Fallowblade

by Cecilia Dart-Thornton

  A rasping sob escaped from Uabhar’s throat, whereupon two nuggety kobolds came forward, hauled the cowed unfortunate to his feet and carried him off between them. Five others in red armour stripped saddle and bridle from the waiting mare, and turned her free to gallop away. As the kobold warriors frogmarched their prisoner into their own ranks he began to scream and beg for mercy, writhing in their grip, yowling and wailing like a fell-cat, promising to give anything in return—his wife, his sons, his treasure—if only he could be spared, but the wights gave no quarter. ‘Beshrew you, caitiff! Be quiet!’ one of the goblin knights said sternly. ‘Or soon your mother will not recognise you!’

  The aristocrats of the court of Slievmordhu averted their eyes from their quondam king and shuffled their feet uncomfortably, embarrassed by this display. Prince Ronin stood upright and motionless beside his steed, staring straight ahead, as if he were made of glass and would shatter if he bent. Indeed, something like a glass bead glittered on his cheek.

  When Uabhar had passed from sight and earshot, the singularly arresting Zaravaz bade his steed canter back and forth along the rows of human dignitaries watching in trepidation. As he rode he said, ‘Now for our second guest. I might have also taken the other king, Chohrab Shechem, but in his current condition he would provide us with little amusement.’

  His trollhäst slowed to a halt.

  ‘Being dead, I mean.’

  Some of the goblin chevaliers laughed. Amongst the human audience, no one spoke.

  In the starlit distance, a misshapen cow loped towards the pine forest at the rim of the moors. Cocking his head to one side the sharp-eyed Sovereign of Goblins watched the beast speculatively, over the heads of his captive audience. ‘Instead of the unfortunate Shechem I might take that cow,’ he murmured.

  People looked over their shoulders to discover what he was looking at. Every man and woman held their breath and crossed their fingers. There were to be three tributes, no more. Eldritch wights were bound to honour their word. If the goblins took the cow, they would choose only one further ransom.

  Then Zaravaz said, ‘But I think not,’ and immediately the human listeners felt as if the blood had been drained from their veins and soaked into the moors.

  They watched apprehensively as the goblin king returned his consideration to the assembly. Raising his voice, he spoke to a well-dressed old man whom nobody else had noticed lurking at the back of the crowd. ‘I might take you!’

  Emitting a shriek, the old man collapsed. A squire ran to his aid.

  Prince William could contain himself no longer. ‘I pray you, sir, do not take that greybeard,’ he said to Zaravaz, momentarily forgetting the prohibition on protest in his haste to ease the old man’s panic. ‘He is but a harmless vagrant who has been of great service to us, and who is under the protection of Narngalis.’

  The goblin king sighed. He began to drum his fingers against the sword belted at his side.

  A hush fell.

  In that moment William realised what a grave mistake he had made by giving argument, and all others realised it too, and they paused, and felt their hearts freeze in their bodies. First Lieutenant Zauberin had warned, ‘One more word of haggling will put an end to our patience and the covenant will be forfeit.’ And Zerstör, second of the king’s lieutenants, had reinforced this edict, saying, ‘Seek to argue again, and we shall communicate no more with words, but only with swords.’

  Handsome Zaravaz shook his head regretfully, like a patient tutor whose student has forgotten a lesson after repeated attempts to memorise it.

  ‘Well, aachionard,’ he said to his first lieutenant in conversational tones, ‘what do you think—should we finish them now?’

  ‘T’eh lhien, y hiarn,’ answered Zauberin. ‘They attempt to dicker, treating us as if we are naught but wood-goblins or market vendors. They insult us and they are forsworn.’

  ‘I crave pardon for my fault,’ William protested swiftly. ‘Do as you will with me, but prithee, do not punish all for the error of one!’

  ‘You fail to understand,’ said Zauberin, curling one corner of his upper lip, ‘that in many ways all men are alike to us. I can scarcely tell you apart. You say you are to blame, but it might have been the man next to you who gave us insult just now. Since we cannot be sure we must chastise you all, so as to be certain to afflict the culprit.’

  William scowled in shame and rage, and Asrăthiel stepped closer to him so that she might stretch up and place her hand upon his arm, to give him comfort. Before she could reach him, her way was blocked by three grinning kobolds. Their tails thrashed back and forth like furious serpents. Recoiling in shock, she proceeded no further; but, on an instinctive reflex, her hand had flown to the hilt of her sword.

