Thorn Ogres of Hagwood Page 16

  Barging their way between the trees, the ogres kept their odious faces cast to the ground. With their branching arms they parted the dead bracken and tore up turves—constantly searching and hunting.

  “Seek and find it,” they chanted. “Under stone—deep in hole. Seek and find it.”

  “Chokerstick—Krakkwhipp!” a different, shrill voice came calling from the forest behind them. “Wait by—wait by—Snaggart join—Snaggart join.”

  Scuttling beneath their spiky bodies, the rat-sized imp pattered forward and stamped his feet in fury.

  “Snaggart not like Ungartakka!” it snapped, shaking a twiggy fist in the direction it had just scampered from. “Ungartakka try kill Snaggart—Snaggart too fast, Snaggart jab—Ungartakka squeal!”

  The small ogre laughed and waved in its claws the beautiful weapon that was the envy of the others.

  Finnen saw a pale gleam in the imp’s claws, but he was too far away to recognize Thimbleglaive. Snaggart had ripped the enchanted knife from the Pucca’s body and claimed the blade as its very own.

  “Chokerstick hate seek,” one of the larger ogres growled. “Not find treasure—Chokerstick need fight, not seek.”

  The other rattled its branches in agreement. “Prize not here,” it snarled. “Ironhead not have—not in wagon—not on him—not in bones. Krakkwhipp—he want bloodkill.”

  “All want bloodkill!” Snaggart snapped back. “Witch-mother say go look—must be. So Snaggart do, but Snaggart not want.”

  A terrible realization dawned upon Finnen as he listened to the thorn ogres’ horrible talk. The Wandering Smith was dead.

  Sinking to the ground, Finnen covered his face. He had liked the old Pucca.

  Abruptly, Snaggart jerked its pinched face to one side and flapped its ragged ears, listening. With a cry it hopped forward and dived to the soil, poking its head into a burrow. Immediately the twiglike legs began to kick while its arms engaged in a scuffle underground. A moment later it emerged, spitting fur from its mouth, and in its claws dangled the ripped shreds of a rabbit.

  “Ironhead not hide treasure here,” Snaggart spluttered, burying its pinched face in the flapping skin and worrying it. “Witchmother wrong.”

  In the midst of his sorrow, Finnen was beset by doubt. The Smith had obviously failed in his mission. The casket containing the heart of the Lady Rhiannon was still out there somewhere, and the tyrant of the Hollow Hill would stop at nothing to retrieve it.

  The werling looked up at those horrors of thorn. They had advanced a little nearer and were still grumbling about their fruitless chore. More of the monsters were foraging in the distance—he could hear the upheaval of their searching—and a new fear gripped him.

  “She must think the box is here,” he breathed. “What if She discovers that the Smith went over the Hagburn with us last night? She’ll send these nightmares across. Nobody will stand a chance against them.”

  As silently as possible, Finnen crept from the tree and began hurrying back down his own trail. He had to return. He had to warn them.

  He had run only a little distance when he rounded a patch of dead ferns and blundered blindly into a figure coming the other way.

  Finnen went tumbling sideways into the undergrowth and stayed there, pale and scared, expecting a thorny claw to come reaching in for him.

  The ferns rustled and were pulled roughly aside. A round face pushed its way forward and stared at him keenly.

  “Hello,” said Gamaliel. “You don’t have to hide from me.”

  Finnen gaped at him then almost laughed, but there was no time for greetings or explanations.

  Hurrying from the undergrowth, he said in an urgent whisper, “Don’t speak too loudly. There are enemies back there. We’ve got to get back and alert everyone.”

  “Enemies?” Gamaliel mouthed, and they both turned to run.

  “Gamaliel Tumpin!” a stern voice yelled. “How dare you disobey the council’s most solemn decree!”

  There was Terser Gibble. As soon as Bufus Doolan had told him of Gamaliel’s intent, the outraged tutor had stormed off in pursuit. Now he stood before them, glowering down his enormous nose and quivering with barely controlled wrath.

  “Don’t you know the depravity of this pernicious degenerate?” he bawled, pointing at Finnen. “Who are you to defy our ruling? What have you to say for yourself, you simpering toad?”

  Finnen glanced back nervously. Master Gibble’s shouts were resounding beneath the branches, and he was certain the thorn ogres would hear him.

