by Robin Jarvis
“On thy knees!” the owl commanded. “How dare thee raise thy voice to thy Queen!”
The bogle let out a strangled squeal of horror when he realized who was standing before him and he tumbled from the cot to grovel on the ground.
“Forgive me!” he beseeched her. “I thought … I didn’t … oh, most forgiving Majesty …”
Ignoring his anguished pleading, she stepped past him and looked through the iron gate that penned in the Redcaps. Amid the darkness, slivers of reflected light stared at her keenly.
“I have need of them,” she told the bogle. “Wake them.”
Dedwinter shifted on his knees as his fear subsided. By now the other wardens were standing by their cots and bowing respectfully. He threw them a hasty glance and knew what they were thinking. Each of them hoped to step into his boots and wear the head keeper’s feathered hat. Well, those ambitious bogles would have to wait a little longer for that day.
He rose to his feet and pulled the whip through his hands. “They will be alert and aware already,” he said. “When they do sleep, my lovelies keep one eye open and roving. They miss nothing.”
“They had better not,” she said sourly. “Drive them to the main south gate. I shall meet you there. I have a task for them that cannot be delayed.”
“What of the milk ration?” he reminded her. “They always gets it first thing. Blunts their appetite; without it they’ll be ravenous and a torment to control.”
The High Lady was already striding away down the passage.
“No milk today,” her stern voice came echoing.
Dedwinter looked at the other twelve keepers. They were fidgeting nervously.
“You heard Her!” he barked. “Get in there with your sticks and herd them out. And don’t be too gentle neither.”
Gulping and shuffling uneasily, the wardens drew back the bolts. From the darkness there came the sound of hissing and grinding fangs, rustling straw and countless claws scratching over the stony floor.
The Redcaps were hungry.
* Chapter 4 *
Gluttons and Weapons
WHEN THE OTHERS HAD GONE to the roof of the broken watchtower, the sluglungs had attempted to follow Meg’s orders and help the sick and injured birds in the infirmary.
Their good intentions, however, were not a great success. They had spent far too long underground. Not only had they forgotten their former lives before becoming creatures of slime and jelly, they had also forgotten what birds were.
Many of them were amazed at these strange patients with such musical voices. The wildly differing sizes and varieties were a marvel to them and they poked and prodded the peculiar things to make them sing and see how they worked.
Liffidia saw what was happening and slipped away from her exhausted fox cub to help.
“Stop that!” she told two sluglungs who were holding one of the magpie attendants by the feet and were trying to shake a song out of it. “Put her down! Meg will be cross with you.”
Tollychook did not know what to do. He edged hesitantly toward a group of sluglungs, mumbling, “Shoo, shoo!” but they paid him no heed.
The bald chicken matron was running between the clumsy creatures, clucking and scolding and flapping her naked wings in outrage.
When the sluglungs saw her, they gabbled with laughter. Even to their goggling eyes she was a bizarre sight: pink and devoid of feathers and wearing a woolen smock to keep out the chills.
Incensed, she lunged at the nearest fat leg to peck it hard. But her beak plunged through the sluglung skin with a splattery “gloop” and, to her horror, her head was encased in its thigh.
The chicken gargled a shriek, then wrenched herself free with such force that she went reeling backward, straight into another of the creatures who was thrown off balance and promptly sat on her—heavily.
Liffidia covered her eyes, aghast, but opened them almost immediately when the sluglung started laughing, loud and hysterical.
The poor hen had been completely engulfed by the creature and was flapping wildly in its belly. Through the translucent, gluey flesh, Liffidia could see her jiggling about in terror, but her frenzied movements were merely tickling the sluglung who roared and roared with laughter.
“Let her go!” the girl commanded.
“Big ha ha!” the sluglung guffawed in reply.
“She’ll drown in you!” she cried in desperation. “Don’t you see? You’re hurting her—you’re hurting all of them.”
