War in Hagwood

by Robin Jarvis

  Meg tore her eyes away from the hill and slowly shook her large head.

  “This is a strong place with thick, high walls,” she said. “But Redcaps will scale them or delve beneath them or hurl fire at us and, when the sun sinks behind the trees, the goblin knights will follow—if we are still alive.”

  Bufus gave a bad-tempered snort. “I should’ve legged it and left you lot to face this music while I had the chance,” he said.

  “We’ll defend this tower as long as we can!” Finnen declared. “And I reckon we can do a pretty good job! The sluglungs can be stationed at the windows with spears and some can even cling to the wall outside to prevent anything from climbing up. We could do with a lot more weapons, but we can bring a load of stones up here to fling down at the army—and why wait for them to throw fire at us when we can drop burning torches on top of them?”

  “Yes,” agreed Kernella. “And we can pour scalding water on their heads!”

  Bufus sniggered. “If any try to dig their way in,” he added, “we’ll be ready with big hammers. Ten points for every Redcap smashed back into its hole.”

  The Tower Lubber laughed.

  “That’s right!” he cried. “We shall not be conquered as easily as the High Lady might think. A fine stand we shall make of it.”

  The werlings cheered but Meg held up her hand and called for quiet.

  “War is not a game,” she reproached them. “Remember, we cannot hope to win this fight. Their numbers are too great and we have no chance of surviving. My sluglungs are faithful and I love them. They have shared in my exile beneath the ground and though they are willing to die for me, I wish I had not led them to this. Let us be mindful that what we decide now will not bring us victory but merely decree the manner of our deaths. Show respect when you choose how to spend a life, or you are no better than my accursed sister.”

  Her sobering words silenced everyone.

  “And those of Her forces that we may kill,” she continued, “they are also my subjects. Many of them served under my father. Rhiannon rules them now through fear and they do not know the truth of how She gained the throne. She murdered our father, the High King; therefore I am the rightful heir. So every death this day, on either side, will be a grievous loss.”

  “I’ll feel guilty when it’s over,” Bufus mumbled under his breath. “If I’ve still got breath in me.”

  The Tower Lubber tilted his head then raised his face to the sky. Above the wooden pegs that were in place of his eyes, his brows drew into a knot.

  “News flies to us on hasty wings,” he said.

  Everyone stared into the cloudless blue. A tiny speck was rushing toward the tower. Soon it was clear to everyone that it was a blackbird, flying straight and swift.

  The Tower Lubber held out his hand and, moments later, the bird landed upon his forefinger.

  “Welcome, little friend,” he said, stroking its breast and listening to its frantic chirping. “No, you need not be ashamed; you were instructed to remain behind and keep watch. I know you would have fought bravely in the battle. What tidings do you bring?”

  The blackbird chattered urgently to him and the Lubber’s face became grave.

  “Thank you, friend,” he said. “Now go below and search for your loved ones—if they survived. There is no more you can do for us out there.”

  The blackbird flew off, swooping down the stairs to the infirmary, calling a mournful song.

  The Tower Lubber turned to the others.

  “The High Lady is darting through the forest in the form of a black hind,” he told them. “Even now she will be at the Hollow Hill. We have hardly any time to prepare.”

  “Then what are we piddling about here for?” Bufus cried as he ran to the stairs.

  The Tower Lubber followed him. “We must give orders, and quickly,” he said.

  “I’ll get some of the sluglungs to collect stones,” Finnen called. “Others must climb the walls and be ready. I wish I still had the Smith’s magic knife.”

  “I’ll need lots of water!” Kernella called as she trotted after them. “And as many pots and pans as you’ve got.”

  Their voices disappeared below and Peg-tooth Meg wiped her eyes. “The drum of war is beating,” she said, “but the rhythm is of my sister’s making and every spirit that hearkens will dance to its grave.”

  Gamaliel was standing close by and heard her despondent words. He stared forlornly out across the forest. The quiet corner of Hagwood, where the werlings lived, was far away by the western fringe and he wished he were there now.

