by Robin Jarvis
With a rush of fur and muscle, Batar leaped at the Captain, snatched him up by the scruff of his neck, and shook him violently.
The spriggan squawked and squealed, pleading for his life. The immense wolf tossed its head and sent him tumbling through the air. He landed with a clatter of armor and weapons on the cinder path and Batar pounced on top of him, pinning him down with powerful paws.
The great jaws came slavering down. Captain Grittle felt the hot breath burn on his exposed throat and waited for the end. But the Wolf of War did not tear into his flesh. Instead, it bit the medals from his breastplate and spat them out, one by one.
There was a final threatening growl and the monster lifted its heavy paws off Grittle’s chest and paced backward, letting him run free.
His hobnail boots went crunching over the track and he rapidly caught up with the other spriggans. Too terrified to speak, they charged along the path and left their God of War far behind.
Batar watched them tear into the distance then turned. The wolf’s terrible eyes fell upon the werlings who were still huddled on the ground. They were faint from fear. One grisly fate had been replaced by an even more horrendous doom. Now they were going to be devoured by the foul and hideous monster.
Then, to their astonishment, from the creature’s gullet, a familiar voice came issuing.
“Is my nan in there?”
The werlings goggled at the gigantic shape. Before their eyes, the fur and sinew blurred. The demonic wolf dwindled and shrank. In its place, chuckling at their monumental surprise, was Finnen Lufkin.
There was a stunned silence and then an almighty cheer. Everyone rushed forward and surrounded him. His frail grandmother threw her arms about his neck and wept proudly. Hundreds of questions were fired as they clapped him on the back and shook his hands vigorously. How did he ever wergle into such a huge creature, they wanted to know. How was it possible? Where had he been? Where did he go with Yoori Mattock and where was the respected elder now? What was happening beyond their borders? Would the High Lady send other soldiers? What were they to do now?
Everyone was shouting at once and Finnen couldn’t make himself heard.
Finally, Diffi Maffin called for quiet. “Let the boy speak!” she commanded.
The excited werlings suppressed their relief and bubbling curiosity with difficulty.
“Proceed, Master Lufkin,” Diffi Maffin prompted with an encouraging wink.
And so Finnen told them what was happening far across the forest: of the plight of Liffidia and Tollychook, besieged in the tower, and the battles that had already been fought that day. He spoke of his time down in the caves of Peg-tooth Meg and explained who she really was and how she was the rightful ruler of the Hollow Hill.
No one had heard such a grim and terrible tale and they marveled at the ordeals he and the others had endured. Then Figgle, who had been listening with mounting impatience, could contain himself no longer.
“And where are my children now?” he interrupted. “Are they trapped in that tower too?”
A look of intense sorrow passed over Finnen’s face. “They were,” he answered. “Gamaliel and Kernella were fetching weapons from the cellars, but …”
His words faltered but his expression said everything. Tidubelle and Figgle turned pale and held on to each other.
“What happened?” Figgle asked in an empty voice.
Finnen could not bear it. He had struggled all day to push his grief aside and do what had to be done, but now the dreadful loss of his friends threatened to overwhelm him. With a lump swelling rapidly in his throat, he told of the flagstoned floor that had collapsed on top of them. Then, in the crowd, he saw Mister Doolan and his wife.
“Bufus,” he began, “was with Gamaliel and Kernella when it happened. He was lost too.”
The werlings shook their heads in disbelief and for a while the only sound was the roar of the burning woodland.
“And at this very moment, the forces of the High Lady are attacking the tower,” Finnen said. “Nothing can stop Her.”
Diffi Maffin pursed her lips in concentration. Such matters were beyond her knowledge and experience. Rhiannon Rigantona was too great an enemy for any of their kind. She turned once more to Finnen.
“You have not yet explained how you managed to wergle into such a gigantic beast as that frightful wolf!” she exclaimed. “How is it possible to change into something so many times bigger than yourself? It has never been done before. It is a breakthrough in werglecraft.”
