Thorn Ogres of Hagwood Page 17

  Flinging his arms wide, he tossed back his head and yelled, “Send your fiendish pets over the Hagburn, my most honored Lady! They will be met by the doughty forces of my people, who will resist with every trick they know, everything I have taught them.”

  “They will be slain,” the voice declared without emotion.

  “Not without a fight!” he hooted. “But spare my life and there will be no contest, none whatsoever. I guarantee! Heed me now and my folk can be defeated and captured; the treasure you seek will be won more swiftly.”

  The wintry light glimmered over the werling’s face.

  “Dearly do you buy your spineless life, yet if this is true then you have earned your freedom of Us.”

  Master Gibble clasped his hands and sniveled his gratitude, while his nostrils twittered unharmoniously. Then the most respected and revered member of the werling race committed the most despicable and loathsome sin in the long history of their kind.

  It was the vilest, absolute and unrepentant betrayal, yet Terser Gibble laughed when he uttered it. Every one of his high, haughty ideals had vanished, and only the all-consuming need to survive and keep his own detestable skin remained.

  “This is how you conquer them!” he proclaimed.

  “Amwin par cavirrien sul, olgun forweth, i rakundor.

  Skarta nen skila cheen,

  Emar werta fimmun-lo.

  Perrun lanssa dirifeen, tatha titha Dunwrach.”

  Listening to his words from their position in the tree, Gamaliel and Finnen stared at each other in horror. It was far, far worse than Finnen’s own crime. Compared with this ultimate treachery, the stealing of wood from the Silent Grove paled into oblivion.

  “The passwords! How could he?” Gamaliel breathed. “He’s told them the secret unlocking passwords!”

  Aghast, Finnen shuddered. “We have to get back,” he whispered. “Gibble’s saved his own neck; now it’s up to us to save the others. We haven’t a moment to lose.”

  Pleased with his craven cunning, Master Gibble instructed the servants of the High Lady until the ancient words were learned.

  “None shall withstand them,” he said proudly. “You said I could go free.”

  The silver eyes gleamed at him. “And so you may,” the voice promised. The owl turned its head to Krakkwhipp, ordering the monster to let the wer-rat loose.

  The thorn ogre lowered its claw, but the bird’s beak opened once more, and before their mistress removed the silver mask from her face in the Hollow Hill, she added maliciously, “Verily you must turn him loose, but not until you have separated the base creature from his irritating nose. Cut it off!”

  With the agonized screams of Master Gibble ringing in their ears, Gamaliel and Finnen scurried down the trunk and ran for their lives.

  But as they sped from that devastation, one of the thorn ogres chanced to turn and it saw them flee.

  “Spies!” it croaked. “See—spies!”

  Every foul head ranged around to stare, and the bleak voice of the Lady Rhiannon called, “After them! To battle, my pets! To battle!”

  Shrieking and screeching, the evil host charged forth.

  CHAPTER 15

  Jumbled

  HIDEOUS SHOUTS BLARED BENEATH the trees, and the forest streaked past Gamaliel and Finnen as a tangled blur.

  Away from the mutilation of the Smith’s encampment they pelted, running as fast as they could, but Gamaliel could not keep up with Finnen.

  “Quickly!” Finnen cried, spurring his plump friend on.

  “I can’t!” Gamaliel huffed.

  The whooping din of the pursuing thorn ogres was growing steadily louder, but even that could not make Gamaliel’s legs move any faster.

  “They’re gaining on us!” Finnen exclaimed. “Hurry, Gamaliel—you must!”

  Through the strangling trees they lunged, but all the while the ferocious, trumpeting shrieks of the High Lady’s servants mounted, and their pounding feet caused the ground to shake.

  “It’s no use!” Finnen yelled above the racketing riot. “We’ll have to wergle into something faster.”

  Gamaliel’s legs were aching and his chest was tight and painful. “No!” he cried. “I can’t. You know I can’t! I’ve never even changed into a mouse. You go on, Finnen. I should never have come. Leave me here. Go tell the others.”

  “No one’s going to be left anywhere!” Finnen replied. “All I have to do is wergle into a bird strong enough to carry you, and we’ll both be safe.”

