Padric looked into the husk’s hollow, black eyes and smiled. “Never thought I would find myself a king.”
“Rule wisely,” Slouch Hat said with his dry laugh.
“I best go,” Padric said bending, picking up the husk’s hat and placing it back over his head. He turned to leave, but a thought gave him pause. “Slouch Hat,” he said turning back. “What if I had been the true heir?”
The husk stared at him from the deep shadow under his wide brim. “I would have let them kill you.”
Outside the storehouse, Padric found his familiar honor guard waiting and they fell into step behind him. He had no intention of going back to the mead hall, he had too much to think on, so he made straight for his longhouse. He might be able to convince Torcan to let him have Slouch Hat as a servant, if he were careful. Husks were greatly prized, and it would only make him appear more formidable to have one at his side. Getting the Thegn free would be trickier and more dangerous, but Padric knew he needed to speak with the man, inform him that he now knew the truth. Three against thousands were better odds, after all.
He dreaded another night with Heggle. The crone slept on a palette at the foot of the bed, snuffling and snoring, but tonight it would be of little concern. Padric did not expect to rest easy for some time. When he entered the longhouse, he found the old goblin was not the only one waiting for him. Two women knelt on the fur rugs near the fire dressed in short shifts of thin linen. Heggle rushed forward, almost panting and pressed a goblet of mulled wine into his hand.
“What is this?” he asked, staring at the strangers.
“Milord,” she said gesturing to the women. “The raider captains have sent you gifts.”
At this both women stood, revealing them to be tall and full-bodied, obviously of Middangearder stock. The raven haired one regarded him boldly, her sloe-eyed stare twinkling above sensual lips pursed in the slightest secretive smile. The flaxen haired girl kept her head bowed, hands folded in front of her, trying not to shake and failing pitifully. Padric noticed their feet were bare, but clean. Clearly brought here and then prepared for him. He hoped for their sakes, not by Heggle.
“No,” Padric said setting the wine aside. “This is not needed. Send them back.”
“Back?” Heggle smiled as if he had jested. “Back where, my king? They was taken in feud and brought for your grace. To warm his bed.”
Padric tried not to look at the women. He felt ashamed. The Middangearders were well known for preying upon each other and taking their neighbor’s women for thralls. Likely these two saw their kin put to the sword and their homes burnt on the frozen banks of some far off fjord, just so they could be presented to a false king in tribute. The blonde girl still had not looked up, and while the dark one could not understand his words, she read his demeanor clear enough. Her seductive eyes now held a strange mix of fear and fury, and she held her chin a little higher, daring him to reject her.
“You are tired, my lord,” Heggle said soothingly. “Give one a tumble and then sleep. I reckon you could take both afore your strength flees.”
He looked down at the hunchback in disgust. “Enough.”
Heggle hobbled over to where the women stood. “They’s supple and young,” she said grabbing the blonde girl’s hips in her gnarled hands and squeezing hard, causing the poor girl to whimper.
“Give you many strong bairns before they dry up.”
Padric took two solid steps and wrenched Heggle away by the wrist. “Leave her be. They are not brood mares!”
Heggle rubbed her wrist and leered up at him. “Likely part o’milord is akin to a horse, so tall and fine he is!”
“Shut your foul mouth,” Padric commanded. “I will hear no more from you.”
He turned to the quivering girl and went to put his hands on her arms, then thought better of it and looked to the dark haired woman.
“Could you?” he gestured at the blonde girl and then at the large bed, using broad gestures. “Help her?”
She must have understood, for she took her companion and guided her to the bed, all the while watching Padric, trying to riddle out his very existence. Soon, the fair haired one was safely enveloped in the furs, and, tended by the sultry wench, quieted down into a fitful sleep. Padric paced about, careful not to take a step towards the bed. Heggle skulked off to her stinking nest of blankets, and it was not long before Padric heard the off putting sounds of her slumber. The fire burned low and the night grew old and still Padric stood in thought. The raven girl had drifted to sleep but Padric remained awake, dispossessed in his own cell.
