Then Prince William and a company of Narngalish knights, Companions of the Cup, came battling through the turmoil. They attacked her assailants, skewering them and throwing them off, until eventually they released the weathermage.
‘Come!’ shouted William, taking her by the elbow. ‘Quickly! There are too many of them, too many goblins. We must flee from the field of battle!’
It was then that she awoke, dazed and alarmed. Stars shone in at her window, and a cyanic breeze stirred the curtains.
The goblins were coming.
The Storm Lord had given his granddaughter the choice of any sky-balloon at Rowan Green to replace Lightfast. Most of the great aerostats lay idle, now that the majority of the weather-mages were gone—the old ones used by Asrăthiel’s father: Windweapon, Northmoth, Snowship and Mistmoor; the newer ones: Autumnleaf, Featherflight and Soapbubble; Silverpenny, Dragonfly and Icemoon; Greygoose, Farhover and Sparkapple. Asrăthiel selected Icemoon, its spidersilk envelope replaced with the heavier vegetable-fibre cloth she preferred on ideological grounds.
Two days later she joined the united armies of the four kingdoms as the commanders dispersed their troops along the southern borders of the Wuthering Moors in readiness for the inevitable assault. A thick and resilient carpet of heather covered large tracts of the open land. At this season it was beginning to bloom, its spikes of mauve flowers jumping with bees and perfuming the air. Heath, with its pink bell-shaped flowers, thrived in clumps amongst the heather, while common violet and scarlet pimpernel hid in the shade of the shrubs, and harebells sprang in the open grassy spaces. Spiny-stemmed gorse sprouted in the corners and crevices of decaying stonework—the antique remnants of buildings—its golden, sweet-scented blossoms furled tightly in their buds. Low bushes of bilberry had finished flowering, and small green fruit were beginning to set on the stems. Crisp tufts of hardy crowthistle bristled here and there, the dark green of scalloped leaves contrasting with the vivid purple of the inflorescence. Soon, most of these wildflowers would be crushed into the soil.
The choice of site had been thrust upon the armies of Tir by necessity: the hordes-in-the-mist were beating a path directly south from the Harrowgate Fells. It was estimated they would reach the moorlands that very afternoon, for they no longer travelled only during the sunless hours but by day, wrapping themselves in darkling mists. In favour of the setting an ancient city had long ago stood on the Wuthering Moors, and the broad acres were criss-crossed with remnants of old fortifications such as low stone walls and the shells of ruined towers. The defenders wasted no time in putting these barricades to good use. Furthermore the southern edge of the moors was slightly higher than the northern, which gave the mortal armies a small but significant advantage over the foe.
The Narngalish were particularly determined to try to save King’s Winterbourne from capture. After the Storm Lord’s revelations about the power of the goblins Prince William had admitted to Asrăthiel, ‘In slumber I am tormented by visions. If the royal city falls, the gutters will run with blood. Goblins will empty the streets and buildings, making of it a hollow place inhabited only by beetles and rodents and spectres on the wind.’
‘Do not dwell on visions,’ she had replied, banishing the echoes of her own dream. ‘It may never come to that.’
Yet she, too, was frightened.
The Goblin Wars of olden times were legendary. Avalloc had told her that long ago, those death-dealing wights had almost overrun the lands of men but ultimately their king, Zaravaz, was overthrown. Then they were vanquished by the weathermasters, led by Avolundar Stormbringer wielding Fallowblade, who forced them underground, sealing them into gold-lined mountain caverns, in a prison whose walls were thousands of tons of rock. There the immortals had remained incarcerated, until now. The wights’ extended confinement would have provided them with plenty of leisure to ponder retribution. If they had been hostile before their long punishment, certainly their aggression must have increased a hundredfold. Released by some inexplicable means, they intended—it was clear—to take revenge for their defeat and prolonged imprisonment by destroying humanity, inch by inch.
In their vengeance they would be aided by their kobold slaves, those monstrous little creatures which, unable to penetrate the golden shell in which their masters were imprisoned, had been wont to lurk in underground places and poison mortal miners with their toxic presence.
