The Exiled Heir (Autumn's Fall Saga)

by Jonathan French

The Roost was no orphanage, but Pocket had known no other place. Sir Corc had brought him here from Airlann, an island somewhere to the west. He was just a babe at the time, the memory impossible to capture, but Pocket had come across a crude map of the isle while cleaning near the Campaign Hall. It lay crumpled, torn, smudged and forgotten beneath a discarded bookshelf. Rescuing it, Pocket hung it across from his bed. He stared at it now, a flat, mysterious scribbling of a place he had once been, ragged proof that he came from somewhere.

  A yawn came unbidden and Pocket lay back on his bed, cradling the sausage Moragh had given him. He was fearful to close his eyes, worried that he would sleep through the funeral. But close they did and Pocket dozed in half-sleep, warm and protected, rolling to his side, curling into himself. He became aware of a softly stuttering breath near his ear and smiled to himself, waiting. Seconds later, a clipped yowl demanded his attention. Pocket rolled over to see Napper’s orange, whiskered face, staring at him expectantly.

  “Hello, handsome cat,” Pocket said in a gleeful whisper, reaching over to scratch the soft fur between Napper’s ears. The cat continued to stare at him, eyes narrowing slightly at the sensation of Pocket’s fingers. Changing his approach, Pocket hooked his fingers under Napper’s jaw, the cat lifting his face cooperatively, allowing his favorite spot to be tended. The scratching ceased as did the contented purring and Pocket hooked his arm in front of him on the bed. Napper walked into the space made for him and circled it twice before lying down, snuggling into Pocket.

  “I nearly forgot!” Pocket admonished himself. “I have something for us.” He sat up, receiving an annoyed look from Napper. “Oh, you will forgive me when you see what it is.”

  He fetched the clay jug from its perch and pulled the cork free of the wide mouth. Pocket took a healthy swallow from the jug, the milk pleasant, thick and still cool. Napper had risen, suddenly alert and reached up to place a paw on Pocket’s chin. Pocket giggled, echoing softly into the jug. Removing it from his lips, he tipped the jug so that the milk was just about to pour free, then held his hands steady as Napper nosed in, licking at the liquid. When the cat was finished there was still a good deal left, which Pocket drained between mouthfuls of the sausage, occasionally pinching off bits of the meat for Napper.

  “We should go,” Pocket told his friend, who looked up seeking more sausage.

  Taking only his candle, Pocket left his sanctuary, Napper following close behind. They climbed the stairs of the tower to the fifth landing, opening the heavy wooden door onto a dark hallway. Cradling the candle flame, Pocket shouldered the door closed behind them and set off down the passage, the light patter of four clawed feet sounding steadily behind him. The windows in the hall were little more than arrow slits, but they afforded enough view to assure Pocket he was not too late. Night, seemingly the longest in his life, still held dominion outside.

  Luckily, the servants were all busy in the lower levels among the living areas of the castle and he met no one. It was not precisely forbidden to wander, but Pocket did not want to answer any questions about why he was awake and not working. The rare times anyone spoke to him it was always to accuse him of some mischief, real or imagined.

  He was just beneath the North wall in a section of the Roost constructed solely for defense. Of course, the castle had not known a single siege in its long history and there had not been a standing garrison for over a century. Now, it was a headquarters for the Grand Master and the Knights Sergeant, a training ground for the squires and a rally point for the Knights Errant, who returned only once every two years, unless there was a matter of great importance—like the death of a former Grand Master. The knights had gathered four times in Pocket’s life, only the last two of which he actually remembered, but the event was sacred to him. Sir Corc would return with all the others with news of the world, tales of their deeds, fresh scars on armor and flesh. Pocket was saddened by the passing of Coalspur, but his excitement about seeing the knights so soon after their last reunion was undiminished.

  Pocket had scouted his route days before and made for a window in an old turret that opened onto the roofs near the eastern gate. He scooped Napper from the ground, draping the cat over his shoulder and climbed out. The wind was too strong for his candle, snuffing it mercilessly the second he was outside, so he made his way in the dark, the silhouettes of the castle architecture black against the star filled sky.