The sluglung stopped laughing and his toadlike face looked crestfallen. Sorrowfully, he reached inside his stomach to pull the chicken out.
The matron stumbled into Liffidia’s arms. Then she fainted.
“Ussum no mean harm or badness,” the sluglung gibbered unhappily.
The sluglungs were so dejected and sorry that Liffidia could not remain furious with them. They simply knew no better.
“Why don’t you go search for something to eat?” she suggested. “The Tower Lubber must keep a store of provisions here somewhere.”
“I’ll come!” Tollychook volunteered brightly.
Meg’s followers filed from the great round room and every bird that was able sang a chorus of good riddance.
Barging past them to lead the way, and claim the best pickings for himself and his friends, Tollychook leaped down the steep stone steps that wound to the lower level. He had not had a chance to explore earlier and was keen to see what sort of a larder the Lubber kept. Surely he didn’t eat eggs all the time?
“There must be a bun or two, or maybe even seed cake—that’d make sense.”
Excited at the prospect, he hastened under a large archway and into the room beyond. Catching his mood, the sluglungs bounded after him.
Tollychook stumbled to a halt and rubbed his eyes.
In the center of that spacious room, a small fire was crackling within a ring of square stones, sending a thread of sweet-smelling smoke spiraling to the high ceiling. By its cheery light, the hungry werling saw that the rest of the room was crammed with supplies.
Surrounding the fire, arranged in ordered piles, were stacks and stacks and row upon row of his most favorite fruits. Beautiful russet apples glowed in the dancing light, each one carefully placed in an old nest to keep from bruising. There were mountains of chestnuts, shining like nuggets of bronze; three hills of hazelnuts; a pyramid of pears; stone jars brimming with berry juices; a large iron pot filled with dried mushrooms and basket after basket overflowing with grain and seeds and dried plums.
There was enough food to satisfy a besieged army for many days. The Tower Lubber and his feathered helpers had harvested it from the surrounding woods and the boy almost wept to see such a delicious feast.
“If I be dreamin’, then it be the bestest dream ever,” he murmured, enraptured.
The only problem was deciding what to eat first. His mouth was watering so much he didn’t know what to do or where to begin.
The sluglungs did.
“Ragabaah!” they yelled and at once all forty of them rushed forward, leaping and diving into the baskets, slithering into the apples, sending them rolling over the floor and avalanches of hazelnuts clattering in all directions.
“Hoy!” Tollychook wailed. “You’re making a mess!”
The sluglungs ignored him. They threw apples into the air and caught them in their gaping mouths, swallowing them whole. The werling boy saw the fruit go bouncing down their gullets and spin into their bellies, immediately followed by hails of chestnuts.
One of the creatures stuck his head into a jar of blackberry juice and slurped and slurped, kicking his legs up into the air, falling into the jar and disappearing inside. His guzzling continued to echo from within until every drop was drained and he hauled himself out, his stomach heavy and sloshing. From head to toe, his translucent skin was now flushed and stained a dark pur
ple color.
They were eating everything. Having existed on a diet of black mold and raw eels for many long years, these new delicacies were a revelation and they had no intention of stopping. They tipped up the baskets to their lips, poured the grain down their throats, and gulped down entire mouthfuls of nuts.
Tollychook was thunderstruck. Their gluttony was frightening. They shoveled so much into their wobbling bodies that their shapes became distorted; pears bulged out of knees, shoulders became lumpy with apples and chestnuts that were popping up all over like monstrous boils. To satisfy their voracious appetites, they even cast their rusted armor aside and unbuckled their sword belts in order to cram more in.
“You’re guzzling the lot!” he shouted. “There won’t be none left fer the rest of us!”
“Ullug Bukbah,” one of them gurgled. “Thissum yum yum.”
Nodding in wholehearted agreement, nine of the others let out fruity belches.
