The Exiled Heir (Autumn's Fall Saga)

by Jonathan French

  Acwellen’s riders were a grizzled bunch, each a veteran of numerous wars across the breadth of the Tin Isles. Once there were forty men under Acwellen’s command, but only seven had lived to see the Winetongue come into prosperity and retire in Airlann. A decade of peace and good living had done nothing to soften them. Padric had slain a gruagach and survived a Red Cap raid, but next to these killers he might as well still be on the teat.

  They rode hard through the day, making for the holdfast direct. Acwellen did not seem interested in retracing the circuitous route of their patrol, although Padric privately thought a second look at the places where people were known to live was worth taking. But he said nothing. He learned quickly that his opinion was neither valued nor welcomed in this company.

  They made a rough camp that night amongst a pitiful copse of trees. The men went about their preparations with the belligerent ease of old campaigners. As always, Padric was ignored and left to tend his horse with no offer of aid or advice. He brushed the beast down after removing the saddle as Kederic had taught him and watered and fed her. He did not rush for he was in no hurry to join the others around the fire, but nor did he tarry overlong lest his extended absence be mistaken for incompetence. Avoiding as long as he could, Padric left the horses and trudged the short distance to the camp.

  “Fine night,” Seon said as Padric passed him in the dark.

  “Fine,” Padric agreed without pausing. Seon was the most pleasant of the bunch, but Padric knew he mocked along with the rest when they suspected he was out of ear-shot. Padric would be spared his fake smile this evening as the man had drawn horse watch. It was a small mercy.

  The stew pot was already steaming by the time he walked into the firelight. Acwellen sat talking in hushed tones with Aglaeca while Drefan and Big Cunny pretended to laugh at something Poncey Swan said. Fat Donall stirred the pot and just outside the ring of light, Banan stood with his back turned, staring out into the night. Padric never thought he would yearn for the nights when he and Rosheen had camped out in the dark during their journey to Hog’s Wallow, but looking at these men he wished for nothing more than to be with his best friend and away from them.

  He sat himself down as far from Poncey Swan’s mewling voice as he could manage and pretended to look busy oiling his sword. It was a borrowed blade, given to him by the Thegn the morning Padric left the fort. Wearing three feet of solid iron was strange and uncomfortable. Acwellen’s men had gotten a good laugh on the first day when Padric dismounted and the scabbard became entangled in his stirrup strap. He had never wielded the weapon, so sharpening it was pointless, but he made sure he kept it well cleaned, making a nightly ritual of the task, drawing ridicule from his companions, but he paid no heed. He would not return a rusty sword.

  As he worked the oil into the metal with a rag, his mind turned once again to Rosheen. He constantly wondered what had become of her, and during his first days at the fort he resolved that he would find out. Initially, his plan consisted of thanking the Thegn for his hospitality, begging some provisions and striking out on his own in search of the wayward piskie, but deeper reflection on his lack of knowledge concerning the surrounding landscape and the very real danger that was loose in those lands forced him to refine his purpose. He would brave anything to find her, but setting off blindly would benefit nothing. He fancied he could hear Rosheen’s voice chiding him to just that effect.

  Kederic’s words still troubled him, but he would never discover if Rosheen had any answers concerning his life if he never saw her again. The thought soured his heart. They had never been apart and it was all he could think on. He was tempted every morning to walk back to Stone Fort, embrace his mother and help his father with some familiar labor. But he could not do that. Not without Rosheen. So he endured the sneers, the spiteful stares, the mocking comments, and he rode, hoping that the long, wet patrols would offer some sign as to where she had gone, and eventually lead him back to her careless smile.

  There was a sudden change in the sound of the camp. It was too quiet. Padric looked up just as Big Cunny threw the dagger. Reflex caused him to jerk his limbs ineffectually and the blade buried deep into the sodden ground, not a hand span from where he sat. Laughter once again filled the camp, Big Cunny’s loudest of all, his witless face looking around at his compatriots for approval. Slowly, Padric pulled the dagger from the mud with the intent to simply toss it back without a care. These men were dogs. Fear only made them more likely to bite. But when he saw the blades in Drefan and Fat Donall’s hands he paused, his grip tightening on the recently flung dagger. Big Cunny must have won the toss to see who would throw first, which was fortunate. Fat Donall would have sent the blade into Padric’s gut for the sake of a bigger laugh. But it was not the deadly game at his expense that most angered Padric, it was the weapon he saw in Drefan’s hand. Over a foot of sharp, smoke colored steel.

