War in Hagwood Page 31

  He crouched down and Gamaliel ran to him.

  “You old bogle!” the boy greeted. “I never thought I’d see you again. But what happened to your hair and what have you got there?”

  Grimditch lifted a fold of the blanket and Gamaliel saw the baby slumbering within. He uttered a gasp of surprise.

  “The human child!” he cried.

  “’Tis Farmer’s little’un,” Grimditch said. “Me won’t be parted from him now, not never.”

  Gamaliel had so many questions to ask but there wasn’t time. Instead, he tugged at the barn bogle’s velvet sleeve.

  “I want you to meet my family!” he said urgently. “Before it’s too late. They’ll want to see the bogle who saved my life. And my sister’s here—the one who caused so much trouble by listening to the candle spright.”

  Grimditch glanced across at the clumps of werlings and hesitated.

  “Wait,” he said in a shameful voice. “Me did a bad thing. Me rooted in your furtly bag and pinched your pretty key. Grimditch sorry.”

  Gamaliel smiled sadly at him. “I know,” he said. “But it’s too late to cry over that.”

  “Me was only after a lend and a looksee,” the barn bogle promised. “Grimditch would’ve give it back.”

  “It doesn’t matter now,” the boy said, forgiving him. “Come and see Finnen; he’s here too.”

  Grimditch twisted his mouth to the side then reached into the pocket of his frock coat. “If me swaps faerie gold for faerie gold,” he mumbled shyly, “we be friends again, yes?”

  “We are friends!” Gamaliel assured him. Then his eyes fell on the object the barn bogle took from his pocket, and the blood quickened in his veins.

  It was the golden casket.

  * Chapter 19 *

  The Hub of All Destruction

  WITH HER EBONY WINGS OUTSTRETCHED, Rhiannon Rigantona swooped down the rocky cliff face. Her mind was burning with the lust for revenge. Nothing would survive this night.

  Above her, the owl followed fast. Its golden eyes were fixed upon her and it quickly closed the distance between them.

  “My Lady!” it called, flying eagerly to her side. “Let me assist thee. Two sets of talons can lift a stave more easily than one. Then what an inferno thou shalt ignite.”

  Rhiannon turned her flat owl face to her most faithful servant and the bird felt faint when it gazed into her gorgeous dark eyes. Although the badge of the black owl adorned her banners and the shields of her warriors, he had never seen her assume that shape before and the sight of it beguiled him. Had she done it especially to please him?

  “We must hurry, my provost,” she commanded. “It pains me that they still live.”

  Paired in flight, they circled downward through the driving rain, the tips of their wings almost touching.

  The barn owl was breathless and regarded her covetously. Its worshipful mistress had never appeared more bewitching or desirable in its eyes. As it stared at her, an ache and a thirst blossomed within it. It had always loved her as a dutiful slave should, but now it yearned for her.

  Its mind was racing and its inflamed heart convulsed in its chest. It gritted its beak and tried to deny such powerful feelings. What was this madness that itched in its blood and threatened to dispel the cool and calculating reason that had always been in thrall to her every command? These new, disturbing emotions alarmed the owl and it fought against them. But then, even as it struggled, in that fatal instant their feathers brushed and the barn owl’s prodigious intelligence was totally overthrown.

  “My Lady!” it hooted, flying into her suddenly. “Thou art mine!”

  Startled, the High Lady floundered in the air as the barn owl collided with her. Whirling through the rain, they plummeted like stones.

  “You dare attack me?” she cried.

  “I dare to love thee!” it answered feverishly. “And in this sublime form thou shalt always remain.”

  The barn owl gripped the silver talisman in its claws and bit through the chain. With a triumphant laugh, it tore the fire devil from her neck, pushed it into its beak, then swallowed it whole.

  “Now thou art locked in owl shape forever!” it hooted. “Ours shalt be a perfect union.”

  Rhiannon shrieked and beat her wings in the traitor’s face. They thrashed the air and the plunging fall was arrested. The two owls circled each other—one impassioned and amorous, the other incensed.

  She had never expected her loyal provost to betray her and the shock of it disordered her thoughts.