He schemed in silence, eventually sinking down into a chair by the hearth. He stoked the coals and added more turf until the flames kindled once more, dispelling the chill and the dark. He must have drifted off, for when he woke the fire had returned to embers. Something stirred in the dark and Padric sat up, fearing he would find Heggle disturbing the women. But it was not the goblin he saw coming towards him.
The phantom flicker of the dead fire revealed brief, hot glimpses of her face, the outline of cheek, neck and shoulder. Her hair ate the glow, black as the room around her approaching body. Her hands came up and the shift fell weightless to the floor, the full swells of hip and thigh now carved out of the shadow. She knelt before him, her hands gliding firmly up his legs, the pleasant, torturous weight of her breasts pressing into his lap. He could hear her breathing as she arched up to meet him, eyes reflecting wetly in the meager light. He felt her mouth part, wet heat playing against his ear, moving down to bite exquisitely into the flesh of his neck. One hand entangled in her hair, the other grabbing at her jaw, Padric pulled her up and tasted her, lost in the rolls of her tongue and the undulations of her body. Half mad with fatigue and desire, Padric felt a sudden rising panic, the wanton dream spiraling into a supine nightmare. He was prisoner and pretender, a condemned man staving off death with only wits and words and now this woman threatened to devour what little mastery he retained over himself.
Padric lurched to his feet, dragging her up with him awkwardly and harder than he intended. She gave a strained hiss of pain and surprise, his sudden aggression causing her to struggle against his clutching hands. They stumbled around the chair and Padric released his hold. The woman barely kept her footing in the dark room and retreated back to the bed, where the commotion had awakened the other girl. Heggle sat up in her palette, a horrible lump of shapelessness. Padric could not stay in this place any longer and bolted for the door.
He startled his guards when he came stomping out into the depressing haze only worn by the pre-dawn sky. Without waiting for the goblins’ reaction to his early rising, he began walking. He had no destination in mind, but his feet took him away from the sea and towards the Red Cap camp. His body and mind limped along in a fog of exhaustion, yearning for only the basest needs of sleep, food, and companionship, everything he had just fled. A quick, near delirious laugh escaped his throat and Padric could not help but shake his head. A witch, a frightened girl and a willing thrall. If only he could add a husk to his royal household of slaves and spies.
Much of the camp still slept, the goblins crammed inside decrepit field tents. A few stirred about, fetching water or relieving themselves, while others sat huddled around the cook fires, staring blankly into the thick, white smoke. Padric picked his way along, shivering without the cloak he had left in the longhouse. He marveled at the sheer number of goblins and remembered the fear he felt when only a fraction had come screaming into Hog’s Wallow, thirsty for blood. Wherever this army was pointed, they needed to be warned and Padric plied his brain for a solution, but met with failure.
As he and his escort approached the edge of the camp, the Meadow began to lose the battle with the hills and rocks that invaded most of Airlann. Sentries stood watch, looking away from their sleeping fellows and into the bank of fog running rampant across the world before the sun appeared to chase it away. Padric noticed a sizable group of Red Caps standing ready near something large. As he a
pproached, he saw it was a heavily laden wagon. The shapeless load covered in sailcloth and tied down with heavy rope. Four sleepy oxen were yoked to the wagon and the two goblins that sat on the driver’s bench were impatiently listening to instructions from a Red Cap on the ground.
“We puttin’ heel to ground on the morrow,” he lectured. “And affer we’s thru with Black Pool, we on to you, so no tarryin’! Got to get them with the rest and made ready.”
At least fifty Red Caps, all armed with billhooks and poleaxes, stood around the wagon waiting to march, but Padric strode past them without a care, the hopelessness in his heart making him bold.
“Oi there!” the commander shouted, jumping between Padric and the wagon.
Padric took a solid step forward, shooting his arm out to grasp the goblin by the front of his iron studded jerkin. He pulled him roughly forward, until the bulbous nose almost touched his own.
