After the King: Stories in Honor of J.R.R. Tolkien

Faith Poul and Karen Anderson

Far northeast beyond the Storm Horse Mountains, Aeland was the poorest of the shires, scantily peopled, so seldom visited that it might almost have been a separate realm. Yet it was happy enough. Farms prospered along the River Luta. In places the sturdy, thatch-roofed earthen houses clustered together to make a hamlet. Timbermen and charcoal burners worked Isung Wood south of them, while miners dug metals in the Nar Hills on the northwest. Where Karumkill flowed into the Luta, Yorun town had arisen. Most nations would reckon it a village, but it had its halidom, assembly hall, market, and busy little industries. Three taverns were not too many.

North and east the fertile ground yielded to wasteland, well-nigh treeless, begrown with ling, gorse, tussocky grass, reeds around darkling pools. Flocks of wildfowl cruised its winds, some deer cropped beneath, some wolves preyed on them, otherwise only hare, fox, and lesser game found dwelling. As for men, a few shepherds grazed their beasts, a few hunters ranged about when they were not in the forest or the hills. None ever fared more than two or three days onward from the river valley: for yonder lay the marches of the Twilight.

Too remote and humble to draw either bandits or conquerors, Aeland provided modestly for itself, with a bit over to trade when a chapman had crossed the mountains and followed Isung Road to Yorun. Sometimes folk bickered, once in a while they feuded bitterly, but for the main part they were friendly and helpful to each other. The priest led them in rites, hallowed whatever required it, and the rest of the time plied an ordinary trade. The reeve presided over shire meetings, arrested and punished the very rare felon, and judged between such disputants as chose to go before him. He also collected the taxes, most of which went off to the King. That was a service less gratefully received. However, people were resigned to government, as they were to sicknesses, blights, and the withering of their strength with age. On the whole, theirs were agreeable lives and gentle endings.

Then the goblins came.

The hunter Oric brought the first news to Yorun. Tracking a stag over Mimring Heath, he spied from a distance a thing so strange that he veered toward it. Soon his hounds would follow him no more, but milled about howling dismally, no matter how he whistled and cursed. With the recklessness of youth he pushed on alone.

What he reached was a black stone fortalice. Doorless and seemingly windowless, it sprawled across an acre in a repellently irregular outline. The walls lifted about thrice his height to a roof of jagged slates. Towers stood as high again at the angles and corners, with chimneys between. No two were alike, thin or squat, crenellated or coned or domed in different styles, but all of them lumpy and hideous.

Wind blew chill, snickering in the whins, driving a low gray wrack before it that mingled with smoke from the chimneys. Oric got a smell of something roasting, which somehow made him feel less hungry than sickened. His nerve failed him and he withdrew.

At his campfire that evening, for a night’s sleep on the way home, he thought he glimpsed small misshapes running about at the flickery verge of sight, and thought he heard voices cackle and gabble. Certain was that his hounds whined and crowded around him, tails between legs. He slept only fitfully, ridden by nightmares.

“That is impossible,” declared the reeve after Oric told him. “Workmen would have been seen. You say you did not even notice tracks left by wagons or stone boats.”

“It is not impossible for such as come out of the Twilight,” said the priest softly. “We must go look.”

Led by these three, a band of the neighborhood’s braver men went forth. Mostly they armed themselves with knives, wood axes, scythes, flails, and the like. Here and there was a sword or a bill that someone’s great-grandsire had borne in the Margraves’ War. They found the ugly castle out on the heath and stood shivering in a thin rain. The reeve hallooed, sounded his horn, rode around the walls and hammered on them. Nothing responded.

Oric felt need to show he had regained courage. He had comrades boost him onto the roof. The slates cut his leather breeks and scored his hands as he crept up the steep pitch to a chimney that was not smoking. When he looked down it, heat parched his eyeballs. Hell-deep below him, coals glowed white under wavery blue flames. He crept back to report, “None will get in by that way.” His bloody palms became inflamed and took weeks to heal.

Nor could the rites of the priest do anything, then or ever.

The men returned to a sorrowful word. At several outlying farms, weanling infants had been stolen from their cradles. It appeared that although shutters were fastened on the inside, bolts had risen and an intruder that saw in the dark crawled through. Where ground was soft, it bore prints of small narrow feet with long talonlike toes. No hound would pursue those tracks, which presently lost themselves on the heath but pointed toward the castle.

