War in Hagwood

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  War in Hagwood

  The Hagwood Trilogy, Book Three

  Robin Jarvis

  * Contents *

  Characters

  Prologue

  1. Within the Hollow Hill

  2. The Drum of War

  3. In the Dark Beyond

  4. Gluttons and Weapons

  5. Defending the Tower

  6. That Which She Most Loved

  7. Conspiracy

  8. Myth and Sacrifice

  9. Apotheosis

  10. Gwyddion

  11. The Squirrel Raider

  12. Gabbity and Grimditch

  13. Wary and Cautious

  14. Werlings vs. Spriggans

  15. The Immortal Goddess of the World

  16. The Final Battle

  17. To the Witch’s Leap

  18. Over the Edge

  19. The Hub of All Destruction

  Epilogue

  A Biography of Robin Jarvis

  * Characters *

  GAMALIEL TUMPIN

  A young, clumsy werling, once stung by the monstrous Frighty Aggie; the lingering traces of her poison affect his wergling in peculiar ways

  KERNELLA TUMPIN

  Gamaliel’s bossy older sister, who has a crush on Finnen Lufkin

  FIGGLE AND TIDUBELLE TUMPIN

  Gamaliel and Kernella’s loving parents

  BUFUS DOOLAN

  The twin brother of Mufus, who was recently killed by the High Lady’s thorn ogres

  FINNEN LUFKIN

  Disgraced young werling, who was once the best wergle student; Finnen feels he has a lot to make up for

  TOLLYCHOOK UMBELNAPPER

  Timid young werling, more interested in food than adventure

  LIFFIDIA NEFYN

  A gentle classmate of Gamaliel; loves all animals but is afraid of birds

  DIFFI MAFFIN

  An elderly member of the werling council

  TERSER GIBBLE

  The once proud and haughty Great Grand Wergle Master of the werlings who betrayed their secrets to the High Lady

  RHIANNON RIGANTONA

  The High Lady, merciless Queen of the Hollow Hill

  CAPTAIN GRITTLE, WUMPIT, AND BOGRINKLE

  Three spriggans from the Hollow Hill who are part of the High Lady’s bodyguard

  LORD BRIFFOLD FANDERYN

  A highly respected elfin noble of the Hollow Hill who is determined to overthrow the High Lady

  LORD LIMMERSENT

  A noble of the court who longs for the end of the High Lady’s reign but is horribly afraid and trusts no one

  WAGGARINZIL

  The pig-faced goblin commander of the door guards within the Hollow Hill who is treacherously ambitious

  GABBITY

  The goblin nursemaid who cares for Rhiannon’s captive human infant

  GRIMDITCH

  A slightly crazy barn bogle who has lived alone on Moonfire Farm for many long years, with only rats and his memories for company

  PEG-TOOTH MEG

  The strange ruler of the damp caves beneath Hagwood. Her true identity is Princess Clarisant, the High Lady’s young sister, who disappeared many years ago.

  THE TOWER LUBBER

  The inhabitant of the ruined tower at the western edge of Hagwood who has wooden pegs instead of eyes. He is really Prince Tammedor, who ran away with the Princess Clarisant.

  NEST

  Mysterious ancient being who dwells deep beneath Hagwood

  GWYDDION

  One of the legendary human wizards who are remembered in werling tales as Dooits

  BLACK HOWLA

  Leader of the dreaded troll witches. She plunged to her death from the Witch’s Leap many years ago, but her angry spirit still haunts that lonely crag.

  RHIANNON RIGANTONA, THE HIGH LADY OF HOLLOW HILL and pitiless tyrant of the Unseelie Court, clung tightly to her midnight horse as it thundered through the forest of Hagwood. In the clear blue sky above, a barn owl flew low over the treetops, its golden gaze cast downward.

  With her raven hair streaming about her, Rhiannon commanded the beast to halt, but her mount had endured too much that morning to pay her fierce words any heed. It had never known such terror.