  “That…,” Padric said, flicking his eyes at Drefan’s hand, “…is mine.”

  The old man’s yellow teeth grinned back wetly, and Padric saw he had just made the game much more amusing. “Well then,” Drefan said. “Pup’s after me property.”

  “Stupid move, mate,” Poncey Swan said smugly while Fat Donall chuckled, his pale chins wiggling. Padric knew he was pushing this situation beyond good sense, but the sight of the seax in Drefan’s boney hand was more than he could stomach. Padric looked into the old man’s face and tried to keep his voice even.

  “You found that in the Wallow.”

  “No,” Drefan’s tongue slid across his chapped lower lip. “I found it in some burnt out pile of sheep shit that was once the Wallow.”

  “Burnt out pile,” Big Cunny repeated as Fat Donall guffawed.

  “Still mine,” Padric said.

  Drefan’s teeth grit together, but the grin remained. “And I’ve a mind to give it back to you.” The murder in the man’s eyes was naked.

  Padric jumped to his feet, brandishing Big Cunny’s dagger and Drefan followed him up. Fat Donall seemed to think this was the most amusing turn yet and continued to laugh, jowls flushed. Big Cunny smiled gormlessly, but his eyes were confused, darting around the camp. Poncey Swan watched with his arrogant face, his weak chin. Banan had turned around to watch, but made no further move. All of this Padric saw in a glance, trying to gauge if anyone would come to Drefan’s side. Acwellen and Aglaeca were beyond Padric’s periphery and he fought down a rising panic, suspecting a blade through the back with every breath. But it never came. The men seemed content to watch, offering only crude shouts of encouragement. Drefan and Padric watched each other over the campfire as the others made sport.

  “Ooooh! I think he’s angry with you, Drefan.”

  “Cut his bollocks off!”

  “Pull his breeches down and shag him like a girl!”

  Padric ignored them.

  “It belongs to me,” he told Drefan firmly. “On the pommel is a dwarven rune… the mark of the maker and the one who gave it to me.”

  “Aye?” Drefan sneered. “Then why do I have it, eh? It was in the mud. Could it be because you left it behind when you ran a craven from the battle?”

  That drew jeers from the others and Padric fought the urge to rush the man.

  “Yes,” Padric said. “I ran from the battle. But I also ran to it. I do not recall you being there at all, old man!”

  Drefan’s face darkened. “You’re about to die bloody, boy.”

  Padric thought that was true. “I’ll carve you even uglier before I do.”

  Drefan snarled, leaping over the fire, kicking the stew pot over to hiss in the flames. Padric darted backwards, away from the long reach of the slashing seax, but the stroke never fell.

  “Enough!” Acwellen’s voice barreled over the cheers of his men as Aglaeca stepped in, grabbing Drefan’s arm and near throwing him to the ground. The camp went quiet, every man looking to Acwellen except for Banan who simply turned his back once again. Acwellen pushed himself to his feet, while Drefan breathed hard,
splitting his glare between Aglaeca and Padric. The old man huffed when his leader approached and held out a hand for the seax, but handed it over without a word. Acwellen took a moment to admire the blade before squinting down at the rune etched into the pommel.

  “It is as he says,” Acwellen said. He looked at Padric and walked over, thumping the hilt of the weapon against his palm. “It was yours.”

  Padric smiled gratefully and held out his hand for the weapon.

  “What do you have to give for its return?” Acwellen asked.

  Padric looked up at him, mind searching, but Acwellen did not wait for an answer.