Finnen looked into her curious, wrinkled face then dropped his gaze and stared at the ground.
“I was never the great wergler I pretended to be,” he began.
A murmur ran through the crowd.
“So how did you do it?” asked Diffi Maffin.
“The Silent Grove is on fire,” the boy answered somberly. “All those blessed beeches, all those entombed Wergle Masters and adepts are burning, burning fast. So what I did, what I had to do, was walk right into the heart of that smoke, as close to the trees as I dared—and breathe in deep.”
The faces of the werlings fell. Some of them uttered small whimpers of disbelief. The admiration they felt for the boy disappeared instantly as the realization of what he had done sank in. Diffi Maffin shuddered.
Finnen’s grandmother squeezed his hand. Her love for him never faltered for a moment.
“Our most hallowed place,” Diffi Maffin whispered. “Our most honored ancestors, our cherished family trees have been put to the flame and you defile their sacred memory by doing this! Is there no scrap of respect in you, child?”
Finnen could feel the reproachful glares before he even lifted his eyes to meet them.
“I’d rather you’d let the spriggans kill us!” someone shouted.
At first, the boy had been ashamed, but that feeling was quickly replaced by anger. There wasn’t time for this. Tollychook and Liffidia were still in the most terrible danger and he knew that he would gladly inhale the enchanted smoke a thousand times if it could save them.
“I can’t believe you ungrateful lot!” he said in a defiant voice. “You really expect me to apologize for rescuing you. Well I won’t!”
“What you have done is wicked and profane!” Diffi Maffin answered. “You have desecrated the revered dead, and insulted our traditions and history.”
“The grove is finished!” he told her. “That old way of life is finished. There’s no sense crying over it! But look at the chance that’s been given to us—an amazing, miraculous hope.”
He turned to the muttering crowd. His eyes were shining with more than just the reflected firelight and his voice was charged with passion.
“Don’t you see what’s happened here?” he cried. “It’s a blessing—we’ve been granted a fantastic way to fight. The only way we really understand and are good at. When I breathed in that smoke, I could feel the might and skill of those old masters coursing through me, making me strong. I knew I could become anything I wanted.”
The werlings did not want to hear any more of this nauseating and blasphemous talk and began walking away from him. The depraved boy would never understand. How could they trample over their traditions and violate their history?
“Listen to yourselves!” Finnen shouted, incredulously. “You’re clinging to something that’s already dead—in every sense. Would you really sacrifice your futures for the sake of what’s past? Even when Meg was at her maddest, down in the caves, she was saner than the whole lot of you! She knew how important change is. Look where all our hiding has got us—our homes are burning, our old lives are gone forever. We can’t live by those rules anymore and the High Lady will see to it that we don’t live at all. More of Her warriors will come to kill us.”
“Better that than what you’re suggesting,” a disgusted voice barked back at him. “And when the fires are out, you’ll want u
s to mix the ashes into our porridge as well, no doubt.”
“We won’t survive long enough to see the fires go out!” Finnen shouted back. “This night sees the end of everything—us included. If we go battle the High Lady’s soldiers now, we might just do some good, somehow. It’s better than waiting here for them to come slaughter us.”
He cast his anxious gaze around the frightened and distressed crowd and caught sight of a plump couple listening intently to his words as they huddled close to each other. They were the parents of Tollychook.
“We must go save your son!” Finnen told them. “Or at least die in the attempt!”
The Umbelnappers looked at one another uncertainly then shook their heads. “Us can’t meddle with the big doings of lordly folk,” they said humbly. “Us can’t help our poor lad.”
Finnen glared at them, too angry to respond. This was hopeless; precious moments were being squandered. With a resolute toss of his head, he made his decision.
“No more words then,” he announced. “If no one will come with me, then I’m going on my own.”
He gave his grandmother a final kiss on her cheek and, with a fierce scowl, pushed his way through the crowd and headed back to the burning woodland.
