Asrăthiel had hardly finished giving instructions to the chief signalman and thanking him before her two companions were out the door and striding across the grass towards the mooring spot where Lightfast bobbed and tugged at her lines. Their hair and cloaks flapped wildly in the wind as they knelt on the short turf to untie the tethering guys from the iron ground hooks. Asrăthiel leaped into the gondola and summoned a blast of heat from the great sun-crystal in its cradle. As they all watched the balloon’s sagging, wind-tortured envelope gradually expand she said, ‘Another semaphore message is coming through. We ought to wait for it.’
‘There’s no time,’ said Thorgild, raising his voice above the wailing gusts and the boom of billowing fabric. ‘Every moment we delay is a moment lost to Narngalis and might mean the difference between life and death for Tir. Are we ready for lift-off?’
‘Not yet.’
Halvdan braced himself as he pulled hard on a rope to steady the bucking aircraft. ‘Asrăthiel, how could your grandfather’s house brownie possibly be able to name the unseelie hordes?’ he shouted over the wind. ‘Domestic wights seldom leave their abodes. How could a humble brownie of Rowan Green learn about events hundreds of leagues away?’ He sprang into the basket beside Asrăthiel, still grasping the rope.
‘I cannot say, sir,’ she answered distractedly as her hands shaped the gestures of weatherworking. ‘The ways of wights are not easily penetrated. Perhaps trows carry these tidings back and forth, in their ceaseless peregrinations.’
It came to the weathermage that Crowthistle might somehow have played some part in the brownie’s acquisition of strange tidings, but she decided to make no mention of her suspicions. The urisk had attached himself to the Maelstronnar house for some while, during which he had harassed the brownie to the point at which it had almost departed from the premises forever. Being a wight itself, the brownie undoubtedly knew more about Crowthistle’s comings and goings than any mortal being, and it was not impossible that the domestic wight had caught the news from him.
Beside the basket the king was coiling a hawser with the dexterity of a seasoned fisherman. Rope in hand, he climbed in beside his son. ‘Are we set?’ he asked the weathermage.
‘Almost!’ she cried, keeping an eye on the blazing sun-crystal. ‘Three crew members is a full load and I must wait for sufficient buoyancy. To take off too soon would be risky.’
The wind veered. A shower of leaves blasted in their faces. The basket was jumping, held in place only by two ropes in the grip of the king and his son, which passed through a pair of ground hooks.
Asrăthiel stared up with irritated impatience at the inflating envelope. Her mind was worrying at Avalloc’s news as a dog gnaws a bone. ‘My grandfather declares that the brownie itself was frightened,’ she called out, ‘which disturbs me greatly. But the creature’s words must be true, because it is unable to tell falsehoods, and as for whether it is suffering from delusions, why the Storm Lord has been acquainted with the wight all his life, and would doubtless perceive any alteration in its outlook.’
The balloon had swelled taut and become buoyant enough to lift the load. Asrăthiel was about to tell her companions to cast off when the chief signalman, who had just completed his latest task, burst out of the tower door and came running towards them. He was waving a piece of paper and begging the visitors to tarry.
‘This report has just now arrived,’ the man said hoarsely, thrusting the leaf into Asrăthiel’s hand. It was a communication from King Warwick himself, from his encampment, via King’s Winterbourne. The message was short, as if hastily composed.
After silently scanning the note the weathermage inhaled sharply. She uttered no word, but crumpled the paper in her fist and let it drop from her fingers. It was snatched away by the gusts.
Halvdan brushed tousled amber filaments out of his eyes. ‘What’s amiss, Asrăthiel?’ he asked in concern.
The weathermage simply stood, gazing into emptiness, making no move, unbreathing. As if in extension of her body the wind faded to a mere sigh.
‘What is it?’ Thorgild turned his attention to the bearer of the note. ‘What was the message?’
A row of jackdaws that had been perched on the semaphore tower took off in a storm of flapping pinions and a clamour of shrieks, like fragments of burned fabric. They scattered, startled by the sudden sound. Perhaps even they, with their alien, avian minds unattuned to human passions, were pierced by the sharp note of utter grief and desolation in Asrăthiel’s scream.
The signalman whispered, as if the words were too appalling to be spoken aloud, ‘It said, Regret to inform you Uabhar Ó Maoldúin has slain your kindred.’