  “Quiet!” he hissed.

  The tutor bristled and stretched himself to his full, indignant height. Angry peeps whistled from his nostrils and he yelled even louder.

  “You have the audacity,” he squawked, “the vulgar effrontery to order me to be silent? Your blackguardly tongue should be pulled out, you filthy, pusillanimous little bark-gnawer. I am Terser Gibble, the Great Grand Wergle Master. What are you? Nothing! The dirt between my toes has more honor and worth than you.”

  “Whatever you say,” Finnen uttered fearfully, “just so long as you shut up!”

  “Please, Master Gibble!” Gamaliel implored. “You don’t understand!”

  The tutor would not listen.

  “No, indeed!” he bellowed. “I do not understand! Never in all our history has there been such a vile, lethiferous infection as you, accursed Finnen Lufkin. The name of your family shall be wiped from our records, and the disease of your crime will be cleansed from our memories.”

  “Stop!” Finnen shouted anxiously.

  But the harm had been done.

  Just as Master Gibble drew breath, inflating himself to give vent to more scathing bile, a tremendous crashing thundered through the trees.

  “Run!” Finnen cried.

  Terser Gibble flicked his head left and right as they dodged around him.

  “Come back here!” he commanded. “What is...?”

  Then he saw them—the thorn ogres. Shrieking ferociously, they lurched into view, and the tutor of the werlings gave a strangled squeal of terror.

  Whooping screeches sailed from the ogres’ lips when their baleful eyes fell upon the petrified creature before them.

  “Bloodkill!” Chokerstick boomed. “Bite—rend.”

  “Snaggart catch—Snaggart snap!” the imp crowed, trying to squeeze between them. “Snaggart want!”

  Master Gibble was too stricken with horror and fear to move. The abhorrent spectacle of the marauding nightmares was beyond anything he had ever encountered, and he was rooted to the spot. Every eluding tactic and escaping maneuver froze in his brain, and his own teachings and strategies were completely forgotten.

  One single, panic-free thought would wergle him into a bird and he could flee to safety in the sky; a stoat could outrun those bowed legs, a mole could delve beyond their groping reach—but no. Terser Gibble was in such a blind funk, he dithered, he clucked hopelessly, he fluttered his hands before his face, his nostrils piped a ghastly mewing—and the ogres seized him.

  Krakkwhipp clapped its claws about the twitching tutor and lifted him to its widening jaws.

  “Nooo!” Master Gibble screamed, thrashing his arms before the monster’s repulsive face. “Help! Save me. Save me!”

  Pelting up the trail, Gamaliel and Finnen heard his cries, and only then did they realize that he was not running behind them.

  Skidding to a stop, they turned and beheld the Wergle Masters deadly plight. Up to the waiting fangs he was drawn, his shrieks gargling in his throat as the ogre’s claws tightened about him.

  “Finnen!” Gamaliel wailed, shielding his eyes. “I can’t look!”

  Courageously his friend started to run back, desperately wondering which animal shape would best serve him.

  Krakkwhipp’s mouth was as wide as it could stretch and Terser Gibble’s long nose was already halfway inside, when suddenly Chokerstick yanked his captor’s arm and the tutor was pulled into the air again.

  “You not have!”
Chokerstick protested. “Krakkwhipp drink much ironhead blood. Give sweetmeat to Chokerstick.”

  Krakkwhipp curled its dribbling lips back and wrested the branchlike arm free again.

  “Krakkwhipp eat,” it vowed with a threatening clack of its tongue.

  Ducking beneath them and licking its own fangs when it viewed Master Gibble, Snaggart hopped and skipped before their faces.

  “No bite—no eat!” the imp yapped. “Not yet—not yet! Hear it squeal—hear it squeal. Must be asked—must be asked. Owl will want—yes, it will. It say bring any with speech. Krakkwhipp must take—must take, or Witch-mother will know.”

  “Witchmother...,” the ogre moaned.

  “She blast Krakkwhipp!” Chokerstick cackled. “Scorch and flame—Krakkwhipp burn!”

  The ogre shuddered, and his branches clattered together in dread. Then, staring at the werling in its clutches, it grunted. “Bloodkill wait. Let owl ask—then Krakkwhipp bite.”