The priest spent days and candlelit nights among his books. “I think that is a settlement of goblins,” he announced at length. “What they want children for, it is not good to know.”

During the months and years that followed, in dusk or by moonlight, folk fleetingly saw the creatures. Less often they heard gibbering or wicked laughter. The picture they fitted together piece by piece was of a thing upright, skinny-limbed, less than five feet tall. A big hairless head bore raggedy ears, monstrous nose, and eyes like glowing lanthorns. A flung stone, a cast spear, a shot arrow never struck.

The goblins did not attack grown humans. They stole grain from fields, fruit from orchards, young livestock from pastures, but such losses were bearable, no more than crows or wolves might take. What was cruel was the vanishing of babes. Parents could scarcely watch wakeful by turns every night, if they had a hard day’s work to do. Older children were apt to drowse off, or fled screaming when shutters flew open and a horrible face in the window mouthed at them. Dogs seldom dared bark. Only well-to-do households could pay for guards. It took just a minute for a goblin to lift an infant and be gone.

In the first year the Aelanders strove. Twice they made battering rams and tried to smash a way into the castle; but they merely splintered the timber. They searched and dug for the tunnels that the goblins must use to pass in and out, but never found other than badgers’ burrows, for no hound would sniff along goblin spoor and the wet parts of the heath broke any visible trails. They proclaimed aloud offers of gold, fine cloth, and similar wares, if the thieves would desist; raspy noises jeered reply. No trap or ambush caught a goblin, no horse ran one down before it had skipped from sight.

They sent messengers over the mountains to the King. In the second year, upon their third application, he dispatched a baron and men-at-arms. The baron had the folk build a mangonel and collect large stones before the castle. These missiles knocked hardly a chip loose; and at night the goblins gibed from beyond the firelight. “Men can no more cure this affliction than they can the plague,” decided the baron, and took his party back. The King instituted a new tax in the shire, for defense.

The goblins grew more brazen, or else more numerous. Now and then they were seen in the streets of Yorun itself, by the yellow luminance out of homes. From the town also they plucked infants, as well as from everywhere else in Aeland.

To be sure, this spread the loss wider, so that no one neighborhood suffered worse than a single bereavement in a year or three. Sickness laid more than that in the earth. If the hours between sunset and sunrise were haunted, people could go in groups, swinging lanthorns and talking loudly, and perhaps starry summer nights no longer turned lad and lass too rashly loving. If there was no more wish to kindle midsummer bonfires and dance till dawn, services in the halidom remained safe and were decorous. Hunters, herders, and others whose work kept them in the open could walk with a certain swagger. The rest learned to keep any bitterness behind their teeth, save when a man and his wife stood alone by an empty cradle.

Best not speak of unpleasant matters. Best keep from your mind that nasty little castle on Mimring Heath. You must lead your life in sensible wise.

So did thirty years and three go by.

“You have been bad again,” said Hork. He raised six inches of forefinger. The claw at the tip caught flamelight in the same ocherous shimmer as his eyes. “Do not compound the offense by denial.” One of the few goblins fluent in a human tongue, he liked to show off his knowledge of its larger words. Perhaps he believed they outweighed his tittering accent—although the children had none other to compare. “This time you really must take your lesson to heart. Else we shall have to find different work for you, shall we not?”

Runt stiffened himself, fists knotted, to face his master. He tossed his head, throwing back the sandy shock-hair that had hedged sight for him. “Defiant, are you?” Hork hissed.

Runt thrust fear aside. He had had practice at that. His flesh stayed clammy with sweat and ashiver; but he could reply quietly: “No, lord. I only wonder what I may have done wrong.” He was sure his latest raid on the pantry had gone unnoticed.

Hork sat straight in his chair made of bones. Gloom and chill seemed to move inward around him, then forward to enclose the boy. “You have blabbered in barracks,” the goblin said. “You have let out what should never have been known to you at all. How much have you snooped? What else have you thieved of the Lore?”

“Nobody told me the Heartstone was secret!” Runt cried. “If you’d just told me, lord, I’d have kept still!”

Gray-blue skin flushed. “You were not told or shown anything,” Hork said, “therefore it should have been clear to you that it was forbidden knowledge. How did you even hear of the Heartstone?”