  The ogres were almost upon them; they could hear the clatter of their thorny branches. Finnen leaped into the air, spreading his arms and flapping them.

  With a lurch he fell. There were no feathers, no wings—the wergling had not taken place.

  Shocked and fearful, he bolted upright and tried again. Jumping high, he concentrated hard and ground his teeth together, squeezing his eyes tight shut and believing himself to be a bird.

  Nothing happened, and he landed with a judder.

  Finnen’s face blanched, and he tried a third time. Finally he turned to Gamaliel and in a scared voice declared, “I can’t do it. Without the wood from the Silent Grove I can’t wergle into anything!”

  “What are we to do?” Gamaliel wept

  The thorn ogres were crashing through the trees behind them. The werlings could see their pale eyes shining fiercely, and in the sky above, the barn owl was squawking its orders.

  Finnen looked around wildly. The hill topped by a single chestnut tree was not far away, and he gripped Gamaliel by the shoulders.

  “Listen to me!” he demanded. “It’s up to you now. You’ve got to do this on your own.”

  “But I’m not as fast as you!” came the wretched reply.

  “Neither of us is fast enough the way we are!” Finnen shouted. “I can’t wergle, so you must!”

  “Me?” Gamaliel wailed. “It’s impossible.”

  “No, it’s not!” Finnen yelled, shaking him. “You can do this, I know you can. You have to; you’re our only hope!”

  “But what about you?”

  Finnen pointed to the hill. “If I can reach that,” he said doubtfully, “I might be able to hide. But it doesn’t matter, only you do. Go warn the others, tell them what Gibble’s done. Don’t stop to worry about me; there isn’t time.”

  Tears pricked Gamaliel’s eyes. He stared at the stampeding nightmares that were now only a short distance away and were reaching with their claws.

  “Forget them!” Finnen commanded. “Do it, Gamaliel! For all our sakes!”

  Trembling, and with the clamor of the enemy roaring behind him, Gamaliel Tumpin opened his wergle pouch.

  Uncertainly, he reached into the velvety bag. It was still stuffed with odds and ends, and he drew out a matted clump of fur, bristles, and feathers.

  “It’s all mixed up!” he howled. “I don’t even know which is the mouse’s.”

  “Just do it!” Finnen told him.

  Gamaliel closed his eyes, thrust the untidy mess under his nose, and took one great, despairing sniff.

  Stars exploded in the werling’s mind. His skin crackled and fizzed, and his body was wracked by vicious spasms as mighty forces gripped him. He was wergling.

  But not all the venom of Frighty Aggie’s sting had been drawn from his shoulder. Traces still lingered, and they conferred strange powers upon young Gamaliel Tumpin.

  The bones of his legs creaked and stretched, buckling into those of a young hare. A sleek coat of ginger fur sprouted all over his face, and his hands became squirrel paws. From the top of his snookulhood burst a crown of feathers, and his jerkin ripped and tore when hedgehog spines came thrusting from his back. With a final jolt, a mouse’s tail snaked out behind, and Gamaliel blinked in surprise.

  Finnen gawped at him.

  Gamaliel was a bizarre mishmash of creatures. It went against every known wergling law.

  “What’s happened?” Finnen asked. “You’re a bit of everything. It’s incredible! Nobody can do that!
Are you all right?”

  Gamaliel nodded hastily and hopped upon his new legs. “I think I can make it!” he cried. “I feel strong and swift.”

  “Then run!” Finnen called, for at that moment the ogres came rushing to snatch them.

  Off Gamaliel shot, bounding and leaping over the dead bracken, traveling faster than he ever had dreamed. Into his ears the wind went coursing, and the feathers on the top of his head waved madly as he raced along.

  Finnen could not begin to match the speed of his friend’s new mongrel shape, and he fell rapidly behind. But the ogres were still clutching at his heels, and when he reached the lower slopes of the nettle-covered hill, he darted aside and shot up into the weeds.

  Like an avalanche of briar and bramble, the monsters rumbled by, yammering at the top of their rasping voices, calling for death and murder.

  Not daring to pause, Finnen scaled the hill, and when he reached the summit, he clambered quickly up into the chestnut tree.