  Snaggart rubbed his own claws together. Once the messenger of the High Lady had questioned the creature, it would prize it away from Krakkwhipp with its precious little knife and see how it tasted.

  With Master Gibble still whining and begging for mercy, the thorn ogres turned about and headed back through the trees.

  “Spare me!” the tutor pleaded. “Spare me, please!”

  Behind them, Finnen jogged to a stop and Gamaliel came puffing up to his side.

  “Where are they taking him?” Kernella’s brother asked. “What were those horrible things?”

  Finnen shook his head. “I don’t know,” he murmured, answering both questions. “But we can’t just let him be carted off like that. I have to save him if I can. You go back and tell the others, I’ll follow these horrors and wait for a chance.”

  “No, you don’t, Finnen Lufkin!” Gamaliel refused. “You’re going nowhere on your own. I’m coming with you.”

  Finnen could tell that it was pointless trying to argue, and so, as quickly as they dared, the werlings chased after the thorn ogres and pushed deeper into the forest.

  Snaggart, Krakkwhipp, and Chokerstick could move swiftly on their misshapen legs. They were already out of sight but were easy enough to follow because of the shrill whistles piping from Master Gibble’s nose.

  Through the hornbeams, tortured elms, and malformed sycamores they stamped and stumped, while the other thorn ogres they encountered fell in behind, laughing at the terrified notes sounding from the puny creature they had caught.

  In the wake of this mustering host, Gamaliel and Finnen began to despair. There were so many of those disgusting monsters that they could never hope to liberate Master Gibble. The thought of abandoning him, however, never once entered their thoughts, and they continued pursuing the servants of Rhiannon until finally they came to where the Smith had made his encampment.

  A terrible violence had been visited upon that small space. The devastation was absolute: Trees were thrown down, their roots unearthed and exposed, and the trunks were hacked and torn apart. Deep pits and trenches had been gouged in the soil, and more were being dug. It was as if an infernal tempest had fallen upon that one part of Hagwood and spent its full, squalling might within those limited confines. Not a blade of grass was left standing or unbroken, and even the stones were cracked like eggs.

  To this desolation the thorn ogres came barging, pouring over the splintered trees to gather around the brinks of the newly grubbed pits. Jostling and shoving one another, they bayed and barked, eager to see what the messenger of the High Lady would make of the unusual creature in Krakkwhipp’s claws.

  Cautiously, Gamaliel and Finnen approached. They could not believe what their senses were showing them. Destruction on such a scale was outside the experience or knowledge of any werling. Finnen’s throat went dry when he thought about a calamity of equal force striking in the heart of their home beyond the Hagburn.

  “What’s happened here?” Gamaliel whispered, keeping well out of sight. “Is this really where the Pucca brought us?”

  Finnen made no answer. It was vital that they saw what was happening in the middle of that clamoring crowd, but it was impossible to see past the stout, buckled legs and trailing, spiky tails. For a moment he toyed with the idea of wergling into a bird and spying on them from above, but even as he raised his eyes, he saw that one of the uprooted trees was leaning directly over that hideous multitude.

  Murmuring his plan to Gamaliel, they sneaked across the shattered ground and climbed nimbly up the ravaged trunk as far as they could without being spotted, then peered down.

  In the center of that malevolent crew, a large barn owl was perched on a pile of twisted metal: the mangled remains of the Wandering Smiths wares. And even as the werlings gazed upon that frightful scene, Krakkwhipp offered up Master Gibble for the bird’s inspection.

  The owl blinked its golden eyes and stared at the quivering tutor contemptuously.

  “Have pity!” Master Gibble squealed, believing the ogres were about to feed him to the bird. “Don’t kill me! Don’t give me to that mouse-eater, I beseech you! Let me go free! Please!”

  The snowy feathers ruffled and the owl clicked its beak.

  Master Gibble threw his hands before his face. “No! No!” he yowled with every nostril blaring.

  “Why do ye bring this paltry runt before me?” the owl demanded.

  “It spoke!” the werling cried in wild consternation. “An owl that speaks! Beeches take me, I have gone quite mad.”

  The bird flexed its talons and hunched its wings. “ ’Tis naught but a wer-rat,” it remarked. “A lowly, base creation of no import.”

  Krakkwhipp mumbled and shifted morosely.