Runt’s courage stumbled. In truth he had been unaware this mattered greatly. “The, the lords Brumm and Ululu were talking—in the Arcane Chamber—they saw me, they never forbade, never warned—Please—”

“Ah.” Hork’s tone softened. “Tell me, what did you gather from this conversation?”

Faintly hopeful, Runt confessed. “It wasn’t only that, lord. I can’t help hearing things. Like the lord Drongg always swearing, ‘By the doom of the Heartstone!’ when he gets angry. And what Brumm—the lords Brumm and Ululu talked about—” His throat seized up.

“Go on, go on,” Hork snapped. “What do you think you have deduced concerning the Heartstone?”

“It, it’s down in the crypts and is—the life of the castle—”

“You slopped such information out?”

“Please, lord, what harm, I didn’t know—”

“I didn’t know how much of your masters’ language you had gained, you sneak.” Runt dared not protest that this had merely happened, had been going on longer than he could remember. All the children acquired a random handful of goblin words, though they were raised in their native speech and it was always used with them. Runt’s work exposed him to the most. The quickness of mind that caused him to be posted in the Arcane Chamber uncovered many a meaning. “When your time comes,” Hork went on, “can we release you to the Greenleaf World? I wonder.”

Runt stood dazed by horror.

Dimly at first, he saw a smile bare fangs and heard: “I will miss you when you have reached the Measure. You are often ill-behaved, as your scars bear witness, but you are the best assistant we have ever had in the Arcana.” The shrillness turned pensive. “In part because you have served the longest? It seems to me you have … .”

Runt could not tell. If the goblins kept no count of time, why should he?

“Well. It would doubtless impair you, were you to be denied your hope,” Hork said. “Let us see how you conduct yourself after fresh instruction.” He rose. The bracelets that were his clothing jangled. “Shall we to it?”

Almost gladly, Runt removed the tunic that children wore. For a moment, as Hork beheld him unclad, horny lids lifted above bulging eyes. Then the goblin shrugged indifferently and went to the instrument rack. Runt lay down on the lesson table. He clenched the dowel between his teeth, for he was not allowed to scream, gripped tight the handholds, and braced his feet in the stirrups.

At the end of the session, as usual, Hork sponged off blood, applied a salve that closed wounds and speeded healing, and gave Runt a remarkably strengthening drink. “Now go back and sleep,” said the goblin. “Henceforward be discreet.” He giggled. “And duly grateful, I trust.”

“Thank you deeply, my lord,” quavered Runt. He kissed the master’s left big toe. Rising, he donned his garment and limped from the room.

Corridors twisted and intertwined. Sconces cast dull, uneasy light over walls otherwise bare. Sounds scuttled through the shadows, footfalls, whispers, noises less recognizable. Whenever a goblin went by, Runt stood aside, knees bent, head bowed.

That was rarely. Ageless and childless, the goblins are a pleasure-loving race who dash about hunting, stealing, inflicting minor torments on men, and consorting with such other beings of the Twilight as enjoy their company. At home they feast, frolic, devise elaborate entertainments, and do as little real work as possible. Except for a few necessary procedures learned by rote from witches and demons, they have no command of magic. When this band of them chose to settle in a human country, Baubo raised their stronghold for them. His payment is best forgotten.

Passing the Arcane Chamber, Runt paused to stare through its archway. Phosphorescence wavered over ovens, kettles, casks, alembics, wands, besoms, bones, moldering tomes, unholy relics. A vat seethed, slowly brewing a new goblin to replace one who had annoyed a troll. None was on hand at the moment. Ululu, who fancied himself a wizard, cast the occasional spell of maintenance. Brumm helped him. Slef and Khreeh experimented, under supervision, but this was for amusement. A boy fetched, carried, swept, washed, and did whatever else he was bidden, which included those tasks requiring patience and precision. Since Bandylegs reached the Measure and departed, Runt had had that post. By now his recollection of Bandylegs had blurred.

Curiosity flared afresh in him. What was yon silver spiderweb for? Whence came the dried herbs and pungent powders? What had grown such great branching horns? What were the moon and stars depicted in books and invoked in incantations? As much as he dared, especially when alone here, Runt searched, poked, pried, wondered. The mysteries and complexities filled his mind, beguiled him from despair, consoled him in pain.