The boy could only watch as they continued to gobble down everything they found. One sluglung got so carried away that he not only ate a basket full of seeds, but he ate the basket as well. He had already eaten so much that there wasn’t any room inside his body; it lodged in his neck and the wicker handle pushed his forehead up so high that he couldn’t blink and looked extremely startled.
“Stop!” Tollychook protested, but his cries were in vain.
Close by were some lidded pots and he hurried to the nearest before it could be snatched away. Anxiously, he tore the lid free and delved inside.
“What’s this tastiness then?” he asked, groping an unfamiliar, squirming mass.
“Oww!”
He toppled backward, kicking the pot over. A large black beetle was clinging to his finger and biting it. Tollychook shrieked and brushed it off, then saw that scores of other beetles were streaming from the overturned pot.
The sluglungs warbled with pleasure and fell upon the insects with relish, licking them up with their horrid wet tongues, then emptying the other pots into their mouths. They were filled with worms and grubs, moths, millipedes, and green caterpillars, and all went flooding down the sluglungs’ necks. The creatures burbled and gargled as the insects wriggled and writhed inside them. It was a nauseating sight.
Tollychook felt sick and wondered if he’d ever be hungry again.
Within minutes, everything was gone: every last grain, every morsel of fruit, every single hazelnut, every crawling insect. Only one jar of elderberry juice remained, and three of the sluglungs were quarreling over who should drink it.
Tollychook stared around the ransacked storeroom at the upturned bowls, broken pots and empty nests and baskets and shook his head desolately.
“You dirty girt gluttons,” he groaned. “You barrel-bellied gutsies.”
The engorged creatures grinned at him, patting their distended tummies with pride and contentment.
It was then that the Tower Lubber came rushing down the stairs and into the room, followed by Finnen and Bufus.
“Hurry!” he shouted. “The High Lady is on her way. We must be ready to defend this place and fight. Half of you run outside and gather as many large stones as you can find; the rest take up your arms and climb the walls.”
Tollychook scratched his head and looked at the sluglungs. “I doesn’t reckon them’ll be running nowhere,” he said. “And I’m certain sure they won’t be able to do no climbin’. Them’s way too fat now.”
“What has happened?” the Tower Lubber demanded.
“They done found your larder and gobbled the lot,” the boy told him sheepishly.
“Everything?”
“Apart from one last jar of berry juice, and that won’t be fer much longer.”
Bufus scrunched up his face and jabbed an accusing finger at Tollychook.
“Why didn’t you stop them?” he demanded. “How’re they supposed to fight now? They can’t hardly walk! I bet you was stuffing your own greedy gob—always thinking of grub, you are.”
“I never had so much as a nibble!” the boy protested. “Don’t blame me—’tain’t fair.”
While they argued, Kernella came huffing up behind them and gaped at the obese, misshapen sluglungs. Most of them were on their backs, too heavy to move and tittering at the action of the insects inside them. The argument over the jar was still in progress, and in one corner, two others had discovered an iron ring on the floor and were sniffing it experimentally.
“I thought they were ugly before!” she exclaimed. “Who knew it could get worse?”
“It’s Chookface’s fault,” Bufus told her.
“Stop squabbling!” Finnen told them. “We’re wasting time.”
“Oh, are we?” Bufus cried, rounding on him. “Do tell us, what does know-it-all Lufkin have up his sleeve to get us out of this one? We didn’t stand an earthly chance before, but now …”
“I can still boil some water,” Kernella suggested feebly.
The Tower Lubber covered his face with his large hands and his humped back bowed even more. “We are beaten before we begin,” he said.
“Nuts and pips!” a defiant voice rang out behind them. “Don’t give up—the battle hasn’t started yet.”
Everyone turned and there was Gamaliel, his round face beaming. In his hand, he brandished the silver talisman.
“The fire devil!” Tollychook gasped. “How’d you get hold of that? ’Twas round the High Lady’s neck.”
