by Robin Jarvis
“Such a thing cannot be!” Lord Limmersent protested.
“There is no cannot where Rhiannon Rigantona is concerned,” Meg told him. “Using foul arts learned from Black Howla, she drew it from her breast and placed it within this casket—and then …”
She paused, hardly realizing that even the Redcaps were hanging on her words.
“And then she murdered our father.”
“The High King?” the nobles cried incredulously.
Meg nodded. “She slew him with our brother’s knife, then urged the spriggans and Redcaps to hunt Alisander down. And so he too was killed and thus she gained the throne.”
The assembled Redcaps flicked their heads from side to side. They refused to believe it. It was the prince who had murdered King Ragallach—everyone knew that. They had shot him with their poisoned arrows in just revenge.
Stealthily, some of them reached for their bows. They had heard enough of these twisted lies.
Too wrapped up in Meg’s revelations, the nobles did not notice that arrows were being drawn from their quivers.
“Locked within this casket,” Meg continued, “my sister’s heart is safe from hurt and harm and so is she. No power can afflict her now.”
“But Fanderyn!” Lord Limmersent interrupted excitedly. “He has the key! This very afternoon we have seen it!”
Meg shook her head. “Did you not hear the clamor before the setting of the sun?” she asked. “That was the end of the key and the destruction of our hopes. You have lost your gamble, my lord. This casket can avail you nothing. Each of us is doomed.”
“You sooner than the rest, lying Toadwitch!” a Redcap screeched as he sprang forward and loosed an arrow up at her.
Meg turned her head quickly. There was a rush of air as the dart went zinging past her ear and she felt the flight feathers skim through her hair. But the poisoned tip did not break her skin.
Sir Hobflax spurred his horse into the Redcaps and, in an instant, the archer’s head was rolling on the ground.
At once the savage creatures leaped up at the nobles, yammering for blood. Swords flashed and death cries rang out.
“Each of us is doomed!” Peg-tooth Meg repeated as the fighting raged. “Yea, even you, her savage hell hounds. My sister will breed fiends more ferocious still and your worth will be ended.”
Not one of them heard her. They were screaming at the nobles. Three of the Redcaps had scrambled onto Earl Tobevere’s horse and were tearing at his silver beard. The aged earl hit out at them and reached for his blade but they seized his hand and bit into his wrist. The Lady Mauvette’s dagger plunged into two of them. Sir Begwort dragged the third off by his ears and hurled him against the tower wall.
“Bring down the chargers!” the other brutes were shrieking.
A moment later, every little fist held an arrow. Screaming ghastly cries, they lunged at the horses. The beasts whinnied and reared and pounded with their hooves. Marquess Gurvynn was thrown from the saddle and immediately set upon. One of the evil arrows found its mark and was driven into the flank of Lord Limmersent’s stallion. The horse bucked and shivered and flung its head back.
The Redcaps jabbered with hellish glee and hurried out of the way as it pranced in a demented circle. With a terrible crash, the animal collapsed on the ground and its rider was pitched headlong into the Redcaps’ midst.
There was no time to retrieve the sword that had been ripped from his hand. Groaning on the ground, Lord Limmersent saw a crowd of brutal faces leer over him.
Then, suddenly, there came the blare of trumpets and the earth under their feet began to quake.
The Redcaps yowled and fell back in fear.
Sir Begwort hurried to Lord Limmersent’s aid but the noble waved him away.
“Attend to Gurvynn,” he ordered.
“The Marquess is dead,” the Lady Mauvette replied.
Lord Limmersent rose and retrieved his sword. Then he turned a vengeful face upon the gibbering Redcaps. Another fierce trumpet blast split the night and a silvery radiance spilled out over the forest.
From the tower battlements, Liffidia’s voice called down, “The hill! The hill is rising!”
Peg-tooth Meg nodded in understanding. “Rhiannon has commanded the Under Magic,” she declared. “My sister has proclaimed her supremacy. She is coming for us.”
