Thorn Ogres of Hagwood

by Robin Jarvis

  Three more ogres tumbled under the swords lethal blows, and the Smith sprang onto the hill of their bodies to wield even greater threat and peril to those who surged around him.

  “For Bodach and Hafgan and Launfal!” he thundered. “For all of my kindred whose blood She shed unjustly!”

  Like one possessed he battled, striving with every raging breath against that berserking horde, and many screeched their last before his fury. But their number was overwhelming, and soon his strokes began to lose their strength and go astray. Long claws darted in and raked his skin. Others snatched at his hair and beard while the helm was knocked from his head.

  Then, clambering over the mound of its fallen comrades, the greatest of those nightmares came grinning.

  “Naggatash—Naggatash!” the other ogres chanted.

  Trampling the dead beneath its huge clubbed feet, the chieftain of the thorn ogres came. Over the humps of its wide back the thorny branches grew stout and strong, and its hide was like the armored bark of the firstborn, storm-seasoned trees. A strip of braided twigs banded its projecting forehead, displaying its high rank, and the eyes that glared at the beleaguered Smith were dark windows into its hellish, malignant mind.

  “Naggatash!” came the spurring calls. “Naggatash! Naggatash!”

  Bracing himself for another assault, the Smith lunged and the sword sang.

  Up onto its trunklike legs Naggatash reared, and a horrendous bawling shriek rumbled in its throat.

  Down sliced the sword and the Smith pushed all his flagging strength into the attack.

  A deafening discord penetrated the entire breadth of Hagwood as the Pucca’s steel clashed violently against the ogre’s iron-hard shoulder. There was a dazzling flash of sparks and the blade bit into the apparitions hide. But the blow had been too fierce, and the thorny armor of Naggatash was bound about with troll witch spells.

  A juddering, jolting vibration traveled the length of the blade. The hilt was ripped from the Smith’s hands as, suddenly, the sword shattered as though made of glass.

  With the broken tip still lodged in its shoulder, Naggatash laughed horribly, and the surrounding host shrieked their foul glee.

  Robbed of his sword, the defenseless Pucca saw the huge chieftain prowl toward him, and in the depths of those eyes he saw himself reflected, a puny, helpless figure staring at the advance of his own death.

  “Hold him!” the owl demanded from above.

  The ogre’s grin leered even wider, and then it pounced.

  Only one chance remained, and the Smith cried out at the top of his voice.

  “Thimbleglaive!”

  Still weaving a flickering net of deadly light in the army’s midst, the enchanted knife came streaking through the air. Before the terrible chieftain’s claws could close about its master, the dagger plummeted straight into the furrows between the monster’s eyes.

  A guttural gasp escaped Naggatash’s jaws, and the massive legs crumpled beneath its great bulk. Down it smashed, and the malice behind those dark eyes perished.

  It was the Pucca’s last victory.

  The besieging ogres screeched with rage at the loss of their chieftain and rushed to avenge him.

  “Thimbleglaive!” the Smith called.

  But the knife was embedded deep in the head of Naggatash. Jerking and quivering, it struggled to free itself, but it was clamped fast and firm in that dense skull, and there it remained. The trembling stopped and the magic failed.

  The Pucca was powerless and vulnerable, and the ogres flung themselves upon him.

  Sharp grasping talons tore at him, barbed hooks caught his skin, woody stems cracked against his head, and he was captured.

  Battered and bleeding, the Smith was hurled into the air then dashed to the ground close to his overturned handcart, where the frenzied hatred of the enemy overran him.

  “Enough!” the barn owl screeched. “He must not be slain—not yet.”

  Snarling, the ogres fell back, and the bird alighted upon one of the cart’s buckled wheels.

  The gold of its eyes shone with gloating triumph, and it regarded the Smiths beaten face without mercy.

  “Little thief,” the owl spoke with arch contempt. “What of thy grand design now? Still my mistress lives, but thy tale hath nearly ended.”

  Striped and crossed with bright scarlet cuts, the Smith returned the bird’s condemning stare.

  “Go back to the hag who hatched you!” he spat.