  She had brought Fallowblade with her. The mistake had been unintentional. Though she knew the goblins had required that humankind ‘bring no gold’, she never thought of Fallowblade as gold—as ordinary gold, at any rate. The weapon was obviously—glaringly—the Golden Sword, but the damsel had come to view it not as metal of any kind, but as an heirloom and symbol; a fine, rare and precious object. In fact she had buckled it on as usual that morning without thinking, and it was not until that instant that she recalled, with a cold feeling, that the goblin ban on gold must necessarily include her sword. Even as she realised her error, it came to her that she had somehow managed to get away with it. The goblins must have overlooked the sword in its scabbard.

  ‘Brouteraght,’ said Second Lieutenant Zerstör, gorgeous in black mail and etiolated jewels, directing his words to the human assembly at large, ‘we never asked the princes and leaders of humankind to meet us unarmed. Do you know why? It is because we have no fear of your iron and steel. Your weapons avail you naught.’

  Intensely aware of the reassuring weight of Fallowblade hanging at her side, beneath her hand, Asrăthiel thought, Except for one.

  ‘Except for one,’ said the goblin king, as if reading her mind. He was suddenly right next to her, stooping from his steed. His sword point had already slashed through the loop at her belt, and Fallowblade in its scabbard was soaring, spinning as it flew. In its wake the king’s sword of goblin design arced aloft, spitting and hissing as it dissolved. The golden weapon landed with a thump amongst sprigs of heather, but the goblin blade evaporated, a smear of sooty smoke on the breeze. Zaravaz was gone as swiftly as he had appeared; when the damsel looked again, he was thirty feet away.

  The goblins had not overlooked Fallowblade after all.

  ‘Do not harass my lady!’ William cried in anger, while he, his father, Avalloc and many others hastened to converge around the young weathermage. ‘Are you hale?’ the prince said softly into her ear.

  ‘He never touched me.’

  ‘How many more indignities shall we be forced to suffer?’ King William growled, although he kept his voice low as a precaution.

  ‘I cannot endure any more of their games,’ Thorgild said wrathfully. ‘How I long to put an end to their wickedness!’

  ‘We bade you bring no gold!’ Lieutenant Zauberin cried. His indignation appeared to be mingled with joy at the fact his foes had given him an excuse to punish them.

  His liege lord, however, gestured as if batting away a fly, saying, ‘The butter knife is a mere trifle.’

  Prince Walter leaped from his saddle and ran to retrieve the fallen sword, but a fierce band of kobolds confronted him and he drew back.

  ‘Leave Sioctíne where he lies,’ the most beautiful goblin warrior called out impatiently. ‘We have more business to do.’ Asrăthiel could not help but note that the hair of he who spoke—so fascinating that surely it must be interwoven with some spell—was the utter absence of light, yet when the evening wind combed through it, liquid glimmers ran up and down each strand as if black fire flowed there. She felt detached from reality. The dreadful circumstances that threatened her entire species, the upheavals of the past and the probable future, the uncertainty as to what the mercurial Zaravaz would do next; a
ll this seemed remote and dreamlike by comparison to the immediacy—nay, the urgency of the goblin king’s presence, which overcame her senses like some potent apothecary’s brew and left little awareness of anything else.

  For a long instant the Lord of Wickedness paused, as if irresolute, while the human watchers wondered when he would take revenge for William’s outburst and whether this evening would be the last they would ever see. Asrăthiel flexed her sword hand, yearning to retrieve the weapon, their only defence, yet simultaneously distracted. Zaravaz pondered, then presently seemed to reach a conclusion. A slow smile illuminated his exceptional features as he said, ‘Very well. I acquiesce to your wishes, William Wyverstone. I will not destroy humankind because of your error. Know that I can be twice merciful, as well as generous.’

  This wry comment evidently amused the goblin chivalry, for many of them grinned and exchanged comments, while some laughed loud and uncouthly, as if entertained by some obscene joke beyond the ken of their foes. Nonetheless, at this unexpected reprieve, tides of incredulity and relief swept through the human concourse. They could hardly believe their good fortune, and many gave silent thanks to the Fates for another few minutes of life.