  “Snaggart have!” the imp at its side demanded, jumping up and down impatiently.

  Krakkwhipp shoved Snaggart away and slobbered hungrily.

  “Hold!” the owl shouted suddenly. “Show me the wer-rat once more.”

  Master Gibble was waved in front of the bird’s face again, and the tutor gibbered pathetically.

  “Yea,” the owl said softly. “Gofannon, the arch traitor did speak with four of these puny creatures, this ender night ere he perished. Could it be that my Lady’s servants hath hunted in the wrong places for that thing he stole?”

  The golden eyes closed, and the bird sang quietly under its breath.

  “Mistress of the twilight,” it intoned. “Hear the supplication of thy humble Provost.”

  Far away, in the deep caverns beneath the Hollow Hill, the Lady Rhiannon took up a silver mask fashioned and graven into the shape of an owls face, and placed it before her own ravishing countenance.

  Upon the wreckage of the Smith’s wares, a purling sigh floated from the owl’s beak, and the icy draught was like the very breath of winter.

  “Where is this one you would have Us behold?” the bird said, but the voice that spoke was not its own, and when the eyes opened, bright silver shone where previously only gold had burned.

  “Witchmother!” the ogres groaned, cowering and fawning on the ground.

  An argent gleam flickered over their thorny features, and they cringed and hid their horrendous faces. Finally the cold light fell upon Terser Gibble, and the spindly werling stammered and wept.

  “Lowbred beast,” came the bitter voice of the Lady Rhiannon. “Hear the dictate of your Queen and obey Us without question.”

  Master Gibble wagged his head, trilling incessantly through his nose. “Anything!” he swore.

  The pale light flared. “Where is the casket that was stolen? To what secret place did Gofannon bear it? Where is it bestowed? You will tell Us. You must answer!”

  “C-casket?” the tutor stuttered. “Wh-what?”

  A despising glitter sparkled in the silver depths. “That most valuable treasure which the treacherous Smith did steal!” the harsh voice snapped. “Where is it?”

  Master Gibble quaked and shook, and his frantic whistles became ever shriller. “I-I don’t...I don’t know any...of any...I j
ust...”

  “The wer-rat knows nothing!” the voice scorned. “You waste our time, Provost. Destroy this puling creature, feed him to our pets.”

  “Noooo!” Master Gibble shrieked as the silver light began to fade and he strove to save himself. What was the Wandering Smith to him? Nothing, a dirty, beggarly creature of the big folk. Why should he, the Great Grand Wergle Master, the because of one such as he?

  “I think—yes, I do know something!” he cried.

  “You lie!” came the fierce response. “We read you right, tiny wheedler. All your thoughts are for your quailing skin; you would say aught to spare it.”

  The tutor nodded feverishly. “Yes!” he cried. “Indeed, I would, but I do know of what you speak. That one you named the Smith—he was seen in my land—I saw him myself.”

  Brilliantly now the eyes blazed, and Master Gibble nearly swooned from the glare of them. “Is that where the casket lies?” the voice rang out.

  “I know not!” the werling replied, anxious to appease. “But I am certain of the one who would know. He was in the Smith’s company longer than any, and many words they exchanged. On my life I swear it. If any might know where this thing you so justly want returned may be, it’s him—Finnen Lufkin!”

  Watching in the tree above, Finnen stared down at the wretched Terser Gibble, bewildered and afraid. He could not believe how drastically the tutor had changed. Robbed of his authority and under the threat of death, the once-pompous Wergle Master had degenerated into a pathetic, whining creature. He had divulged the boy’s name to the enemy almost eagerly. What would the cowardly tutor say next? Just how far would he go in order to deliver himself from the power of Rhiannon?

  “He’s the one!” Master Gibble gabbled on. “A most untrustworthy, ungrateful child is Finnen Lufkin. He’ll know, I’m sure of it!”

  The owl regarded him doubtfully, and the werling’s whistling notes dwindled to forsaken, jarring chirps.

  “It’s the truth, I promise!” he cried. “How can I prove it to you? How?”

  A dark glimmer of his own entered the tormented tutor’s beady eyes, and a fey laugh giggled from his mouth.

  “I know!” he crowed as his last fragment of courage finally disintegrated. “The Great Grand Wergle Master knows!”