The Exiled Heir (Autumn's Fall Saga)

by Jonathan French

  Acwellen screamed as the dagger was pulled free, dripping. He slammed his head into Madigan’s face, and the hunter retreated a few paces backwards. He looked at his opponent for a moment, seemingly unfazed, then shook his head quickly, shrugging off the blow. Acwellen’s sword arm hung limply at his side, bleeding freely. He choked on the pain and spit, the drops landing in his beard. His own dagger was now in his good hand, and he brandished it at Madigan, screaming a wordless challenge. The hunter just stared back at him, standing up straight as if the fight was over.

  It was.

  The dogs struck from opposite sides, Sweat hitting Acwellen low, while Panic slammed into his midriff, knocking him spinning to the ground. The man squealed as he was savaged and Madigan pounced, burying his dagger to the hilt. Sweat and Panic released their jaws, leaving split flesh and torn muscle behind. Madigan stood, pulling his dagger free from Acwellen’s stomach.

  Of Acwellen’s men, only Seon and Banan still lived. Neither had drawn their weapons or even moved during the slaughter. Banan remained calm, his hand gripping Seon’s wrist down at his side, willing the younger, shaking man to neither fight nor flee. Sweat and Panic circled the pair, sniffing. Seon let a whimper escape his lips and the dogs bared their teeth, hackles rising. The onlookers were still, breathless, waiting for the final kill. Madigan came up, pulling his spear from the ruin of Fat Donall’s throat as he approached. Seon’s eyes were clenched tight, but Banan met the hunter’s gaze.

  “Kederic Winetongue is guiltless,” the grim faced warrior said. “We betrayed him to the goblins. They have him in that castle. Judge me as you will.”

  Madigan leaned forward, and Deglan fancied he sniffed the other man. Then he turned and walked away, his dogs at his heels. Banan released his hold on Seon and the young man’s legs buckled, spilling him to the ground.

  “Place those two in irons!”

  Deglan recognized the speaker as Orvin, one of Kederic’s other huscarls.

  “Best pardon them,” Sir Corc told the man. “You will need every sword for what you intend.”

  “And how do you know my intentions, coburn?” Orvin asked with a hard smile.

  “I know the look of a man about to do the right thing.”

  Orvin’s smile broadened, and he nodded slowly, watching the knight.

  “Mount up!” he yelled over his shoulder, and the warriors scrambled to action.

  As the men marshaled, Deglan led Blink by the hand, walking over to where Madigan squatted, his dogs licking the blood from his hands. Deglan cleared his throat, but the man did not look up.

  “Madigan,” Deglan began feebly, silently asking the Earth to give him strength for what he was about to do. “I would ask a boon of you.” The dogs looked up at him, but the man’s eyes were on his knife, cleaning it on the grass. Deglan swallowed hard, willing his voice to remain steady and failing. “Take Blink away from here.”

  Madigan’s head snapped up, his predatory eyes searching Deglan’s face. There was a twist to the man’s mouth Deglan had never seen before.

  “I…do not know what will happen here,” he told him. “And I would see her safe. I cannot protect her, not like you can…and…” His words broke off, his resolve failing. He faltered, looking down at the ground, vision drowning with pain. He could not do this. He could not give her up.

  A hand touched him gently. Deglan looked up and found Madigan’s strong fingers pressing into his shoulder. The raptor’s eyes were no longer there, the animal was gone. Madigan Sure Finder nodded, and in that slight motion Deglan saw a promise. He turned, going to his knees, and took Blink’s hands in his own.

  “Will you be happy?” he asked her gently, trying to hide his sorrow, but betrayed by his tears. “Tell me you will be happy. I need to know.”

  Blink looked at him with her large, round eyes. She nodded. Another promise.

  He wanted to embrace her, but promised himself he would not, for fear if he did he would never let her go. Of the three of them, he broke his promise, pulling her close and smelling her hair for the last time.

  “Take her,” he said without moving his eyes off the face he loved. “Please. Take her now.”

  Madigan lifted Blink up, and Deglan felt her fingers slide away. He knelt on the ground a long time before finally turning. Madigan had already walked a fair distance across the plain. Blink rode on his shoulders, reaching down to tease Sweat and Panic as they followed, jumping excitedly. She did not look back.

