The Exiled Heir (Autumn's Fall Saga)

by Jonathan French

  “Curdle and Muckle,” Sir Corc shouted. “They have been discovered!”

  “Look!” Bantam Flyn exclaimed, pointing. Torcan was hurrying through the yard, making for the burning structure, and he was being followed. Rosheen could just make out a man, pressing through the tumult, guarded closely by eight Red Caps.

  “It must be the heir!” she declared, looking at the coburn.

  “Can you do it?” Sir Corc asked, his voice directed at the squire.

  Bantam Flyn nodded. “Leave it to me.”

  “Go,” Sir Corc replied. “I will help the hobgoblins.”

  The knight turned and ran across the wall, making for the rising flames. Flyn headed for the nearby stairs, descending quickly into the yard. Rosheen watched him slip the harness over his head and pull the greatsword free as he ran, heading directly into the whirlwind. Through the choking cloud, she could just make out the heir, weaving his way between the sleeping Forge Born. She watched him, wondering if he possessed any of the dread powers of his forebears. Even against the wind, his stride was strong, purposeful. There was a forward bend to his shoulders that seemed to challenge everything in front of him. His walk was determined.

  Familiar.

  Rosheen went cold.

  “By the Hallowed! No!”

  She flew straight for him, but the swirling winds were too strong, tossing her about, forcing her to retreat. She tried again, screaming in fury as she was denied by the gale. Helpless anger boiled inside her, and she screamed for Flyn, begging for him to stop. She could not see the squire, but she knew he was down there somewhere, sword in hand, stalking. She screamed and screamed, knowing it useless. Her voice was swallowed by the wind.

  The wind surrounding the Flame Binder almost swept Padric off his feet. Grit and cinders stung the flesh of his face, his eyes flowing with hot, painful tears. The air buffeted him in terrible gusts, first one way, and then another. Each step was a fight for balance. He worked his way through, dimly aware that the fiery hearts were manifesting in the Forge Born all around him. They were near twice his height, and Padric tried not to imagine one of them springing to life next to him. The whirlwind of smoke grew thick and Torcan was nowhere to be seen, but Padric continued to head in what he hoped was the direction of the stables.

  “Spread out!” he yelled back at his guards, waving his arm. “Find the lord Swinehelm!”

  The goblins looked at each other, wordlessly trying to decide whether to follow his orders or Torcan’s.

  They died before the decision was made.

  The thing that attacked the goblins was fast, darting out of the smoke and striking down three of them before the others could respond. Padric saw a long blade strike and the guards’ desperate attempts to interpose their own weapons. They were too slow. Their killer was armored, feathers covering its body where steel did not. The last goblin fell in an attempt to flee and was finished off by the dagger-long spurs sprouting from the thing’s feet. It looked at him then, eyes piercing. When it spoke, Padric heard laughter in its voice.

  “I would have your name before I slay you, Goblin King.”

  Pocket coughed as the burning canvas poured choking smoke into the stables. The draft horses whinnied and bucked, spooked by the flames. Backbone stomped and complained. Pocket grabbed a bucket of rancid water and tossed it high, hoping to slow the flames.

  “We have to get out of here!” he yelled, but Muckle and his friend were not listening. Both goblins had fallen to their knees, their eyes rolled back to sightless eggs, faces contorted with tormented concentration. Burning bits of canvas floated down into the straw around them and Pocket ran back to stomp them out. The fiery whirlwind continued to rage outside, and through the flying dust and smoke, a figure approached; squat and thickly armored, bearing an axe.

  “He’s coming!” Pocket told the goblins, but they did not come out of their feverish trance. He looked around desperately for some way to stop the advancing warrior, and his eyes fell upon the horses. Pocket ran to the paddocks, throwing aside the crude logs the Red Caps used to contain the animals. The horses wasted no time, rearing as they turned, charging away from the fire above them. They bolted outside, the unnatural churning forces further spooking them as they ran, but they all darted away from the armored goblin, and he only paused a moment before continuing forward. He reached the entrance and pushed inside, his hideous helmet catching the light from the fire. A snarl echoed from the bronze boar’s face.