  The owl chuckled wickedly. “Still thy manners are wanting,” it said. “Yet again I charge thee to yield that which thou didst steal. Return that precious property unto its rightful owner.”

  It was the Pucca’s turn to laugh: a bleak, piteous sound in that awful place. “Little good would it do Her!” he scorned. “Nay, only Smith could put that thing to any use. You will never learn its whereabouts from his lips.”

  “Shall I not?” the owl retorted. “Many are the devices in the dark dungeons of the cold hills, diverse instruments to gouge and draw. By the morrow the torture masters will have picked the lock of thy insolent tongue.”

  Spreading its wings, the barn owl instructed the ogres to bear the Smith away.

  Once again powerful claws seized his limbs, and he was hoisted roughly above their repugnant heads.

  Racked with fatigue and weakened by the stinging pain of his wounds, the Pucca was filled with dread at the horrific ordeal that awaited him. In this, the messenger of Rhiannon spoke the truth. Under torment he might indeed divulge where the casket containing the High Lady’s heart was hidden, and he cursed himself.

  “Fires take him!” he ranted. “See where his white liver has brought him! Why did he not destroy the thing those many years ago?”

  His captors cackled to hear him wailing, and they tightened their grip on his arms and legs, squeezing until the sinews parted to make him yelp some more.

  Onto the mound of slaughtered ogres, Snaggart the ratlike creature went bounding to get a better view as they carried him by. Reveling in the Pucca’s distress, it capered madly, clapping its hands and gibbering.

  “Pinch—punch!” it yapped. “More squeals—more squeals—Snaggart like—Snaggart like! Stick it—poke it!”

  As it was prancing, the ogre’s squint eyes fell upon the Smith’s dagger, still lodged firmly in Naggatash’s skull. It licked its lips covetously.

  “Snaggart want!” it barked.

  Grasping the handle, the ogre tugged, but it would not budge. Flapping with frustration, it planted one foot squarely on the dead chieftain’s brow, then took hold once more and heaved.

  “Snaggart have!” it growled, clenching its jaws. “Snaggart pull!”

  The dagger twisted in the wound, and a trickle of Naggatash’s blood oozed out.

  “Snaggart take!” came the straining shout.

  With that the blade sprang from the monsters skull, and Snaggart somersaulted backward.

  At once he scurried back to the top of the heap, flourishing the dripping blade as he danced a clumsy jig.

  “Mine—mine!” he shrieked, vastly pleased with himself.

  Past the mound where Snaggart cavorted, the ogres carried the Wandering Smith. The imp’s crowing cries rose above all other noises, and the Pucca craned his head to look on that frolicking creature.

  A glint of green burned in the Smith’s eyes. Perhaps there was a chance, after all. He would keep his secret and cheat them still.

  The embers of hope burst into new flame within him, and a grim smile parted his beard.

  “Thimbleglaive,” he murmured.

  Flying above him, the owl suddenly saw what Snaggart was brandishing and espied the Pucca staring at it intently.

  “Cover his mouth!” the bird squawked in alarm. “Stifle his words!”

  But it was already too late.

  “Trusty knife, trusty knife,” the Pucca had muttered. “Fly to me and take my life.”

  From Snaggart’s unsuspecting claws the dagger flew. Up it soared, scribing a b
right, clear, and graceful line in the air—then down it came.

  A welcoming laugh was on the Smith’s lips, and the enchanted knife dived swiftly into his breast.

  “Fools!” the owl screeched.

  Swooping from above, the bird plucked at the dagger with its feet, but there was nothing it could do; the Pucca was dying.

  “Where is the casket?” it shrieked, beating its wings in his face. “Where? Answer! Answer!”

  “Not this day or any other, Master Flat Face,” came the Smith’s failing voice.

  “Foul felon!” the owl screamed, quaking with impotent wrath. “Thou wilt tell me! Thou wilt! Rhiannon demands it!”

  Abruptly the bird stilled its fury, and its golden eyes stared off into the gloom.

  A terrified hush descended, and the thorn ogres fell on their faces, groveling in the dirt.

  “Witchmother!” they jabbered with awe.

  “My Lady!” the owl exclaimed.