  Around and around they flew, looping and wheeling before the sheer cliff face, and her wrathful silence made the barn owl believe its misguided courtship had found favor with her.

  “We can journey whither the wind and fancy take us!” it exclaimed, displaying its snow-white feathers proudly. “Such a match hath ne’er been. You know how much I adore thee—wouldst thou ever find so constant a lover as thy true lieutenant? Nay! My love for thee is deeper than the Under Magic and higher than the farthest star.”

  Rhiannon’s eyes glittered and she glided closer. The barn owl clicked its beak and fanned its feathers wide. Too late it beheld the true nature of her stare as, with a mighty screech, she flew at her target. Her talons raked across its chest and she tore out a blizzard of plumage.

  The barn owl screamed in surprise and they vied with one another, battling in the air.

  “Spare me!” it shrieked. “My Love—spare me! My Lady!”

  She drove the owl against the cliff wall, slamming it against the rock. It pushed her away, but she pounced upon it more fiercely than ever. The owl screeched as she shredded its plucked flesh. Again and again it kicked out with its feet and heaved itself against her, but there was no escaping the frenzy of her murderous rage.

  Her cruel beak reached for its throat and its white feathers were stained crimson as she tore the silver talisman from its gullet. The owl’s golden eyes looked on her one last time before she cast her victim away. It fluttered clumsily away, unable to call her name. Then it tumbled lifeless out of the sky.

  Rhiannon flew down past the gushing waters of the Crone’s Maw at the foot of the cliff, not pausing to look at the body of her devoted provost. A scattering of bloody feathers floated on the gurgling stream nearby.

  The submerged corpses of troll witches, thorny imps, and wild boars filled the waterfall’s foaming basin and more lay broken on the surrounding rocks. To anyone other than Rhiannon Rigantona, it would have been a harrowing place, crowded with violent, shattered death, but she surveyed it unmoved.

  Alighting upon a boulder, she reached with her talons for one of the stone-tipped staves still gripped in a dead witch’s hand and dragged it free. Then she glared upward. The night sky boiled above the towering cliff and the clouds were rent by lightning.

  “Now, Clarisant,” she hissed as she soared into the air once more. “Feel the full measure of my anger.”

  HIGH UPON THE WITCH’S LEAP, the suspense was unbearable. Everyone believed the High Lady was tormenting them—it seemed she was keeping them waiting deliberately, dragging out their final despairing moments. Such was the extent of her twisted pleasures.

  Finnen left Master Gibble’s side. He had seen Gamaliel hurry to the farthest pine accompanied by a bald bogle, and when he joined them, he found his friend sitting against the tree, gingerly opening his wergle pouch.

  “What are you doing?” Finnen asked.

  Gamaliel Tumpin looked up at him and grinned. “Wish me luck,” he said.

  “This isn’t the time to become a mouse,” Finnen told him.

  Gamaliel chuckled faintly. “No,” he answered. “It isn’t.” Delving into his pouch, he brought out the untidy tangles of fur and useful odds and ends that he kept there and breathed deeply.

  Kernella pulled away from their parents and scurried over.

  “What�
�s he doing?” she demanded crossly.

  Gamaliel opened one eye. “Don’t you remember what Nest said?” he asked. “I’m the chosen one.”

  “Who’s Nest?” Finnen murmured.

  “Nothing and nobody!” the girl said resolutely. “Just something we dreamed up when we hit our heads. Only my stupid brother would go on believing it.”

  “Shut it, Nellie,” Bufus Doolan told her as he approached. “Leave Gammy be. I’ve learned to have faith in your daft brother—you should as well.”

  Finnen crouched beside Gamaliel. “Why are you the chosen one?” he asked intently. “Who chose you—and for what?”

  Gamaliel gazed past him, remembering that fearful night when they had escaped from the lair of Frighty Aggie.

  “The Wandering Smith chose me,” he replied. “Aggie’s poison was in me, remember—the poison of a Grand Adept. The Smith made a poultice and put it on my shoulder. Now, I don’t think he was just drawing out the poison; I think he was putting other stuff in.”

  “What stuff?” Finnen asked.

  “Gamaliel’s right,” Liffidia added as she knelt beside them. “I remember! The Smith didn’t just put a poultice on. You were there, Finnen, you know.”