  “You two!” the voice rang dully. “Scheming blood traitors!”

  He stomped towards Muckle, his axe raised. Pocket grabbed for the armored arm as it swung, trying to stop it, but only succeeded in turning the blow. The blade struck Muckle between his neck and shoulder, the iron hissing as it cleaved his flesh. Muckle screamed in pain and his cry was echoed by the pale goblin next to him and in the air outside as the burning goblin added his voice to the anguish.

  The Flame Binder’s cry split through the howl of the wind, sharp and horrible. Rosheen heard another voice join the goblin’s, this one a deep lowing of inhuman pain. She looked and saw it was coming from Coltrane. The Fire no longer linked him to the Flame Binder and his head flew back, no mouth giving release to that sound of perfect agony. He fell to his knees. Rosheen watched as the fiery hearts of the Forge Born all across the yard began to gutter out, and as each one was extinguished, its possessor lifted its head, adding its own cry to the suffering chorus. Soon every heart was gone and every iron head lifted skyward in a deafening song.

  It was the death toll of the world.

  She saw the Flame Binder falling, the twisting column of elements that held him aloft dwindling. The dust began to settle, even as the shrieks of the Forge Born grew. Rosheen looked into the yard and saw Bantam Flyn staggering forward, the end of her life heralded on the edge of his great blade.

  Padric was on his knees, hands clutching his ears in a futile effort to block out the bone rattling din. He could feel his skull being battered to dust by the noise leaping from the iron warriors surrounding him. Fighting to stay conscious he looked up and saw the bird creature struggling towards him, unbalanced by the noise but still on its feet. He heard the steel scrape across the stones as the thing dragged its sword upwards, taking a last step before bringing it down in a flashing, final arc.

  Death was silent. The wail of the Forge Born ceased. Padric felt something lightly brushing his face, steady and rhythmic. He opened his eyes, not realizing they had clenched shut.

  Wings.

  Wings flapped in front of him, each one brushing a cheek. Between them hung a dense auburn tangle choked with braids and bones.

  “Rosheen?”

  He slid out from under her and found the edge of the sword a hair’s breadth from her nose, held firm by the thing that tried to kill him.

  “Flyn,” Rosheen said slowly, not taking her eyes from the blade. “Would you be so kind as to get that thing out of my face?”

  The thing she had called Flyn blinked hard and closed its beak, pulling the sword back gently.

  Rosheen straightened herself in the air, nonplussed, and turned on Padric.

  “You,” she said pointedly, “are in so much trouble.”

  He could only stand and stare.

  She flew right at his face, pressing her lips into his cheek over and over.

  “Piskie-kissed,” she whispered in his ear. “In case you forgot.” She turned on the sword-wielder. “And not a Goblin King!”

  The thing, the coburn, Padric realized as his wits returned, laughed and directed a bow at him. “Bantam Flyn at your service.”

  Even when not trying to kill him, the coburn was intimidating.

  Padric nodded back curtly, cleared his throat. “Padric the Black.”

  Rosheen laughed at him and sat on his shoulder.

  There came a sudden, grating squeal from above them and Padric looked at the surrounding Forge Born. The thrown back heads were jerking down, the slumped shoulders straightening in fits. Rus
t split and fell away from long fused joints while metal fingers closed creakingly into massive fists. They twitched, moving in stops and starts, struggling against the torpor of centuries.

  “They are awakening,” Padric said. His mouth was dry.

  A screech of perverse delight split the Cog Yard. Through the ranks of reviving metal, Padric could see the Flame Binder picking himself off the ground, face contorted with mad glee. The goblin raised his arms over his head, laughing maniacally, practically dancing in his triumph. He pranced and cavorted as the Forge Born nearest him took a first, crushing step forward. Then it raised the hulking iron sword in its hand, and the Flame Binder stopped laughing. The goblin backed away only to find another metal giant behind him. His head shot to left and right, eyes full of confusion and fury as four of his children began to converge on him.