  Everything had happened so fast. Only a few days ago, the High Lady had been a remote and unseen figure and they had never had any dealings with the hillmen. Werlings never ventured beyond the boundaries of their pleasant realm, or ever went seeking danger. They were a secretive people who hid from the world. With the aid of a token of any small animal’s fur, werlings used their powers to transform into that animal. This “wergling” was their chief delight. Why, Gamaliel’s own father, much to Kernella’s embarrassment, sported a squirrel tail most of the time.

  A chance meeting with the Wandering Smith had put an end to those carefree days, however, and embroiled them in the schemes and hopes of the proud and mighty. It was he who had cured Gamaliel’s shoulder, after young Master Tumpin had been stung by Frighty Aggie, the terror of the werlings. Gamaliel recalled that fateful night ruefully. That was when the Smith had hidden the golden key inside his wergling pouch and now everything the boy knew was about to end. Gamaliel was terribly afraid, but worst of all, he felt completely useless.

  Unfolding his arms, he put his hands to his sides, closing his fingers about the magical silver talisman, shaped like a fire devil, tucked into his belt. He reflected wryly that the Wandering Smith had made that object, too, and with its power, Peg-tooth Meg had created her sluglung followers.

  Suddenly Gamaliel lurched backward as though an invisible hand had struck him. Then he whirled around and a fierce gleam shone in his eyes.

  “I’ve got an idea!” he yelled.

  Meg stared at him but, before she could speak, the boy was already leaping down the stairs.

  “Just how hungry are those Redcaps?” he shouted.

  * Chapter 3 *

  In the Dark Beyond

  ON THE LOWER SLOPES OF THE HOLLOW HILL, a black hind came running from the forest. The owl that had been waiting flew down from a branch and alighted on its shoulder.

  The deer stamped the ground with its forelegs and reared its head. The air trembled and Rhiannon Rigantona cast off her animal shape.

  Striding forward, she approached an outcrop of rock, held out her hand and called her name, announcing her presence.

  At once the grass in front of it began to writhe like tiny tongues of green flame, then the turf split apart and peeled back, revealing a narrow staircase, leading deep into the hillside.

  It was one of the High Lady’s secret doorways. Without hesitation, she descended and the sod closed silently back into place behind her.

  The steps were lit dimly by slender, silver lamps and had been cut into the eternal stone. Rhinannon almost flew down them. At their foot a long passage curved off to the right and she ran the length of it.

  At her shoulder, the owl remained silent. It could sense the malice burning fiercely in its mistress’s mind and dared not utter a word in case she vented some of that intense fury upon it. The force of her malevolence was a constant revelation to the owl, but it had never known her to be as thoroughly consumed with hatred as she was that morning. Like everyone else in her realm, it feared her, yet that fear was matched in equal measure by love and adoration.

  An ancient tapestry hung across the passage. The High Lady snatched it aside contemptuously and passed into the deserted hallway beyond. The owl knew she was heading for her bedchamber, no doubt to bathe her face in the life
glow of the human infant—to refresh the unnatural, pitiless beauty of the High Queen of Faerie.

  Through hall and courtyard she hurried until, at last, the door to her chamber stood before her.

  Reaching out, she put her palm to the lock. There was a click and the door swung open.

  Inside that shadow-filled place, Gabbity, the goblin nursemaid, was sitting upon her low stool by the cradle. She seemed to be examining something closely in her dirty fingers and jumped with a start when the door opened.

  “M’Lady!” she cried, fumbling with her hands and catching up her knitting.

  Rhiannon sailed past her and glared at the unconscious barn bogle lying on the table.

  “Does it live?” she demanded.

  “Why … why yes,” Gabbity stammered. “But ’tweren’t easy, it was touch and go for a fair while, your poor old nurse thought it were a goner and they spriggans, why it’s a marvel there was a twitch left in the beast—them’s not the gentlest handlers. I said to them—”

  Her words were smacked into silence as the High Lady struck the goblin across her warty mouth. The force of the blow knocked the last remaining tooth from her black gums and it went skittering over the floor.