The alarmed jackdaws reassembled themselves in flight formation and flapped across the pouring skies into the distance.
A long bank of lilac-bellied cloud was rolling in from the west, promising rain. Intermittent shafts of sunlight slanted from the darkening firmament like lances of fallow gold. Soon the indigo clouds let loose their burden. Across Narngalis showers came pouring down, all that day and through the night.
The long veils of rain that swept in from the coast and settled in for several days failed to stop the fighting on the Eldroth Fields—the weather merely contributed to the difficulties faced by the troops on both sides. Fires went out and could not be relit, and the ground became slippery with mire. Heavy mud encased the boots of those who fought and the armour of those who fell. The showers were finally easing when the lord privy seal, Sir Torold Tetbury—a small, dapper gentleman with a neat black moustache—arrived from northern Narngalis at the indigo and ivory panelled pavilions of King Warwick.
‘How go the preparations at Ironstone Keep?’ was the king’s first question. He had directed his stewards to open the abandoned fortress at the mountain pass and provision it, in case the Narngalish troops were beaten back as far as the Black Crags before Thorgild’s reinforcements arrived.
‘All is in readiness. If our fears are realised, we will at least be able to retreat to a well-supplied stronghold,’ Tetbury replied.
‘And further north, what of the goblins from underground, as the Storm Lord reports that his drudge-wight names them?’
‘Night itself has become the enemy, my liege. These creatures are advancing slowly. Their secretive habits continue, for they prefer the rays of stars and moon to those of the sun, and they evoke opaque vapours to block out the daylight. Within these vapours they move cunningly. Their progress is like a thick wall of fog creeping across the land. Through the haze, daring folk may glimpse movement, a flicker of green fire, a glitter, the outline of an ugly head. Ominous mutterings issue from that cloud, and, sometimes, harsh laughter. In the heart of the darkness daemon hoofs thunder, and eldritch blades slay. Then the clouds engulf all, and when they pass, none of our people are left alive. Through Mountain Cross and Trowbridge the mists come rolling, and nothing can stop them.’
‘These things are far from being as innocuous as fashion would have had people believe,’ said the king, shaking his head in dismay. ‘They are mistaken, who deem goblins to be feeble wights.’
‘How could it have happened, sir, that such convincing tales of their impotence and easy defeat have arisen since their incarceration at the hands of our ancestors?’
‘On this I have pondered,’ the king said. ‘It is an age-old human trait; if men can scoff at the dark they do not fear it. If a menace is reduced to a joke, it is threatening no longer. When the goblins had been overcome and sealed away—as we thought, forever—mankind wished to make mockery of their longstanding foes so that they might banish their terror and become more confident in themselves. All the more reason for us now to verify the facts. We must know what foe we face.’
Tetbury shrugged. ‘Odd. I would have thought it more likely for folk to embellish tales of past enemies, making them seem more dangerous rather than weaker, so that our heroes’ feats in conquering them would seem more glorious!’ As one of the royal advisors he was forthright in giving
his opinion.
‘Then you must brush up on your history, Torold,’ said the king. ‘Ridiculing genocidal monsters as figures of fun is humanity’s custom. It diminishes them; their stature, their power, their menace. All tales evolve over the years, and no doubt the portrayal of goblins, which was originally fuelled by fear and hatred, became fuelled—after the unseelie threat was removed and people felt safe—by scorn and mockery. People took to depicting them as weak and foolish—a caricature that would certainly have benefited puppeteers, for example, who are always seeking a target to lampoon.’
Tetbury bowed in acknowledgement of his lord’s argument. ‘My clerks have been plundering the libraries of King’s Winterbourne,’ he said, ‘digging out every scrap of information about these little terrors. Silver was ever their metal of choice, which is perhaps one of the reasons the trows loved them so. Indeed, they were called the silver goblins. In olden days, as a warning to humankind, the silver-mining towns were named for the goblins that plagued them, and named also for the trows that fawned on the goblins. Now the imps return by their old haunts, by Silver Hill, Silver Moss and Silvercrags, through Yardley Goblin and Elphinstone. They cut down all human beings in their path, although, curiously, they do not pursue those who flee. Villagers are escaping southwards in ever increasing numbers.’
‘Most of what you say is not news to me, Torold,’ said the king, ‘but I thank you for it.’
