As formidable as the Butlers were, they were far from the most imposing sight in the cave. The contingent was supported by two monstrous war toads. Flanking the Gate, each of these ancient brutes could swallow a human cottage whole and carried a fortified platform upon their backs where the Earth Shapers could wield their destructive Magic from safety. Even during the reign of the Goblin Kings and the long years of the Rebellion, when the rest of Toad Holm lay empty, the Gate remained secured by the Butlers and their wart-covered giants.
Originally dubbed the Gate of the Hated King, both doors had once depicted brazen images of King Ghob and his treacherous legacy. The arch of the doors showed him deceiving the Seelie Court, and further down, his banishment and flight deep underground. How Ghob stole Fire from the dragons was an enduring mystery but the sculptors had done their best, imagining the greedy king duping them with honeyed words. The final carving at the doors’ base had been the true masterpiece; the ravening horde of Ghob’s children, crafted true to life, emerging from the fiery depths to bring terror to the Isle. To stand before the gate and look upon the forms of the goblins, frozen in bronze, reaching for you with bloody malice was an artistic marvel and a fearful reminder.
Now, only half the goblins rushed forth, as the right door had been removed after the Restoration and melted down to create the one which now hung in its place. When last Deglan was here, the new half remained unfinished but now it hung next to its older mate, the carvings jutting out in pugnacious relief. It portrayed the doings of Goban Blackmud; a different king with a far different legacy. Starting with his crowning and his many years of prosperous rule, the carvings descended into the Rebellion and Goban’s fight with the Gaunt Prince and the victory of the Fae. Towards the bottom, the King’s abdication and his departure from the city were chronicled, but the base of the door remained unfinished, the craftsmen waiting for Goban’s return, so that they might place his triumphant image striding out from the pit.
In life, the events had not been quite so grand. At war’s end, Goban Blackmud was a haunted gnome. The death of Aillila Ulvyeh weighed heavily upon him and much of the governance of the city fell to the Burden Bearers. The Gate of the Hated King had remained closed since the day it was constructed, but Goban ordered the doors be thrown wide, removed his crown and handed it to Hob, vowing he would not return until he set things aright. Now two kings roamed the bowels of the Earth, one in disgrace, the other in self-imposed exile. Whether either would ever be seen again remained a question of faith. Two stone pedestals stood near the doors. Atop one lay a goblet full of wine and on the other a great bronze axe. It was the duty of the Kings’ Butlers to suitably greet either of the wayward rulers should they return; Goban with refreshment, Ghob with death.
Standing before the Gate of Lost Kings, Deglan wondered what King Blackmud would say if he returned and found his city in its current state. Maybe it was best he stayed away. Deglan certainly should have. He should have listened to Faabar and gone directly to the Seelie Court, but Durock said the Waywarders had been summoned and not yet answered, adding further proof to Deglan’s fear that the strength of the elves had diminished to the point of helplessness. Where else could he turn when his allies appeared as enemies and his enemies appeared as friends? Deglan looked at the fishing pole in his hand.
“At the least, I will figure out which one that pasty bastard is.”
Toad Holm contained several underground lakes, but Salt Well was the only one fed from the sea. A sharp, tangy smell filled Deglan’s nostrils as he came down the long tunnel. The cave was lit from luminous sponges that lived in the water, casting an eerie green light that danced across the stone walls in ghostly waves. Deglan was not a great lover of the ocean and when he sat down on the edge of the vast water he suppressed a shiver at the thought of some kraken’s tentacles or a great toothy whale jumping out to claim him for a meal. A boat labored far out in the middle of the Well, two fishergnomes casting nets into the water; a trade Deglan did not envy.
“I apologize if this makes you uncomfortable.”
“Buggery and spit!” Deglan snapped his head from side to side and found the hobgoblin sitting some distance to his right, dangling a pole in the water.
“A friend came up with this method of secrecy many years ago,” the hobgoblin sounded almost sad. “He is more…imaginative than I, so I thought it best to use what works.”
“Why did you want me down here?”
“It is not necessary for you to speak aloud. Just think it and I will hear.”
“No need,” Deglan said out loud. “I talk to myself all the time. Only one who answers back with any sense.”
“I can certainly see how it would feel so.” The hobgoblin turned and looked at him for the first time. “Are they biting over there?” he asked aloud with gentle courtesy.
“What? Er…yes.”
The hobgoblin drew his line in and got to his feet before making his way over to sit next to Deglan. He cast again before looking over. “Burden Curdle Milkthumb, but please, Curdle will do.”
“Deglan Loamtoes,” he replied. “But you already knew that.”
“Well done,” Curdle laughed in his head. “My honor to meet you. Do you visit Salt Well often?”
“No, I am recently returned to the city,” Deglan said flicking his rod absently. “Why did you stop me from speaking at the Wisemoot?”
“Oh yes,” Curdle said while looking at the water. “You may find the city has changed somewhat. Because the knowledge of a working Forge Born could prove most dangerous to our cause.”
“I’ll say it has,” Deglan muttered. “What damn cause?”
“To stop Torcan Swinehelm, of course.” Curdle looked over. “Would you take some fishing tips from a stranger?”
