Goblins (10 page)

“Well, I suppose. . . Yes, yes; as soon as we’re inside the Keep, we’ll pay you back tenfold. We are the Lych Lord’s rightful heirs, you see; look, I bear his token.”

He fished inside his robes for the amulet; frowned; fished deeper. A look of horror came upon his face. “It’s gone! The Lych Lord’s token! The amulet! It’s gone! The string must have snapped when we were running from those beastly goblins. . .” He started bustling towards the steps. “Come on, we must go back and look for it.”

“We shall do no such thing, Fentongoose!” said Prawl, grabbing him firmly by the collar of his robes.

“But without the token, how shall we prove our right to the Stone Throne?”

Carnglaze shook his head. “You don’t really think we’re going to get inside the Keep now, do you? Not after what just happened? It is over, Fentongoose. We shall stop the night at Southerly Gate, but when the morning comes I, for one, shall be starting for home.”

The giant Fraddon, who had been listening to all of this, said in a sudden rumble, “Best not go to Southerly Gate tonight. The goblins could come back and sniff you out. I killed a king of theirs, and that’s apt to make them revengeful. Come to Westerly instead. Ned will tend your wounds, and give you food.”

“Ned?” asked Carnglaze.

“Food?” said Skarper hopefully.

“Excellent plan!” said Prawl. “We can discuss all this at greater length over supper.”

“Eight gold coins and some coppers and a button,” grumbled Henwyn. “Not to mention the price of a new cheesery.”

“I knew that string was wearing thin,” said Fentongoose, still in mourning for his lost treasure. “I knew I should have put an extra knot in it. Oh, what a fool I am!”

They set off in single file along a riverside path which the giant had made for himself, winding between trees and ruins. Darkness was settling over Clovenstone and, as it deepened, so the voice of the river seemed to grow louder and the white water of the rapids and the little waterfalls showed whiter still, and everything else was grey, except for the stars which winked at them sometimes through the treetops. And all around them they could hear the soft pitter-pat of small things falling, so that Skarper wondered if it was starting to rain. Then, as the moon rose and slipped its pale light down through the branches, he saw that the falling things were tiny, spiky balls which dropped from the boughs of trees where they’d been growing. When one of these balls rolled into a patch of moonlight it would twitch and split open, and two black-bead eyes would squint out from inside for a moment; then twiggy hands would reach out and make the gap wider and a tiny twigling would emerge and go scampering up the trunk of the nearest tree.
So the wood makes twiglings just like the earth makes goblins
, Skarper thought, and he wondered why, and what it meant.

“We’ll ask Ned,” said Henwyn, when Skarper pointed out the new-hatched twiglings to him. “She’ll know.”

“Who’s Ned?” asked Skarper.

“Ned is a princess.”

“Is he the one you came to rescue?”

“
She
. And yes, sort of. You’ll see for yourself in a minute. Look; we’re nearly there!”

The river curved in front of them in the dark, narrower here, and laughing softly to itself. A broad slab of moorland granite had been laid across it as a bridge, and beyond the bridge there was a little path leading up through moonlit bushes, and beyond the bushes were some bare bean-rows, and beyond the bean-rows the towers of Westerly Gate rose dark against the sunset. A ship was perched upon the tallest one, and warm yellow light spilled welcomingly from all its portholes.

“When everything was young and new,” said Princess Ned, “long before the first men were born, the world had its own ideas about who should live in it. From the trees of the forests came the twiglings; from the cold hills came the giants; on the floors of the rivers stones stretched their limbs and became trolls; in the vaults of the sky, puffs of water vapour and ice crystal stirred and woke and called themselves cloud maidens.” Under the mountains the lava lake hawked up the first eggstones, and the forefathers of all goblins smashed their way out of them and started squabbling.

“For long, long ages things went on like that, and the old creatures of the world were a wonder and a terror to the first men when they began to settle the Westlands, to farm and mine. But some men learned to feel the magic running in the earth and in the air, and they learned how to harness it just as they harnessed fire and wind and water. Sorcerers, they were called, and it was thanks to them that the softlands were tamed, the deepwoods felled, and the old things of the world’s beginning driven into secret places. Many of them sought refuge in the Bonehills, where the magic had always been strongest. But the sorcerers followed them there, and to show how easily they could control the old powers, they split open the summit of Meneth Eskern and a tower rose from it, and they called it Clovenstone, and made it their stronghold. From here they ruled over all the lands of men, and the kings of men sent tribute to fill their treasure houses, and even the old things bowed down to them, and under their rule there was peace throughout the Westlands.

“But although they set out meaning to do good, it did not stay that way. Their magic gave them great power, and we all know what even a little bit of power does to people.”

Skarper said, “Like King Knobbler. It makes tyrants and bullies of ’em.”