It was written in the surviving records that iron could not injure goblins, nor fire nor stone, nor any mundane weapon. By the efforts they went to in avoiding daylight it was conjectured that the sun’s rays, also, might be their bane. One thing was certain—they could not abide the touch of gold. The war councils of the four kingdoms used this knowledge to formulate strategies for the forthcoming confrontation. Quantities of gold had been hastily collected from the treasuries of kings and noblemen, then melted and rolled out to the thinnest leaf, or cast into shot. Laden wagons rolled up to the Wuthering Moors; from these vehicles treasury stewards unloaded huge chests and coffers filled with costly ammunition. At Avalloc’s command the containers were set out in rows, some forty feet from the knoll on which he and Asrăthiel would take their battle positions. The lids were unclosed and the bullion lay ready, open and gleaming under the skies.
At this mellow time of year the day’s eye lingered long overhead, but even Summer days must eventually end and night must rule again. A sense of foreboding seized the waiting battalions. No man doubted that when darkness fell on the Wuthering Moors the goblins would come.
The mournful cries of curlews sounded across the open land, and the calling of snipe and teal and lapwings, and the sobbing of weepers that few mortals ever glimpsed. King Warwick rode amongst his troops talking to his men, giving words of encouragement, boosting their spirits; calling all his officers by name. Thousands of soldiers waited, rank after glittering rank ranged along the southern marches of the moors, staring out across the sea of wildflowers. Their hearts hammered in their chests and their palms sweated as they gripped their weapons tightly in their fists, for the season of doom was nigh, and ultimately there could be no avoiding it.
They were coming; the goblins.
All of Tir’s soldiers stood in readiness. Sunset emblazoned the west with rich cinnabar and dripping ruby glazes, before twilight altered the firmament to softest cornflower blue, deepening to perse. High in the ceiling of the world a scattering of silver points began to appear, increasing to a twinkling ocean of spangles. Not a single cloud obscured the sparkling splendour of the stars. It was to be a fine evening for death.
Shadowy swathes of mist began unfurling from east to west, along the opposite side of the moors. Amidst those vapours a hint of gargoyle faces, a green shimmer of tossing manes, a flash of gleaming metal.
Atop a low knoll on the southern border, Avalloc and Asrăthiel waited, clad in shirts of glimmering chain mail and cloaks of weathermaster grey. Statuesque and unbent stood the Storm Lord, despite his recent agues and advancing years. As for his granddaughter she was a flower stem, slim and pliant; her eyes like the blue wings of evening, mesmerising. Both were murmuring phrases of power and drawing shapes in the air with quick, graceful movements. The two weathermages had been busy. As soon as they had learned where and when they were to encounter the horde, they had commenced to manipulate local and distant weather patterns. Now they were quietly raising a southerly breeze in an attempt to blow away the fog. Even though Asrăthiel’s sorcerous blood and unique birthright amplified her powers of weathermastery, she and Avalloc knew they would not be capable of defeating this scourge unaided; yet their kindred who would have supported them had been murdered, and those who lived must do their best alone. Their grief at the loss of their loved ones still harrowed them fiercely, and they were distracted by thoughts of what might have been: Baldulf should have been leading the calling of the wind; Galiene should have been standing at my shoulder; if only Ryence were here we would conjure a storm the like of which has never been seen, a true wea
pon of accuracy and power, ruled as straitly as man has ever ruled the lashing elements. Their sorrowful conjectures impaired their abilities, and thereby the power of both was diminished.
Close around the mages, precisely arranged in concentric circles six rings deep, stood their defenders, the Companions of the Cup. Tall and straight as javelins they stood, their plate and weapons gleaming in starlight. Some forty feet from their position stood the array of open chests and coffers filled with heaps of shining material. At the Storm Lord’s orders, all men gave the arks of gold a wide berth; soon they would become perilous.
Darkness deepened.
By night the goblins came, silently.
The mages’ brí-summoned wind swept over the heather; the mists swirled and dispersed, the last glimmer of afterglow faded from the west and a great arch of constellations, glinting hard and sharp as sparks of white metal, was flung across the heavens from horizon to horizon.