Pain stitched through him yet. However, aided by the draught, his sturdy frame was already bouncing back from its chastisement. As he stood there, he felt more sense of hunger. How often he hungered! The rations in mess had ceased to suffice him, and he must filch what he could.

Regardless, he failed of the Measure. After a brief spurt, which brought him within an inch, his growth had slowed, perhaps to naught. Instead, perversely, bones thickened, muscles swelled. Changes more odd than that frightened him, shamed him, made him wash with his back to his roommates. Hair fuzzed out on face and body. His voice deepened, but would ridiculously crack just when he was speaking most earnestly. His dreams were different from of yore and his wakeful eyes strayed, as if of themselves, toward the girls.

Runt drew a breath and hastened on. He must not be seen idling. The worst thing he could imagine was to lose his station among the Arcana before he got his release into the Greenleaf World—unless he never did. True, the carpentry shop or smithy would not be bad; weaving, sewing, and the like were for girls. The kitchens would be tolerable, and offer chances to steal food. Ordinary toil, scrubbing, drawing of water, shoveling of coal, that sort of thing he could endure, at least until the sameness of it wore away the fantasies that were his refuge. But the thought of personal service to a goblin knotted his throat, after what he had heard about it: especially the entertainment demanded at whim. Or he might be put to tending the loathly worms in their underground pens, in which case he would not likely live to reach the Measure. No, he thought, at all costs he must preserve what was his.

Then who had set it at hazard by tattling on him? Rage smoldered and spat in Runt’s breast, like brands in a castle fireplace. The talebearing as such had not kindled it. When a child brought them news of rulebreaking, the goblins gave reward, sweetmeats or a toy or a span of leisure. When they learned that a child had had knowledge of transgression and failed to report it, that meant punishment. You learned early to keep your thoughts unspoken and to carry out your pilferings and neglectfulnesses unobserved. Runt had frequently been disciplined for infractions before he gained self-mastery. He accepted that as the natural order of things. Sometimes he bore to the masters his own tales of misdeeds detected.

This, though, was—was—he lacked a word for “unjust” but he felt the wrongness like an added pang. In full innocence had he blurted forth in barracks the amazing thing he had learned, that the castle possessed a heart. There had never been a ban on telling his fellows what he did and saw at work. Anything that gave their lives a bit of sparkle was welcome, helping them through their duties.

His inmost hope had been to impress Squeaky. He was not sure why, but her look upon him had become important. Now he was glad he had not drawn her aside for the tale, keeping it from the rest. He might have done so, were it less hard to find a private place. Then she too could well have received correction. That pain in him would never have stopped.

Somebody must have gone to the goblins out of malice, on the chance that Runt had broken a rule. Ignorance was an unacceptable excuse. He nursed his suspicion. Apples was his enemy of old. Both had suffered penalties for fighting, until Apples made a weapon of his tongue, swifter and sharper than Runt’s. Lately Apples, too, had shot up in height and started favoring Squeaky’s company. It led to more quarrels with Runt, over things that in themselves mattered not a glob of rat spit.

Thinking of this while he walked, Runt felt acridness rise in his gullet. To calm himself somewhat, he stopped again where a certain corridor crossed the one he trod.

The children generally did. His gaze traveled wistful down a vaulted length to the end. There he beheld a door, massive in iron-framed timber, full thirteen feet high. It gave on the outside.

So he had been told. No child ever saw any of its kind opened. Again and over again, waking and sleeping, Runt had dreamed of passing through. But a bar at the top held it fast. On the left side jutted a shelf. A goblin could easily leap to it and squat while he swung the bolt from its catch. A child could not, nor did anything exist in the castle which—he might use for climbing.

Runt sighed and trudged onward. After a while his footsteps quickened. Squeaky should be in the barracks section.

He entered it and blinked. These three rooms and these solely knew sunlight, admitted by louvers in an attic and passed onward by mirrors. Though now fading rapidly into night, it was brighter than anyplace else. Goblins only came here when they must, preferably after dark, otherwise swathed in hooded cloaks.

The section had nothing to attract them. One chamber held a score of narrow bunks in double tiers, with scant space to spare. A second was for washing, laundry, storage, and suchlike needs. The largest served as mess hall and common room; you reached it first. Doors were lacking. Floors were wood, cracked, splintery, spotted with traces of old grease, bloodstains, and tears. Walls were unpainted plaster. Here and there, charcoal marks showed that someone had tried to keep track of days; but he or she always ceased caring after a few hundred.