Deglan looked back at the hobgoblin’s friendly face for a moment. “I would be interested in any help you could give me.”
Curdle nodded pleasantly. “First. When you cast, try and disturb the water as little as possible.”
“Never my style,” Deglan said. “What do you know about Swinehelm?”
“A great deal. And now much more, thanks to you. That he was marching on Black Pool was unknown to me. Thankfully I was able to send word to a contact there. The city is forewarned, but I fear it will offer little resistance.”
“The Wisemoot was mere hours ago,” Deglan scowled at the hobgoblin. “How could you already ha--?” Realization struck him. This hobgoblin knew more than a few seers’ tricks.
“But I only know a little about catching fish,” Curdle said with cheerful self-deprecation.
“I learn best by observation,” Deglan said. “Let us sit here quietly and maybe I will pick up some skill.”
“Yes,” Curdle agreed. “We will improve our chances of success if we do not frighten the fish with our talk.”
“Alright, answers! How did the Flame Binder escape?”
“Torcan broke him out…with help.”
“From inside Toad Holm!” Deglan knew it. “All these goblins now living in the city, no wonder. You are taking a risk, my pale friend. Red Cap spies find out you conspire against them… nothing they hate worse than a traitor. How many of the hobgoblins on the council does Torcan have?”
“None.”
“None?” Deglan could not help from use his tongue. “Impossible.”
Curdle put a calming hand on his arm. “Have patience. You will catch one.”
Deglan glanced around sheepishly, then set his focus back on the water.
“As you say,” Curdle’s voice was calm. “Red Caps hate traitors…and hobgoblins worst of all. Our lives were forfeit the moment we pledged allegiance to Toad Holm. None of us would dare help Torcan to victory. The Red Caps do not issue pardons, Deglan.”
“Then that would mean…” Deglan could not believe it. “No…you lie!”
“I am sorry, my friend.”
Deglan stared at the water, as gaped-mouthed as the fish that eluded his hook. All this talk of traitors
and they were his own people? That was madness! The Red Caps’ hatred for gnomes was two thousand years deep. There could be no common ground, nothing that would unite them in such a plot. They might have turned into spineless lickspittles, but treasonous spies? Deglan looked over at Curdle and shot to his feet.
This was the only spy here! A hobgoblin that could crawl in his head and read his thoughts, turn them against him and play on his already growing doubt. He would hear no more. Deglan threw his rod into the water and backed away, his hand going for his cleaver before realizing he had not taken it to the Moot where weapons were forbidden. He continued to back away, eyes never leaving the hobgoblin who simply stared back at him, face full of serene regret.
“Deglan,” he said aloud. “Would you ever set foot in the Ever Dark?”
“So,” Deglan replied taking another step, “now you threaten me with death?”
“No,” Curdle said. “It was an honest question. Would you ever willingly go down there?”
Deglan thought about that horrible unseen place; a twisting network of narrow tunnels and tight, low chambers where the gnomes housed their dead. No light had ever touched those crypts, the bodies being tended by blind gnomes so ancient they might as well have been walking spirits. Deglan imagined their huge, bleached, unseeing eyes, their lank wisps of white, silk-thin hair, their bony hands handling the corpses, dragging them, laying them in their nooks. He shivered. Deglan did not much fancy going there in death. He would never venture to the Ever Dark in life.
“No gnome would,” Curdle said.
“Get out of my head,” Deglan warned.
“It was your face I was reading, Master Loamtoes. I am speaking to you aloud, taking a tremendous risk, because I need you to trust me.”
“You want me to believe my own people capable of--”
“They are my people too, Deglan.” Curdle said. “I was born a goblin, but this is my home. I am not trying to deceive you. I need your help.”
Deglan paused. “Why did you ask me about the Ever Dark?”
“Because that is where they imprisoned him,” Curdle replied. “The Flame Binder. Surrounded by miles of impenetrable Earth on all sides, with a lake guarded by the undine above. Earth and Water kept him contained and the only way to get to him was through that winding tomb. You would not go there. I would not go there. I doubt any gnome or hobgoblin would willingly.
“So, that leaves the Red Caps. Goblins from outside who have no fear of the Ever Dark. But they would need light to see or they would have no hope of finding their precious Flame Binder. Even a tiny candle would have alerted the grave diggers. For all their age and blindness, those gnomes are wielders of potent Magic. It would take an army to overpower them and no army can operate in those cramped passages, even if it could reach the entrance without alerting the city.”
“Then,” Deglan said uncertainly. “How did they get him out?”
“It took centuries,” Curdle said. “But they tunneled in.”
“Impossible,” Deglan snorted. “We are the guardians of Earth! It is unthinkable that the Red Caps could accomplish that without our…knowledge.” He looked into Curdle’s knowing face. “By Earth and Stone!”
“Now you see why the Moot cannot be trusted.”
“Dunloe,” Deglan was sure. “Who else?”
“Feeney certainly,” Curdle replied. “Possibly more.”
“Moundbuilder?”
Curdle shook his head. “I do not know.”
“How do you not know?” Deglan took a step back towards the hobgoblin. “Crawl into their damn skulls and find out!”