One moment the moors were empty; in the next they were there across the heath, motionless, mounted on their daemon horses; some twenty-five thousand, rank upon rank, with their kobold slaves thronging at their sides. No mist obscured them.
And they were beautiful.
Tall, pale and handsome, with the appearance of human men, the goblin knights—for that is what they must be—could it really be so?—wore fabulous battle harness evidently fashioned of polished jet, writhing with glittering intaglio. Their mail looked to be made of linked lizards’ scales, and their accoutrements of black leather were decorated with silver. Some had helms adorned with curving horns, branched or smooth. The knights’ hair cascaded past their shoulders, and it was darker than the night. Their long tresses rose and fell, buoyed by the breeze, and the stars of the firmament seemed snagged therein. Dark were their eyes and lashes, as if they had been pencilled with kohl; even from many hundred yards’ distance this could be discerned through the glassy clarity of the night air. Swords they bore, but no shields. One knight was positioned a little forward of all the rest, and he was the most comely of all, yet there was some quality about his demeanour which made him appear dissolute and depraved.
Long-legged and graceful as greyhounds were their daemon horses, the trollhästen, caparisoned in silver. Fey also were these steeds, with a kind of ghastly knowingness about them, and terrifying; utterly unlike their inoffensive mortal counterparts. Their manes and tails gushed like founts of green fire. High above the great tide of riders, shadowy birds hovered in jagged waves. Down amongst the horses’ fetlocks swarmed the foot soldiers; bluish-skinned kobolds, as high as eight-year-old children yet ferocious, and clad in brick-red armour marked with an equal-armed cross. Gold-coloured paint decorated their faces and harness. They were ugly, stunted creatures with long tails, pointed ears, malicious grins, wide, flat noses and long slits of eyes—the epitome of traditional goblin descriptions. Yet there was no dilemma in the minds of any of the mortal observers as to which were goblinkind and which were their gnomish slaves. Patently, the nursery tales had erred again; history had been twisted out of recognition, or lied.
Stunned, the armies of Tir stirred not. Indeed, the shock was so great that some scarcely breathed. Was it some form of glamour? Had a net of enchantment been cast over their mortal senses? Many soldiers carried objects that allowed the bearer to see through the disguises of eldritch glamour. They stared at the oncoming spectacle through holes in the centres of rare river-worn pebbles, or touched the dry sprigs of four-leafed clover stitched into their shirts. The terrible, beautiful riders passed every test. What the charm-wearers saw differed not one jot from what their neighbours beheld. By these means it was confirmed that the goblin knights had cast no illusion to give themselves a semblance of fair shape, but were really as marvellous in form as they appeared.
At last, one man roused himself from stupefaction. The Companions of the Cup made way for him as he passed through their ranks and strode out to the forefront of the human armies, to the very head of that armed mass of mortal men. It was Avalloc Maelstronnar. In a voice augmented by the power of the wind he called out, ‘Will you parley with us?’
Then to the ears of the human audience there came the clamour of rushing water and beating wings. Mingling within that great sigh, harsh voices seemed to be saying words in an unknown tongue: Glashtinsluight ny beealeraght lesh sheelnaue.
What this meant, nobody could tell, but to the listeners it felt like a negation, a denial. There would be no parley.
Overhead, sullen clouds seethed and shadowy birds hovered menacingly. Then, as one, the goblin riders flung aside their cloaks, which seemed to merge with the night as they fluttered away. It was a gesture that patently indicated they were ready to fight.
Avalloc returned to Asrăthiel’s side. With all speed the two mages resumed their muttering of commands and sketching of arcane gestures. They drew together unseen threads, tipped invisible balances, and caused particular forces to build while others decayed. Local eddies swirled around them; their hair whipped across their faces, their cloaks billowed. They were calling a storm to batter the goblin knights, and it was no normal atmospheric disturbance. A furious gale exploded, whisking golden flakes out of the open coffers in ascending spirals. Boiling clouds unleashed sudden sheets of vigorous rain. Tiny fragments as thin as snow, and spherules as hard as hail hurtled out of the skies, yet they were not snow or hail but flakes of gold leaf and golden beads; a precipitation of bullion. When these fragments smote the goblin knights they flinched as if burned by white-hot iron, and some cried out, and their armour and flesh smoked where the gold touched them. Their daemon horses reared on long, graceful legs. Kobolds tossed their own shields to their comely masters, which the riders threw up for protection. In spite of this setback the knights charged into the teeth of the aureate fusillade, the manes of the galloping trollhästen trailing in tongues of emerald gas, and the kobold infantry leaping eagerly to the attack brandishing pitchfork, fang and talon.
