Thorn Ogres of Hagwood Page 19

  This was not the strategy of the Lady Rhiannon. A swift attack to subdue all resistance was what She had instructed. When that was accomplished, the one called Finnen Lufkin would be only too gladly surrendered unto Her.

  Spiraling around the oaks, listening to the shrill screams of the dying wer-rats, the messenger of the High Lady started to panic. The thorn ogres were out of control, and there was nothing it could do to halt the senseless, wasteful slaughter.

  “Desist!” the owl squawked. “Thy mistress demands it! The one to whom the thief spoke with must be found. Ye will slay them all! Halt, I say! This is not what She planned!”

  But the monarch of the Hollow Hill had furnished Her pets with meager minds, and they were inflamed with a craving for death and blood that no one could restrain.

  “Hearken to me!” the owl screeched in vain. “Ye shall ruin all Her hopes and designs. Slay no more! Thy mistress needs to speak with them! Fools! Fools!”

  Yet still the werlings continued to lose both the battle and their lives.

  On the platform of the hazel, Stookie Maffin and her friends wept and wailed as dark, barbed shapes strode forward to crush them.

  Stumpy legs pounded the decking, splintering the timbers as three repulsive apparitions lurched after the terrified youngsters, taunting and terrorizing them.

  “Come to us,” the ogres cackled in their hollow voices. “Come—sleep in our throats.”

  Screaming, Stookie stumbled and tripped, falling right into their path.

  Greedy claws reached out to snatch her, when suddenly a frenzied blur of snowy feathers came diving between them.

  “Hold!” the owl commanded. “I forbid thee to kill this creature. Thou must wait until thy mistress has learned all She desires. Then ye may all drown yourselves in barrels of wer-rat blood.”

  The ogre glared at the bird. It was too late now. They had tasted the sweet flavor of these tiny creatures, and the heinous spirits that Rhiannon had nourished within them would not be denied. With an impatient grunt the thorn monster batted the owl away and was incensed to discover that Stookie and her friends had escaped up into the overhanging branches.

  Growling threateningly, the three ogres began tearing down the hazel twigs, ripping the tree apart until there would be no refuge left.

  Elsewhere, in the wych elm, Krakkwhipp was basking in the fear flowing from the werlings it had hunted down. Its comrade was still chewing the remains of the defenders it had caught and sucking its fangs with disgusting relish.

  Trapped against the elm’s trunk, the Doolan family, Liffidia, and Tollychook all stared up into Krakkwhipp’s dribbling jaws, unable to lift their eyes to the bodies still hanging from its spiky crown. Bufus’s thoughts flew to his dead brother. Had Mufus been this afraid?

  Across the woodland the desperate struggles for life were nearing their deadly conclusions. The thorn ogres were too formidable a foe for the small werlings to strive against.

  In the Tumpin oak a gust of fetid breath blew upon the backs of Kernella’s legs, and she turned to see Ungartakka’s enormous pug face leering at her.

  “Look out!” she cried to the others as a twitching claw came stretching for them.

  Confronted by this new threat, they scattered in every direction. Some clambered up the trunk while others ran along the branches. The groping claw separated Kernella from the rest of her family, and driven back by the clutching talons, she was forced to disappear inside the entrance of the Tumpin home.

  “No!” her mother called, remembering the fate of the Dritches. “Not in there!”

  But Kernella was trapped and could not get out. The hooked claws of Ungartakka pushed into the passage, and Gamaliel and his parents could only watch in horror and wait for her screams.

  Agonized wails ripped through the oak, but it was not Kernella’s voice. It was the thorn ogre’s.

  Shrieking in torment, Ungartakka snatched its arm from the entrance. Its claw was smoking with flame.

  “You come back here!” Kernella Tumpin cried, bustling out of the passage with a lantern in one hand and a fiery torch in the other.

  The thorn ogre screeched, and the fires leaped the length of its arm. Over the gigantic head the flames went scorching, and in a moment the creature’s entire bulk was burning.