“I have tried,” Curdle said sadly. “But I am not the only one with such gifts, Master Loamtoes, and I must tread lightly. This corruption could go as high as the King. If I am discovered, then all my efforts will have been in vain.”
Deglan took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “What does the Forge Born have to do with all of this?”
Curdle nodded gratefully. “I believe your prisoner spoke truthfully. Torcan does plan to lead an army of living iron, but to do so he needed a Flame Binder to reawaken them. Now he has one. And only the Gaunt Prince’s heir can command them, so if Torcan has indeed found such an heir…“
“He will have an unstoppable army at his disposal.”
Curdle nodded gravely.
“And the Forge Born that I saw in Hog’s Wallow? What of it?”
“He may be the only one that can stop this.”
Deglan’s tongue rebelled again. “How? Why?”
“I will explain on the way,” Curdle said as he rose, drawing his line out of the water and revealing a plump fish flapping on the hook.
“On the way where?”
“To find your Forge Born, of course.” Curdle declared facing him.
“Find it?” Deglan fought the urge to push Curdle into the water. “It could be anywhere! I would not know where to begin. How are we ever going to track that thing down?”
“Oh, do not worry,” Curdle said, bending at the waist and extending the fish out past Deglan’s leg. “I have some friends that will help us.”
“Friends?” Deglan said and then jumped to the side as something suddenly shot past his leg and grabbed the fish from Curdle’s hand. He whirled around to find a large, shaggy hound with grey fur settling down to enjoy the fish. Another dog, just as silent, came out from the shadows to share the catch. The two did not fight over the meal.
Sweat and Panic shared every kill.
A tall figure came down the tunnel, the rippling green light reflected in his raptor’s eyes.
“Deglan Loamtoes,” Curdle said lightly, “I believe you know--”
“Madigan,” Deglan finished. “The Sure Finder.”
SEVENTEEN
Padric sat on the crags above the harbor, watching as the ship drew closer. Long and low in the water, the men aboard had taken down its sail of red and black stripes, propelling their vessel with uniform sweeps of the oars that seemed to wave effortlessly from either side of the hull. The upward curve of the prow was visible and while the ship was still too far distant to make out the details of the carving, Padric knew it would be fashioned in the likeness of a dragon’s head. It was the ninth such ship to sail into the harbor in two days, the earlier arrivals already moored in the choppy, slate grey waters near the shore. Beyond, a fertile flat plain spread away from the sea, nestled between low, boulder choked ridges. Padric’s perch was atop the highest of these ridges and home to the remnants of a shattered watch castle. Torcan had placed lookouts in what remained of the tower and Padric heard the deep peel of the signal horn sound out above him as the newest arrival came into view.
The harbor was formed by a natural curving of the rocky landscape; the sea almost fully embraced by the jutting swing of dark stones. The green hinterland swept away from the shores, accessible and inviting. Reaver’s Meadow, as it was known, had been a popular spot for the seafarers of Middangeard to make land for decades and a small community of longhouses and mead halls now dotted the field. This latest ship would bring another eighty raiders to Swinehelm’s growing force, but the amount of Middangearders was nothing compared to the horde of goblins camped in the Meadow. Even the crashing of the surf upon the rocks could not drown out the noise from the teeming swamp of Red Caps that threatened to spill over the human settlement and into the sea. From his vantage point, Padric looked down upon the greasy smoke of hundreds of cook fires, surrounded by countless bodies.
When Padric had arrived with Torcan’s retinue of some fifty goblins, only one longship was docked in the harbor. The
Middangearders had greeted Swinehelm with drunken smiles and a horn of mead, turning one of the halls over for his immediate use. Within the day, Red Caps began turning up at the Meadow. They came slowly at first, in raiding parties of no more than fifteen, but as dusk settled and night came on, they arrived in droves. The first morning saw over a thousand armed goblins marshaled, fresh from marauding and eager for battle. Now, a
day later, their numbers had more than doubled, with more arriving every hour. Padric did not know where Torcan intended to unleash this force, but he hoped there was a place on the isle strong enough to repel them.
He stood and turned his back on the sea. As always, eight Red Caps waited for him, not a dozen paces removed. Padric snorted. His honor guard. They followed him down from the crags, not gibbering, jesting or whispering to one another. Except for the scraping of their heavy iron boots on the stones, they remained respectfully silent. Clearly, they did not want to disturb the thoughts of their future king.
During the three day journey from the fort to the coast, Torcan had treated Padric with a strange mix of curiosity and contempt, as if he were a leper that also knew the secret to some wondrous treasure. He felt the goblin leader constantly watching him, but he never approached or spoke directly to him. At night, Swinehelm had Slouch Hat or Kederic brought before him under heavy guard and questioned them for long hours. Often the Thegn’s screams would pierce the camp, echoing painfully over the black shrouded fields. During the march, the husk was kept in the front of the column, while Kederic was kept caged in a supply wagon at the rear. Padric was not permitted to speak with either of them and was left to wonder what mysteries of his life they were revealing.
The Exiled Heir (Autumn's Fall Saga) Page 31