War in Hagwood Page 7

  “Hold tight!” Gamaliel cried.

  Bufus looked behind them. Grinding destruction was chasing them with cataclysmic force. He saw the small fire in the room above come pouring into the rubble storm as the floor collapsed. Then four massive stones smashed into view, pounding straight after them.

  Bufus wailed.

  The shield tilted and tipped. Clinging on for their very lives, the werlings went shooting down into the vast, gaping pit.

  * Chapter 5 *

  Defending the Tower

  IN THE CHAMBER ABOVE THE ARMORY, the Tower Lubber had heard the tumult below and felt the floor quiver under his feet. He called into the hatchway to summon the werlings, but only Tollychook’s fretful cries answered him.

  “The others!” the boy howled. “They’re stuck at the far end … they’re—”

  At that moment the beams collapsed. There was an ear-splitting crash as the flagstones in the center of the chamber caved in and went smashing down. The fire disappeared, swallowed in the sudden gulf and a storm of choking debris was hurled upward. Gargled shrieks of dismay erupted from the engorged sluglungs as they tumbled in helplessly. Standing closer to the wall, the Tower Lubber felt the floor shudder beneath him. He lost his balance and fell to his knees.

  “What has happened?” he shouted, his blind face turning left and right.

  In the infirmary, Liffidia heard the din as a violent tremor gripped the tower. Every bird fell silent and the fox cub awoke with a start. Fearing they were under attack, bombarded by some infernal witchery of the High Lady, she leaped down the stairs with Fly at her heels.

  When she reached the lower level, she ran under the archway and looked at the wreckage beyond in alarm.

  Dust and grime was still whirled in the air and she peered through it to discover that the floor in the center of the storeroom was gone, fallen into the cellars beneath. Only the flagstones around the edges and in the corners remained in place.

  Fearfully, she looked for her friends but could see only the flailing, bendy limbs of gibbering sluglungs crawling and hoisting themselves up from the rubble. Across the room, on the broadest section that remained intact, the Tower Lubber was staggering to his feet and groping about blindly. He took a shuffling step backward—one more and he would topple over the brink and into the devastation below.

  “Stay where you are and don’t move!” Liffidia called out to him. “The floor is gone. I’m coming to get you.”

  She ran her hand through Fly’s fur and told him to stay put, then hared nimbly along the edge of the chamber, pausing only to navigate around frightened sluglungs that had dragged themselves free and lay gasping in her way.

  All the while, Liffidia searched for any sign of the other werlings. Where were her friends? They were nowhere to be seen.

  “Are you hurt?” she asked as she approached the Tower Lubber.

  He shook his head. “I am unharmed,” he answered, but she could see he was severely shaken. “We are blighted this accursed day.”

  “Where are they?” the girl cried. “Finnen and Kernella, and the rest?”

  The Lubber took a moment to collect his jangled wits. “The boy Finnen went outside,” he said. “But the others …”

  He waved vaguely at the hatch, and to where the cellars were buried beneath tons of stone.

  “They were down there.”

  Liffidia uttered a cry of despair and clutched at her throat. “No,” she uttered in a shocked and broken voice. “They can’t possibly …”

  “This is my doing,” the Tower Lubber reproached himself. “I should have sent you all from this place, as far from Rhiannon’s vengeful spite as possible. She is too great a foe for such small folk as you. The Wandering Smith erred when he enmeshed you in our hopes and designs and I compounded that folly.”

  The girl stretched out her hand and squeezed his large thumb. The tears rolled down her cheeks and she lowered her eyes. At their side, a sluglung made soft, sad burbling noises and wiped its snotty nose.

  “Help!” a despondent voice called from below. “Get me out of ’ere!”

  Liffidia leaped forward and stared down. There was Tollychook, looking forlorn and frightened and covered in grime.

  “You’re alive!” the girl exclaimed joyously. “Oh, I’m so glad! Where are the others?”