“Not this one,” Gamaliel declared. “We brought this up from the caves. Peg-tooth Meg had it in a huge pot of dark water that poor Finnen had to drink.”
“That’s right,” Kernella said. “And it made him turn into a sluglung too for a while.” She was going to say more but she suddenly remembered that she had kissed Finnen while he was one of those slimy creatures and the repulsive memory made her gag and feel queasy.
The Tower Lubber reached out and Gamaliel passed him the talisman.
“Harkul,” he whispered, running his fingertips over the silver. “Crafted in the forge of the Puccas, so many years ago. …”
He paused and touched it to his lips, remembering that rain-lashed night when he had fled the Hollow Hill with the Princess Clarisant.
“It was this,” he said softly. “The Wandering Smith used this dainty talisman to change Clarisant and me into the distorted grotesques you see today.”
“Then use it to turn yourselves back!” Kernella urged. “Be a handsome prince again.”
“Not yet,” he answered. “The time is not right—we will know when, if by some miracle we make it through.”
“You’re barmy,” Bufus snorted. “Or lubbing’s a lot better than you crack on.”
Finnen brought them back to their present predicament.
“How do you think the talisman can help?” he asked Gamaliel. “We’ll never be able to touch each Redcap with it when they come marauding. There’ll be too many.”
His friend smiled and looked across the room.
“Tell them sluglungs to get away from that jar,” he said. “I’ve got a better use for it.”
Finnen thought he understood. “You mean put it in there? But even if we could get the Redcaps to drink the juice, would it work the same as the dark waters?”
“Excuse me, Mister Redcap,” Bufus began in an arch, mocking tone. “Would you please be so kind as to halt your rampaging a moment and try our magic drink? Thank you muchly.”
“Don’t seem likely they’ll do that fer us,” Tollychook put in with a shake of his head.
“I do not believe that is what our young friend is suggesting,” the Tower Lubber said. “Continue, Master Tumpin.”
Gamaliel took a deep breath.
“We can’t force the Redcaps to drink,” he began. “But they’re always hungry; if we dunk something they can’t resist in juice that the fire devil has charged with
the power of change and scatter it between the edge of the forest and the tower, then we might have a chance.”
“Some chance!” Bufus cried. “Why didn’t you tell us before the ten bellied sluglungs stuffed their froggy faces? Haven’t you noticed? The cupboard is most definitely bare! Unless you’ve got a secret stash of pies stuffed down your jerkin.”
“It’s flesh that Redcaps crave most of all,” Finnen said slowly. “Gamaliel, what are you thinking?”
The boy looked up at the Tower Lubber. “This is a desperate hour,” he said in a steady and entreating voice. “It’s not just us, here in this place, that are in danger—there’s our folks back home and no doubt others in the Hill, and maybe more I don’t know about and can’t even guess at. Sacrifices have to be made. Some already have been made. …”
A look of pain passed over the Lubber’s face.
“My fallen children?” he breathed.
“They died fighting bravely, and now they can help us again.”
Bufus looked at Gamaliel in astonishment. “The birds!” he said as realization dawned on him. “All them dead birds out there, what the spriggans killed!”
“Perfect Redcap breakfast,” Finnen murmured.
“And our only chance,” Gamaliel said.
Tollychook grimaced and wiped his large nose. “That be downright ’orrible,” he said.
Finnen gripped Gamaliel’s shoulders. “You’re a marvel!” he cried. “That’s brilliant.”
“Well I’m not touching any dead birds,” Kernella announced with an emphatic toss of her head.
Before the Tower Lubber could speak, there came the sound of grinding stone and grunts of exertion. Two sluglungs in the corner were heaving on the iron ring they had found set into one of the flagstones.
The flagstone moved; lifting from its place in the floor, and, straining their bendy, bloated backs, the sluglungs dragged it aside.
The Tower Lubber had never realized the true purpose of the iron ring he encountered in the first sightless mapping of his ruined home. He had assumed it was for shackling prisoners.