“Quite so,” agreed Princess Ned, glancing at him a little nervously (for she still felt uneasy about letting a goblin into her ship). “My uncle was just such a man, and King Colvennor was another. And there are plenty of queens who are just as bad, not to mention dukes and landlords and teachers. When you give someone power over other people they soon grow mean, cruel and self-righteous, unless they are the very best of people. The sorcerers of old were not the very best of people, and they had more power than we can easily imagine. They turned the goblins into their soldiers and began to conquer all the lands around, and when all the kings of men were their slaves they turned on each other, until only one was left.”

“The Lych Lord!” said Henwyn.

“His real name is no longer known,” said Ned, “but that is what men called him, when he sent his armies out to strip their granaries and mines, and when his black fleet set out on winds of magic from the havens of the Nibbled Coast to take tax and tribute from lands beyond the sea.

“Then, slowly, the powers of the earth began to wane. The magic faded. Instead of breeding goblins by the millions the lava lake began to cough out only thousands, and then hundreds. The spells of the Lych Lord lost their potency. His empire crumbled. The kings of men threw off his yoke; they gathered under the banner of King Kennack. On the plain of Dor Koth they routed his armies, and even the walls of Clovenstone could not protect him. So perished the last of the sorcerers of the world, and good riddance too, most people say. But here at Clovenstone the old powers linger, or at least a faint echo of them does. And that is why the old things of the world still find their way here, and make their homes among the ruins.”

It was late, and owls were hooting in the woods around Westerly Gate. The fight with the goblins and the frightening trek through the trees were just unpleasant memories now. Fraddon stood guard outside in the night like a watchful tree. Everyone else was sitting with Ned in the stern-cabin of her old ship, eating apple cake and drinking tea. It was a snug and happy feeling to be packed into that crowded cabin, seated on packs and blankets because there weren’t enough chairs, listening while the princess told her story.

Of course, when it was over, they had many questions.

“Where do you get hold of tea?” Henwyn wondered. “And flour and sugar and things?”

“Oh, one of those heroes who tried to rescue me when I first came here turned out to be quite nice,” she explained. “He had never really wanted to marry me in the first place, being in love with someone else already, so when I explained that I was happy here with Fraddon he rode down to Netherak and made arrangements for me with a merchant there. There was a great deal of treasure in this old ship’s holds, and in exchange for some of it the merchant sends me a cartload of life’s little luxuries twice a year. He leaves it by a stone out on the moor, poor man, being afraid to pass the walls of Clovenstone.”

“Sensible fellow,” muttered Prawl, who was regretting his own eagerness to come to Clovenstone.

“How did your giant carry this ship so far from the sea, and lift it up on to this tower?” asked Fentongoose. “He doesn’t look big enough.”

“Oh, Fraddon was larger then,” the princess told him. “Giants grow down, not up: they start large and shrink, like mountains do. I have gone walking in the Bonehills with Fraddon and talked with new-born ones; rock-faces, just shouldering their way out of the earth. And I have met Fraddon’s great-great-grandfather, who has been worn down by years of wind and weather till he can sit quite comfortably upon my open hand.”

“What is this ‘tea’ stuff, anyway?” asked Skarper, sniffing suspiciously at the steaming mug he held between his paws.

“What I want to know,” said Carnglaze, before Ned could start telling them about the tea trade, “is this: is Clovenstone really awakening again, as this old fool Fentongoose keeps telling us?”

“Old fool?” cried Fentongoose. “I may not be as ruthless or as wise as the men who founded our conclave all those years ago, but I still know the promise that they made to we who come after them.”

“Promise?” asked Ned.

“It is more of a prophecy, really.”

“Oh, one of those.”

Fentongoose closed his eyes, put his hands against his temples to make the sign of the winged head and said ominously,

“
When the Lych Lord’s light within the Honeybag doth burn

Then magic shall return

And the Lych Lord’s heir shall come to Clovenstone

To take his place upon the Throne of Stone.
”

“But what does that mean?” asked Ned, frowning. “It doesn’t even scan.”

“It’s not meant to be poetry,” Prawl said primly. “It’s a prophecy.”

“Prophecies are rubbish,” said Ned. “There are only two sorts of prophecy. The ones which fortune tellers make because they know that people want to hear them, like ‘You will meet a handsome stranger,’ or, ‘You will come into some money,’ and the dotty ones that are always about the far-off future, about the world ending on a certain day or some such, when the prophet knows he’ll be safely dead and buried by that time so that nobody can complain to him when it doesn’t. Or, of course, they’re wrapped up in such a lot of silly riddles that you can make them mean anything you like. What does it mean, ‘The Lych Lord’s light within the Honeybag doth burn’?”

“It is a secret,” Fentongoose said primly. “It is not meant to be understood by any but adepts of the Sable Conclave.”

Ned was not satisfied. “How can you have a light in a honeybag?” she asked. “Who keeps honey in a bag anyway? You’d think it would get awfully sticky. . .”

