War in Hagwood

by Robin Jarvis

  “Be silent, Master Beak!” Lord Limmersent demanded. “We are all weary of your venomous voice. What does your evil mistress say to this?”

  The owl drew itself up to its full height and, in an arrogant tone, said, “The Queen shalt not debase her dignity to even speak of it. She hath commanded me to be her tongue in this. Seize the traitors, bring them before Her.”

  At once the Redcaps pounced on Lord Limmersent and the rest of the conspirators and dragged them forward.

  Peg-tooth Meg looked at her sluglungs. “We must join them,” she said grimly. “One last fight, at the very feet of my deathless sister.”

  The sluglungs gave gargling shouts and braced themselves for battle one more time.

  “Take her!” the owl commanded.

  There was a roar. The goblins charged and the sluglungs sprang at them. Swords and maces went slicing and swinging harmlessly through the sluglungs’ jelly bodies, while their clammy fists went thumping under the visors of astonished warriors who tumbled from their horses and went clanking down the grassy slopes.

  “Megboo!” the sluglungs chanted. “Ussum punchum!”

  Liffidia and Tollychook shrank against the tower wall. Hooves and armor-clad feet were stomping and crashing everywhere.

  The sluglungs snatched weapons from scaly goblin hands and turned them upon their owners. Clamor and uproar filled the air and the sky thundered as if in response. The leaders of the klurie tribes who had been present at the secret meeting had spent the afternoon stirring up resentment against their Queen and gathering support among their folk. They were too afraid to join the fighting straightaway, but when they saw one of the goblins kick Lord Limmersent and another spit at Lady Mauvette as the Redcaps dragged them by, that was too much. Banners were hurled down and knives drawn. They leaped upon the goblins’ backs and took them by surprise. The trumpeters blew one sharp blast then cast off their instruments and jumped into the battle to fight alongside their kin.

  Seeing this, the spriggan matriarchs rushed forward, brandishing as many weapons as they could hold and dived into the fighting, shouting filthy oaths at the rebeling kluries.

  The mounted nobles rode their horses among the fighters in a riot of bright, clanging steel. Death cries rang out across the ridge.

  With the battle clashing around her, Peg-tooth Meg walked purposely toward her sister.

  Snarling and snapping, the Redcaps had wrenched Lord Limmersent and the other conspirators before the High Lady’s horse and were now itching to go join the battle.

  The noble tried to stand but they kicked the back of his knees and he dropped to the ground.

  “You have captured us, pitiless Queen,” he shouted, tossing his head proudly. “Yet I will not beg for mercy, nor recant. A murderess you are, a slayer of your own kin. May my final words denounce you!”

  The High Lady’s eyes glinted down at him. But still, she did not speak.

  “Hold the rebel cur’s head!” the owl screeched to the Redcaps. “Grip it firm and tight.”

  The savages obeyed, their clawed hands grabbing at his long hair and pulling his head backward.

  The owl chortled wickedly then spread its wings and flew down to land on the noble’s chest.

  “Was there ever so profound a fool as thee?” it mocked, waddling a little higher. “None can vie against My Lady. She is untouchable as the stars. Neither violence nor time can depose or destroy Her now. She hath ascended beyond the reach of thy petty ambitions.”

  The owl clicked its beak then licked it with its little tongue. “What conceit and enmity sizzles in thine eyeballs,” it observed as it pressed its flat feathery face closer. “Doth they add zest to the flavor, I wonder?”

  Hissing with grisly glee, the Redcaps wrenched the Lord’s eyelids wide but, before the owl could tear them out, Meg pushed her way through and smacked the bird away with her large hands.

  The owl was sent reeling. It fell to the ground but was back in the air almost immediately.

  “Call an end to this bloodshed, sister!” she demanded. “You have me; let the others go free. Stop this wanton killing.”

  “Bind the frogwitch!” the owl screamed.

  The three Redcaps holding Lord Limmersent rushed at Meg but she thrust the golden casket in their faces and they fell back, afraid. That bewitched object was crying, calling out in the High Lady’s own voice, begging to be released from the burden of life.

  The courtiers who heard it drew their breath and clutched at whatever charms protected them.