  Its great, dark eyes were rolling in their sockets and it galloped heedlessly between the tangled trees, plunging deeper and deeper into that ancient, wooded realm.

  The clearing in which it had been attacked was now far behind, but the horror of the slimy creatures that had assailed it there was still fresh and terrible.

  Loathsome, jellylike imps with wide gibbering mouths and bulging toad eyes had leaped upon it—clinging with cold wet fingers and clambering up its neck.

  The horse’s hooves pounded ever faster. The High Lady wrenched at the reins to no avail. She was not afraid of being thrown. Her life was enchanted and there was only one way of harming her. She was merely enraged that every moment bore her further away from the enemies she thirsted to strike down.

  Foremost among those was her sister, Clarisant, who had fled from the Hollow Hill many years ago with Prince Tammedor, a suitor from a distant elfin kingdom.

  Disguised and hidden, they had evaded the High Lady’s searches for many long years and the mere thought of them alive and reunited twisted Rhiannon’s beautiful face with hatred and she screamed at the horse to stop once more.

  White foam flew from the beast’s mouth, splashing its sleek muscular flanks like milky clouds curdling across a blackened sky.

  “Be still!” the High Lady raged. “I order it!”

  But the horse’s pace did not slacken and the more she threatened, the wilder the charger became. Casting the reins aside, Rhiannon Rigantona seized a great hank of its luxuriant mane and tore it up by the roots.

  The horse neighed shrilly, but still it raced onward.

  Branches and brambles raked and scored its sides and the frothing sweat blushed pink with blood.

  Rhiannon glared at the handful of black hair clutched in her pale fist and flung it aside contemptuously. No power in this world could interrupt her charger’s terror-filled flight. It would career on until its legs buckled with exhaustion. By then it would be too late; too many vital hours would have been wasted.

  The High Lady ground her teeth and a wintry glint shone in her eyes. There was only one thing to do.

  She drew a long knife from her belt. Grasping it tightly, she raised it over her head. The cruel blade flashed and dazzled in the dappling sunlight.

  When the horse screamed, it was so loud and piercing, the clamor caused the owl above to falter and its snowy wings thrashed the morning breeze as the forest beneath resounded with whinnying death.

  The thundering gallop faltered. There was a violent crash as the steed smashed into an oak and the tree shivered from root to bud. Mighty hooves smote the trunk and shards of bark flew like hail. A silver horseshoe was ripped clear and spun through the air, hitting another tree with a clanging din.

  The forest floor ran crimson, and old, ragged leaves were borne away on steaming rivers. The horse’s powerful limbs ceased their flailing and grew still. The calm and silence of the March spring morning returned.

  With a fluster and a shake of its wings, the owl alighted upon the oak’s lowest branch and surveyed the gruesome sight below. From the moment the great steed had bolted from the clearing, the bird had followed. In the whole
of Hagwood, the Tyrant of the Hollow Hill had no truer servant than that of her provost, the owl. It knew her deepest secrets and guarded them jealously.

  It clicked its beak with satisfaction and gave a flourish with one wing. “Was there ever so plainly deceased a beast?” it announced with macabre glee. “How the gore doth pump and fount, enough to flood the Hagburn and run it red.”

  There was a snarl and the horse’s headless body shifted as Rhiannon hauled herself from beneath its lifeless weight.

  She rose like a specter from a ruin. Her gown was torn and the knife she still clutched in her hand rained a scarlet drizzle into the grass. Cuts and grazes disfigured her face and arms, but already they were closing and fading until the only marks upon her were the splashes of the dead steed’s blood. The horse already forgotten, her pitiless mind was aflame with the scorching fires of vengeance.

  “Only one child of Ragallach, the High King, will live this day out,” she swore to herself. “My sister and her blind, vagabonding prince will die before the moon rises.”

  “So endeth all who dare defy thee, My Lady,” the owl chimed enthusiastically. “Let us return thither with due dispatch and let thy blade guzzle some more!”

  Rhiannon shook her head.