  The Roost was built atop a high, rocky crag. A slip in either direction would likely be fatal. The mere thought of the dizzying height past the outer wall was too much for Pocket, so he stayed to the side of the roof which sloped towards the interior of the castle. Thankfully, Napper did not grow restless or try to dislodge himself, trusting to be carried along.

  The castle was a confusing marriage of original stonework fortification and more recent structures of wood and plaster, creating a chaotically layered jumble of battlements, casements, spires and shingles. Pocket planned his route so that he ended up above the fortified bulk of the east gate, easily able to clamber down and gain the flat roof. He ducked low and crossed to the outer facing edge, peering cautiously around one of the merlons.

  A wide, rocky bluff lay below, jutting from the cliffs at the base of the wall, facing east. Below and beyond, lay the highlands of Albain, lost for now in the final darkest hours of night. There was no approach to the castle from the east, no road, only sheer cliff face. The east gate, above which Pocket sat, served only to access the bluff from the inner courtyard of the castle. At the edge of the bluff sat a pedestal of stone, simply stacked, devoid of ornament or carving, but surrounded by large bundles of wood packed with straw. The squires were already in attendance, waiting along the processional way leading from the gate to the pedestal, bearing their iron tipped quarterstaffs, their combs covered by leather caps, fifty in all. The two nearest the pedestal held torches, the light from the flames sparsely illuminating the bluff.

  Pocket caught sight of Áedán mac Gabráin, chief of the Dal Riata, standing off to the side with some of his clansmen, each holding a bladder pipe. The knights must have broken with tradition, allowing the humans to attend in honor of the allegiances Coalspur made with their clans during his tenure as Grand Master.

  “We made it,” Pocket whispered to Napper, clutched firmly against his chest. “Shouldn’t be long now.”

  True to his word, mere minutes passed before the unseen tunnel of the gate below echoed with a sharp clacking, metal on stone, the noise created by many small sources, amplified in unison.

  Pocket felt his heart jump and could not keep himself from leaning over, craning to see the tunnel entrance. In they marched, the banner of the Order leading, held aloft by Sir Kortigern Hatch, the rest following two by two. Each pair bore a torch between them, uniting them. They wore no helms, their combs proudly exposed atop heads held high. Their armor captured the torch light, plates of polished steel from shoulder to waist, their legs covered in shining skirts of mail, slit in the back, allowing the plumage of their tail feathers to remain colorfully displayed. The long hind-spur on each foot was capped in a finely wrought steel sleeve, denoting their knighthood. Tall, powerful, the ringing of their march never faltering, they marched out onto the bluff, splitting to left and right by pairs.

  The Knights of the Valiant Spur.

  Pocket tried desperately to see each one as they emerged from the tunnel, his excitement growing. He pointed. “There’s Bronze Wattle!” he told Napper, barely able to whisper. “And the one with him…with the double headed axe, that’s Poorly Well! And see there, the Dread Cockerel! I heard he may challenge Lackcomb for the place of Grand Master.” He could not help but bounce slightly up and down on his toes as he named each in turn, trying not to miss a single one, but fearful he would overlook his favorites, sharing them with Napper as they came into view. “The black one there--that’s Pitch Feather. Ha! Look! They have matched him with Sir Barn Lochlan, whom they call the White Noble on account of his feathers! Sir Corc! Two behind with
the longsword…he’s the knight that brought me here! Oh! And there’s Blood Yolk and the fat one behind him…the Mad Capon! It is said he gelded himself so that he would never take a mate, one of the Order’s strictest vows!”

  Soon they were present and arrayed, thirty-six in all, the surviving Knights Errant of the Order. Two knights were missing, Sir Haunticleer and Sir Tillory the Calm, both present at the last gathering barely half a year ago. Sir Tillory was thought to have been slain in the rocky wastes of Kymbru, and of Sir Haunticleer there was no word. After several days with no sign of the absent knights, Lackcomb could wait no more and had ordered the funeral to commence. The failure of two such formidable fighters to return was disturbing. Fewer of the Knights Errant made their way back to the Roost each two-year.

  A keen whistle rose into a sharp wail as Áedán’s clansmen worked their bladder pipes, giving birth to a haunting dirge. The six grizzled veterans of the Knights Sergeant came slowly forward, pulled by the music. These were the instructors and weapons masters responsible for the training of the squires, their questing days long since over and permanent residents of the castle. Pocket knew them well, introducing them to Napper with hushed reverence.