  “If I want to hear your endless chatter,” the High Lady snapped, “I’ll cut out your tongue and keep it in a jar so it can wag when requested.”

  The owl bobbed its head up and down, glad that it had remained silent and that the nursemaid had borne the brunt of his mistress’s rage. It turned its face to stare at the stupefied goblin.

  Gabbity was on her knees, rubbing her stinging mouth and shivering with shock. Tears had sprung to her yellow eyes but there was something else in her glance that the owl had not observed there before—mutinous embers were smoldering. The bird shifted its weight from foot to foot and committed the look to memory. Here was another of its mistress’s subjects it would have to watch closely.

  Gabbity crept back onto the stool and fearfully stuffed her hands into her pockets.

  The owl wondered if tongue would make a pleasant alternative to eyeballs as a beaksome delicacy. It shook its feathers in revulsion—no, not hers. It would be too tough and stringy, and probably extremely bitter.

  Rhiannon’s glacial countenance gazed down at the barn bogle. Grimditch’s breaths were steady and slumbering, but just to make sure he wasn’t feigning sleep, she yanked his head back by his shaggy, matted hair and wrenched one of his eyelids open.

  The enlarged pupil was black and insensible and rolled slowly in its socket.

  “Has it spoken?” the High Lady demanded.

  Gabbity shook her head. “No, M’Lady!” she answered timidly.

  The High Lady released her grip and Grimditch’s head fell forward, his nose banging heavily against the table.

  “If this creature so much as coughs,” she growled, “I must know of it immediately. Let no other speak to it before I return—do you understand?”

  The goblin nurse nodded at once. “As you command,” she said, anxious to appease.

  “Did you search it?” Rhiannon asked severely. “Was there aught in its possession?”

  Gabbity clenched her fist tightly in her pocket until the tiny key bit into her palm. She had been toying with the daring idea of holding on to the golden treasure for a little while before “discovering” it and handing it over, but now she had a mind to keep it herself. She had suffered the injustices of her mistress’s temper more than most. But this last slap stung her more than any she could remember. The tip of her tongue dabbed at the hole where her tooth had been and her wizened face clouded.

  “No, M’Lady,” she lied. “Old Gabbity only used her healing arts on it. That barn bogle’s bouncing with fleas, an’ a darn sight worse. Made me retch just touching the nasty louse magnet. I’ve been itching ever since.”

  Rhiannon stepped away from the table and wiped her hands on her gown.

  “Yes,” she agreed. “It is a filthy, verminous runt. But I want it watched closely.”

  She turned her attention to the cradle and drifted across to it. The delicate pink light flickered through the webbed canopy and moved over her lovely features. Reaching in, she lifted the sleeping infant in her pale arms and held him close, stroking his golden hair. There was no affection in her actions, not the merest bruise of love for the child who had been stolen from his crib many years ago. He was important to her only as a means of sustaining and feeding her ethereal beauty. His life force refreshed and nourished her.

  She inhaled deeply and the glimmering light wound around her, painting color on her frozen cheeks and rippling through her raven hair. Soon she seemed to be wrapped in a column of reviving pink and golden flame that cut through the chamber’s gloom and cast stark shadows around her. She appeared to grow, her cold beauty filling the room. It was breathtaking and horrible, like a distorted vision of a monstrous marble statue illuminated by a lightning strike.

  “I could eat him,” she said, and Gabbity knew that was no pretty sentiment; she really meant it. Would the other lords and ladies permit that, though? Surely not even Rhiannon Rigantona would go so far as to eat a baby?

  Gabbity cast her eyes to the floor. She could not look on that sight for long. The immortal splendor of the Tyrant of the Hollow Hill, wrapped in the nourishing flame of human innocence, was an injury to the eyes and made her feel faint. Never had the world seen anything so monumentally worshipful yet so wincingly cruel and repellent.

  By the time Gabbity next looked up, the child was being returned to the velvet cushions in the cradle. Rhiannon Rigantona was more ravishing and looked more powerful than ever. Cloaked in a mantle of white and gold, her midnight hair entwined with fine golden wire threaded with white jewels, she appeared nothing less than a living goddess.