  Shrill and piercing were the screams that boiled from Ungartakka’s sizzling jaws. Finally the talons holding the malignant creature to the oak withered in the heat, and it plunged to the ground.

  Scampering over a branch to get a better view, Kernella watched the ogre hit the woodland floor. It exploded in a violent burst of flame that singed her eyebrows when the searing vapor came blasting upward.

  “You knock next time!” she bawled.

  Still floundering upon its back, Chokerstick was engulfed in the tumultuous fireball, and it, too, ignited. As a living bonfire it burned, but its anguished yowls lasted only until the furnace of its lungs collapsed. Then the crackling roar of the flames took over.

  From that moment on, the werlings’ fortunes turned.

  When the others saw what Kernella had done, lamps and lanterns were immediately brandished in every treetop. The rampaging ogres were instantly dismayed, and they cringed and recoiled from the hungry flames.

  Out of the branches they dropped, shriveling and burning. Bows were strung with flaming arrows that went sizzling into the tough bark of their hides, and set the devouring fires raging from within.

  Soon the woodland thundered to the uproar of their roasting. Demented with the terror of the flames, the thorn ogres bolted blindly, raving and shrieking.

  From the wych elm of the Doolans, Krakkwhipp leaped, wreathed in a halo of fire. So ferociously did it rage that by the time it struck the ground, the creature was dead, and its charred carcass crumbled to ashes and cinders.

  Columns of twisting black smoke wound about the trees as the yammering host took flight. To the stream they charged, and the werlings came rushing after them, shouting and waving their torches.

  Hearing the strange new commotion, Yoori Mattock came racing from the underground council chamber, where he had found refuge. The ogre that had pursued him was already trampling toward the Hagburn. When he saw what was happening, Yoori punched the air and disappeared beneath the roots of the apple tree once more, only to emerge a minute later carrying a long staff bound about with rags that were blazing brightly. Then he ran after those monsters that had so far avoided the greedy flames, and with a vengeful cry, he set them on fire.

  “Demon filth!” he cried when his erstwhile attacker burst into flame. Gabbling in fulminating agony, it ran to the banks of the stream, where it toppled from the edge but exploded before hitting the water.

  “That’s an end of it and the rest of them!” Mr. Mattock declared, throwing the flaming brand to the ground.

  All of those werlings who were not injured or tending to the wounded gathered by the banks of the stream and gazed back at the smoking corpses of the enemy. Looking on those scattered piles of glowing cinders, every one of them was stunned and shocked. They did not know what those horrors had been or where they had come from. For the moment the fact that they had been defeated was enough.

  From their oak the Tumpin family joined the crowding survivors.

  Trailing behind them, Gamaliel looked down at his paws and felt the mouse’s tail dragging over the ground. Now that the immediate danger was over, he knew he should return to his normal shape. But would he be able to?

  Frighty Aggie had never managed to escape from her mongrel form. What if he was trapped like this forever?

  Dawdling behind the others, he closed his eyes and murmured the simpler rhyme that Terser Gibble had taught to them.

  “I call on ye who lay beneath, soil and sky, bark and leaf.

  Unyoke flesh, unbar door,

  Cast off shape and wear no more.

  Give again the form that’s good, by the might of great Hagwood.”

  Nothing happened. The tail still swished behi
nd him, the feathers streamed and bobbed from the top of his snookulhood, and he felt the weight of the hedgehog prickles sticking from his back.

  “I’m stuck,” he breathed miserably. “Jammed in this ’orrible shape for the rest of my life. What am I going to do?”

  Not wishing to reopen his eyes, he bowed his head.

  The rest of his family had moved on ahead, but Kernella turned to see where her brother had got to, and a scowl clouded her singed face.

  “Gamaliel Tumpin!” she bawled. “Stop idling and get here now!”

  At the mention of his name, Gamaliel was immediately seized by quivering forces that sent sharp, needling pains from the tip of his tail up to the topmost feather on his head.