  “Stoward Thom. Banyon Deaf Crower. Yewly the Salted. Mallander Smokebeak. Worm Chewer. And the Old Goose.”

  Many times he watched them deliver the harsh lessons of combat to their squire pupils in the training yards, pupils who now grew even more rigid as the Knights Sergeant passed. Whether it was in fear of the veterans or in respect for the burden they carried, Pocket could not say.

  Coalspur’s body lay upon a litter, born aloft on the shoulders of the old knights. He was dressed in full armor, his greatsword resting on his chest beneath lifeless hands. Even from a distance and in the poor torch light, Pocket could see the ravages left behind by the fever. The body looked drained, wasted and thin. The breastplate was ill-fitting, gaping at the neck and under the arms. The castle gossip was that Coalspur’s feathers had all but fallen away in his final hours, leaving a flushed, bald, pitiful thing behind to die. If this was so, measures had been taken to ensure his dignity, for the body, despite its withered appearance was still thick with white feathers. Still, some things had been overlooked. Pocket noticed that Coalspur’s beak was slightly open, as if he was snoring softly, but his chest did not rise nor fall. The sight was pitiable, making the once fearsome warrior look vulnerable and weak. Pocket felt a rush of anger.

  “Someone should have closed it,” he said aloud, almost wishing to be heard.

  The pallbearers carried the litter to the far edge of the bluff and lowered it slowly to rest upon the stone pedestal, then joined their brother knights. The whine of the bladder pipes faded, and, as one, the squires struck the butts of their staffs sharply on the stone, then knelt low, heads bowed.

  Grand Master Lackcomb strode through the gate, the crimson surcoat and cloak of his office hanging heavily over his burnished armor. His legendary pole axe, the Coming Dawn, rode his fist as he came forward onto the bluff.

  Pocket shivered, suddenly grateful for the furry warmth and comfort of his companion, cradled closely to him. Lackcomb ignored the crowds’ presence, looking neither left nor right. From his vantage, Pocket could not see Lackcomb’s eyes and he was grateful, knowing the left was milked over and dead, the flesh surrounding it horribly scarred. He did have a clear view of the ugly, puckered bald strip on top of the Grand Master’s head. It was said he cut the comb from his head with his own hands so that he would be less vulnerable to his enemies. Pocket did not dare even a whisper to Napper while Lackcomb was near. His mind conjured up the story of the Grand Master’s ascension and it squatted there in his imagination.

  Never a squire, Lackcomb simply strutted into the Roost one morning, strange looking with his bald head, and offered challenge to the reigning Grand Master, the legendary Coalspur. Tradition demanded that the Grand Master accept any challenge to his rule and defend it in single combat. So it was in the Great Hall of the Roost, amongst the squires and Knights Sergeant of the Order that a self-mutilated youth of no renown, threw down the greatest warrior of the coburn, winning himself the right and title of Grand Master of the Knights of the Valiant Spur. He was seventeen years old.

  Of all the legends and stories Pocket knew regarding the knights, this was far from his favorite, but he loved hearing the part where Coalspur, in humbled awe, became Lackcomb’s shield bearer and boon companion, remaining a loyal retainer until his death.

  A death that claimed him eight days ago.

  Lackcomb had retained his position of Grand Master against all challengers for over fifty years and commanded the respect of all within the Order. Despite the rumors and the Grand Master’s advanced age, Pocket doubted even the Dread Cockerel could defeat him. He made his way steadily up to the pedestal where his predecessor now lay, and turned, acknowledging the others for the first time.

  “Words were not Coalspur’s weapons!” Lackcomb’s voice, gravelly and shrill, pitched across the bluff. The sky behind him had turned an inky purple with faint traces of pink and orange outlining the horizon. “And neither are they mine. It is enough to say that our brotherhood must bid farewell to one of the finest knights ever to wear the Spurs. I became his superior. I was never his equal. There is no dishonor in how he died as there was none in how he lived.” Lackcomb gave his knights a baleful stare, as if daring any of them to refute his words.