Later, when Warwick held counsel with his sons and advisors, Tetbury repeated his account, after which the king made known the latest news from Rowan Green. ‘When he learned of the fate of his kindred the Storm Lord was struck down by a fit. He has taken to his bed. His son’s wife nurses him, and he is too weak to travel. His mind, nonetheless, remains sharp. As you are aware, he communicates daily with me.’ The king’s grey eyes rested calmly upon his audience. ‘Avalloc, of all men living, is most learned in goblin lore. He confirms what Torold has told us—that they love silver, and are therefore named the Silver Goblins. As to defending ourselves against these wights and driving them back, he advises that the best weapon is gold. As silver is their joy, so gold is anathema to them. Therefore we shall gather together all the gold in the kingdom and melt it, to plate our steel blades.’
Prince Walter said, ‘What of the famous weapon of the weathermasters, Fallowblade? Once the golden sword was employed to defeat the goblins. Why not again?’
‘Indeed,’ said his father, ‘that question has occupied my thoughts. I shall ask Asrăthiel, on her return, if she will fetch the sword from its keeping place.’
William gave a start as Asrăthiel’s name was spoken. ‘But Fallowblade is useless!’ he cried. ‘No ordinary man can wield it.’
‘An ordinary man called Tierney A’Connacht handled Fallowblade in days of yore,’ stated King Warwick, ‘and to good effect, too, or so say the lore-books of Rowan Green.’
William countered, ‘Maybe Aglaval Stormbringer put some forgotten charm on the weapon, or some old magick of Alfardēne was still clinging to it. Only a weathermage with years of training may use that weapon without danger to himself.’
‘Aye. Asrăthiel alone has learned the secrets of the sword.’
‘You cannot ask her to do this. Would you send a girl to fight the goblin hordes?’
‘Will,’ said his father, ‘I cannot speak for Asrăthiel. It is for her to choose.’
‘Even so,’ replied the prince, scowling, ‘but she must choose in full knowledge of the peril she would face if she confronted them, and the hopelessness of making such a stand. In his letters the Storm Lord continually emphasises the fact that goblinkind is no force to be trifled with, for they possess supernatural arts, and they have no compunction. The slayings around Silverton bear that out. In days of yore they slaughtered hundreds of thousands—a fact conveniently overlooked by storytellers who would make them out to be easily duped bunglers—and in their wickedness they would have wiped humanity from the face of the known world.’
‘If not for Fallowblade,’ subjoined Warwick.
William made no reply, but his look was thunderous.
Next morning, as the rising sun made a burning battlefield of the cloud-barred heavens, the armies of Slievmordhu and Ashqalêth gathered their resources and launched a determined, well-orchestrated onslaught. On the eleventh of Juyn by virtue of their superior numbers they succeeded in driving the defenders from their fortified trenches and embankments. The army of Narngalis was forced, once again, to retreat. Warwick quickly withdrew his troops from the Eldroth Fields, leaving their tents standing, and hastening northward while the rearguard shielded their backs. They went precipitately, but also in orderly fashion, pushing ahead with great swiftness, and they did not pause until they arrived at Ironstone Pass, high amongst the Black Crags, where the highway passed over a saddle between two peaks.
The Black Crags, a long range of hills running right across Narngalis from the North-Eastern Moors to the Mountain Ring, were so named because their peaks were formed of a type of black basalt upon which vegetation—aside from mosses and lichens—refused to take root. Trees clothed their flanks, but their heads were bare, and sliced by deep ravines. Only mountaineers could cross those heights, except where a gap between two steep hills allowed the passage of a road. In order to reach King’s Winterbourne the southerners would be obliged to cross the Black Crags, and Ironstone Pass was the most accessible way through the mountains for miles around.
The Narngalish troops were too numerous to file through the narrow gorge before the pursuers caught up and cut a swathe through their rearguard. Warwick ordered several battalions to rally and make a final stand at Ironstone Keep, defending the pass while the rest crossed it and rode on to King’s Winterbourne. There they would swell the ranks of the household guard as they prepared the city to face possible siege. If the southerners won victory, then for those who remained at the keep there would be no way out.
