Thorn Ogres of Hagwood Read online

  There was no time to stand and gape, however, for Finnen and Kernella had tramped on, and Gamaliel saw only a brief vision of the barren heath in the distance, dim and gray under the moon.

  Scuttling after the others, he heard his sister asking Finnen once more where they were headed.

  “It isn’t far now,” came the cryptic answer as Finnen veered to the right.

  The cinder track was left behind, and Gamaliel gradually began to hear the sounds of flowing water filtering through the trees ahead. They were drawing near to the Hagburn.

  “Oh, Finnen!” Kernella chided when she realized where they were bound. “It’s not allowed to jump the stream and go into the big forest. You know that.”

  Finnen chortled. “Don’t worry,” he said. “This is as close as we get to the Hagburn. Past those birches yonder and we’ll be done.”

  Rearing like pillars of marble, glowing faintly in the moonlight, a row of birch trees formed a long colonnade through the wood. Both Kernella and Gamaliel were eager to see what lay behind.

  Running the remaining distance, they scampered between the coldly glimmering trunks and stared about them.

  Kernella pulled a disappointed face. The woodland looked no different in front of the birches, nothing special here at all—except for a grassy path that wound deep into the forest.

  Her brother was not so easily discouraged. Close by, a large boulder jutted from the ground, and curious, Gamaliel pattered over to inspect it.

  The rock was many times his height. Entering the deep lake of its shadow, Gamaliel ran his fingers over the lichen-speckled granite. Up to the sky the black shape jabbed, like the tip of an enormous sword threatening the starry heavens.

  “It’s called the Hag’s Finger,” Finnen informed him. “A Dooit Stone. It marks the northernmost boundary of werling land.”

  “There’s scratches gouged into it down here,” Gamaliel chirped suddenly. “Must have been there ever so long, fair near wore away they are now.”

  “Dooit writing,” Finnen said. “It were the Dooits who put the Hag’s Finger here many, many years ago.”

  “Who were they?” Gamaliel asked.

  Brushing his long fringe from his face, Finnen leaned against the tall rock. “The Dooits were big folk who lived clear over the other side of Hagwood, nigh to a thicket of yew. Very wise they were, but cruel with it. Old tales tell of how they loved to slit throats on stones like these.”

  Gamaliel withdrew his hand quickly as though the granite had bitten him. Finnen laughed and shook his head.

  “I’m sure they didn’t do that here,” he said, giving the Dooit Stone a friendly slap. “In them far-off yews there’s supposed to be a great table of rock, and that was where the Dooits did all the killin’.”

  Behind them, Kernella stamped her feet and looked bored. “You mean to say we’ve come all this way to look at a giant pebble?” she demanded.

  “No,” Finnen replied, grinning as he slid his back down the rock and sat upon the grass. “This is only where we’re going to wait. You’ll see a lot more—I swear it.”

  The indifference vanished from Kernella’s face, and she hurried to plump herself down by Finnen’s side.

  “What will we see?” she cried. “What? What?”

  “Hush!” the boy told her. “From now on we must talk only in whispers.”

  Casting a critical eye at the moon, he nodded, then murmured, “Not much longer to go.”

  “What for?” Gamaliel asked, almost as impatiently as his sister.

  Finnen looked at them both. “Don’t you know what night this is?” he asked, slightly shocked.

  “The night we get warmed leftovers,” Kernella said with a grimace. “It’ll be crusty nut pie tomorrow, though.”

  The boy sighed wearily. “During the year,” he began, “there are certain times that are...special—when strange things happen. You must have heard tell of the folk who live in the great green hill.”

  “The lords and ladies!” Gamaliel cried, forgetting to whisper. “The royal court of the High Lady. I done heard all the stories our dad knows. I loves to hear about them, with their jewels and crowns and magic.”

  Finnen smiled. “Well, it’s obvious that your father didn’t tell you one story,” he said, “or you’d realize why we’re here. The one about the Trooping Ride—those four nights of the year when the Hollow Hill opens up and the Unseelie Court is compelled to ride forth.”

  Gamaliel stared at him in disbelief. “No!” he uttered in a voice trembling with excitement.