* Chapter 14 *
Werlings vs. Spriggans
CAPTAIN GRITTLE HAD LED THE SPRIGGANS quickly through the forest. Yelling at the top of his voice, he had berated and ridiculed, threatened and bullied them every step of the way. Even Wumpit and Bogrinkle, who, like him, had not been part of the force that had deserted the Battle of Watch Well early that morning, smarted under his scalding scorn.
Grittle was desperate to prove to the High Lady that they were still the best soldiers under her command. When Chumpwattle, one of the younger lads, stumbled and fell, the captain smacked him about the head and jabbed him with a blade until he scrambled to his feet and trotted along faster than ever. And so the spriggans thundered through the trees and were soon crossing the Hagburn into the land of the werlings.
At the solitary standing stone known as the Hag’s Finger, Captain Grittle stomped to a halt and held up a hand for the rest to do the same.
“Alright, you dainty lot,” he snapped as he paced down the lines. “Don’t forget you’re only ’ere because Her Ladyship showed you mercy. Why that is, I doesn’t know, but don’t you go thinkin’ She’ll stay in that humor for long—you know what She’s like. We have to prove our legion is worth our cheese and worms or we’re all fer the chop. Does I make myself clear?”
The others shouted that they understood and saluted as they stamped their feet in unison. Grittle’s eyes narrowed.
“That’s more like it,” he said. “Now, that there yonder wood is where them ’orrible ratlings are. Get yerself some dead branches and lets go storming in with burning torches. Smoking charcoal twigs is what She wants that place to be, come morning, so that’s what we’ll give Her. Don’t you leave out one single tree—set each one ablazin’!”
“And them soapy weasels?” Wumpit piped up.
“Butcher the lot.”
The spriggans cheered and hunted for the driest kindling they could find.
It was not long before they were lined up on the grassy track once more, each with a flaming torch in one hand, a knife in the other, and a bundle of wood strapped on his back.
Their captain inspected them. Then with a curl of his lip, he cried, “In the name of Batar! Charge!”
The soldiers rushed into the land of the werlings, cutting the air with their blades and leaving streaks of fire in their wake.
THE WERLINGS HAD NOT BEEN IDLE.
For the past two days, they had been preparing for the inevitable attack. They had incurred the High Lady’s fury by destroying her thorn ogres, and expected retribution at any moment. They posted sentries in various wergled forms along their borders and were hard at work improvising as many defenses as they could.
It was Figgle Tumpin, the father of Gamaliel and Kernella, who first spotted the spriggans. Sitting high in a tree, in the shape of a squirrel, Figgle watched them cross the Hagburn. Then he darted back along the branches, leaping from tree to tree, and shouting the ancient alarm.
“’Ware! ’Ware!” he cried. “Wolves! Owls! Witches! ’Ware! ’Ware!”
Within moments, every werling was at his or her post and nervously waiting for the signal to begin the defense of their peaceful land.
On the grass below, the spriggans’ torches flamed into view. Captain Grittle chose a stately oak and barked at two of his lads to heap their wood around it. Before they could even remove the bundles from their shoulders, they heard a shrill whistle in the night above.
Watching them from a high branch, Diffi Maffin, an old and respected member
of the werling council, gave an indignant toss of her head. At the sound of her whistle, two groups feverishly set to work on a pair of thick ropes twined from ivy and honeysuckle, cutting them with their little knives.
“What were that?” one of the spriggans muttered.
“Vermin,” Grittle spat.
Suddenly, there was a rush and rustle of leaves overhead. The spriggans craned their necks and saw an immense bough falling toward them.
Yelling, they leaped aside, but two of them were not swift enough and the great branch came smashing down, trapping them beneath it.
“Jibbler’s eyes have popped out!” Bogrinkle shouted. “He’s a goner!”
“Get Slitchin free!” Captain Grittle ordered. “Them dirty imps are going to pay fer that.”
Angrily, he tore the sticks from a soldier’s back, piled them against the oak and thrust his torch into them. Within moments greedy flames were licking up the trunk.