  “It is not right that my men should suffer loss of spoils without recompense. You are a stranger here. And a pauper. What have you to offer this man in trade?” Acwellen leaned down, his large frame blocking the firelight. “Nothing. Your clothes, your boots. Horse. That sword. Your life! All gifted to you by the Winetongue. You own nothing but your own cursed head. And you will not look to take gifts from me and mine the same as you take from our Thegn.”

  Acwellen loomed over him for a moment longer, then turned and flipped the seax back into Drefan’s hand before resuming his seat.

  Padric spent that night in furious silence. None of the men spoke to him, not even Seon, but Drefan kept throwing bemused leers his way, sharing nudges and whispers with Poncey Swan. Padric could taste the need to kill them and put an end to their gloating for good and all. His days were spent in the saddle, lost in dark thought. At night, the saddle was traded for his blanket, but the thoughts remained the same. Faabar would have known how to deal with these churls, but he was gone and Padric had only himself for council. By the time they reached the fort, he was still uncertain of his course.

  The warrior’s camp had grown larger since last they were there. The steady influx of refugees from neighboring settlements seeking solace had forced Kederic to order his own men to sleep beyond the walls, keeping only a small contingent inside at night to man the watchtowers. It had been a difficult choice for the Thegn, but he deigned that no women or children should sleep without, and the fort soon grew overcrowded. Already many of the surviving husbands and fathers had taken to sleeping in the camp with the warriors. The Thegn’s prodigious cattle herds were now swollen with the beasts brought by the dispossessed. Herds of sheep, goats and swine clustered thickly in the fields surrounding the fort and the camp doubled as a means of protecting the animals from predators both four and two legged.

  It was near dusk when they rode through the gate and found Kederic waiting on them.

  “Red Caps are still out there, Winetongue,” Acwellen reported as he dismounted, handing his reigns over to a ready groom. “But we never saw ‘em. Nor anyone alive. Any that would have made it are here already, reckon. T’other riders?”

  “Orvin brought in a few,” the Thegn replied. “And one of Warian’s men found a lad surviving in the bogs. The rest found their own way. They all tell the same tale.”

  Padric could imagine. Watchfires in the dark. Torches and cruel laughter. Fire and slaughter. The Red Caps had turned the countryside into an abandoned expanse of burnt homesteads, scattered herds and the footprints of the fled. They were everywhere and yet still unseen by any of Kederic’s men. They came, killed and vanished and everyday saw new survivors find their fearful way to the Thegn’s protection.

  “Sleep in the hall tonight. Rest.” Kederic swept the men with a glance and gave Padric a brief nod before turning and heading back to the hall, Acwellen close at his side.

  The others followed, cheered by the promise of warmth and ale, but Padric remained in the yard. He had wished a word with the Thegn, away from the others but was not entirely sure what he wanted to say. Informing him that his men were thieving bastards seemed a guarantee of ill favor. Padric was not certain he even cared to please the man any longer. Mayhaps it was better to take his leave.

  Deep in thought, he followed the grooms to the stables, leading his own mount. He tended the animal himself, ignoring his hunger through the work. The prospect of the warm hall and hot food was tempting, but the thought of having to spend another second with Drefan and the rest was enough to keep him away. He did not know where he would sleep tonight and was avoiding the search for a place. Maybe he would simply bed down in the stables with the grooms and their charges. He was tired. Not just in his body, but straight through. He had thought to find a new life, but instead the world had gone mad. His one companion was gone and people were being butchered and burned all around him. He was just another refugee, adrift in a sea of survivors with no possessions and earning nothing but the enmity of the men around him. He had traded the mistrust of his neighbors for the hatred of strangers and found himself returning that hatred tenfold. Only briefly had he found acceptance and possible friendship, before both had been taken in the flames.

  Padric had been avoiding the survivors of Hog’s Wallow since his recovery. Shame and guilt and fear kept him away. The chance to ride with Acwellen was more than a means of finding Rosheen, it was an escape from the faces of the women whose menfolk had died around him. Ardal had almost made it out with him. Padric could still see him lying motionless, his skull caved in. It seemed impossible now that he still had his own life.

  A new life. And as trapped as he was in the old one.