  “This very night is one of those four,” Finnen affirmed, his grin widening every instant. “From the hill the High Lady and her nobles range through Hagwood, parading along her borders and passing this very spot! I’ve always meant to come and see but never have.”

  A gurgle of bliss bubbled from Gamaliel’s lips, and he threw himself backward, kicking his legs in the air.

  Sitting beside Finnen, Kernella was still doubtful. “How’d you know all this?” she asked. “I never heard no one mention it afore. If’n it’s true, why ain’t there more come here to gawk?”

  “My old nan knows more history than what’s set down in Master Gibble’s books of lore,” Finnen answered. “It was she who told me about the Dooits, and many more things beside. You ever want to hear a real cracking yarn, you go ask her.”

  Kernella still was not convinced, but Finnen had leaned forward and was peering along the avenue of birches.

  “Quick!” he hissed excitedly. “Make sure you’re well hidden behind the rock. Can you see—over there?”

  The Tumpin children looked to where his quivering fingers were pointing, and Gamaliel clapped his hand over his mouth to stop himself yelling for joy.

  In the distance, through the trees, many lights were flickering. The lamps of the Hollow Hill had green flames, and because the bearers were still too far away to see, it seemed as if they were floating upon the shadow-filled air. Like a wavering procession of emerald stars, the lights moved through the wood, gradually approaching the rock that Finnen and the others were hiding behind.

  Gamaliel heard the sound of hooves thudding the turf and began to see glimpses of indistinct figures revealed in the lamplight.

  Up the grassy way the court of the Hollow Hill came, and the werlings were struck with awe and fear. Against the Hag’s Finger they crouched, not wishing to be seen, yet aching to see all. Kernella pulled the neck of her snookulhood over her nose and covered her arms and legs with her cape, while Finnen took shallow breaths and became as still as the stone that concealed him. Soon the light of the lanterns filled their eyes, and the woodland was awash with the radiance of the underground realm.

  The figures were so tall and menacing that Gamaliel wanted to shriek and run away. He had never seen any creature so large. He could not comprehend how they managed to walk without falling over. Yet in spite of his fears, he remained where he was, terrified and enchanted.

  At the forefront of the faerie host marched a band of pages. These were kluries, squat creatures with broad, flat heads and tiny darting eyes that gleamed beneath low brows. Their arms reached down to the ground, and they were dressed in bloodred velvet with golden buttons. In their large hands they bore slender poles from which silver lanterns hung. The green fires within blazed fiercely.

  The werlings shrank further into the fleeting shadows. The eyes of the pages were horribly vigilant, but swinging the lamps before them, they moved on into the forest, and the next group of creatures paraded into view.

  Here were the esquires, blue-faced bogles every one. Their features were pinched and leering, and their pallid skins ashen gray in the glow of the lanterns, which were fashioned into the crests of their bronze helms. They were taller than the pages and wore leather hauberks painted with the emblem of the High Lady: a black owl wearing a golden crown. Their hauberks were so long that only their feet could be seen beneath, and over their shoulders they bore cruel-looking spears with jagged blades. Three ranks d
eep they trooped by, but there were so many of them that Gamaliel lost count at forty-seven.

  Then came the goblin knights. Mounted upon horses bred beneath the ground, they were ghastly to behold. Their bodies were round and stocky, and they were clad in armor that shimmered like rippling water. They were fearsome beings of the chill earth. The grim features that poked from beneath their plumed helmets were covered in gray scales, and their eyes were dark hollows in which no glint of reflected light could be seen. Lances tipped with gold were carried in their clawed hands, and round shields bearing the owl badge were lashed across their shoulders. It was their coal black steeds that Gamaliel feared most of all.

  They, too, were bedecked in armor and appeared more mechanical than living beasts. Their eyes burned with scarlet fire, and blasts of steam erupted from their nostrils like the furious shriek of some internal engine. The forest floor was pounded by their silver-shod hooves, and as they paraded past, a ray of red shone full onto Gamaliel’s face.

  Horrified, he ducked, expecting the nightmare to thunder over him and smash his bones into the soil. But nothing happened, and when he next dared to raise his head, he saw that the knights had gone and a new regiment of fearsome folk was passing the Dooit Stone.