  ‘Merciful to be sure, y Hiarn,’ concurred the second lieutenant, pressing the backs of his fingers against his lips to stifle a smile. His eyes unfocused, and he looked as if he were recalling some past act of unspeakable cruelty. ‘My lord’s mercy can be boundless.’

  ‘For example,’ said Second Lieutenant Zerstör, as if sharing the joke and elaborating on the charade, ‘if my lord can find no tributes to satisfy him he might decide not to rinse clean the lands of Calaldor-Tir with human tears.’

  ‘Even so,’ concurred the goblin king in a tone of utmost reasonableness.

  To this ambiguous declaration his audience reacted with uncertainty, while the unseelie knights laughed softly.

  Briskly Zaravaz subjoined, ‘Because I’d prefer to rinse them with human blood. However, at this point I am still selecting living pledges and so far we are two short. In which case,’ he continued, ‘I must choose another in place of Shechem. Let me ask a question of you.’ As he uttered the final word his steed caracoled. The unseelie lord directly confronted Primoris Virosus, who gagged with terror and turned pale.

  The old druid had been loitering in the wings, as it were; staying in the background, succoured by a galaxy of attendants. His mount was an ambling palfrey, and by the way he slumped in the saddle, he was obviously unaccustomed to perching upon its back. Armchairs, couches and carriages were his preferred seating arrangements. Now that the Tongue of the Fates had been singled out by the goblin king, his attendants recoiled as if the druid had just announced he was infected with the Black Death. Amongst the goblin knights one was heard to comment, ‘This looks a corrupt old piece without a doubt; another craven wretch.’

  Prince Ronin stepped forward once more and bent his knee. He wore the look of a man who valued his life no longer and was merely continuing to exist in order to do his duty. ‘Sir Goblin,’ he said to Zaravaz, ‘if you are to subtract this venerable servant of the Fates, pray allow me to make a request of him before he goes.’

  ‘Well, Ronin, you are a bold one and no mistake,’ Zaravaz observed somewhat coldly. ‘To test me a second time takes courage. Do as you will, for you have shown yourself to be brave on the battlefield and have provided my graihyn with some lively exercise. But be quick. I begin to grow jaded with human company.’

  The prince turned to the druid. ‘I beg you, Lord Primoris,’ he said, ‘to lift the curse you placed upon the House of Ó Maoldúin.’

  ‘No,’ came the sour and simple reply.

  Visibly upset, the prince acknowledged the judgement of the Tongue of the Fates with a low obeisance and made to withdraw, but the trollhäst of Zaravaz unexpectedly barred his way. ‘Give no credit to their superstitions, Ronin,’ said the goblin king. ‘His curse is naught but claptrap.’

  ‘I believe in the Sanctorum’s malediction, Sir Goblin,’ said the prince. ‘What the Tongue of the Fates says is so, must be so.’

  ‘Then more fool you,’ said Zaravaz. ‘He who gives credit to a curse becomes cursed. Asper, tell this bonny bold believer your so-called hex is null.’

  The primoris, seizing on an opportunity to ingratiate himself with the powerful, immediately began to mutter an incantation, rolling his eyes and raising his hands to the skies for added effect. This went on until First Lieutenant Zauberin, unable to forbear, snapped, ‘The night is not endless!’ At the same time Zaravaz suddenly shouted into the sage’s ear, ‘I trust we are not keeping you from anything important,’ whereupon Virosus jumped to a considerable height for such an antiquity and instantly ceased his exhibition, stating, ‘It is done.’

  ‘I am grateful, Lord Primoris,’ Ronin replied, giving the druid a low reverence. His face shone with joy and wonder. He bowed also to the goblin king, who nodded in recognition before redirecting his attention to the sage and saying sternly, ‘Now, Asper, say, “Ádh bless the Argenkindë.”’

  ‘No, no, I cannot!’ shrieked the Tongue of the Fates. ‘It would be blasphemy to call for the benediction of the Fates upon unseelie wights!’

  Said the unseelie lieutenant, ‘Say as my liege commands, or have your liver scorched with heated pitchforks.’

  Moaning and wringing his hands the druid forced out the words.

  ‘Louder,’ Zauberin said, and the sage screamed, ‘Ádh bless the Argenkindë!’