  “’Tis naught but a trick!” the owl declared. “The hag is adept at throwing her voice.”

  “What does Her Majesty say on this?” Lord Limmersent demanded, rising from his knees. “Surely She must have words; let Her deny this box contains Her own beating heart.”

  Sitting rigidly in the saddle, the Lady Rhiannon merely gazed down at them and made no answer.

  “Why does she say nothing?” someone in the crowd muttered.

  “She has been silent since we left the Hill,” remarked another.

  “Yes, sister,” Meg called out, holding the casket high for everyone to see. “Here is the thing which you have hunted for these many years. The smallest measure of all that was good in you, the residue of your conscience and the sediment of your pity, here they lie. Are you not heartened by its return?”

  Gradually, the bitter fighting ceased. The goblin knights were filled with doubt and they stared at the glittering box with marveling eyes. The kluries wiped their knives on their tunics and the nobles put up their swords. The spriggan matriarchs paused, mid-thrust, and cast their narrow eyes on that golden casket. All of them murmured in disturbed whispers.

  Disappointed that the fighting had ceased, the sluglungs plopped to the ground and went running to join their mistress, cuffing and slapping anyone who stood in their way. The deep voice of thunder rolled overhead and the first spots of rain began to splash. The sluglungs gargled with delight to feel it on their skin but the female spriggans let out horrified shrieks and ran for the trees.

  “Enough of this!” the owl screeched impatiently. “Do not listen to this slime harpy; obey thy Queen! Kill the traitors. My Lady’s undying favor to he who cuts off this hag’s loathsome head!”

  The Queen’s army stirred and gripped their weapons but were reluctant to recommence the fighting. The High Lady’s uncharacteristic silence unnerved them; even the Redcaps were uneasy. Why was she sitting so still upon Dewfrost? Why would she not speak? Why did she not give the command? She had never held back before. As her army waited in silence, that wretched voice was weeping within the golden casket, imploring to be destroyed. Was the Queen of Faerie so fearful of what that box contained that it robbed her of speech and movement?

  Suddenly, a commotion broke out at the rear of the army. Voices were raised in anger and outrage. There were scuffling sounds and someone came forcing his way from the forest, pushing the smaller folk aside. The owl returned to Rhiannon’s shoulder and peered back.

  A large goblin warden was striding through the ranks. He was carrying something in his great fist, something that kicked and squealed and cursed.

  “Your scabby ear tastes like a cow’s bum!” the something squawked. “But you’ll get bit again till you lets go. That’s a promise, you sweat-scummed sun dodger! Leave a poor wayfarer be. Hims done nobody no harm. He’ll crack your skull for you though, leather brains—that’s another promise—oh yes!”

  The assembled guards and nobles around the High Lady parted as the goblin warden came pushing through. He was a wide, solid brute with an even more solid-looking head. He was taller than Waggarinzil had been and clad in mail that was too tight. One of his fleshy earlobes was bleeding where a large piece had been bitten off.

  Lifting his right arm, he shook the richly clad thing that dangled from his fist to quiet it, then stood to attention beside Rhiannon
’s horse.

  “Sergeant Thripplefoil, Warden of the Second Eastern Gate, Your Majesty!” he announced. “Come to deliver this dandy fish we just caught.”

  Rhiannon looked down at him and her eyes grew wide when she saw what he held in his fist. There was Grimditch, in his burgundy velvet finery. His shiny, hairless face was a portrait of fury and he swung his arms and legs like windmill sails to strike his burly captor. The goblin gave him one more violent shake then threw him roughly to the ground.

  “Smells like a barn bogle,” the door warden said with distaste. “But I never saw one so primped and dollied up afore.”

  “Thou hast done well!” the owl praised him. “Where didst thou net this bright fish?”

  The sergeant removed his helmet and bowed. “’Twas back yonder,” he said, jabbing a thumb at the forest. “Me and the boys was just falling in at the rear of the call out when we sees this ’ere gaudy gingerbread go flitting from shadow to shadow. ‘There’s a rogue up to no good business,’ says I, so we laid hands on him after a bit of a chase, and when I saw what he’d been thieving, I hauled the fancy knave to the front for Her Majesty’s inspection.”

