors milled about. Fully half their number was mounted, ready to begin their first patrol around the Rock. A challenge went up from the sentries when they saw Deglan’s little group approaching, and he tightened his grip on Blink’s hand.

  “Earth and Stone,” he swore under his breath. “What are we doing?”

  Madigan walked past the slack jawed sentries and directly into the camp. Deglan and the others followed close behind with Sweat and Panic running a circular patrol around them. The warriors surrounded them now, some on foot and others mounted, but hesitance on every face. Deglan saw more curiosity than aggression, and something else. The men cast only furtive glances at him, the coburn, Rosheen and the child. Mostly they looked at Madigan. They knew him. They knew his dogs. And they feared all three. The Sure Finder stood, returning the men’s stares with placid savagery, his spear held loosely at his side. He waited. Deglan held his breath.

  An angry voice moved through the men and they shuffled aside, parting at the edge to reveal Acwellen pushing his way through. His loyal curs followed him and Deglan knew them all. Aglaeca. Drefan. Banan. Big Cunny. Seon. Fat Donall and Poncey Swan. He remembered the last night he had seen these murderers, and his reluctance was burned away by the painful recollection. Acwellen took the scene in quickly, for a lout, his darting eyes lingering on Deglan for a moment before finally coming to rest on Madigan.

  “Sure Finder,” Acwellen said welcomingly. “I see you have finally brought me the treacherous gnome! Boys, bring that stunted leech here so that we may have off his ugly head.”

  Drefan and Big Cunny stepped forward. Sir Corc and Bantam Flyn did, too. The men eyed the coburn warily for a moment, then glanced back to Acwellen.

  Deglan found his voice. “It is not my head that needs to be taken, Acwellen! It was not I who betrayed Hog’s Wallow. Where is Kederic Winetongue? Bring him out here that he may answer for the crime you place at my feet.”

  “He is dead,” Acwellen pitched his voice so all could hear. “As you say, he was a traitorous coward, and I killed him for it.”

  Deglan looked into the big man’s eyes and found the lie.

  “If that is so,” Deglan said, “why are you here now? Far from home, serving the goblins?”

  “The price of our safety,” Acwellen lied easily. “Winetongue brought this upon us. I am merely trying to see to it we survive his skullduggery. Our fort remains standing because of me!”

  “I believe that,” Deglan shot back. “Because of you…the Red Caps came! Because of you Hog’s Wallow had no warning!” He turned as he spoke, addressing the men that surrounded him. “You all know me. Seen more than a few of you through a fever, brought some of your children into the world with my own hands. I was riding to the fort with news of the attack when this man,” he thrust a finger at Acwellen, “ambushed me! Tried to kill me. And when he failed, sent the Sure Finder to hunt me down!”

  “I did!” Acwellen returned. “But on Kederic’s orders! It was he who lied to us, not I!”

  “You are the goblin’s pet, Acwellen! Always were. Kederic Winetongue hated the Fae. I do not believe he would have made such a pact.”

  “So you say,” Acwellen said slowly. “But we have no cause to trust you, immortal.”

  Deglan nodded at that, then drew Blink slowly forward by the hand. The men looked at her, many of them unknowingly exchanging their warriors’ faces for those they wore as fathers. Sir Corc produced a spare buckle from his armor and handed it gently to the girl. Blink took it in her chubby fist, looking down at it with the pointed curiosity of youth.

  Deglan swept the men and pointed at the buckle. “Iron. The bane of my kind…and nothing but a new plaything to this girl. She is no changeling. There is no cause to distrust her. No hidden evil. She is a human child, born with no special gifts save the innocent ability to inspire feelings of protection and love to any who look upon her. You mortals are frail, and in your children that frailty is beautiful. This one…her parents were butchered by Red Caps. I found her and cared for her, but that is my way. I am a healer, and I swore to care for all life, mortal and immortal. If you can discount that because I am Fae, so be it. But you stand here, guarding the fanatics that tried to kill this little one, and the man who leads you? He allowed it to happen. You may believe you are saving your own daughters by being here. You are not. Acwellen’s treachery bought your children some time, but it robbed this girl of everything.”

  “Enough of your bewitching words!” Acwellen screamed, turning to the assembled men. “Kill them now! Before he can further enchant you!”

  No one moved.

  Acwellen stood, red-faced and breathing hard, daring the men to defy him. They did. The big man smiled, regaining his composure. “Very well. If you choose to believe thi
s gnome! But I will not be condemned on his word alone. If you no longer want my leadership, I will go. And you can figure how best to survive what Kederic brought down on our heads.” He motioned to his own men. “We ride.”

  Acwellen turned and found Sweat and Panic blocking his path.

  “I think,” Deglan said backing away with Blink in tow, “Madigan has unfinished business with you lot. He does not take kindly to being sent after the wrong prey.”

  The warriors backed away, widening the space and leaving Acwellen and his loyal henchmen alone. Aglaeca wasted no time and drew his sword. Big Cunny’s dim witted face searched for answers, and Fat Donall began laughing, pulling a dirk from his belt. Acwellen turned slowly, trying to keep both Madigan and the dogs in sight.

  It was Drefan who ran, darting towards a mounted warrior and knocking him from the saddle. The sour old man had one foot in the stirrup when Panic dragged him down. There was a wet thud, and Fat Donall stopped laughing, Madigan’s spear sticking through his blubbery neck. Acwellen snarled, ripping his sword free and slashing furiously. The hunter ducked smoothly and leapt to the side, rolling to come up next to Big Cunny, his arm arcing upwards as he stood. Red spurt forcefully from the unfortunate man’s groin, and Deglan recognized the sure sign of a severed artery. Big Cunny dropped with the confused look still on his face. Madigan flipped his bloody dagger deftly, catching it blade down. Aglaeca was at his back, sword raised to strike, but Madigan ignored him as Sweat barreled into the man, taking him down and ripping out his throat. Acwellen surged back in, sword swiping to keep the advancing hunter at bay. Panic had finished with Drefan and joined her mate to converge on Poncey Swan who pissed himself and fell to his knees, weeping and begging the advancing dogs for mercy.

  They showed none.

  Madigan avoided Acwellen’s attacks with preternatural grace, his sinewy body snapping away from the big man’s sword. He ducked a stroke, then darted in, grabbing Acwellen’s sword arm by the wrist and punching his dagger down into the elbow joint.