  Finnen lowered his eyes. “The Smith uttered strange words over Gamaliel,” he said. “Then he pushed charms against his skin and dripped blue liquid onto the wound.”

  “And he sang over it,” Liffidia continued. “We couldn’t hear what but it … it was some sort of incantation.”

  Gamaliel grunted. “Then he placed the golden key, the magic key he had made, into my wergle pouch. I understand now. He knew he would never reach Meg’s caves. The High Lady was hunting him. So he took a great gamble on a clumsy little werling. He chose me—don’t you see? I mustn’t fail that trust.”

  He showed them the bundles of fur in his hand. “The key was right there,” he said. “I held it; I ran my fingers over it. I remember it exactly and the magic of those who made it is in my blood.”

  “No!” Finnen shouted. “It’s never been attempted—it’s too dangerous.”

  “Not for me,” Gamaliel answered brightly. “I am the chosen one! The Smith saw to that. Nest said I was the key to this whole sorry business. He actually said those very words! I am the key!”

  Finnen looked around for Master Gibble and discovered he was standing right beside him. By now all the other werlings had gathered around them and were whispering among themselves.

  “Tell him!” Finnen cried anxiously to the wergle master. “Tell him!”

  Terser Gibble looked at Gamaliel and shook his head. “He knows the risk,” he told Finnen. “Now, move back; give the lad space.”

  Gamaliel closed his eyes again and inhaled. He thought of the intricate golden key flashing and winking on his palm in the sunlight. He recalled the weight and feel of it and pictured the Wandering Smith’s gruff, kindly face encouraging him on and called upon whatever magic the last of the Puccas had passed on to him. Then he concentrated hard, harder than he ever had in his whole life.

  In the branches above them, the eyes of Frighty Aggie gazed down and her grotesque head swayed from side to side. The sky shook with thunder and the pines shuddered.

  WITH THE STAVE SUSPENDED FROM HER TALONS, the black owl rushed higher and higher. The cliff face raced by as barbed tongues of lightning jabbed and flickered toward the lodestones.

  Acrid smoke laced the air. The western wood was still burning, though not as fiercely as before. The torrential rain had doused many fires, but not those of Rhiannon’s hatred and revenge.

  She flew up into the night, high above the pines, and came swooping down. Before she reached the rocky ground, the owl gripped the bloody fire devil in one claw and the stave in the other.

  The bird form vanished as she became the terrible Rhiannon Rigantona once more, clothed in a robe of glittering shadow, with a crown of black diamonds flashing upon her brow.

  At her silent command, more lightning ripped from the sky and wove a lattice of brilliant white fire around her. She was an incredible vision—a radiant figure wreathed in a pillar of crackling flame. Forks of lightning raked outward from her, shining far across the forest, hitting the upraised Hollow Hill and smiting the ruined tower in the east. The great forest of Hagwood leaped in and out of shadow as the blinding forces streaked from the Witch’s Leap. Rhiannon Rigantona stood at the center of the lightning—the hub of all destruction, a bringer of death.

  Rhiannon advanced menacingly and the lightning ripped and roared about her, carving rivers of fire into the pines and gouging channels into the rock at her feet. The Unseelie Court beheld her with dread and awe as they nervously awaited the first destroying blasts.

  The dazzling spectacle of the High Lady turned a baleful face on Peg-tooth Meg. The hunched woman stood before the crowd of wer-rats, a peculiar gleam in her froglike eyes.

  “Sister!” Meg welcomed boldly. “You’re just in time. You must see my performing mice. They have one final trick that you must not miss.”

  Rhiannon bent her eyes to the ground, and there was Gamaliel. Even as she watched, he raised his right hand. In place of his forefinger, there was now a delicate, gleaming key. Grimditch was holding the golden casket out to him and the voice within, her own pitiful voice, was wailing.

  The High Lady saw the danger. She swung her stave around, but it was too late. Gamaliel pushed his wergled finger into the tiny keyhole and turned.