“Stand aside,” he growled and watched as the bloodshot eyes widened in fear. The Red Cap tried to stammer something, but Padric shoved him aside, reaching up to pull a span of the sailcloth out from under the ropes. Something heavy dislodged as he did so, and a large metal hand fell out from under the covering, the iron fingers easily large enough to encompass and crush Padric’s head. He wrestled the cloth further away and knelt low, staring up into the wagon bed. A jumble of rusted parts lay heavily upon each other. Amongst them a great head, face forged with a vaguely human countenance, stared back at him.
“How many?” Padric demanded of the commander, shoving the covering back down.
“F-four complete, my lord,” the goblin answered. “And pieces for maybe two others.”
“Where,” Padric pressed. “Where are they bound?”
The Red Cap hesitated, eyes jerking right and left, feebly searching for aid.
“Where?!”
“C-castle Gaunt, my lord.”
Padric straightened, then put on a satisfied smile. “Very well. Best get moving then. Our good Flame Binder will be awaiting these most eagerly.”
His statement was rewarded by the relief on the commander’s face.
“Alright you lot!” the goblin recaptured his authority with vigor. “You heard His Grace, get moving!”
The wagon and its escort turned slowly and made its plodding way out of camp. Padric watched them go. Torcan said the Flame Binder had duties far from here and now he knew where. The once personal demesne of the sorcerer for which it was named, Castle Gaunt was a cursed ruin, brooding atop its hulking rock somewhere to the west, near the center of the isle. So, Torcan was collecting the lifeless remains of the Forge Born and sending them to the Flame Binder at the hated stronghold. It sounded as if this army would march on Black Pool than head on to Castle Gaunt. More information he now impotently possessed.
He made his way back to the settlement, hunger gnawing at his gut. Maybe he could get something from one of the fishwives and avoid Heggle completely. No, he must return some time, for sleep if naught else. He did not know what would be required of him in the days ahead and he would need his strength as well as his wits if he had any hope of maintaining this deadly mummery. Freeing Slouch Hat was of the utmost importance as was speaking with Kederic. But his encounter at the wagon had taught him something; the goblins feared him. Equal boldness at the Thegn’s cage could prove fruitful. If nothing else, he would discover the length of his tether.
The sun had just cleared the choppy waters beyond the harbor when Padric returned to the longhouse. It would accomplish nothing to hide from his vile servant and he had to do something about the slave girls. He found Heggle preparing the morning meal and the blonde girl sweeping out the longhouse, head bent to the broom. Of the other woman there was no sign.
“Heggle,” Padric asked. “Where is the other--”
“Not to worry, my lord,” she answered, looking up from her stewpot and smiling broadly. “She will no trouble you n’more.”
Padric felt ice travel down his spine and land in his gut. “What did you do?”
“I went straight away to his lord Swinehelm, I did,” Heggle said as she worked. “Told him that black haired hussy had displeased his Grace, and he sent the raiders to fetch her back. You won’t have to suffer her again.”
“What?” Padric made for the door. “Where did they take her?”
“Down to the water’s edge, o’course,” Heggle said simply. “Disobedient thralls is always given to the waves.”
Padric flew out the door, passing his guards in a bolt and out distancing them with long, pumping strides, their hollers of protest ignored behind him. He made straight for the rocky shore, knocking over a pair of fishermen in his reckless flight. In his bouncing vision he saw a small group of fjordsmen struggling in the surf, their cloaks drenched to black. When he skidded to a halt, breath burning in his ears, they were hauling something out of the water. The men dumped her carelessly, face down on the dark stones, her naked flesh shining white. Her once lustrous locks of jet were a wet mass of tangles and sand. Padric fell to his knees and turned her over as the water crept up the beach, washing over his hands and her drowned face. Her dark eyes looked up at him, unblinking, the luster gone, leaving only the accusing stare of the dead.