  “Not alone,” she said with a growl. “This time I shall lead the entire host of Redcaps against that brace of beggars and their frogspawn rabble.”

  “To the Hill, then!” the owl cried, leaping from the branch and taking to the air.

  “Yes,” she answered softly. “To the Hollow Hill, to call out the most vicious of my subjects.”

  Climbing into the sky, the bird glanced across the green forest roof to where, in the distance, a great grassy hill jutted high into the morning blue.

  “’Tis many miles northward, My Lady!” the owl cried down. “In its madness, thy steed did bear thee far beyond the southern bounds. Noon shalt be but a memory by the time thy dainty feet tread within thine own halls this day.”

  The High Lady narrowed her eyes and grunted with impatience. Then, in a hissing voice, she pronounced a curse upon the dead horse.

  “Never shall you find rest,” she breathed, calling upon the arts taught to her by the troll witches long ago. “By oak and by blood I bind and tether you and with the twin serpents’ might I charge you. ’Round and ’round you will gallop, in terror unending, headless and sightless, upon this spot forever.”

  The sunlight dimmed and the branches overhead stirred as a cold wind blew through them and ever afterward that place was haunted by the sound of thunderous hooves and no living creature dared to venture there.

  Rhiannon looked up at the owl circling above.

  “Lead the way!” she commanded. “I shall run as fleetly as your wings ride the air.”

  Taking hold of the silver talisman at her throat, she muttered softly. At once, the torn, blood-stained gown dripped from her shoulders and the cloud of her dark hair wrapped tightly about her. She stooped over the ground as her arms transformed into delicate forelegs, her neck lengthened and her brow stretched. In an instant, her elegant form was gone and in its place there stood a deer—a beautiful hind with a sleek sable coat and black, sparkling eyes.

  “My Lady!” the owl hooted and it sailed over the trees, flying northward.

  With a graceful bound, the deer leaped after it, darting through the forest, as swift as her evil thoughts.

  * Chapter 1 *

  Within the Hollow Hill

  SINCE EARLIEST TIMES, when the world was raw and savage, the Unseelie Court had dwelled within the Hollow Hill, and the burdening years had swollen its numbers.

  The subjects of Rhiannon Rigantona were strange, fierce folk. Hidden for uncounted ages from the eyes and minds of Man, they had become the half-forgotten creatures of fireside tales told on winter nights, when the wind moaned under the eaves and twigs scratched at the shutters. But they were still spoken of in fearful voices and country people were wise to respect them.

  The world of faerie was a dangerous, treacherous place and few people trod the old cinder road that ran between the Lonely Mere and the western shoulder of Hagwood in easy spirits. The threat of the hillmen was a constant dread and nervous travelers would glance at the green summit of the Hollow Hill in the distance with quailing courage and hurry on their way as fast as they were able.

  If they had known the truth, that those creatures of legend were not only real, but on the brink of a bitter and bloody war, they would never have dared journey along that path at all.

  BENEATH THE LOFTY, GRASSY SLOPES, under the soil and stone, silver lamps illuminated the winding halls and pillared chambers of the Unseelie Court. When the sun reared over the surrounding treetops, the denizens of the Hollow Hill retired to their mossy beds and stone couches to sleep away the dazzling day and await the dusk.

  In the subterranean stables, blue-faced bogle esquires slept alongside snorting steeds while, in the straw strewn byres nearby, a yawning goblin milkmaid lifted her last full pail and waddled dozily between the sleeping faerie cattle. Thin green milk slopped onto the floor and splashed over her gnarled toes, but Squinting Wheyleen was too tired to notice or care. Smacking her lips, she poured the contents of her bucket into one of the many silver churns lined against the wall like a regiment of gleaming sentries, then pattered off to seek her space among the other milkmaids. Fat Jansis, Cheesy Maudlynne, Dugmilla, and Auld Gronk with the Hairy Dairy Hands were already snoring on their cots. It was not long before Wheyleen’s whistling breaths joined that slumbering chorus. Contentment and warm, stale air filled the rock-roofed place.