  All two hundred warriors were ahorse and assembled in formation by the time Deglan got to his feet. Rosheen and the two coburn waited nearby, watching as the huscarls inspected their battle lines.

  “They are going to fight?” he asked Rosheen when he drew near.

  “They are,” the piskie replied. She looked at him for a moment. “You made the right choice.”

  He shooed her words away with his hand. “Don’t nursemaid me.”

  She allowed him his gruffness, and he was grateful. They all watched as Orvin addressed the men.

  “They have our Thegn!” he cried over the ranks, gesturing to Castle Gaunt with his spear. “I mean to ride in there! And I will not ride out unless it is with Kederic Winetongue! Follow me if you be men!” He spurred his horse forward, and the ground thundered as every man followed, screaming their war cry and galloping for the bridge.

  “We best get moving,” Sir Corc said, and began making his way swiftly towards Penda’s rock. Bantam Flyn followed.

  Rosheen looked at Deglan. “You coming?”

  “No,” he replied, nodding at the column of warriors. “I will be of more use here when the blood spills.” He looked at the piskie. “Good luck.”

  She winked at him, and flew off after the coburn.

  Deglan barked some orders at the camp followers, making sure they had a field tent ready to receive the wounded. Checking his satchel, he ambled over to where Acwellen lay in the mud. The man’s eyes rolled in his head, his breath coming in choking gasps, his tongue pushing blood from his mouth in gobs. Deglan squatted down next to him, looking impassively at the damage the dogs had done, and then at the knife wounds in his elbow and gut.

  “These are grave,” Deglan said, and Acwellen’s head lolled over at the sound of his voice, his eyes trying to focus. “Grave, but not necessarily mortal. With the right care, you might live. I could certainly save you.” Deglan nodded slowly. “Think I will give your injuries the same time you allowed me to tend to Bulge Eye. That seems only right.” Deglan reached into his satchel and removed a roll of linen and some herbs. He held them in his hands for a moment then looked at Acwellen and stood.

  “Time’s up.”

  Rosheen flew carefully upwards, staying close to the wall. She reached the edge and crept between two of the merlons, listening. She peered around the stone, first left then right, searching the length of the ramparts for patrolling goblins. She saw none. A watchtower lay not far to the left, its yawning doorway straddling the wall, hiding a span of it in deep shadows. She could see the wall march back into the sunlight on the other side of the tower and nothing approached from that direction. To her right the rampart ended in the solid bulk of a barbican, stairs leading from the wall to its roof. The ruined corpse of a broken drum tower blocked her view of the inner bailey.

  A forgotten, crumbling corner of the vast castle.

  Sir Corc chose his spot well.

  Rosheen dropped off the wall, gliding down past the stonework and then past the natural stones of the crag. The coburn waited for her at the base of the hill.

  “It is clear,” she told them.

  The knight nodded and immediately set off, scrambling up the rocks, hauling his armored body over the boulders, making for the wall. Bantam Flyn watched for a moment, then shrugged out of his harness so that he could sheath his massive blade.

  “I would have thought you would have gone with the horsemen,” Rosheen said to him. “Charge the front gate.”

  Flyn slipped the harness over his shoulde
r, adjusting the sword comfortably across his back. “Pocket is one of us,” he said. “He is of the Valiant Spur. This is my place.”

  We all find it sometime. Maybe too late.

  “Tell me piskie,” Bantam Flyn said, his head lifted. “Have you any gift with poetry?”

  Rosheen wrinkled her face. “No.”

  “Pity,” Flyn said, eyes still upraised. “This is a deed worthy of remembrance.”

  Rosheen followed his gaze. Above them, already past where the crag met the foundation, she could see an armored figure, shield across his back, reaching for another handhold.

  “Sir Corc the Constant,” the squire said with awe, “is scaling the walls of Castle Gaunt.”