“Don’t just stand there dithering like rabbits in front of the cat!” he bawled at the others. “Get burning!”
The spriggans hurried to obey but dropped their bundles in astonishment when they heard a small voice call out.
“Hoy—that’s my tree you’ve set light to!”
Figgle Tumpin had marched right up to them. He had wergled back to his usual self but had retained the squirrel tail, as was his habit. With his arms folded crossly, he scowled up at the High Lady’s soldiers.
“Put that fire out!” he shouted. “Who do you think you are? Ugly, big-eared villains. Clear off, before any more branches flatten your stupid heads.”
Some of the soldiers glanced warily overhead but the others bared their teeth at this bold creature and their knuckles grew white around the hilts of their knives.
“Slice him!” Grittle bellowed.
The spriggans lunged at the werling but Figgle bounded away, his bushy tail flicking impudently in their faces as they rampaged after him.
“Now!” Diffi Maffin called from her vantage point above.
Another rope was cut. Figgle ducked as he ran and a tremendous log came swinging down, whooshing over his head like a deadly pendulum. It was too late for his pursuers to escape and the breath was punched out of them as the log piled into their breastplates. Five of them were swept high off the ground and flung backward.
Captain Grittle watched his soldiers go flying and his temper boiled over. They were being made complete fools by these filthy ratlings.
“Kill them!” he roared.
The spriggans chased after Figgle who, to their fury, was now performing an insulting dance on tiptoe across a stretch of dead leaves and shaking his tail in the most insolent manner.
They raged forward and the leafy ground cracked and splintered beneath them. They were standing on flimsy twigs that snapped under their weight and four soldiers were tipped into a deep pit, the bottom of which was filled with monstrous thistles and freshly cut nettles.
Captain Grittle tore at his hair. Figgle shook with laughter and went scooting up the nearest tree. The spriggan cursed and threw his knife. It glittered through the shadows and embedded itself deep in the bark, just a whisker away from Figgle’s head.
The werling grimaced and thanked his luck, then vanished up into the leaves.
“Burn this tree!” Grittle screamed. “And get those clots out of that hole!”
His remaining soldiers hurried forward with their firewood then turned about, quickly.
“That’s my elm!” a new voice was shouting. It was Mister Doolan, Bufus’s father. He was standing a short distance away and he looked more annoyed than Figgle had been. At his side were thirty other werlings.
Captain Grittle regarded them with a snarl but his eye began to twitch as he saw that each of their hands held a large stone.
“That’s for Mufus!” Mister Doolan cried, letting one of his missiles fly. It arced through the air and struck Captain Grittle squarely between the eyes. The spriggan yowled and, as his hands flew to protect his face, another stone hit his elbow.
“And that’s for Bufus!” Mister Doolan added. “Wherever he may be!”
With that, the other werlings threw their stones and every one found a bare, fleshy target.
The spriggans hopped and flinched away in pain from the horrible hail, but Captain Grittle demanded they stand their ground. Stones were no match for steel and the honor of the legion was at stake. But the frenzied pelting was relentless. A supply of stones had been stowed in little heaps on the ground and the aim of those detestable wer rats was stingingly accurate. The spriggans dropped their torches and were driven toward the edge of the woodland. Then, somewhere above, that infuriatingly haughty female voice called out another order.
At once, four more heavy logs came plummeting down as the leaves under the soldiers’ boots flew up, revealing a hidden net. Howling in surprise, the spriggans were scooped up. Before they realized what was happening, they were squashed together like so many plums in a bag and, an instant later, were dangling from a lofty branch.
“I’m gonna puke,” one of them burbled.
“Get off my head!” another shouted.
“When I find out whose knives are jabbing my backside, they’ll eat my fists!” promised a third.
Other voices gave muffled shouts. Captain Grittle wanted to yell too but the back of someone’s knee was across his mouth and a hobnailed toe was kicking his ribs. He himself was upside down and his sword arm was wedged tight in the knot of bodies that crammed this humiliating snare. How could they have been so careless? His face grew redder and redder, from shame and fury.