  The Flame Binder raised his hands and Fire shot forth, the flames breaking harmlessly upon the iron bodies closing in around him. With a snarl the goblin gnashed his teeth, and conjured Fire flew from his trembling fingers once more, this time punching into the metal torso of the nearest Forge Born, before spewing from its back through a hole of warped metal. The life went out of the unnatural warrior and it fell heavily forward, but the others continued to draw near the panicked wizard. He threw arcs of tearing flame, ripping the heads and limbs from the monsters he had just given life. Padric watched with grim satisfaction as the goblin spun desperately, trying to cut them down before he was overcome. He may well have tried holding back the tide.

  On his shoulder, Rosheen hissed. “They are going to kill him!”

  Padric felt a surge of dark joy. “Good.”

  “No, Padric! You do not understand.” He craned his head to look at her. “If he dies…”

  The coburn warrior took a step forward.

  “Flyn!” Rosheen stopped him. “There is nothing you can do.”

  Padric did not understand why they would want to save the wizard and he did not care. He was through with riddles. It was enough that they could not save him. Nothing could.

  “Padric,” Rosheen’s voice was in his ear. “We need to move!”

  But he only smiled and watched as the Flame Binder was eclipsed by a dozen Forge Born. A moment later he was raised back into view, caught in the powerful clutches of his children. The wizard screamed in feeble protest as he was held aloft, his flesh boiling where the iron gripped him at wrist and ankle. He choked out one final cry before the Forge Born ripped him effortlessly in two.

  His blood flew from the rent flesh, thick and molten. It bathed the Forge Born beneath, glowing and alive with wisps of blue flame. The metal warriors stood dumbly as the burning blood ate through their bodies, digging mercilessly through them as it dripped toward the ground. There it coalesced, swelling as it consumed. The warriors caught in its churning mass melted with the speed of wax, feeding the raw, infernal essence. White-hot, angry torrents leapt, sending blazing droplets into the air as the bubbling pool began to spin, slowly at first, but quickly gaining speed, sinking as it whirled its way downward, eating the flagstones, devouring rock and soil.

  “The Fire,” Rosheen breathed. “It is free.”

  The three of them were forced to back away from the heat and the ever spreading edge of the pit. They watched as the element burned its way down to the unfathomable depths of the world, leaving a yawning, smoking fissure in the center of the Cog Yard as evidence of its passing.

  “It’s over,” Padric said, staring into the chasm.

  “No,” he heard Flyn reply, “I do not believe it is.”

  Padric turned and found the coburn slowly pivoting, sword at the ready. All around them the remaining Forge Born were coming alive, brandishing their weapons.

  Flyn gave a cry of warning and he dashed forward, slamming into Padric and knocking him off his feet. A massive, pitted blade smacked into the stones where he had just stood, sending sparks flying. Rosheen had taken to the air and Padric rolled to his feet. The Forge Born turned its head and looked at them, pulling its sword away from the split stones and raising it for another strike. Bantam Flyn leapt to his feet, swinging his blade in a sweeping upward cut. The hand fell from the Forge Born, dropping to the stones with a clangor, the ancient sword still clutched within its metal grip.

  Another awoke next to them, immediately swinging its blade savagely at the coburn. He ducked, and the Forge Born’s weapon slammed into the first, knocking it to the ground with ear splitting force. Flyn slashed at the standing Forge Born’s leg, his blow failing to cut through. It sent Flyn sprawling with a heavy kick, and Padric rushed to his side, helping him stand.

  “They are all Unwound!” Rosheen shouted, her face a dawning realization of horror.

  “You have doomed us all,” Muckle told Torcan weakly from the ground.

  “Your doom was sealed the day you betrayed His Grace, Jester!” Torcan’s voice dripped with disdain.

  Pocket jumped in front of his fallen friend.

  “Stay away from him!”

  His vision burst with light and pain as the armored goblin backhanded him across the face, spilling him into the straw. He rolled over, head swimming and saw the bronze tusks of the boar staring down at him, raising the axe over its head. Pocket threw his arms up, knowing it would not save him.