  There marched the Redcaps, the High Lady’s hideous foot soldiers. Lolling upon hunched shoulders, their large, unwieldy heads were foul and grotesque. Over their bald, bony skulls they wore tight-fitting hats that were steeped in blood, and the crimson juice had dribbled down their foul faces, staining their piglike snouts.

  Gamaliel eyed those snuffling noses uneasily. The Redcaps had caught a scent that was unfamiliar to them and were gibbering to themselves in puzzlement. It was the werlings they could smell, but thankfully none of them thought to probe the shade beneath the standing stone, and they shuffled morosely on.

  The thump of hoof-falls heralded the advance of more horses, yet these were not the sable war beasts favored by the goblin knights. The steeds that followed the Redcaps were as gray as a rain-soaked dawn, and upon their backs rode the nobles of the Hollow Hill.

  At the first glimpse, Gamaliel forgot the fear that the preceding folk had instilled in him. The lords and ladies of the court were the fairest creatures he had ever seen.

  They were sumptuously arrayed in silks edged with gold and silver brocade. Velvet cloaks trimmed with lustrous fur were clasped about their necks by brooches set with gems that sparkled and flashed in the lamplight.

  Staring fixedly before them, they held their heads high. Every face was proud and haughty, but they owned an ethereal beauty that made Kernella curdle inside, and she pouted when she saw the enamored expression that had stolen over Finnen.

  With a swish of the last horse’s tail, the nobles rode ahead, and trampling behind came the royal bodyguard.

  After the splendor and grace of the nobles, the spectacle of the guards was like waking from a sweet dream and discovering that you have been sleeping in a dung heap.

  They were spriggans, fierce fighters clad from head to toe in clinking mail. Pale and yellow were the slits of their eyes, and every warty jaw was crammed with needle-sharp fangs. Swords twice the length of themselves were carried upon their backs, and knotted whips were tucked into their belts, together with a deadly assortment of knives and curved daggers. Great was their number, and the din of their passing was brutal and harsh. Yet in their midst, riding a silver-white mare, was the most stunning vision of all.

  “There,” Finnen murmured in a hallowed whisper. “That must be her, the High Lady herself—Rhiannon of the Green Hill.”

  Even Kernella gasped with amazement, and Gamaliel felt as though he wanted to cry.

  Beneath a silken canopy embroidered with jewels and golden thread, held up by four of her repugnant bodyguards, rode a woman whose beauty outshone the lanterns. Lovely as a winter night was she; her raven hair was like a trailing cloud of storm, and a circlet of gold sat lightly upon her pale brow. Cold majesty radiated from her divine face, and the unearthly light of the hidden realm bloomed in her cheeks. Her eyes were dark and keen, and they pierced the surrounding gloom, laying all secrets bare. Yet they were not turned to the Dooit Stone, and Gamaliel almost sprang out of hiding to draw her attention. It would probably be the last thing that he ever did, but at least his death would be filled with the sight of her looking at him.

  The impulse faded and he was glad, for there was a hardness about those fine, delicate features. They almost looked as if they had been hammered from crystal.

  On she rode, dressed in a gown of rippling twilight, with a hooded cloak made entirely from owl feathers hanging from her shoulders. She was a living, breathing enchantment.

  When she drew level with the Hag’s Finger, the werlings saw for the first time that upon the lap of the Lady Rhiannon was a small figure. Gamaliel had not seen its like before. The lurid light of the lanterns could not diminish the ruddy warmth of its chubby flesh, and the High Lady held it close, within a fold of her feathered mantle.

  “What is it?” Gamaliel breathed.

  Finnen waited until horse and rider had passed. Then, with an eye upon the straggling spriggans, he whispered. “That was a mortal infant. He was taken to the Hollow Hill many years ago. If he were ever to return to his own kind then old age would claim him and death would follow.”

  Into the forest the cavalcade journeyed, and the woodland behind was plunged back into darkness as the last of the lamps was carried into the far distance.