  The Smith rolled his eyes sideways, and a gently mocking smile drifted across his features. His last glimpse of the living world was of the night-clad trees nearby, where a slender figure stepped from the gloom, wrapped in a mantle of shimmering shadow.

  Achingly beautiful, the Lady Rhiannon was like a pinnacle of graven ice. Framed by the pall of her raven hair, the bleached white face was hard and cold, devoid of any softness and purged of tender feeling.

  No light sparkled in her large, loveless eyes, and she regarded the Pucca with chill disdain.

  “He is dead?” her leaden voice asked.

  “Dying, Majesty,” the owl announced. “Soon to expire.”

  The cloak furling about her, she remained in the shrouding dark—dispassionate and remote.

  “Did he speak?”

  Before the bird could answer, a sighing breath came from the Pucca’s lips.

  “Murdering witch,” he gasped. “Well met after...after all the parting years.”

  “Gofannon.” The High Lady addressed him by his true name, and the edge in her voice was as keen and deadly as whetted steel. “Ignoble and base has your wastrel life been outside our court. Redeem yourself in these parting moments. Atone and repent your arch treason.”

  A low chuckle rattled in the Pucca’s throat. “Ne’er shall you be safe, Rhiannon Rigantona,” he warned in a hoarse whisper. “The box you do not and sh-shall never have. Your own ending approaches. With the far sight of those close to death, Smith sees it truly. A fire he has kindled, and in its heat your doom is ready wrought. Your vile works will crumble and you will burn in ruin. Smith goes with a glad heart, for he has denied you yours...”

  The smile remained traced upon his lips, but the Wandering Smith spoke no more.

  “We are displeased, our Provost,” the Lady Rhiannon said to the owl. “We have not bided his long absence to be hindered here at the last. Tear his paltry cart to pieces and examine his peasant belongings. If you find naught there then scour every inch of this squalid woodland. The casket must be found!”

  The owl bowed before her, and with a final, maleficent look at the Pucca’s body, the High Lady moved back into the dark. There was a flurry of fallen leaves and a chill wind blew through the forest.

  “What of the thief? Mistress?” the bird inquired.

  Her voice came floating from the invisible, and it was frozen with contempt.

  “Let our pets search him—to his very marrows.”

  CHAPTER 13

  The Trial of Finnen Lufkin

  THE FIRST LIGHT OF morning was gray and drear. In a deep burrow, excavated beneath the roots of a wild apple tree that was too old and hoary to bear any fruit, the presiding council of the werlings met.

  It was a large, dome-shaped chamber, lit by seven lanterns suspended from the earthen, root-knotted ceiling. Old dusty banners bearing the badges of the most important families wafted gently in the musty air, and behind a long, crescent-curved table, the six council members settled themselves in their seats. Their faces were grave and solemn.

  Yoori Mattock was present, as well as Terser Gibble. Only the worthiest folk had a place in that assembly. Twice a season they gathered together to debate the well-being and circumstances of their kind. The matters they discussed were usually minor affairs: repairs to the hazel platform, disputes over dwellings, which tree to colonize next, and quibbles on aspects of wergling law such as whether certain persons ought to be allowed to retain spare appendages like squirrel tails.

  Occasionally the more boisterous elements of their society gave cause for a little concern, but they were certainly not disruptive enough to warrant punishment. There was practically no trouble from outside their borders, and because of their shape-changing talents, there were few other creatures who were even aware of them. Serious problems hardly ever arose.

  The previous night had changed all that.

  Upon a low bench against the wall, the Doolan family sat. Their faces were pale and haggard, testaments to their grief, but Bufus looked the worst of all.

  Sullen and silent, he stared at the floor, waiting to be called to the table to give his account of what had occurred, but all that he wanted was to have his brother back.

  Across the chamber Finnen, Liffidia, and Tollychook sat upon another bench. It had been decided that Gamaliel’s testimony could wait until later in the day because of the injury to his shoulder—that and the fact that his mother stubbornly refused to wake him at that early hour.

  Taking up a small ceremonial hammer, a wrinkled werling called Diffi Maffin, the great-aunt of Stookie Maffin, tapped the table and pronounced the meeting open. Shuffling a sheaf of blank papers and cutting a new quill, Niffer Muglitt, the council recorder, hoped he had enough ink, and the proceedings began.