  A figure dropped heavily through the burning hole in the roof. There was the sharp snap of shearing metal, and the swine-faced helm landed in the straw next to Pocket. The bronze armor stood unsteadily for a moment, looking odd without a head, then fell over.

  Sir Corc stood to his full height, sword in hand.

  “Are you alright?” the knight asked.

  Pocket nodded, picking himself up.

  Sir Corc looked at him for a moment, then seemed satisfied. “See to Curdle.”

  Pocket came around to find the pale goblin conscious but very weak. He smiled thinly as Pocket helped him to his feet and remained by his side, supporting him. Sir Corc sheathed his sword and lifted Muckle onto the litter.

  “I am far too near the nether regions of this ass for comfort,” the goblin pronounced in a quivering voice.

  Sir Corc motioned for Pocket to bring the other goblin over and they lowered him down next to Muckle.

  “Pocket,” Muckle said. “I wonder if you would be so kind as to dump Torcan’s head out of that helmet and bring it here.”

  Pocket wrinkled his face. “Bring the head or the helmet?” he asked, not really wanting to do either.

  “Well, I’m too weak to juggle, so just the helmet,” Muckle clarified. “Make a nice chamber pot.”

  “No time,” Sir Corc said, looking out into the yard and pulling his shield from his back. “Pocket, lead Backbone and stay close.”

  The knight pulled the heavy mace from his belt and ducked out of the stables. Pocket clicked at Backbone, and they followed him into the chaos.

  A crazed Forge Born leapt at them, and Sir Corc charged forward to meet it, turning its first vicious slash aside with his shield then hammering twice into the side of its knee with his mace. The joint buckled, and the Forge Born fell. Sir Corc stove in its head with a swift stroke. Another of the metal monsters barreled towards the knight, its huge blade coming down to split him in two. Sir Corc rolled away, and the falling sword sundered the stones. It recovered quickly, slashing as it turned, but the knight ducked under the stroke, coming up inside its reach to slam his shield into its body, his mace striking downward to knock the sword from its grip. The Forge Born toppled backwards, and Sir Corc wasted no time smashing in its face.

  Pocket marveled at how fast he moved. The Forge Born were broader and taller, their crushing blows capable of breaking stone and crushing metal, but Sir Corc did not try to overcome their strength. He avoided it, or turned it aside, using it to throw the berserk iron off balance. His mace fell on the exposed joints, crippling their movements before landing a killing blow to the head. Four now had come, and four lay in heaps of bent metal.

  It would not be enough.<
br />
  All across the yard the Forge Born were awakening, searching for prey.

  “There!” Rosheen pointed to the mule.

  Bantam Flyn rushed forward, clapping Pocket heartily on the shoulder. His smile fell when he looked into the litter.

  Rosheen breathed a curse. She did not know how Muckle was still breathing.

  Sir Corc nodded to her, giving Padric only the most cursory of glances.

  Never one for questions.

  Besides, their deaths were not far off.

  The Unwound were coming from all sides.

  Some still stood dormant, and they were the greatest threat. One sprang to life next to them, its fist slamming forward. Sir Corc barely raised his shield in time and the wood splintered under the force of the blow, sending the knight stumbling backwards. He threw the ruined shield at the charging killer, sending it shattering against the iron body. Sir Corc tried to leap back as it swung, but the blade caught him in the side and he grunted hard. Rosheen saw a great dent in his breastplate. The knight sprang back into the fight, pounding at his opponent, the mace a blur. Bantam Flyn came to his aid and soon the Unwound fell.

  Sir Corc staggered away, clutching his side, his breathing labored. Rosheen saw blood dripping from underneath his armor, running down his mail skirt in dark rivulets. But there was no time for wounds. Another Unwound was upon them. The coburn met its ferocious charge, Flyn parrying its swinging sword while Sir Corc struck it with his mace. The Unwound ignored the blow, swatting the knight aside and swinging wildly at Flyn. The squire was swift and managed to turn the attacks, but the furious onslaught pushed him back.