  None did.

  “Now, he is free from his sworn service. A service he was not ready to relinquish. His final wish was that his sword not journey with him, so that a part of him might still serve the championed causes of this Order. To that end and in honor of his last instructions there shall be a tourney, open to all, squire and knight alike. The champion will receive as prize…,” Lackcomb tenderly lifted the greatsword from Coalspur’s chest, turning back to hold the weapon aloft. “…his blade, which shall from this day forward bear his name.”

  Pocket found his mouth was open. A tourney! Excitement bundled up inside his chest, worked its way into a tight coil, preparing to spring forth and escape past his lips in a cheer of delight, but it slammed silently into the roof of his mouth to be swallowed safely back down into his gut.

  “And now let us send our brother on his way,” Lackcomb said solemnly. “May the glory of his deeds outshine the sorrow of his passing.” The Grand Master stepped to the side, allowing the knights to move forward, each pair lowering their torch at the base of the pyre, bowing low before stepping back to their places. The straw and wood caught quickly, surrounding the body in smoke and flame. All eyes were fixed on the burning pedestal, the sky continuing to brighten in the east.

  “Knights of the Valiant Spur!” Lackcomb cried. “Lift your voices to the fallen! Let him leave this world to the sound of our salute!” He raised the Coming Dawn high over his head. “For Coalspur!”

  As one, the knights threw back their heads, opening their beaks wide and threw the war cry from their chests, the throttling screech rising to its triumphant peak, piercing the sky.

  “For Coalspur!”

  Again they challenged the fleeing darkness.

  “For Coalspur!”

  Thrice they cried and thrice the hairs on Pocket’s neck stood up in a tingle of pride. Upon the final and loudest salute, he could not help but punch his fist into the air.

  Dawn had come, but it seemed the sun had not risen. In its place, the pyre stood blazing at the center of the horizon, the sky beyond awash in smears of morning color. The fire burned and the memory of Coalspur lit the new day. Pocket let the tears fall and said goodbye to one of his heroes.

  FIVE

  Rosheen wrinkled her nose. “Hog’s Wallow.”

  “Hog’s Wallow,” Padric agreed with a frown. “Abandoned.”

  Who would stay? Rosheen fluttered next to Padric as they made their way toward the center of the small hamlet, the ground a clog of thick, black mud. She could hear Padric’s boots struggling free with a sucking
sound after every step. The simple dwellings on either side of the quagmire were empty, without fire or hearth smoke, their cold doorways pleading and threatening.

  After weeks of hard, tedious travel, they had crested a small rise to find the village below at last and Padric breathed a curse. They knew immediately. No herds, no children, no dogs, not even a chicken. No movement at all, save the slow, dumb turning of the mill’s water wheel, forced by the Trough’s current to labor on. The other structures huddled pitiably together, shrinking away from the surrounding landscape. After a moment of weary silence, they went down the rise and into the village.

  “No corpses,” Padric said darkly, after leaning into one of the little huts.

  Rosheen knew there would not be, even from the rise. There were no crows. Fled, then. “What now?” she called across.

  “We stay here,” Padric said. “No other choice. A day or two to see if anyone returns…then gather what we can and move on.”

  Sounds familiar. He said the same at the woodsman’s hut, but they left as soon as the sun rose, after burying the man and what was left of his poor child. They took nothing.

  Padric came back to the middle of the sodden thoroughfare, looking back the way they had come. He shook his head for the tenth time since they came within sight of the village. “No walls. Not of wood, earth or stone. Not even a ditch.”

  “Didn’t need one,” Rosheen said, nodding toward a low bump of earth with a door in the center. A gnome hole. “This place was Fae-friendly. They must have had a guardian of some sort, if they kept to the old ways. A fomori most likely, or maybe a Waywarder passed by regular. Someone kept them safe.”

  “Or made them believe they were,” Padric muttered.

  Or made them believe they were. Rosheen looked at the door to the gnome hole sadly…and then shook the feeling away. Damn Padric and his mood! Both were beginning to get to her.

  “Let’s find that alehouse,” she said, a little too loudly for their surroundings. “Even that wretched stuff will taste sweet after all this bitter company.” She flew off without waiting to see if he followed.