  Breathless and spent, he perched upon one of the lower branches and stared down at the forest roof. Through the twining boughs he saw the surging horde flood through Hagwood, heading unerringly for the land of the werlings. Above them the barn owl circled, and Finnen hoped that Gamaliel’s new shape would not fail him.

  “Good luck,” he murmured.

  At the base of the tree a small figure came crashing through the nettles and cackled to itself when it saw Finnen hiding in the branches.

  “Snaggart want,” it crooned, and licking its fangs, the imp began to climb.

  The weird, jumbled creature that was Gamaliel raced through the forest like the wind.

  He had already put a great distance between himself and the army of the High Lady, but the thorn ogres were no longer his most immediate problem.

  Swooping from the sky, the owl dived at Gamaliel’s head with its talons outstretched to hook into his skull. Gamaliel could feel the furious downdraft of the great wings, and the bird’s shadow deepened about him. At the last moment, the werling hunched over, and the owl’s feet went grasping at his sharp hedgehog spines.

  The owl screeched with punctured rage and soared up once more, only to wheel about and plummet for a second attack. Again Gamaliel curled up, but this time the bird was calling out, and he shuddered with fright when he heard.

  “Amwin par cavirrien sul,” the owl declaimed, “olgun forweth, i rakundor.”

  Down it dived, and the secret passwords were bawled from its beak.

  “Skarta nen skila cheen, emar werta i fimmun-lo.”

  Gamaliel held his breath and bit his lip, expecting his shape to melt away.

  “Perrun lanssa dirifeen, tatha titha Dunwrach.”

  That was it. Gamaliel heard the rush of wings and waited for the protecting hedgehog spines to vanish. But, to his delight and amazement, he remained exactly the same and unchanged. The ancient unlocking charm had been devised only for known forms, and over the hybrid creature he had wergled into they had no power.

  Above him the owl squawked in impotent fury, and Gamaliel sprang away, his rabbit’s feet barely touching the ground.

  The owl continued to harry him, but Gamaliel was confident now, and he hurtled along in an insane zigzag that baffled the bird’s plunging talons. Then to his joy he saw the banks of the Hagburn appear before him, and without a second’s delay the long legs launched him from the edge.

  Across the stream he vaulted, springing up as soon as he landed upon the other side.

  “ ’Ware! ’Ware!” he hollered. “Wolves! Owls! Witches! ’Ware! ’Ware!”

  Into the land of the werlings he raced, and the old alarm cry brought dozens of faces crowding to the entrances of their homes in the trees.

  “What is it?” they called, gazing at the peculiar creature hurrying below and observing with dread the barn owl that was still dive-bombing and hounding it. “Who’s down there?”

  “It’s me!” the uncanny beast yelled. “Gamaliel! Gamaliel Tumpin!”

  He sped to the oak where his family lived, and his father was already scuttling down to meet him.

  A stout stick was in Figgle Tumpin’s fist, and when the owl lunged for his son he leaped up and smote it across the leg.

  “Get gone, you foul flappy thing!” he shouted. “Or I’ll have your feathers in a pillow and you in a roast!”

  The bird shrieked at him and thrashed its wings to hover in the air as it slashed and raked with its claws.

  A fierce scratch cut across Figgle’s cheek, and he battered his stick in the owl’s face.

  The messenger of Rhiannon screeched, but now many other werlings were running to the Tumpins’ aid, and both Tidubelle and Kernella were hurling stones from Gamaliel’s collection as they scampered along the branches above.

  With a mighty thrust of its wings, the owl shot into the sky, accompanied by sticks, pebbles, and rude shouts, then moved off over the trees toward the forest.

  “That’s got rid of it!” the small folk cheered. “What’s it doing out in the daytime anyway? Daft loony.”

  A large number of werlings had gathered about the roots of the Tumpins’ oak. Liffidia was there, as well as Tollychook. Everyone was agog to know what was going on and just what had happened to Gamaliel.

  “Look at him!” they gasped. “Whatever is it? It’s not natural—downright fright’nin.”

  Gulping for breath, Gamaliel was trying to explain to his father when Yoori Mattock came pushing through the throng.

  “What in Hagwood are you supposed to be?” he demanded sternly. “You’re a disgrace, lad. An abominable-nation.”