Wrenching his other arm free, he pulled a dagger from somebody’s belt and began hacking at the net that held them.
The ivy and honeysuckle ropes gave way and suddenly the net split open. The captives were disgorged without warning and they tumbled back to earth, shrieking with fright. They slammed onto the ground in a writhing mass. Bones cracked and knives sliced through skin, boots thudded into backs and heads were bumped and bloodied.
Captain Grittle had landed clear of the sorry pile. He was severely jolted and grazed and he could feel a great bruise thumping over his cheekbone. But the more serious injury was to his honor and pride.
He staggered to his feet and whirled around murderously. The infernal ratlings had disappeared.
“Smoke and cinders,” he hissed. “That’s all there’ll be left of this plaguey place. By my blood, I swear it.”
The oak that he had set alight was now blazing—a magnificent spectacle to his vengeful eyes. When every tree was aflame there would be nowhere for those loathsome vermin to hide.
Rounding on his lads, he bellowed at them to pick themselves up and carry out their orders. He didn’t care if one of them had broken an arm, bitten through his lip, or lost an ear. They had a job to do and, so far, he was disgusted with their unmilitary conduct.
In the treetops, Figgle Tumpin watched them hobble to retrieve their bundles of kindling and pick up their torches once more. All the while they peered around—suspicious and cautious. Gamaliel’s father grinned; the next surprise would be even better than the last.
The spriggans piled the sticks against three trees and their captain growled at them to fetch more. Covered in thistle spikes and nettle stings, Chumpwattle finally succeeded in clambering out of the pit and went lolloping off to obey. In a small clearing, he saw a great mound of dry twigs and called his comrades to help collect them.
Six spriggans hurried over and began gathering sticks from this strangely fortuitous heap. As they did so, several werlings, who had wergled into moles, popped their heads up from the soil directly behind them and crept stealthily out of their tunnels. The ends of ivy ropes were lying innocently in the grass. The spriggans were far too intent on their task to notice them, or to even feel their bootlaces being tampered with.
As soon as the werlings dived back into their burrows, the female voice called down, “Now, Mister Goilok!”
Captain Grittle had just plunged his torch into the heart of the kindling at the bottom of the Doolan elm and was watching with satisfaction as the flames encompassed the trunk. When he heard those words, he whirled around and saw what his flustered soldiers had failed to notice. Just beyond the mound of firewood, a row of strong silver birch saplings were bowed out of shape, their leafy tops tethered to the ground by taut, straining ropes.
In a flash, Grittle knew what was about to happen. He hollered at his lads to get away. Some of them whisked their heads around stupidly; two tried to run but tripped over their feet. The first of the silver birches was suddenly released. It sprang back up with quivering force.
Chumpwattle was laughing and pointing at the two spriggans who had fallen over. An instant later, one of them wasn’t there. He had been torn along the ground by the rope tied to his bootlaces. He ripped through the mound of sticks and was then catapulted into the night. The rope snapped and he went soaring over the trees.
It happened so fast that the other spriggans simply stood there, dumbfounded. His shrieks had not even faded when realization dawned and they finally stared down at their own boots. A second tree went whipping back and another spriggan was shot into the sky.
Chumpwattle fumbled for one of his knives and stooped to cut the rope that tied him, but the weapon fell from his trembling fingers. Suddenly his legs were wrenched from under him and the ground dropped away. Higher and higher he rocketed. The wind screamed in his big flapping ears and his armor rattled wildly. The cinder track that bordered the wood rolled by far below, then he saw the expanse of the Barren Heath. All too soon the momentum failed and he braced himself for the crash. Then as he toppled out of the sky, he saw where he was headed and screeched in horror.
A moment later, he landed with a mighty splash in the Lonely Mere, rapidly followed by four more.
Captain Grittle had witnessed his hapless soldiers cast into the air and the rage turned cold inside him.