Frowning from its cliff-top vantage, the massive fortress of Ironstone Keep overlooked the pass. It was once the main stronghold of the kings of Narngalis. Built long ago, it had been left in the care of a succession of stewards for almost two centuries, before ultimately being abandoned eighty-seven years earlier—but not neglected entirely, because successive monarchs had kept it in good repair. The old fortress, hewn partly out of natural rock, was well defended by the rugged terrain; moreover, arrow loops slitted its towering walls, and machicolations crowned it. All the windows and smaller portals had been sealed with stone and mortar when the last steward departed, and fifty years ago a mighty avalanche had blocked the main entrance, so that these days the only access was through a siege tunnel, large enough for two men riding abreast to pass through.
Small bands of Warwick’s crack marksmen distributed themselves in redoubts, caverns and makeshift places of refuge throughout the highlands surrounding the stronghold, ready to harass the enemy with lightning raids and sniper-action. Warwick and his sons entered the rocky vaults of the keep, along with the chosen troops. Although outnumbered, they were determined to hold out against the invaders for as long as possible, at least until Thorgild’s reinforcements arrived, or until the eldritch mists came down and goblin raiders overwhelmed them all.
Flying birds cast brief, tattered shadows over processions of villagers in wagons and on foot, who were making their way along a blossomy country lane in Narngalis, not far from the Eldroth Fields. Two of these refugees seemed to have lost their way and become separated from their families, for they hobbled along all by themselves, following a meandering sheep track through a meadow. Evidently trying to rejoin their kindred, they were making for the lane.
Strange-looking women they were, with lopsided breasts and voluminous bonnets, and scarves tied about their faces. They struggled in their long dresses, tripping over every so often. As they passed a thicket of elderberries a couple of hulking shapes leaped out and stopped them in their tracks, whereupon they emitted rasping, falsetto screeches.
‘Ho,
what have we here?’ said one of the Marauders, eyeing the women up and down. ‘These are buxom wenches! Better than the Spawn Mother, at any rate.’
‘Aye,’ said the other. ‘Hey, my pretty, give us a kiss!’
The swarmsmen made to grab hold of their prizes but instead they found themselves crashing to the ground, half stunned under the heavy rain of blows inflicted on them by the women’s swinging fists. A moment later the wenches picked up their skirts and ran away, full tilt. As they departed they hurled rags and various other objects into the air, lightening their loads to make them fleeter of foot. Their outer clothing was later discovered lying in a ditch, along with four lumpy turnips of assorted sizes.
Weepers had begun their doleful chorus as soon as the Narngalish troops arrived at Ironstone. By now the men were accustomed to the sound, and although it still sent shivers through their flesh they did not let it lower their spirits. ‘It is for our foes they weep!’ they insisted. ‘Their sobs are a promise of our victory!’ Over four days the armies of Slievmordhu and Ashqalêth beleaguered the northern troops, hunting them through the steeps to the east and west of the pass. It was no easy task for the invaders; unless they were as sure-footed as mountain ponies they slipped down the sheer walls and were broken on the rocks. Whenever one fell, another took his place; purely by dint of numbers, the southerners still had the advantage. Those of Warwick’s soldiers who had elected to remain outside the fortress sustained heavy losses, but deep inside Ironstone Keep the King of Narngalis was well ensconced and could not be prised from his sanctuary. They held the pass—for the time being, at least. Uabhar was aware, however, that Thorgild’s Grïmnørslander battalions must be drawing nigh. Day and night he exhorted his officers with threats, bribes and punishments, ordering them to flush out the Narngalish, clear the pass and overthrow Warwick before reinforcements arrived.
An unexpected factor had upset his calculations. Since rumours of unseelie hordes had begun to send tentacles of fear twinging about men’s hearts, the troops of both Slievmordhu and Ashqalêth had lost something of their lust for the spoils of war. They had grown uneasy and flighty. Morale was low, dampened by pessimistic speculation. Despite the ban on talk that might lead to sedition, gossip was rife. Like most mountainous areas the Black Crags had a reputation for being haunted, though in fact they were not—except by harmless weepers, warners and dunters—and human travellers had passed safely through them for years. Spurred by apprehension, the soldiers conjectured wildly. They began seeing things. There were claims of grotesque faces leering from crevices; of scrawny limbs erupting without warning out of fissures, tripping up passing soldiers; of clawed hands pushing unwary men over precipitous bluffs. It was whispered amongst the troops that bands of deadly wights such as gwyllion, kobolds and even goblin outriders roved the Black Crags.
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