  TWENTY FIVE

  Pocket found Backbone tucked away in what was left of the castle stables. The goblins had hung a filthy canvas over the remnants of the walls, providing some shelter for the draft animals they kept inside. Pocket had slipped out of his tower and into his goblin face the moment the alarm was raised. The Red Caps were marshaling to defend the main gate, and in the chaos of shouted orders and pounding boots, Pocket simply ran through the castle yard, looking purposeful. He stole a look at the group on the steps of the keep as he passed. The armored goblin was shouting at the soldiers, while the brooding man with black hair watched impassively. The scarecrow holding the crown stood next to the man, and Pocket felt for a moment that the stuffed man was watching him, but he put it out of his mind, hurrying on. The stables hugged the curtain wall, almost directly across from the keep. Thankfully, the forest of Forge Born stood between, providing plenty of concealment, and Pocket checked to make sure he was not seen before ducking inside.

  Backbone looked a little tired, but otherwise was unharmed. The goblins had not bothered to unhook him from the litter or give him water or fodder. Pocket searched the stinking stalls for anything suitable. He was rummaging through a pile of filthy straw when a hand clapped firmly on his shoulder, wheeling him around. Pocket stared into the broad face of the Red Cap who held him. Pocket smiled.

  “Nice disguise,” he said.

  “And yours,” Muckle replied with a grin, releasing his hold. “I am glad to see you have discovered the doors that will open for you simply by becoming that most handsome of creatures, the goblin.”

  Pocket shifted back to himself. Holding another skin was still difficult and gave him a throbbing pain behind the eyes. He took a step back when the other Red Cap emerged from the neighboring stall.

  “It is alright,” Muckle said. “He is a friend.”

  Pocket looked back to find the Red Cap was still a goblin, but dressed in robes and possessing very white skin.

  “Greetings, Pocket,” the pale goblin said. “My name is Curdle Milkthumb. I am honored to meet you.”

  “Hello,” was all Pocket said in reply before turning back to Muckle. “What are you doing here? And why did you bring my mule?”

  Muckle crept toward the front of the stables and took a cautious look out into the yard as he spoke. “It is all a part of a very intricate plan to get ourselves killed.”

  Pocket joined him. Leaning carefully, he could just make out the top of the keep stairs through the ranks of Forge Born.

  “Who is that?” he asked, pointing to the black-haired man.

  Muckle shrugged. “The once and never king.”

  “Muckle,” the other goblin said from the back of the stables. “We must make ready.”

  Muckle gave the stairs one more searching look and nodded his agreement.

  “Looks like they are about to begin.”

  Padric suppressed a smile as Torcan heard the news of the attack. They had no sooner emerged from the keep than a Red Cap came running, reporting to Swinehelm of the horsemen’s charge up the bridge. The gate to Castle Gaunt no longer held doors or portcullis, and the men had almost reached the walls by the time the goblins could respond, throwing themselves into the breach to repel the riders.

  “We hold for now, my lord,” the runner said, “but the bridge is too narrow to bring our numbers to bear.”

  Torcan slammed a bronze clad fist into the messenger’s face, sending him tumbling down the steps.

  “Push them back!” the warlord screamed. “Drive them into the fields and devour them! They must not interrupt us now…Go!”

  His bulbous nose broken and bleeding, the Red Cap picked himself up and bowed before running back to the fray. Padric could not see the main gate from where he stood, but the sounds of battle echoed through the inner bailey, and he watched as goblins hurried from their posts, rushing through the yard and across the ramparts to lend aid. Torcan commanded Padric’s honor guard to remain, but ordered the rest to the defense of the bridge. There were more than a thousand Red Caps in the castle and Padric wondered what could possibly encourage two hundred men to assault such a garrison. It seemed Acwellen was a treacherous bastard no matter which way the wind blew.

  The Flame Binder waited in the center of the Cog Yard, where the foundry once stood. He raised his head, looking up the steps, a smile beneath his mad eyes.

  “Let them come,” he said and Padric watched as smoke billowed from his mouth with the words. “They will find only death.”

  Fire came to life in the wizard’s eyes, licking up from the sockets. The Flame Binder spread his arms, hands splayed, fingers curling stiffly and lifted his head, filling the sky with black smoke and dark words.

  “Hear me my children. Hear my words and remember. In a molten cradle did you quicken. Wrought at the core of the world and fashioned in the likeness of war. The anvil was your mother. The hammer your father. Remember their ringing voices, and let them call you from slumber. Awake! Awake and walk the world! Receive the Fire as your breath! Let it fill you, and once more become living iron! You are destruction! You are death! You are Forge Born!”