  High into the air he leaped, juddering as each of the hedgehog spines went shooting back into his skin, and his long legs returned to normal. The sleek covering of fur shrank out of existence, and the feathers were replaced by his usual gingery hair. With a slap the mouse’s tail disappeared, and when he landed back on the ground, he was back to his former self.

  Dizzily, Gamaliel looked over to where Kernella was waiting with her arms folded, and he grinned at her.

  “Good job she’s so bossy after all!” he chuckled.

  And so the first battle ever to have been waged in that quiet corner of Hagwood had been won. Not one thorn ogre made it back across the Hagburn, and the fumes from their blackened remains sent a great reek pouring into the sky.

  Diving through the choking smoke, its creamy feathers darkened by soot, the barn owl eyed the destruction of its mistress’s forces with anger and contempt.

  Circling over the realm of the werlings, it gazed upon the innumerable smoldering corpses and screeched bitterly.

  The infernal army of the Lady Rhiannon was not the invincible horde She had believed them to be.

  Beating its wings, the owl soared above the smoke and left that little land behind.

  The wer-rats had proven more resilient than its mistress had anticipated. Those lowly creatures that had escaped Her notice these many years would have to be considered anew. The one called Finnen Lufkin must be found, and the casket containing the beating heart of the High Lady recovered.

  THAT NIGHT IN THE Silent Grove, the bodies of those slain in the carnage were given to the beeches.

  Forty-nine werlings had lost their lives that day. It was a grievous, evil time from which no one would ever truly recover.

  As the sumptuous light of the last beech blossom dwindled and went out, Finnen Lufkin hung his head.

  He had returned to find that the battle was over. When he had assured himself that his grandmother was safe, the boy had joined everyone else in the grim toil of picking through the burned carcasses of the thorn ogres to discover any other remains. The cleanup operations would commence tomorrow, but tonight the interments must take place.

  Finnen’s banishment had been lifted by Yoori Mattock, but his crime had not been forgiven. He was forbidden to enter the Silent Grove, and for that he was grateful.

  Sitting beyond the brink of that hallowed dingle, in exactly the same spot where he had sat with the Wandering Smith only the night before, he watched as the mourning families began to depart.

  Liffidia’s fox cub lay at his side, waiting impatiently for its beloved mistress to return, and Finnen stroked it gently.

  In the morning the council would meet, and this time they would listen to him. Their lives would never be the same again; the carefree existence they had enjoyed throughout the ages had gone forever. Henceforth, the werlings would have to arm themselves properly and learn how to fight. Wergling was no longer any protection.

  The fox cub jolted and sat upright. Liffidia was leaving the grove with her mother, and the animal dashed across to greet her.

  Finnen smiled faintly, then raised his hand and got to his feet, for a plump figure was striding purposefully toward him.

  Wiping his eyes, Gamaliel Tumpin shook his head. “So many,” he uttered, “and they were only the ones that could be found. They’re saying that the real number of dead is more like sixty!”

  “It’s only the beginning,” Finnen said darkly. “The High Lady won’t stop now. She has other forces, other evils to send against us. We’re at war, Gamaliel. She thinks we know where that casket is hidden. I wish the Smith had told us—I’d open that gold box and stick a knife in Her heart.”

  From his belt he took a silver-handled dagger that to him was more like a fat sword.

  “Thimbleglaive!” Gamaliel cried in astonishment.

  “I found it at the bottom of that hill,” Finnen explained. “Where it fell after the imp dropped it. Perhaps one day I’ll be able to use it in a way that would make the Smith proud.”

  Gamaliel glanced nervously at his friend, then looked cautiously around them. When he was sure no one was watching, he whispered, “Maybe you will, because I’ve found something as well.”

  Finnen did not understand. Gamaliel’s voice was grave and fearful and his eyes were glittering with excitement and dread. Opening the neck of his wergle pouch, Gamaliel reached inside.