Henwyn looked up hopefully. Ned was not the sort of princess he’d been expecting, but she seemed very kind and clever and he was keen to impress her in some way. “The country folk around Adherak use that name for one of the constellations; the five stars we usually call the Spoon. And a light
does
burn in it! I mean. . . I noticed it from my window in the cheesery, a few weeks ago. There are
six
stars in the Spoon now.”

Ned’s frown grew deeper. She put down her mug, and rose, and opened a small door in the bulkhead behind her and stepped out into the cold night air on the open balcony at the old ship’s stern. The others trooped out to join her, even Skarper, although he didn’t have much idea what they were looking at; he’d never paid very much attention to stars. Fraddon stood among the beech trees at the far side of the garden, fast asleep and snoring. Beyond him in the moonlight the tumbled, tree-drowned ruins stretched away and up towards the Inner Wall, where the great towers stood black around the darkness of the Keep.

“Look,” said Henwyn, pointing to a constellation that was just rising from behind the Bonehill Mountains.

“It doesn’t look anything like a spoon
or
a honeybag,” complained Skarper.

“Constellations never look like the things they’re named after,” said Henwyn. “Have you ever looked at the Great Huntsman? If you join up the stars in that you get a shape more like a squashed pasty. . .”

“Henwyn is right,” said Ned. “I am not usually awake at this hour, or perhaps I would have noticed it for myself. There
is
a sixth star. . .”

Skarper shaded his eyes from the moonlight with one ear and looked where she was pointing. There, in the heart of the Honeybag, one star shone brighter than the rest, and paler too. It didn’t even twinkle like the others. It looked to him like the ghost of a tadpole, hanging in the sky.

“It is bigger than when I first saw it,” said Henwyn.

“It is the Lych Lord’s star,” said Fentongoose. “It is the star that looked down upon the Lych Lord and his fellow sorcerers when they first raised Clovenstone from the earth.”

“It is a comet,” said Ned. “Comets do return. Is it possible that this one was somehow connected with the Lych Lord and his power? And perhaps. . . Perhaps Clovenstone
does
feel strange these days. As if something more than just the spring is coming. . .”

“Why would it be
bigger
, though?” asked Henwyn.

“Because it is coming closer,” said Ned. She sounded half worried, half excited. “I suppose, as it draws closer still, that all
sorts
of strange things may start to stir, and waken. . .”

All over Clovenstone, strange things
were
stirring; strange things were wakening. In the heights of the Keep itself things moved; a rustle of dry, papery skin, a tiptoeing tread of clawed feet. They came to the windows and peered out through the thick, rippled, reddish panes of lychglass, and the light of the comet gleamed in their slowsilver eyes. At another window, further down, a tiny crack had opened in the lychglass and a little batlike something struggled and battered there and finally squeezed its way out and went fluttering up into the moonlight, screeching in a thin, high voice, flying and flying around the Keep’s black walls until at last, exhausted, it dropped upon a passing cloud.

The cloud maidens came creeping to where it lay and looked down wonderingly at it. One of them – her name was Rill, and she was the kindest of them; the same one who had pleaded for Skarper the day before – picked it up gently in her cloudy hands, spreading the webs of its wings between her fingers.

“Sisters, look!” she said. “It is a little dragon!”

In Blackspike Tower King Knobbler rubbed ointment on the scrapes and bruises of that day’s battle and made his plans for tomorrow night’s raid, when he would lead his own lads and all of kingless Slatetop’s against the unsuspecting goblins round on the eastside. Mad Manaccan was no more, knocked for six by Fraddon’s club, so he was king of two towers now, not one.

And why stop at two?
thought old Breslaw, as he climbed stiffly up the stairway to Blackspike’s roof and stood beside the bratapult, looking along the moon-shiny curve of the Inner Wall at Slatetop, Grimspike and Growler. A bright, silvery star shaped like a tadpole hung above Slatetop, and there was something in the air that made him feel unusually chipper.
Knobbler’s an idiot
, he thought.
He’s got no ambition. Why stop at two towers? He could be king of all of them. King Knobbler of all Clovenstone, with old Breslaw the power behind the throne. Think of all the treasure I could get my paws on if I had the run of all the towers! Why, I might even be able to find a way inside. . .

And he turned his greedy eye towards the Keep, and wondered.

In the northern parts of Clovenstone the Lych Lord’s servants had dug great cellars once, and underground chambers full of furnaces and smithies, but since his fall the streams and rivers of the Bonehills had flowed into them and flooded them, and now a great swamp called Natterdon Mire sprawled between Northerly Gate and the Inner Wall. It had undermined the foundations of Natterdon Tower, causing it to slump down into the ooze. Since then the goblins of the other towers had learned to leave that part of Clovenstone alone, and they had blocked up all the passages and walkways which used to link their towers to Natterdon.

What had become of the Natterdon Tower goblins nobody knew; all that was certain was this: deep in the marsh’s poisoned pools, little globes of grey jelly appeared, and clumped together like frogspawn, and hatched out things that seemed half goblin, half frog. Boglins, they were called, and the Natterdon Mire was their domain.