Fragments of color relieved the mess hall. Toys and games lay sparsely about, bestowed by the goblins as rewards or fashioned by children from scraps. Manuscript pages to the number of seven, long ago torn out of a book, were nailed up. The children puzzled and puzzled over the inked words. Mainly they peered at the illuminations. Those tiny scenes—people, animals, fields, trees, blue overhead with a golden disc in the middle, marvels well-nigh beyond comprehension—showed the Greenleaf World. To it they would go when they reached the Measure, provided that they had faithfully served the kindly goblins who rescued them from the Terror and gave them shelter and nurture.

The children heard, moreover, that the pictures and fine playthings were of goblin make. Runt, who had never watched a goblin make any object, kept his doubts mute.

As he approached, he heard Squeaky: “No, dear, you must mend your tunic before that rip gets worse. Oh, and it needs washing too. I will show you how.”

“I don’t want to,” said a small girl mutinously. “Why should I? The masters don’t care.”

“They will if they pick you to attend them,” Squeaky answered. “Then you will have to be elegant. Meanwhile and forever, you owe it to your friends, and most of all to yourself, that you stay neat and clean. You are no roach or blowfly, you are a child. Someday you will go to live in the Greenleaf World where everything is beautiful.”

Her voice had become soft and sweet while she gained in height, hips and bosom began to round, and the brown tresses fell to her waist. But the names that the children found for each other generally stayed with them. She sat on a bench at the table, spooning gruel into a newly arrived infant she held on her lap. Seeing how well she got on with the youngest, the goblins had appointed her their nurse and governess after Snubnose reached the Measure. It was duty she loved, even more than Runt liked his.

“Well, I will if you help me,” said the little girl, Tummy. “An’ will you tell us a story at sleepy time?”

“‘Bout the Birds,” said Me Too, who was smaller yet. “An’ the Flowers.”

“What are Birds an’ Flowers?” asked Tummy. She had chanced to be at the chores she could handle whenever they were spoken of.

“Naw,” said Cockeye. “I want to hear ’bout … Horses.” Red-haired, freckled, snaggle-toothed, he had nonetheless lengthened to Runt’s or Squeaky’s shoulders. The goblins found reason to punish him oftenest, but his grin soon returned.

Squeaky smiled. “Let me think first,” she said.

She was not sure. None of the children were. When the mood came on a goblin, he might relate this or that about the Greenleaf World. Then some, such as Runt, understood bits of overheard conversation. Hints like these, as well as the pictures on the wall, became ground for endless speculation and fabulation. As the generations of children passed, a wholy body of legend grew up among them, a cosmos in which many lived more than they did in the solid castle. But the tales were mostly vague, incomplete, and contradictory. Their single common theme was splendors and delights, peace and love, waiting beyond these walls in a land—nobody said this aloud—where there were no goblins.

“I’ll ride a Horse when I’m big,” said Cockeye, “an’ I’ll slay dragons an’—” He saw who had come. “Runt, you’re back!”

Silence clapped down. They knew Runt had been summoned to woe. The very infant sensed misery and gaped big-eyed. Squeaky rose, laid him in his crib, and moved slowly toward the newcomer. The rest hung behind. Others were still at work. Each of these, beholding the red marks on arms and legs, felt wholly alone.

Runt halted. He forced a smile. “I’m back?” he mocked. “What a surprise! Tell me more.”

Squeaky reached him. “Are you hurt badly?” she asked low.

“No, I’m hale,” he blustered. “Hungry as a hellhound. Can’t wait till supper.”

Cockeye drew nearer. Worship shone in his blue gaze. “They’ll never make you cry,” he said. Yet it was Cockeye who last told the goblins when Runt thrashed Apples. Of course, he was a sprat then.

Runt paid no heed, for Squeaky offered her hands. He summoned his nerve and took them. How warm they were, delicate as Arcane glassware. Heat came and went in his face.

“I wish we could do something for you,” she murmured unsteadily. He had no way to tell her what she had just done.

Fear wobbled through Tummy’s voice: “Why’d they hurt you?”

Runt bit his lip. “I mustn’t talk about that,” he said.