  He snorted derisively at himself and gave the horse a final pat on the flank before leaving the stables. Evening had settled silently over the fort and everywhere people surrounded tiny cook fires, preparing meager meals. The refugees huddled anywhere they could find space, some lucky enough to shelter in the smithy or one of the granary huts, but many and more were tucked under the stairs to the ramparts or amongst the support pylons of the hall. Mostly, they squatted miserably under makeshift lean-tos at the base of the wall or even in the thoroughfares. Padric wound his way through the clusters of desperate faces, feeling they searched him for answers. He wore a sword, the quilted jerkin and leather hauberk of a warrior, looking like he belonged to this place, a source of strength and protection. If only they knew the truth.

  The former residents of Hog’s Wallow occupied the bakery and a quarter of one of the warrior’s barracks. As the first refugees to reach the fort, they had quickly made themselves useful, slipping into the daily labors of the place with ease. As Ardal had told him, many of the herdsmen’s daughters were now wed to the men in service to the Thegn, turning neighbors into family. These ties had quickly established the survivors of Hog’s Wallow as liaison for the Thegn and the refugees from other parts. With many of the men dead, this duty was shouldered firmly by the women and Padric found a long line of folk waiting before the bakery. The women of Hog’s Wallow worked feverishly in front of the ovens every night, making as much bread as they were able to help feed the unfortunates from other hamlets. Padric found Jileen milking a goat while Ardal’s widow distributed clay jars of the milk to the children. The two women had decreed that every child have a full belly before any others were allowed to eat.

  “Thought you to be in the hall with a trencher and a full horn,” Jileen said when she saw him.

  Padric curled his lip and shook his head.

  The former alewife smirked at him. “Warrior’s life not to your liking?”

  “It never was,” he replied.

  “Any sign?” the widow Móirne asked without taking her focus from the children.

  “No,” he answered, unsure as to what she was referring. It did not matter. There were no signs. Not of goblins nor survivors and not of Rosheen.

  “There’s food,” Móirne said. “If you wait until we get these wee ones sorted out.”

  “Thank you, no,” Padric told her.

  “Nonsense,” she declared, taking her eyes off her work for the first time. “You will stand right there until we’re through and then you will have your supper. If that does not suit you, then you can lend a hand and then…you will have your supper. Those are the choices, Padric. Make one.”

  He smiled. Sh
e was a great deal like her husband. He helped where he was able, taking over the milking from Jileen while she fetched more jars, the udder of the animal feeling more familiar in his hands than a sword ever would. The sky was full dark by the time they were through and could take their own repast of bread and cabbage. There was even some ale to share and they passed the horn, drinking to their beloved dead into the late watches.

  He and Jileen remained awake after the others had stolen away to their pallets. The ale ration was long since gone, so they sat around the last embers of the cook fire listening to the odd silence of a place full of sleeping people. Padric was dozing when Jileen finally spoke.

  “So many times,” she said, “one of the Thegn’s men would come down to the alehouse…offer himself as husband. And I turned every one of them away. Now…here I am. Living in this fort anyway.” She curled into herself, then looked at him and smiled, rolling her eyes at her own words.

  “I am sorry.” He did not know what else to say.

  “No fault of yours.”

  “It feels like it is,” he said before he could stop himself.

  “Móirne is so kind. And I watched her man die.”

  “You had no choice in that, Padric.” Jileen shifted closer and ducked her face to his so that he had no choice but to look at her. “You are Fae-touched. It is more than fortune that watched out for you. Móirne and all the others are grateful you were there. Someone who can speak to the bravery of their husbands and sons. It is a gift to them.”

  “Fae-touched,” he snorted. “They are all gone now. Faabar and Deglan. Even that drunken clurichaun. Rosh. We cannot even find the goblins. Kederic may be right. Mortals are better left to themselves.”

  “We are certainly alone now,” Jileen replied.

  Padric looked around the yard at the mass of sleeping bodies and gave her a pointed look.

  She laughed. “You know my meaning.”

  “I do,” he said with a smile and stood up. “I am for the stables, I think. My thanks for the hospitality.”