  ‘Good!’ approved Zaravaz. ‘Behold, people of Calaldor, denizens of Tir, you may henceforth believe the Starred One has conferred wellbeing and prosperity on my bloodthirsty graihyn. The Tongue of the Fates has said it is so; therefore to you it must be so. Asper, have you any gold on you?’

  Asper Virosus shouted, ‘No, Your Lordship! None at all!’ The druid’s fawning servility conferred further public disgrace upon him.

  ‘And have you any rotten grinders in that decaying skull of yours?’

  Quick as a flea, even before the goblin king had finished speaking, the aged druid had whipped out his porcelain false teeth and was holding them up for all to behold, whereupon the unseelie knights went into further fits of laughter.

  ‘It is well that you are eager to please me, old trout,’ Zaravaz said amusedly. ‘My graihyn have not been so properly entertained this many a long year. Though that,’ he added, ‘is not much of a recommendation, given that they have been buried underground for centuries.’ He lifted a finger, at which the kobold Nidhogg lashed out with a whip, deftly flicking the dentures out of the druid’s grasp. The prosthesis flew into the human crowd.

  Virosus took on a woeful aspect, his caved-in face resembling a stitched-up leather bag. ‘Have mercy on me, proud sir, for I am old and weak. It would be unworthy for noble knights such as yourselves to destroy me. It is an ungallant deed to crush a beetle.’

  ‘In sooth you are old for a member of your race,’ observed Zaravaz. ‘All the more shame to those who let you live so long.’

  ‘Ah, valiant sir, you and your kind do your best to humiliate us,’ mumbled the druid. Hard-boiled and resentful by nature, and by virtue of his long exposure to universal deference, he had managed to summon a smidgin of bravado. ‘To persecute us is your delight.’

  Zaravaz scorned to reply.

  ‘And rightly so,’ replied his lieutenant, taking up the discourse, ‘for your race is held to be accursed by all the Glashtinsluight, and we cannot endure your presence in the world. We count it our duty to dip our swords in human blood.’

  ‘Burn no more starlight at this business,’ said the goblin king, re-entering the conversation. ‘I would make an end of it this night.’ In something of an offhand manner he threw the druid a question, ‘Asper, if you were participating in a race and overtook the last runner, what position would you be running in?’

  A crafty look crept across the desiccated visage of the primoris, replacing his erstwhile expression of horror. He hesitated as if mentally
confirming his reply, licked his flapping lips, then said, ‘Worthy sir, the similar question you asked of the execrable Uabhar had no catch. The answer to that was “second place”. This, however, is a trick question, because if one is running in any race, it is impossible to overtake the last person!’ As he finished the declaration his baggy mouth elongated in a type of grimace of triumph.

  The goblin king said, ‘Correct!’ and, indicating Virosus with his index finger, he continued, ‘Therefore, you must come with us!’

  ‘But I answered the question accurately!’ screeched the panic-stricken druid.

  Zaravaz replied severely, ‘You did so, in very deed, Asper. How very clever of you. So clever that you must come with us.’

  The druid screeched and wailed as kobolds bundled him off his steed and dragged him away, crying, ‘What do you mean to do with me?’ but none of his human acquaintance moved or made any attempt to soothe him. Foremost in the minds of most was the unpleasant notion, Two taken, one yet to be taken. Whom shall it be?

  Again Zaravaz paused and scrutinised the faces of his adversaries. ‘Now we come to it,’ he said. ‘The last tribute. Dismount, all of you.’

  Aghast and bemused at what this new instruction might indicate, the leaders of Tir obeyed, but in a dignified manner, and without haste. ‘What can be the reason for this?’ they muttered to each other. ‘At best ’twill be some fresh slight, at worst a cruel joke.’

  Some alleged, ‘It is trickery for sure. We’ll not escape so easily. The goblins sport with us.’

  ‘Now take the gear from the backs of the horses. Throw it down and let the steeds go,’ commanded Zaravaz. ‘If you cannot support yourselves on your own two feet, you will have to be carried or dragged.’

  ‘Will you take all of us, then?’ Avalloc Maelstronnar challenged as the horses were unsaddled. ‘All, instead of only one more, as you promised?’

  The crowd shuddered at the weathermage’s display of daring, but the goblin king raised one eyebrow and quietly responded, ‘I said I would take three, Storm Lord, and three I shall take. The rest shall walk home, perforce.’