  From down the passageway came the sound of purposeful footsteps. A long shadow swept over the dozing cattle and a tall figure headed for the stables.

  Lord Fanderyn peered into the gloomy stalls. The horses were asleep. Some were standing with drooped heads; others lay on the rushes with the noses of their attendant bogles nuzzled into their shoulders.

  The stalls were arranged in order of rank; the brutish steeds belonging to the goblin knights were housed in the roughest quarters while the delicate-hoofed gray stallions of the nobles were lodged with greater comfort. Fresh, midnight-gathered flowers festooned their walls and their elfin names were carved on wooden plaques above each door. The grandest stall, however, was set apart from the rest.

  Glimmering over that door were large, curling letters wrought of pure gold. “Dewfrost,” they declared. The dark-green velvet saddle that hung nearby was trimmed with jeweled tassels and embroidered with even more gold.

  Lord Fanderyn glanced inside and sure enough, the High Lady’s silver-white mare was asleep within.

  “For once, my suspicions were unfounded,” the noble murmured with surprise. “The rumor that She ventured out into the forest was false. She must, in truth, have been in the little lordling’s cradle chamber a day and more.”

  With an air of disappointment and a furrowed brow, he turned to leave, but something caught his attention. He took a dark lantern from its hook and uncovered it.

  The green light of its flame fell upon his features and glittered in the silver circlet he wore on his brow.

  Lord Briffold Fanderyn was one of the most august and powerful of the High Lady’s courtiers and the quality of his proud lineage was graven on his stern features. He had a long, lean, solemn face, with piercing eyes the color of summer twilight and a firm, serious mouth that was neither kind nor cruel. His dark chestnut hair was braided in one long plait that hung in a thick rope down his back, and his robes were of shadowy silk, swirling with a pattern of forest ferns.

  Holding the lantern aloft, he strode to the far end of the stable. The saddle that should have been hanging outside the furthest stall was missing.

  Thrusting the light inside, he stared within.

  The stall was empty, except for an astonished-looking bogle esquire, who was sitting cross-legged on the floor,
blinking up at him.

  “Who be there?” the creature squawked, unable to see past the glare of the lantern.

  Lord Fanderyn brought his grim face into the light and the bogle fell forward in a respectful bow.

  “M’lord!” he cried. “Hogmidden craves your deepest pardonings, he did not spy it was Your Lordlyship peeping in on him. What may Hogmidden do to serve Your Mightiness?”

  “Tell me,” Lord Fanderyn commanded. “Why are you here alone? Where is the beast in your charge?”

  The bogle esquire blinked some more and wrung his large hands as he struggled for a satisfactory answer.

  “Ain’t here,” was all he managed to say.

  “I can see that, you leaden-witted fool. Who took it and why, and how long have they been gone?”

  Hogmidden shook his head in defiance. “Doesn’t knowed that neither!” he replied.

  Lord Fanderyn ground his teeth impatiently but he could see that a terror greater than any he could provoke was upon the esquire and nothing would induce him to surrender that information.

  “Then tell me of the steed in your care,” he relented. “How long have you tended and groomed it?”

  At once the bogle brightened and his eyes shone with pride. “Since it was foaled in this here stall!” he declared. “Back in the days of Good King Ragallach. …” He paused and checked himself. It wasn’t prudent to speak of the old times in such fond terms; folk had been flogged and had their eyes torn out for less, and there was always some spiteful tongue eager to inform on you.

  “Mind you,” he continued in a louder voice, “there’s no finer ruler than our own dear High Lady. May She ever grace us and keep us.”

  Lord Fanderyn waved his worries aside.

  “You were telling of your steed,” he said. “I am keen to know more.”

  “Why, His Majesty the Old King even put His royal blessing upon my sprightly lad. The best of the chargers he’s proved to be: fastest of them all, stronger than three harnessed together and six times more braver. There’s none to match my Nightflame—he’s a full sack smarter than even his own rider knows.”