  “He must have put it here when he tended to my shoulder,” he murmured. “That’s the only time he could have. I discovered it this evening but haven’t dared show or tell anyone yet. Oh, Finnen, what are we supposed to do?”

  Slowly he withdrew his hand from the velvety bag and unfurled his fingers.

  Finnen caught his breath, and his grip upon Thimbleglaive tightened as he saw.

  It was a thing that the Wandering Smith had carried with him throughout the long years of his self-imposed exile: a precious, most valuable object. In the deep desperation of his last night upon this earth, with the enemy closing around him, the Pucca had entrusted it and all his hope to the small, insignificant race of werlings, so that they might continue should he fail.

  For there, lying upon Gamaliel Tumpin’s open palm, was a delicate and beautiful golden key.

  This is the first of The Hagwood Trilogy. The story will continue.

  A Biography of Robin Jarvis

  Robin Jarvis (b. 1963) was born three weeks late on a sofa in Liverpool, England. As a child he always had a pencil in his hand, and was always drawing and making up stories for the characters who appeared in his sketchpads.

  When Robin was very small, one of his favorite television programs was an animated puppet series called The Herbs. This is what Robin would look like if he somehow managed to enter the world of that show:

  Robin’s school years were spent mostly in art rooms, although he greatly enjoyed the creative writing assignments in English classes, where his sole aim was frightening the teacher. After a degree course in graphic design (during which Robin decided he really preferred making monsters out of latex to anything related to graphic design), he worked in television making models and puppets.

  One evening, while doodling, he started to draw lots of mouse characters and had so much fun inventing names and stories for them that he decided to put them in a book. Thus began his writing career. The Deptford Mice (1989) quickly established him as a bestselling children’s author.

  Robin has been shortlisted for numerous awards, and won the Lancashire Libraries Children’s Book of the Year Award. One of his trilogies, Tales from the Wyrd Museum, was on a list of books recommended by then–British Prime Minister Tony Blair for dads to read with their sons.

  Robin still likes to make models, usually monstrous characters from his own stories. These models are good for his book events at schools or bookshops; when the audience is tired of looking at him, he can whisk a creature out of his bag to distract them. One such monster was extremely effective at scaring away the forty-three cats owned by Robin’s next-door neighbor.

  Robin gets his inspiration for stories from all sorts of sources. Once, on a hike through the forest, he heard a racket up in the trees and saw two squirrels chasing each other. The thought suddenly occurred to him that perhaps only one of them was a real squirrel and the other only
looked like one. And so the werling creatures were born, and by the end of that hike Robin had Thorn Ogres of Hagwood drafted in his head.

  Robin usually includes one small, portly character in most of his books. This character is not the hero, but instead a friend or brother of the protagonist—someone a bit clumsy and a bit too fond of supper. The character is, in fact, Robin. In the Hagwood books, Robin decided to include himself as one of the principal characters for a change. And so, Gamaliel Tumpin is based on Robin when he was young, when his older sister would boss him about and make him tidy his room during the school holidays.

  Robin lives in Greenwich, London, and has an old, deaf West Highland White Terrier named Sally. He has recently discovered that making monsters on the computer is much faster than using clay, plaster, glue, armature wire, fur, dental acrylic, resin, and latex, and it doesn’t make such a mess on the kitchen table.

  Robin Jarvis at the age of two or three, complete with scab on his knee. Very Gamaliel Tumpin.

  Robin, age two and a half, on a caravan holiday. He was always told that the light above his head in this picture was his guardian angel. Imagine the disappointment when he realised it was the camera flash! But Robin is always ready to believe anything.

  A photo of Robin from the early 1990s, holding some mole figures he made for a German commercial. The figures were used for advertising sausages. He doesn’t think the sausages were actually made from moles, but maybe . . .

  Gamaliel under glass, to keep him safe from marauding thorn ogres and other predators.

  Robin at home, thinking up some new gruesomeness.

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