Trumpets rang out, clear and bright as glass. King Warwick and his battalions led the charge as the armies of humankind thundered across the moors to meet the unseelie hordes.
War’s cacophony roared like the eruption of a volcano. Artificially produced winds wailed, crashes of thunder jolted the roots of the hills; men yelled their battle cries and weapons clashed. From their vantage atop the knoll, the mages were able to survey the battlefield, judging where best to send their biting levin bolts and their vicious squalls, where to fling their barrages of Autumnal gold. Dodging the mages’ golden artillery, the goblin knights fought with calm precision. Their speed, as Avalloc had predicted, was abnormal, and their power extraordinary. So swiftly did they move that to the human eye they appeared blurred—almost invisible, like the rapid-beating wings of a hummingbird, making it nigh impossible to target them. Against such opposition mortal men had little chance.
The arrant skill of the wicked wights was uncanny enough, but more disturbing still was the fact that many of them sang as they went about their gory work, in raw, rough tones, as if they joyed in what they did and celebrated it. Not in unison did they vocalise, but their individual voices blended in electric harmonies; a wild, unsettling music, exultant with bloody triumph yet, as with their visible aspects, strangely beautiful. With their singing they seemed to be boasting that they felt so carefree, so lightly pressed and so scornful of their foes that they had leisure to use their breath on divertissements. If it was a tactic to demoralise, it was a brilliant one. By contrast, their mortal adversaries could only gasp and grunt and pant under their exertions.
Despite all the efforts of the weatherlords and the clever strategies of the battle commanders, despite the skill and experience of the knights of all four kingdoms, and the strength and courage of the troops, and even in spite of their outnumbering the foe four to one, the soldiers of Tir were being mown down in vast numbers. Their counterattack was driven back, and the singing hordes followed up. Appalling slaughter was done on the Wuthering Moors, and the weathermage
s witnessed it all. As Avalloc Maelstronnar stood at the eye of the storm working the winds, tears flowed down his furrowed cheeks.
It seemed inevitable that the night would end in red ruin, and dawn would bring only the terrible stillness of mass extinction, but unexpectedly there came relief. All of a sudden, when complete victory was in their grasp, the goblin knights withdrew from the field and vanished northwards. Once again it was as if the wights, in their vindictiveness, were trifling with their adversaries, luring humankind to suppose they had some chance of escaping harm, merely to later excruciate them anew. There was no doubt these lords of wickedness could overwhelm the troops at any time, but they restrained themselves from dealing the death blow, as if enjoying the moment, amused by prolonging the torment of their helpless victims.
Dawn mists rose from the battlefield like a spectral ocean, submerging stonework, crushed flowers and fallen men. Weary and sick at heart, the soldiers of Tir retreated, bearing the wounded, the dying and the dead.
The dandelion petals of morning unfolded.
‘Goblinkind cannot abide daylight,’ everyone was saying, clinging to all vestiges of hope. ‘We shall, at least, be safe until nightfall.’ They avoided mentioning the eldritch mists of daytime.
Goblin lore had become the burning topic, and no one knew more about the wights than Avalloc Maelstronnar—save perhaps for Asrăthiel, for he had taught her a great deal during the moments they had stolen together for private discourse. There was much he had discovered in Rowan Green’s history books; past generations of weathermasters had had numerous dealings with goblinkind in days gone by, and the elderly mage took it upon himself to disseminate the truth.
‘Storm Lord,’ many soldiers asked as Avalloc moved through the tents helping tend to the injured, ‘why is it that the goblin knights look like human men? We believed them to be ugly creatures, small in stature, something like spriggans, or bogles, or the blue kobolds.’
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