“Maybe there is one other who will help,” he murmured to himself, but he shivered at the very thought. Then, remembering his friends, he stuck out his chin and ran between the flaming trees.
The other werlings shifted uneasily as he disappeared into the horrific blaze and vanished from sight. They glanced at one another guiltily.
“That boy’s mad. You should have stopped him,” they told Diffi Maffin. “It’s to his death, he’s gone. That’s for sure.”
“Yes,” she answered mournfully, “I know. … Yet he’s the bravest of us all.”
* Chapter 15 *
The Immortal Goddess of the World
LIFFIDIA LOOKED OUT FROM THE BATTLEMENTS of the broken tower and saw the glimmering lights of the Unseelie Court winding through the forest. There were so many lanterns it looked like a river of emerald fire had spilled from the open hill. Drums were beating and trumpets were blowing and heralds were proclaiming the approach of Her Great Majesty, Rhiannon Rigantona.
“There be a mighty lot of them,” Tollychook observed unhappily.
The girl agreed and drew her fingers through Fly’s fur for comfort.
Beside them, the sluglungs had formed a glooping conglomeration that rippled with apprehension. Their floating eyes had crowded together to stare at the Hollow Hill as it emptied, the faerie realm pouring out in a seemingly endless stream; their lipless mouths gibbered forlornly.
At the foot of the tower, Peg-tooth Meg was also gazing at the advancing multitude. Before her, the nobles of the court who had conspired against her sister were waiting with defiance or dread upon their faces. Surrounding them, the Redcaps toyed with their bows and licked their teeth.
The forest resounded with the full might and pageantry of the Unseelie Court.
First came the drummers: stumpy and stout goblins with drums almost larger than themselves slung from their necks. Next came the heralds: long-legged creatures called powries, wearing tunics of silver and crimson. As a thunderous chorus, they called out the many titles of the High Lady.
Striding behind them came the klurie trumpeters. Each of them bore two trumpets: one black and one gold, each fashioned in the shape of a hissing serpent that coiled around its bearer’s shoulders and waist and faced outward. Following the trumpeters, ranks of armored goblins marched bearing pike shafts, iron maces, and war banners. Their heavy trudging caused the branches to tremble overhead. Then came a troop of goblin knights upon their coal-black steeds, which stamped and snorted and blew steam from their nostrils.
Upon the battlements, the werling children beheld the momentous force approach in dumbstruck silence. They had never dreamed how great the numbers would be.
Smaller creatures bearing lanterns and incense burners flanked the fearsome knights, filling the forest with hazy, perfumed light and threads of green and purple smoke. Then rode the lords and ladies, upon their gray horses and accompanied by every member of their households. Even the dairymaids were there, looking suitably stern and carrying large wooden butter paddles as weapons.
After them came the klurie pages, bearing pennants showing the badge of the black owl. The matriarchs of the spriggan families were next, looking every bit as fierce as their sons and grandsons and similarly armed to the teeth.
Rhiannon Rigantona, the Tyrant of the Hollow Hill, Supreme Ruler of Hagwood, goddess of the unsuspecting world beyond, followed upon Dewfrost. A cloak of dark-blue velvet trimmed with silver was draped from the High Lady’s shoulders and a tall, diamond-studded crown sat upon her flowing black hair. Her pale complexion was as lustrous as the winter moon, her eyes as remote. She stared fixedly ahead, expressionless and still. Perched upon her shoulder was the owl. It too was silent, its head ducking and rising with the motion of the horse, keeping its golden eyes perfectly level.
Countless more goblin knights and foot soldiers followed and the innumerable lesser folk brought up the rear. Even the torturers had been summoned from their dungeons and they wheeled iron barrows filled with cruel implements, just in case their skills were required.
The grassy ridge between the edge of the forest and the tower shone with the glow of countless lamps as the denizens of the Hollow Hill came striding forth.