  “Now, to war,” she said coldly, her delicate fingers stroking the infant’s soft, smooth brow. “This day will end in blood; death is my gift to those who defy me.”

  A cruel smile crept over Rhiannon’s face as she lifted her gaze to where Grimditch lay sleeping.

  “When that wakes,” she instructed, “I want you to search it, strip it, scrub it clean—to the very marrow if necessary—and then … shave it.”

  “Shave, M’Lady?”

  “Until it is as smooth as my little lordling—no, smoother. Let us discover what lies beneath that crawling tangle. I don’t want to see a single strand of hair remaining, not one bristle of an eyebrow. Pluck those nests from its ears and tear the clumps from its nose. Let it be as bald as an adder.”

  “As you order it.”

  The High Lady laughed quietly to herself. It was an icy, empty sound. Gabbity sucked her gums uncomfortably and watched as her mistress left the chamber. The heavy door closed, but she waited until she heard the lock click into place before letting out a shivering sigh of relief. Gingerly touching her mouth where the force of Rhiannon’s slap still throbbed, she took the key from her pocket and cooed over the winking gold.

  “She’ll not get so much as a glimpse of you, my glisty dainty,” she vowed.

  WITH THE FOLDS OF HER SNOW-WHITE MANTLE BILLOWING about her and the owl fluttering ahead, Rhiannon moved quickly through the galleries and mansions of Her kingdom: past trickling fountains and down spiraling stairs where the walls were inscribed with images of past kings. A carving of twin dragons snaked the length of the steps. Tattered banners of faded silk stirred gently overhead, hanging from spears black with age: the captured heraldry of forgotten fiefdoms conquered so long ago that not even the dustiest books in her library recorded them.

  She was nearing the iron-gated dens where the Redcaps were kenneled. Thirteen large bogles kept them in order with whip and rod and the daily ration of milk from the faerie cattle. But it was the taste of flesh for which the Redcaps ached, and the High Lady occasionally furnished them with what they craved. Her father, the late King, had not been so gen
erous, and, in spite of their love for him, they had twice attempted to revolt in his time.

  The keepers slept on cots by the scrolling ironwork of the entrance to those rough dens with whips and pointed sticks clutched in their hands.

  “M’Lady,” the owl whispered into her ear as she stepped up to rouse them, “thou cannot keep a spurring of the Redcaps secret, the whole court shall hear of it.”

  “We are beyond concealment now,” she answered. “The lovers must be slain before evening falls. I will not permit them to live through another night. They have eluded me long enough.”

  She glanced around the shadowy passage and in a low voice breathed, “My sister had many friends among the nobles. There have always been malcontents and treasonous whisperings, but if they were to learn Clarisant still lived, her name would be a rallying cry for open rebellion. Even those who held no regard for her would exult her name, merely because they hate me.”

  “Ingrates and wretches, each one!” the owl hooted severely. “Yet, they would not dare to rise up against thee.”

  “Would they not? Would that I could be so certain; then I could be rid of them. To reign without doubt or dread, with no need of the court.”

  “Just thou and I?”

  “No, my provost,” she answered with a secretive smile. “There are others who have long desired to dwell within the Hollow Hill. We would not be alone, you and I. And then my rule would truly commence.”

  The owl looked at her questioningly, but Rhiannon had turned her attention to the nearest cot. The head keeper, Dedwinter Powfry, was sleeping deeply, his wheezing snores rustling his brindled whiskers. The bogles of the Hollow Hill were a breed apart from solitary barn bogles. These creatures were larger, with grayish-blue skin and sharp features, and less impish and capricious in nature.

  The remains of the head keeper’s supper were on a shelf gouged into the rocky wall nearby. The High Lady took up a half-filled tankard and threw the contents over his face.

  “Aiyeee!” he cried, jolted from sleep and spluttering as he wiped turnip beer from his eyes. “Who done that? I’ll put some stripes on your back you won’t forget too quick!”