  “Great is the sadness that hangs over our land this day,” Yoori Mattock stated. “A child has been killed while out on the important business of instruction. Here, in the cold reason of morning we must discover if the untimely death of Mufus Doolan could have been prevented and just how that tragedy occurred. The exact circumstances must be investigated and established so that we may learn and no such incident will ever befall us again.”

  Mr. Muglitt’s pen ceased its scratching, and Irvinn Goilok, an aged fellow who had an irritating habit of fiddling with his ears, cleared his throat.

  “Let the first witness approach the council,” he called, with his forefinger already probing his left lug hole. “Liffidia Nefyn, step forward.”

  Liffidia obeyed and gave a true account of how the Doolans had disappeared and everything that happened afterward.

  The expressions of the council members dissolved from portraits of dignified sobriety into caricatured masks of shock and amazement. Finally, when they heard how Finnen had fought Frighty Aggie, one of the elders, Benwin Ortle, slapped the table to interrupt her.

  “Stop, girl!” he demanded. “What ludicrous nonsense is this? How dare you mock us with your fanciful lies!”

  “Stick to the truth,” Yoori advised sternly.

  Liffidia glared at them. “I’m not lying!” she retorted. “That’s just what happened. How can you not believe me?”

  The six councillors spoke among themselves, and Terser Gibble uttered something in a whisper.

  Mr. Mattock raised his white, whiskery eyebrows in surprise at whatever the tutor had told him and addressed Liffidia again. “Is it true,” he began, “that you find the furbishment of wergle pouches to be cruel, and that you had never believed in Frighty Aggie before you began instruction? Did you not, in fact, wish to wergle into an insect?”

  “Yes,” she admitted. “But I don’t see what that has to—”

  “Stand down,” Irvinn told her, removing the finger from his ear and wagging its wax-coated tip at her. “You’re an unreliable witness. Tollychook Umbelnapper, come forth.”

  Flushed and angry, Liffidia returned to her seat, and Tollychook bashfully went to stand in her place.

  “Tell us,” Mr. Mattock began. “Why did you cross the Hagburn and le
ave Mufus and Bufus behind?”

  Tollychook stared shyly at the floor and fidgeted with his hands. That morning he had finally removed the handkerchief from around his nose, but the mouse’s teeth marks were still clearly visible. “It were them Doolans’ fault,” he burbled. “Not meanin’ no disrespect to him what’s gone, you understand.”

  “How were they to blame?” Benwin Ortle asked.

  “Cos they scarpered and left us.”

  “They went into the wild forest, and you followed them, is that it?”

  “Yes—or leastways, no. They didn’t akshully go that way, but Finnen thought they had.”

  Diffi Maffin frowned, and the many lines of her face crinkled and spread over her features like ripples expanding across a pool.

  “And is that where you met the outsider?” she asked. “One of the big folk—a wild ruffian from all appearances. Just the sort of villain we have always kept ourselves hidden from. Why did you consort with him and bring him to the interment?”

  Tollychook sniffed unhappily. “He saved us,” he said.

  “Liffidia Nefyn has told us that it was Finnen who saved you. The story changes at every turn.”

  “Oh, he did!” Tollychook cried. “Them both did. Then Old Smith, he give us a root stew. Nice, it were.”

  The councillors blinked at him, and Mr. Muglitt’s quill snapped, splattering the paper with ink.

  “Are we to understand,” Yoori Mattock said, incredulous and astonished, “that while Mufus Doolan was being murdered, you were not even searching for him but were enjoying a hearty supper?”

  Tollychook’s face crumpled and he began to cry.

  “Sit down,” Yoori commanded.

  Next it was the turn of Bufus Doolan, and the boy shambled to the desk, his eyes raw and red.

  The council regarded him kindly, and Niffer hastily cut another quill.

  “In your own time,” Mr. Mattock prompted in a soft, sympathetic voice. “Why did you go to the heath?”

  Bufus cast a sidelong glance at Finnen and the others before speaking.

  “Mufus...Mufus and me,” he began haltingly, “we just went. I know we shouldn’t have but...we couldn’t help it.”