Liffidia and Tollychook watched the mighty host flood onto the ridge, spilling down the slopes and mustering in formidable ranks. The night sky curdled with clouds and thunder growled menacingly in the distance. Over the Cold Hills in the north, streaks of lightning forked and flashed. A great storm was on the move but the werlings did not notice, their attention wholly captured by the events below.
“I can’t bear being up here any longer,” Liffidia said suddenly. “I need to go down and be with Meg. The soldiers are going to come up and kill us anyway. I’d sooner be down there so we can die together, wouldn’t you?”
Tollychook thought that he would much rather be home in bed with a full stomach and dreaming of pies but, as that was impossible, he nodded glumly.
Liffidia turned to the undulating mass of sluglungs.
“Time to go,” she said softly.
Croaks of agreement came from many mouths and their bobbing eyes blinked and winked at her. From that great, glistening heap, three hands came stretching. They wrapped around the werlings and the fox cub. Then, squelching and quivering, the formless sluglung mound went oozing over the battlements and rolled slowly and stickily down the wall.
Held firmly in a gluey hand, Tollychook squeezed his eyes shut. He didn’t like this at all. Liffidia pressed her lips together and watched the ground draw gradually closer.
On the ridge, the trumpets and drums ceased, and the heralds held their breaths.
The High Lady came riding from the rear.
The Redcaps that surrounded Lord Limmersent and the rest of the conspirators bowed low. Peg-tooth Meg clutched her harp tightly and waited. Her sluglungs came dripping down beside her and the werlings swallowed nervously.
Running in front of the High Lady’s horse were thirty female kluries. They were the owl dancers. Black, feathered masks covered their unlovely faces and their costumes sported wings attached to their arms. Shaking their heads and shrieking in high voices, they came bounding into the space that had been left clear between the opposing forces and spun around wildly in a euphoric, leaping dance before dropping to their knees and raising their wings to welcome the Queen.
Dewfrost walked regally between them, then stamped to a halt. Rhiannon’s dark eyes glittered at the broken watchtower.
Peg-tooth Meg stared back at her.
The thunder grumbled louder in the distance and a bolt of lightning smote the raised summit of the Hollow Hill.
Everyone watched and waited. The High Lady’s forces wondered about the identity of the grotesque woman clutching the strange harp. They stared in revulsion at the bobbing blobs of goo standing guard around her. And why were Lord Limmersent and the others already here? Had they been sent on ahead? Where were the spriggans? And where were the keepers of the Redcaps? It was all most perplexing and remarkable. But in spite of the questions that fermented and frothed in their minds, no one spoke. They could all sense this was a tremendous, critical moment, heightened by the electric jags that streaked across the sky.
It was Meg who broke the silence.
“You have returned, my sister,” she said. “Come to deal me the final blow with your own hand, as you did to our beloved father, the High King.”
Hearing her words, the denizens of the Hill uttered gasps of surprise and wonderment. Even the owl dancers lowered their wings and looked at the ugly woman in confusion.
“Yes!” Lord Limmersent called out. “This is indeed our Princess Clarisant. We have been deceived these many years. Rhiannon Rigantona lied to us all. It was She who murdered King Ragallach, not Alisander. Clarisant is our rightful ruler!”
The army looked over at the High Lady for an answer. Her face remained impassive and cold. At her shoulder, the owl puffed out its chest and cleared itss throat.
“Thus speaketh the illustrious Lord Limmersent!” it cried. “Behold the fumbling fool, caught out in his hapless and shipwrecked conspiracy. Know now, faithless worm, that the architect of thy seditious plot, Lord Fanderyn, lies dead and cold within the Hill. Didst thou truly believe thou couldst claim kinship twixt our exulted Majesty and yon deformed toad crone? What fevered madness hath boiled thy wits, my lord?”
“He speaks the truth!” Meg declared. “I am Clarisant, though I do not expect any to believe me. My sister knows; that is enough.”
“Rhiannon Rigantona knows nothing of the kind!” the owl repudiated. “Thou, foul-faced ditch hag, are in the employ of My Lady’s enemies and will utter aught they hath schooled thee to say.”