  Lying crumpled on the ground, Grimditch glared up at the goblin and kicked him in the knee.

  The sergeant cursed and struck him harshly.

  “Been nowt but snapping teeth, knuckles, and gut kickings since we catched him,” he said ruefully. “We would’ve popped the sly villain straightaways if it’d just been him.”

  “Who else was there?” the owl demanded.

  The goblin looked back down the aisle he had made through the courtiers.

  “Doodiggle!” he called. “What’s keeping you? Get a haste on. Bring out what this dirty brigand was making away with.”

  A voice cried out to him and, presently, a smaller figure came jostling through the crowd. It was another goblin warden, shorter in stature but just as ugly and short tempered. In his arms he carried a bundle wrapped in a moss-green blanket.

  “The little lordling!” everyone gasped.

  “Aye,” Sergeant Thripplefoil declared. “This ’ere bogley fiend was snatching him away, carting him from the Hill. ’Napping him, he was, the dirty babe thief.”

  He spat on the barn bogle’s bald scalp, but Grimditch was too intent on staring at the wriggling infant in Doodiggle’s arms to notice.

  “No, no, no, not hold so tight!” he barked. “And don’t wheeze your dungy breath on his sweet face—you hobbly clod.”

  The onlookers regarded Grimditch with horror. The human child was beloved by everyone. He was the one pure flame in that corrupt kingdom. They reveled in his presence on the rare occasions Rhiannon permitted them to see him.

  “Now doth I perceive the dirtiest depths of this foul treason!” the owl called out. “The frogwitch and the rebel lords lured the court hither so they might steal him whom our Queen so loves whilst he lay unguarded in the cradle. Yea, him whom we doth dote on and glory in. What base depravities! What heinous painmongers these felons be, to even consider such a crime!”

  “A month with the torturers is too good for them!” one of the pages cried.

  “Hand them over!” the torturers called, selecting suitable, serrated tools from their barrow and testing their sharpness with their thumbs.

  Rhiannon remained coldly silent and detached. The owl chuckled softly to itself.

  “Hold!” Peg-tooth Meg shouted as the hatred swelled around her. “This is untrue. I wish my sister uncrowned, yes—but I am blameless in this. Ask the thief why he did it.”

  “A thing of slime thou art!” the bird snapped back at her. “Yet thou cannot slide out of this. Thy guilt is as plain as thy face!”

  “Grimditch will tell you!” the barn bogle blurted with sudden vehemence. “He’ll tell you why he ran with the bonnie babe! To save him from Her, that’s why!”

  He jumped to his feet and pointed accusingly at the High Lady. “She’s mad, madder than you licky lords guess at. Oh, you never dreamed how stinkful bad She be, but Grimditch do—he do, he do! He knows!”

  With the rain pattering down on his face, he snarled up at the frozen countenance of the Queen and his voice blistered with condemnation as he shouted, “Going to eat him, She is! Yes, dine on his pretty pink flesh, the butchering beldam.”

  “Liar!” the owl screeched as the court uttered cries of disbelief and even Peg-tooth Meg looked shocked and revolted at this fresh testament to her sister’s evil. “’Tis bogle-ish mendacity. Sergeant Thripplefoil, tear out the thief’s tongue! At once!”

  The goblin made a grab for Grimditch but he ducked beneath Dewfrost and dodged the many hands that came reaching for him.

  A flash of lightning crackled overhead and the thunder roared in their ears. The baby cried out and pushed his hands from the blanket. In the stark flaring light flash, the owl saw for the first time the woolen effigy Gabbity had placed around his neck.

  “What is that crude, idolatrous object?” the bird demanded. “Remove it, show it to me!”

  Doodiggle clasped his claws about the charm and prepared to rip it free.

  “NOOO!” Grimditch bawled leaping out from beneath the horse. “The lordling will die to dust! Don’t! Don’t!”

  Sergeant Thripplefoil lunged at him but the barn bogle jumped aside and sank his teeth into Doodiggle’s arm.