  Tollychook fidgeted uncomfortably. “They’re goners,” he told her. “They went exploring down that far end and … and …” He stammered into silence when he realized his clumsiness had set everything in motion.

  Grasping that dreadful fact for the first time, he burst into tears. “The ceiling came down on top of them!” he howled. “’Twas my clumsy fault; I killed them!”

  Liffidia was too distraught to respond or offer comfort. She ran her gaze over the demolished floor and called out, “Gamaliel—Kernella—Bufus! Can you hear me? Please answer!”

  There was only silence broken by the glutinous grunting of the sluglungs.

  “They’re dead,” the Tower Lubber said gently.

  “No,” Liffidia replied firmly. “I refuse to believe that. They have survived somehow; I know it. Cowering in the smallest of gaps between the stones and the floor—the narrowest hole would be enough. They’re just trapped in there, that’s all. They need rescuing.”

  Inspired by this idea, she ran back around the room and called to Fly. The fox cub hurried to her and she led him down into the wreckage, stepping carefully over the fallen rubble.

  “Help me,” she begged Fly. “Help me find my friends. Your nose is so keen and clever, it can smell the faintest trace. Go seek them for me, please.” The fox nuzzled her and such was the love between them, he understood and was eager to obey and ease her anxiety. Immediately, he put his nose to the stones and began questing for a scent.

  Liffidia held her breath and waited. She clasped her hands around her wergle pouch. As soon as there was a sign, she would transform into a mouse and go crawling between the cracks and crevices to find her friends.

  While the fox searched, the Tower Lubber bade the sluglung to lift Tollychook clear. The unhappy boy was soon standing beside him and staring over at Liffidia and her cub. They were still desperately hunting for the slightest trace, the slightest hope. As much as he wished it to be possible, Tollychook knew nothing could have lived through that devastation.

  “Flat as pancakes they’ll be,” he lamented between sobs. In the whole of his short life, he had never felt so wretched and bleak.

  It was into this mournful scene that Peg-tooth Meg came shambling. Even at the top of the tower she had felt the collapse and hurried down as fast as she was able. She did not need to be told what had happened—the expression on both werlings’ faces was enough.

  “My poor shobblers,” she murmured in sorrow.

  Liffidia was growing more and more anxious. Fly had not picked up anything. Though the cub darted back and forth, left and right, he could find no hint of anyone buried below.

  “Then we must dig,” the girl said. “It’s the only way to reach them.”

  The Tower Lubber stood up as straight as his humped back permitted and stiffened. He inclined his head and his large ears twitched.

  “We are out of time,” he declared grimly. “They are here.”

  Everyone froze. Outside, the spring day was filled with a wild yammering and blood-curdling shrieks. The most savage creatures in the Hollow Hill were streaming through the forest: the Redcaps had arrived.

  “But,” Tollychook whimpered. “Master Finnen’s still out there!”

  FOLLOWED BY THE GROUP OF NINE SLUGLUNGS, Finnen had hurried the length of the grassy ridge to where the conflict between the Tower Lubber’s birds and the spriggans had originally commenced.

  He could not understand why Gamaliel had not joined him. This was his idea after all. Arms would be useless against the High Lady’s forces. Th
ey had to fight her with her own weapons: cunning and enchantment.

  “I don’t suppose we’ll last long either way,” he told himself somberly.

  The boy waited for Meg’s creatures to catch up with him. They were groaning and puffing with their extra weight, but swinging about their baskets and pots as if on the way to a jolly picnic, delighted to be of service.

  “And what about them?” Finnan wondered. “Shouldn’t Meg change them back to their previous selves? But if she does, whose side will they be on?”

  He had come to the edge of the forest. Within those crowded trees, forbidding shadows lay thick and deep; but out there, on the ridge, the noon sunshine was warm and delicious and laced with the fragrance of early flowering gorse. It really was too lovely a day to fight a war.

  “But then, every day is,” he murmured.

  He waved to the sluglungs to hurry. They were gabbling merrily to each other and began singing the Song of Meg:

  Three young chicks left chirping in the nest.