One of the men said something in their unintelligible tongue and the others laughed. Padric leapt up, snarling and slammed his fist into a smiling mouth. He did not know if it was the one who spoke and he did not care, he simply beat into the man with a fury, following him down as he fell, never ceasing his torrent of blows. The others shouted angrily, and Padric felt arms jerking him away from the pulpy face and a hard blow sunk into his gut, churning the air out of his body in a sickening rush. Another set of hard knuckles glanced off his skull, above the eye and he fell into the salty grit. Boots kicked savagely at his head, shoulder and hip as he curled up to protect himself. Over the dense sound of strikes to his own body, he heard a blood curdling series of cries and then screams of fear. The kicks stopped suddenly and Padric felt something rain down upon him in hot droplets. He peaked out from his cradling arms to see one of the men kneeling, gripping at his throat, blood pumping between his fingers and lips. Another lay in the surf, the foam turning an ugly pink as it sloshed over his slashed flesh. Padric rolled to his feet and found his escort swinging their halberds in bloody arcs into the upraised arms and pleading faces of the sailors. The last was on his back, trying to crawl backwards on his hands and feet, a pitifully ludicrous image right up until one of the Red Caps rammed a broad axe into his gut.
Padric stood, dripping blood and salt water, eyes wide to the butchery, trying to find his voice and put a stop to the goblins’ savagery, but only a wordless, bestial groan came forth. One of the Red Caps rushed to his side, the blade of his weapon covered in gore.
“Are ye well, my King?” he asked, genuine concern showing in his large, bloodshot eyes. Padric nodded dumbly, and stared at the bodies on the beach. Amongst the fallen, his eyes again found the woman. Burning bile filled his throat, and anger pulsed through him, fueled by the pains of his bleeding wounds. He stumbled off the beach, struggling up the rocky embankment and back to the longhouse. He kicked through the door, startling the girl and sending her cowering against the wall. Heggle remained busy at the serving board and smiled at him as he entered, heedless of his grisly appearance. He made straight for her, knocking the board aside and sending vegetables flying. The hunchback tried to dance awkwardly out of his reach, but he caught her fast, kicked her feet out from under her and spilling her to floor.
“You!” he screamed into her repugnant face. “Why?! Why?!” He shook her roughly, causing her head to thump repeatedly into the boards. Her lips peeled back in a contemptible grimace, purple gums hissing wetly. He heard the heavy boots of his guards slam on the floor as they entered the room. Padric jerked Heggle up roughly and tossed her towards them. She spilled heavily at their feet, her wrinkled face full of hurt and hatred.
“Get out!” he screamed at his guards as they helped the c
rone stand. “And take that hag with you! Tell the Swinehelm that I wish to see him here. Go now!”
The goblins backed out, leaving Padric to stalk about the broken room. The girl remained curled against the wall, shoulders heaving with muffled sobs. Padric did not approach her, knowing he looked a fearsome maniac, soaked with water and blood. There was a cut above his eye where the sailor had struck him and it seeped steadily down his cheek, dripping off his chin
Torcan Swinehelm arrived swiftly and alone. He stepped into the room, not bothering a glance at the wrecked furniture or the weeping girl.
“You summoned me?” he asked, a strange inflection in his voice.
“Yes,” Padric replied, knowing he should choose his words carefully, but too incensed for much caution. “I want Heggle removed from my service and replaced with the husk. And no more women! I am well pleased with this girl and she shall not be removed without my consent. If you want me to be king, then let us begin building a proper court. Kederic Winetongue is to be removed from that cage and treated with the respect deserved him. Consider these my first commands. I expect them to be carried out.”
A smile played across Torcan’s scarred face. “Or what?”
Padric glared down at the goblin warlord, but before he could answer, Torcan continued. “I think you have forgotten who commands here, boy! You may be the descendant of the Gaunt Prince, but you have languished in ignorance, the power within you allowed to lie fallow for centuries. You have no knowledge, no craft and you mistake your place here. If my words offend you, then please, punish my insolence. Unleash the dread Magic known by your ancestors and wreak your vengeance upon my treasonous tongue!”
Torcan paused, waiting, but all Padric could do was stare back at him.
“No?” Torcan asked. “Well until you can do that, you are nothing but a figurehead. A banner for my goblins to rally under. And a source of seed for your formerly glorious line. Prove your worth and get this wench with a swollen belly that we might raise a new king. One which has not been made weak by the mollycoddling of mortals! You say she pleases you well? Show me! Or I will dispose of her and keep looking until I find one that does.”
The Exiled Heir (Autumn's Fall Saga) Page 33