  The goblin yowled and hurled Grimditch away. The imp went crashing into the gawping Redcaps, only to spring up once more, consumed with dread and panic.

  “Must not!” he raged at Doodiggle, who had clutched hold of the knitted effigy once again. “Take your filthy paws off that! ’Tis what keeps him safe! You’ll kill him—leave be, leave be!”

  Peg-tooth Meg took a fearful breath as she realized what the barn bogle meant.

  “You must not remove that!” she urged. “The child’s life depends on it!”

  “Ignore them!” the owl commanded. “Give the thing to me!”

  The goblin began pulling at the thread around the baby’s neck. Grimditch wailed in despair. How could he make them listen? He looked wildly from the infant to the goblin and then up to the cold, emotionless face of the High Lady. All he could do was buy precious moments for the baby at the cost of his own life—perhaps if he gave everyone something else to think about …

  Like one demented, he let out a terrible yell, snatched a poisoned arrow from a Redcap’s quiver, leaped up at the High Lady and plunged it deep into her thigh.

  “Feel a barn bogle’s sting, Wicked One!” he screamed.

  The uproar that followed was louder than the thunder. The owl squawked in outrage. The surrounding army bayed for Grimditch’s life and Sergeant Thripplefoil caught hold of him by the throat. How dare he raise a hand against the glorious, deathless monarch! The High Lady’s royal person was sacred and inviolate.

  “Treacherous scab!” he spat, squeezing his claws around the barn bogle’s windpipe. “Popping’s too good for you but you’ve breathed yer last gasp!”

  Grimditch choked as the goblin strangled him and his desperate struggles grew weak. His eyes bulged in their sockets and his face turned purple. His head lolled to one side and the last sight he saw before darkness rushed in was of the human child. A sad, loving smile spread over his face.

  And then something incredible happened.

  Rhiannon Rigantona, immortal goddess of the world, slumped forward and fell from the saddle. Her owl let out a shriek and took to the air to save itself as she thudded onto the ground, her blue cloak furling over her.

  Sergeant Thripplefoil flung Grimditch down and rushed to the High Lady’s aid.

  “What ails you, Majesty?” he cried, tearing the velvet cloth from her face. At that moment, a blinding streak of lightning illuminated the ridge. The goblin let out a startled yell at what he saw and jumped backward. The once-ravishing face was now a mask of death. The
dark eyes were open and unblinking in the rain and the pearl-white skin was now webbed with ugly black veins.

  “She … She is dead!” he gulped incredulously. “The Queen is dead! The venom of the arrow has done its work.”

  He stared down at the feathered shaft, still buried in the High Lady’s thigh. Then he took a staggering step backward, unable to comprehend it.

  No one who saw that fallen corpse made a sound. The Redcaps gibbered silently and dropped their bows as if they burned. The knights lifted their visors for a better view and swore under their breaths. Even the horses shied away and shook their manes. The nobles of the court murmured in confusion, while the blue-faced pages leaned against one another and bit their lips.

  Only one thought reigned. It was beyond impossible. How could the deathless succumb to such a commonplace wound? They could not believe it and for many minutes they could do nothing but look on her. Lord Limmersent tore his dumbfounded gaze away and stared questioningly at Peg-tooth Meg. The green-haired woman was blinking in consternation as a turmoil of emotions broiled inside her. The sluglungs’ shapes sagged and they gathered around their Megboo sympathetically, holding hands and merging into one another.

  Many of the Unseelie Court could not see what had happened and those at the back or standing on the lower slopes pushed their way to the front, anxious to learn. Then they too shook their heads in stricken amazement and struggled for an explanation.

  Liffidia and Tollychook dared to venture closer. All they had seen was the High Lady fall from her horse. With Fly running beside them, they hurried across to Meg and took in the desolate scene.

  Among the high-ranking nobles, fearsome warriors, and cunning kluries, only one person was blunt and direct enough to give voice to what everyone was thinking secretly.

  “The ’orrible tyrant be dead then,” Tollychook remarked flatly. “Good riddance! I be plum glad.”

  His words were like a pebble dropped in a pond. The ripples ran out around him and soon everyone was echoing that opinion.