  One went swimming and only two were left.

  Another flew away though the hunter did her best.

  One chick left that can never ever rest.

  On the word rest they stomped to attention in front of Finnen and saluted. In spite of everything, the boy could not stop himself laughing. They looked so ridiculously bloated and funny as they grinned at him. To laugh at that dire, fearful time was such a marvelous, carefree feeling, he never wanted it to end. The sluglungs chuckled back at him and for some precious, beautiful moments their predicament was forgotten.

  Then Finnen’s laughter ceased and the familiar dread clutched at his heart once more. His face became grim.

  “Now,” he addressed them. “You understand what we have to do?”

  They waggled their heads at him uncertainly.

  “One more time, then. We’re collecting the dead birds. Put as many in your baskets and pots as you can and take them back into the tower. Then come back for more. Is that clear?”

  “Ussum find um,” they promised.

  And so they began to search. It was not difficult. The first casualties they found were the bodies of warning geese. They would be far too large to dip in the berry juice but Finnen knew he could not leave them here. If the Redcaps came upon them they would ignore the smaller birds. He instructed two sluglungs to take them to the watchtower and hurry straight back.

  It was farther down the ridge’s slope that Finnen discovered the first of the other birds. Sparrows and thrushes, hawks and finches: every feathered species in Hagwood had fought bravely that morning. A trail of death led down toward the glade where the wellhead stood, the number of feathered bodies steadily increasing with every footstep.

  “Treat them with honor,” Finnen ordered. “Every one died a hero. Remember that. We’re not picking strawberries or daisies here.”

  In a solemn procession, the sluglungs gathered the birds from the ground, filling their baskets and crooning a dirge over each tiny corpse. They were almost done when they heard a commotion in the distance.

  Finnen’s heart sank. “So soon,” he breathed. “We’re not ready.”

  The terrible sound was the yammering of the Redcaps. They had been released from the Hollow Hill and the whips of their bogle keepers drove them forward. Their ghastly shrieks and frenzied whooping rang through the forest and every creature who heard them darted for cover or went to ground.

  The sluglungs gibbered in consternation and looked back to the tower.

  “Megboo!” they jabbered. “Ussum go defend Big She.”

  All thoughts of their other task were abandoned and at once they began laboring back up the sloping ground. They would have cast their feathery burdens aside had Finnen not been there to order them otherwise.

  The hideous shrieking grew louder. The Redcaps were swarming swiftly through the trees. Finnen knew they would soon come tearing across the ridge. High overhead, the High Lady’s owl was circling, guiding them straight to the tower. The werling boy looked up at the ruined fortress. Could he and the sluglungs reach it?

  “Hurry!” he yelled, running alongside them. “As fast as you can!”

  The creatures huffed and waddled more briskly, but their swollen stomachs were brushing along the grass and haste was impossible. One of them tripped over its own drooping belly and rolled, squelching, back down the slope.

  Finnen stared after it, then turned away and spurred the others on. There was no chance of rescue—the sluglung was doomed.

  “Keep going!” he shouted. “Almost at the top now—we can do this.”

  Even as he said the words, the Redcaps came charging from the forest. At the sight of them, Finnen’s courage failed.

  There were over a hundred of them: hunched, stunted beings with bony, unwieldy heads and long snouts crammed with sharp teeth. Their legs were short and their arms long, and they loped over the ground like demonic apes. Apart from kilts made of animal skins and the scarlet headgear that gave them their name, they were naked. Their clawed feet were bare and they wore no armor, yet each carried a bow across his bare, piebald back, along with a quiver of poisoned arrows.

  The forerunners spied Finnen and the sluglungs immediately and loosed ghastly shrieks before tearing toward them.

  “Run!” the werling yelled.

  The sluglungs howled fearfully. They had left their swords behind in the tower with their discarded belts and were completely defenseless.

  Jabbering in panic, they lumbered onto the level ground. The tower was not much farther, but the Redcaps would be upon them in moments.