  There was an almighty crash of thunder and the ground trembled. The enchanted golden casket clicked softly as the magic of many dark years was undone. The intricate pattern of flowers and ferns that covered its surface began to move. Fronds and petals untwined and unlatched and the ruby set into the top began to glimmer.

  Rhiannon screamed as a fine line appeared all the way around the chest and cold air suddenly rushed into the unsealed box. She clutched at her empty breast and stumbled back in anguish, the stave dropping from her hand.

  Darkness fell. Everyone stared at the casket. Gamaliel lifted it wide open, then turned away, revolted.

  “Destroy me!” the throbbing, glistening heart within pleaded. “End this torment—I beg you! Please—Please!”

  Gasping and consumed with terror, her chest racked with searing pain, Rhiannon slumped against one of the pines and shrieked for her life, but no one was listening.

  The beating heart was crying out for death. Gamaliel felt dizzy and weak and he fell back against the tree trunk. “Do it!” he implored Finnen.

  Breathlessly, Finnen Lufkin took the small knife from his belt and looked around at the sickened, horrified faces of the other werlings. Then he glanced up at Peg-tooth Meg, who nodded gravely.

  “It must be done,” she said. “And I cannot.”

  The boy raised the blade over the pulsing heart and prepared to strike.

  “Now!” the heart beseeched him. “Slay me now!”

  Finnen’s hand trembled. One sure blow would bring an end to so much despair and suffering. And yet, hearing that piteous pain-filled voice, he hesitated. It would be murder.

  Two firm hands suddenly grasped his. “You always was soft, Lufkin!” Bufus Doolan shouted as he thrust down hard.

  Rhiannon screamed. Red flames shot up from the casket and the two werlings were hurled backward. Answering flames burst out from Rhiannon’s breast, the fire wrapping around her body.

  The whole sprawl of the forest shook and the lanterns of the Hollow Hill burned dim in the distance. The werlings fell to the ground and a tear streaked down Meg’s cheek. Then a ferocious gale came tearing from the Cold Hills and ripped across the Witch’s Leap. It hammered into the High Lady and tore her off her feet. Still clawing at her chest and shrieking and writhing in the crimson flames, she was sent spinning into the air—out over the cliff edge.

  Her dying screeches were drowned in the violent windstor
m that smashed her against the towering rock face—all the way down to the Crone’s Maw far below.

  Beneath the pines, the werlings held on to one another as the tempest raged. Meg’s green hair streamed wildly about her and she turned her ugly face into the scouring squall.

  “It is over!” she yelled. “The Tyrant of the Hollow Hill is dead. The evil is gone—forever.”

  She raised her arms and the heavy, curdling storm clouds were ripped asunder and sent racing to the horizon, revealing a clear night ablaze with stars. The wind dropped abruptly and the beautiful silver disc of the moon shone down upon them.

  Finnen stared at the smoking golden casket. As the red smoke cleared, he found that the casket was empty.

  “We did it,” he spluttered in disbelief. “We really did it!”

  He sprang to his feet and gave a shout of joy and everyone—werlings, goblins, nobles, Redcaps, oakmen, milkmaids, kluries, sluglungs, and even the horses—threw back their heads and rejoiced. A trumpet blared out, announcing the death of the tyrant and the start of a new age. Drummers began beating a lively rhythm and armor clanked as knights and warriors danced. It was the most incredible, miraculous moment. The years of terror were truly over.

  “Gamaliel!” Finnen cried. “You’re amazing!”

  It was then he noticed that Gamaliel was still and quiet.

  Grimditch was stroking his hair. “Little skin swapper not well,” he said mournfully. “There is a winter in his blood.”

  Finnen grabbed Gamaliel’s hand. The key was still in place of his finger and his hand felt cold and hard. Horrified, he stared at his friend’s face. It had turned a sickly yellow.

  “Gamaliel!” Finnen shouted. “Wergle back! You must. You did it, it’s over! The High Lady is dead. You saved us—you saved everything! Wergle back!”

  Kernella and her parents knelt beside him and Tidubelle carefully lifted her son’s head onto her lap.

  “Change back!” Kernella ordered him.

  “He can’t,” Terser Gibble said gently. “We are only permitted to wear animal shapes. Insects are forbidden—more so are inert, lifeless objects.”