  Stepping from the shelter of the standing stone, Finnen Lufkin crept out onto the woodland path. There was no indication that the Unseelie Court had gone by: Not a blade of grass was broken, and the soil showed no sign of hoof marks.

  Standing there, Finnen watched until the strings of emerald lights bobbed behind the furthest trees and disappeared completely.

  “Glory!” Gamaliel exclaimed. “Shall we follow them and see where they go?”

  Finnen shook his head and restrained him, for Gamaliel was already padding after them.

  “We wouldn’t be welcome,” he told him. “Deep into the heart of Hagwood they’re headed, and will hold high revel when they get there. They won’t allow outsiders to spy on them, certainly not a trio of werlings. We’re nothing to them, beneath their consideration, but they’d skewer us on spikes if they caught us tagging along uninvited.”

  Gamaliel stared into the night-shrouded forest, then turned to his new friend. “Thank you for showing me this,” he said. “Not being able to wergle into a mouse don’t seem half as important anymore.”

  “Good!” Finnen declared. “There really is no reason to panic next time you try. You’ll do it; just be patient.”

  Combing her fingers through her hair, Kernella threw Finnen a furtive glance then said, “You know, that Lady would have been a lot prettier if’n her hair had been red—don’t you think so?”

  Finnen suppressed a chuckle. “It’s definitely time we headed back” was his only comment.

  Returning through the birches, the three werlings retraced their steps. Gamaliel felt a lot happier, and delighted in picking up odds and ends from the woodland floor. Into his wergle pouch he popped them: wispy tufts of hares’ tails, stray feathers, and another pebble to add to his collection. Finding a long twig, he held it over his shoulder, remembering how the goblin knights had carried their gold-tipped lances, then went cantering ahead, snorting down his nose like their fearsome steeds.

  Walking beside Finnen, Kernella watched her brother disapprovingly. “I don’t know why you bother with him,” she said.

  Finnen fingered his own wergle pouch, which he hardly needed to use anymore.

  “When I was his age I was more nervous and hopeless than Gamaliel,” he told her. “I wish that there had been someone to help me then, someone to steer me on the right track and encourage me. Things might have worked out a lot differently.”

  He sighed dismally, and Kernella scratched her head in confusion.

  “But you’re the best at
everything!” she cried. “Better than all the rest of us—you’ll even show up old Gibble one of these days.”

  The hero of the werling children avoided her eyes. Kernella did not understand; how could she? No one would ever know unless he confessed. Finnen chewed his bottom lip in silence as he brooded on the awful crime he had committed. His secret was far too shameful to tell to anyone.

  CHAPTER 6

  The Wandering Smith

  EVEN AS THE THREE young werlings returned to their homes, beyond the eaves of Hagwood a lone figure slowly labored along the cinder track.

  From the far north he had journeyed, but no one place was his home, no roots did his feet put down, and for more years than he dared remember the lands had rolled ceaselessly beneath him. Too long he had roamed where he willed. He was a creature of the earth, a Pucca, but he had forsworn the delved halls of his birth, choosing against nature to live in the world of mortal men. There, he was deemed a midget, a stunted curiosity to be taunted and laughed at, but all their scorn and ridicule seemed better to him than the darkness he had left behind.

  Down the years the oddness of his appearance had served him well, keeping unwanted interest at bay. An iron helm was always jammed firmly upon his head, and his hair was long and unkempt. A thick, wiry brown beard reached down to his waist, and his face was habitually coated in grime. An apron of hide, blackened and singed from the forge, flapped across his knees, and bands of hammered metal covered his wrists. About his neck he wore innumerable charms and amulets, and although they were hidden beneath his beard, they made their presence known by clacking and clattering together when he walked.

  In the towns and villages he visited, the Pucca was a recognizable, albeit rare, figure. He told his true name to no one, thus they christened him by his trade and his nomadic existence—he was the Wandering Smith.

  Yet now he was weary. His beard was flecked with gray, and his back was bent by the relentless measures of time and the burden that he had borne. It had been a difficult and grave decision to make, but finally he had resolved to return to the land of his past and confront the torments that plagued his conscience. The wrongs of yore should be punished, and he was the only one who could accomplish that.