  Below them, the sluglung that had slipped was toiling back up the ridge. A group of Redcaps saw it and went charging down. Screaming vile oaths, they leaped on it. The slimy creature tried to fend them off but was hopelessly outnumbered. The vicious beasts merely whooped the louder and tore it into small, quivering globs with their teeth and claws.

  Running faster than he ever had in his life, Finnen pelted into the tower. The Lubber, Meg, Tollychook, and Liffidia were already there to meet him, but there was no time to speak. He spun around. The remaining eight sluglungs were still out there and running too slowly. They would be caught before they reached the entrance.

  The Redcaps were bounding after them, their teeth already snapping at the air in anticipation. Behind them, Finnen saw the bogle keepers hurrying to stay close to their fiendish charges. Their whips were useless now. Nothing could control those nightmares—the kill was sighted, the hunt almost over, and the heady scent of fear filled their snouts. They were inflamed by it and gaped their jaws wide in readiness.

  At the rear of that terrible spectacle, Dewfrost, the silver-white, elfin mare, cantered from the forest and her rider reined her to a trot.

  Rhiannon Rigantona surveyed the scene with a rancorous glitter in her lovely eyes. Watching her savage servants swarm toward the ruined tower gave her immense pleasure. Soon they would be stripping the clammy flesh from the bones of her sister and her deformed prince. The High Lady smiled, wider than she had done for countless years, then licked her teeth as if she too were hungry for the Redcaps’ imminent banquet.

  In the tower entrance, Meg was calling to her sluglungs, urging them on.

  “We must close the door,” the Lubber told her, “while we still can.”

  “Not while my people are out there!” she protested.

  Just then, the sluglung who was bringing up the rear was seized by many claws and thrown to the ground. His baskets went rolling into the mob and they fell upon the contents that tumbled out of them. He was torn asunder and the dead birds were snatched up and ripped apart.

  Peg-tooth Meg called out in horror and Liffidia buried her face in Fly’s fur. Tollychook covered his eyes.

  “Wait!” Finnen cried. “That’s given the others a chance!”

  The slaughter of their comrade a
nd the fights over the dead birds had been enough of a distraction to let the pursued sluglungs make a last dash. They piled over the threshold, running heedlessly into the sluglungs that had remained in the tower and for an instant they were squished together in a great wriggling mass.

  “Slam the door and bar it!” Finnen shouted as soon as the seventh and last was safely inside.

  The Tower Lubber heaved his strength against the heavy door. The hinges screeched and Finnen saw the horde of Redcaps surge toward them. They were so close he could see the trails of dried blood that stained their faces and smell the unclean, hot breath that gusted from their filthy throats. The foremost leaped at the threshold; arms outstretched, its evil squinting eyes fixed on Liffidia. With a resounding BANG!, the door swung shut in its repugnant face. There was a thud of bone against oak and a shriek of pain. Then a ferocious battering of many fists assailed the thick door.

  “Now it begins!” the Tower Lubber said, dragging the iron bolts across. “This won’t keep them out for long.”

  “Long enough,” Finnen declared. “Help me with those baskets. We must put Gamaliel’s plan into action first. Where is he? Up on the roof? Is Kernella boiling pots of water? We’re going to need everything we have to fight these monsters!”

  The others looked at him uncomfortably.

  “What is it?” he asked. “Where are they? And where’s Bufus?”

  Liffidia opened her mouth to speak but it was Tollychook who blurted it out.

  “Them’s dead!” he cried. “Crushed under girt stones—an’ it were my fault!”

  Finnen could only stare at him, unable to take in the dreadful news. “Can’t be,” he murmured. “It can’t be.”

  “Now is not the time to grieve,” Meg told the werlings gently. “May we all be granted that later, if we are spared.”

  Before anything more could be said, there came a frantic noise of splintering wood and they turned back to the door.

  “They’re chewing their way in,” the Tower Lubber muttered. “Redcaps can do that faster than rats, especially when there’s something tasty on the other side.”