  “Don’t you speak to our Gamaliel like that!” Figgle cried, shoving Mr. Mattock in the chest.

  “And don’t you push me!” Yoori told him. “You should be ashamed of your—”

  “Stop it!” Gamaliel yelled. “There are enemies coming. Huge monsters. You have to arm yourselves, find whatever weapons you can. They’ll kill you, kill you all!”

  A ghastly hush followed his feverish words, and the werlings looked at one another fearfully.

  “Monsters?” Yoori Mattock said, not believing a word.

  “Yes!” Gamaliel answered defiantly. “They caught Master Gibble and he betrayed us. He told them the passwords. Poor Finnen’s stuck, back in the forest. He could be dead by now for all I know or you care...Listen!”

  The rumor of a tremendous uproar was rising from beyond the Hagburn. Flocks of birds, frightened from their nests, took to the air, swirling through the sky like dense clouds. The werlings murmured in dismay.

  “Monsters...,” they whispered.

  Yoori Mattock stared at Gamaliel and realized the boy was speaking the truth. Apologies would have to wait. There was very little time to organize themselves, but as the leader of the presiding council, Mr. Mattock instantly took command.

  “Make certain everyone has heard the alarm!” he announced, turning to the frightened werlings. “Do as the lad says. Arm yourselves. We will meet this foe at our borders.”

  In every corner of the normally tranquil woodland, the alarm was called. Within minutes a great number of the shape-changers were striding toward the stream, bearing sticks and knives. Most of them had wergled into fierce animal forms: rats, weasels, ferrets, and stoats, but none of them suspected what manner of horror they were about to encounter.

  The horrendous bellowing of the enemy was closer now, and as they converged upon the brink of the Hagburn, the werlings steeled themselves for the coming battle.

  Still wearing his mongrel shape, Gamaliel watched the hasty preparations with Kernella. Figgle and Tidubelle had joined the ranks of the defenders, and the children felt woefully small and helpless as the tension swelled and the unholy tumult set the oaks to shivering.

  The enemy was almost upon them. Their violent, bloodthirsty yells were awful to hear. Several werlings found the encroaching terror unbearable and fled from the bank, squealing. But the rest remained steadfast and resolute.

  Then the storm brok
e.

  From the forest the thorn ogres came savaging. Over the Hagburn they leaped, and the battle began.

  Daunted by the gruesome appearance of the immense creatures, the werlings cried out, but they stood their ground, and when the ogres attacked, they threw themselves upon them.

  Chaos erupted. Wergled claws drove into woody flesh and sharp teeth sank deep into the invaders’ horrendous faces. Yet against the army of Rhiannon, such assaults were vain and futile. Stoats and ferrets were dragged from the nightmares’ heads by the ogres’ more vicious claws. They were flung to the ground, where clubbed feet smashed and crushed them.

  Eight werlings were killed in the first skirmish, but still the others fought, meeting the enemy with monumental courage. More of them perished, and then the ogres began to chant, droning in their malevolent, hollow voices the secret passwords. When the last phrase was uttered, the brief conflict was ended.

  Weasels, rats, and ferrets immediately disappeared. Robbed of their fierce guises, the werlings howled in distress. From the branching bodies of the thorn ogres they slid, falling in terror before the cackling fiends, who snatched and seized them—throttling and rending with wanton malice.

  “Flee!” Yoori Mattock cried. “To the trees! To the trees!”

  Away from the Hagburn the shape-changers ran. Some of them still attempted to wergle into agile forms, only to be thwarted by the reciting of the unlocking words. Those who failed to make it to the lofty shelters were cruelly dealt with. Murdered victims were impaled on spiky branches, and the macabre trophies drew grief-stricken screams from their fleeing families.

  Into the nearest trees the werlings scrambled, crowding along the branches and praying that the monsters could not climb. Pursued by Chokerstick, Figgle and Tidubelle barely managed to gain their oak in time. Even as they darted up the trunk, a barbed claw lashed out and missed them by a whisker.

  Incensed, Chokerstick bellowed, and lowering its repugnant head, butted the bole of the Tumpin oak. A ruinous shudder traveled up the towering tree, and Figgle yowled as his toes lost their grip on the bark.