  A blast of flame and rushing air burst from the goblin with his final words. Padric raised his arms against the heat, turning his head away and clenching his eyes tight as the wind slammed into him. A terrible, crackling wail filled his ears, and he squinted back, eyes watering in the suffocating wind. The Flame Binder slowly rose into the air, his robes snapping around him. The flames poured from his eyes in radiant torrents, caught in the maelstrom which lifted his body, encasing it in Fire. Laughter sparked from the wizard’s mouth as he continued to float within his twisting cloud of smoke. Flames shot from his hands, rending Padric’s ears with an angry roar, and the Fire lanced into the nearest Forge Born, their metal bodies quickly beginning to glow with heat.

  As the first statues of iron grew white hot, the Fire spread, jumping from one body to the next. Sweat ran freely down Padric’s face as the Cog Yard turned into the heart of a forge. Next to him Torcan basked in the stifling heat, his face suffused with triumphal ecstasy. Slouch Hat stood motionless, his brim curled downward in the blistering wind, hiding his face.

  A cry of rage snapped Padric’s head back to the yard. The flames had stopped spreading. The Flame Binder struggled, convulsing in the air, cursing in wordless fury. The tongues of Fire coming from his hands had joined into one and flowed directly into a single Forge Born far to the rear of the yard. Unlike his slumped counterparts, this one stood braced against the Fire, almost crouching, metal arms flung back wide. Another cry issued from the Flame Binder and he strained against his own flames, pulling away, but they held fast to the single Forge Born as if drawn to it.

  “What is this?” Torcan hissed.

  The Fire radiated from the lone Forge Born, now jumping to the two on either side, then forward, passing from one still body to the next, but it did not engulf them. As the flames reached each one, the Fire diminished, slowly kindling into a single burning point in the chests of the iron warriors. Padric watched as those flames began to pulse, began to beat, and he felt his own heart pounding.

  “The elves’ spell,” Slouch Hat said with hushed reverence.

  Torcan looked wildly from the husk to the Forge Born, recognition and fury t
wisting his face. The warlord growled in hatred, slamming his helm down over his head.

  “Stay with the king,” he told the eight Red Caps on the steps before rushing down the stairs, battle-axe in hand. When he reached the bottom he stopped and looked up at the Flame Binder who still fought for control of his spell.

  “Where?!” Torcan’s voice rang over the howling wind. “Show me!”

  Padric saw the Flame Binder turn his head with great effort, the muscles in his neck straining. Thin gouts of Fire shot from his eyes, striking the makeshift canvas roof of the crumbling stables across the yard. The covering began to burn, and Padric’s brow wrinkled in confusion. The Forge Born drawing the wizard’s Magic was nowhere near there, but Torcan wasted no time, his armored form weaving through the ranks of iron. Padric looked to Slouch Hat, a question on his lips, but there was no time. Something was thwarting the Flame Binder, and the Swinehelm was going to stop it. He could not let that happen. He did not know who was hiding in the stables, but he was not going to stand idly by while they were butchered. Padric wrenched the cape from his shoulders, the wind catching it as it fell from his fingers. He tested the weight of the mace in his left hand, then drew his seax with the right.

  “Come on,” he told Slouch Hat and his guards, but the husk did not even look at him.

  “Slouch Hat!” he persisted, “Are you coming?”

  Slouch Hat continued to stare blankly. With a curse Padric ran down the steps with his guards following close behind. He suddenly found himself wondering where these goblins’ allegiance would lie once he tried to kill Torcan Swinehelm. He pushed the thought aside and headed into the Cog Yard.

  “It is working!” Rosheen yelled over the wind, pointing to Coltrane on the far side of the yard.

  Sir Corc and Bantam Flyn crouched on the ramparts next to her, looking down into the chaos of swirling flame and blowing dust. The Flame Binder hovered in the center of it all desperately trying to regain the energies that now poured into Coltrane. Movement at the keep to their right caught Rosheen’s eye. Through the smoke she could just make out Torcan Swinehelm approaching the Flame Binder, yelling something lost on the wind. Fire leapt from the wizard’s eyes and something under the wall to their left began to burn.