“But I don’t know what I mustn’t,” Tummy protested.

Squeaky left Runt standing and bent to console the girl. Resentment boiled high in him.

“I know,” said Cockeye. “I’ll keep quiet.”

“Starting now, big mouth,” Runt snapped. Cockeye caught his breath, returned glower for glower, and slunk aside. Runt wondered desperately what to do. Standing still like this was foolish. He wished he had somebody to hit. Somebody who deserved it.

The room was getting murky. It would soon be time to take a punk stick, ignite it at a flame in the hall outside, and bring it back to light the tallow candles here. But it wasn’t his turn for that enjoyable task.

A noise brought everyone’s attention around. Apples came in. He was the tallest of the children, and his work in the kitchens had given him the opportunity to wax plump. Mess hall rations were mostly fruit, grain, and roots, but included bits of meat or fish. Apples was never actually seen slipping an extra for himself from the pot, and the goblins didn’t appear to notice his pudginess.

“You’re early,” exclaimed Cockeye. “What’s the matter?”

“No food tonight?” wailed Me Too, aghast.

Apples beamed. He rubbed his hands. His cheeks shone ruddier than ever. “Don’t fret, littling,” he said. “The help will bring it when it’s ready. And day after tomorrow, you’ll feast.”

The children stared. He kept them in suspense until he added: “When the masters have a banquet, you know, we get their leftovers. Not the flesh, no, that’s for them, but nuts and sweets, remember? And they celebrate with a banquet whenever any of us has gone to the Greenleaf World. They’ve got such kind hearts.”

“Are you going?” Squeaky gasped.

Apples nodded vigorously. “I am, I am,” he crowed. “I’ve reached the Measure.”

Red blew across Runt’s vision. “You lie!” he yelled. “It can’t be! You’re no bigger than—less’n an inch over me, and—”

It was a ritual, when the goblins brought the oldest children to their council hall. Pulse thuttering, you stepped onto the dais and stood your straightest against the Rod. Lord Hork solemnly lowered the arm until it rested on your head. If its pointer then passed the crimson line—you were allowed to laugh and weep and dance before the helpless envy of your mates.

Apples smiled and smiled. “This was special,” he said. “I’d done a proper deed, and when I went for my reward, I asked if that could be him reading my height, because I saw I’d gotten to the same as him and that’s when—Well, he did, and I am big enough and I’m going!”

Runt understood quite well what that proper deed had been. He gripped himself with spirit fingers, lest he fly at yonder throat.

“Oh, Apples,” Squeaky sang, “I’m so happy for you.” She sprang to him, threw her arms about his neck, and kissed him.

He held her close. “I’ll wait for you in the Greenleaf World,” he vowed. Glancing past her head at Runt: “Looks like you’ll never join us, growlguts.”

Runt howled. He took a stiff-legged step forward, another, another. Apples released Squeaky and backed off. “I have to go,” he said fast. “The masters are meeting me. I just wanted to tell you. Goodbye, goodbye.” He wheeled and waddled down the corridor.

“You slime!” Runt screeched. “I’ll—I’ll kill—”

Squeaky caught his arm. “No, hold,” she pleaded. “If you start a fight now—Please!”

He shook free of her. “Let me be,” he raged. “All o’ you.” Her cry followed him out the doorway.

The flickery-lit dusk beyond breathed some of its chill into him. Indeed he could not afford to get into trouble again so soon. And yet, and yet. Apples was a whitish blob well ahead of him. It was as if an outside will settled into Runt’s skull. He trailed after. When at length he must retreat, he would spit in Apples’ tracks.

He kept to the shadows, though, close against the wall, taking advantage of every pillar, niche, and angle for concealment, then speeding to the next. Stealth was an art he had cultivated since the endless hunger came upon him. At the back of his mind he put together a story, in case a goblin spied him anyhow. He was sorry if he trespassed, he hadn’t heeded whither he went, for he was meditating upon the salutary lesson the lord Hork had administered, he was firming his resolve to become a better boy.

Apples turned into a passage toward the council chamber. Abruptly Runt quailed. He heard piping voices and the slither-click of taloned feet. Flattened against stone, he listened to Hork: “Ah, there you are, my lad. No, no, don’t beg our pardon. We’re gathered to send you off in the way you have earned.”

“What a handsome, stout fellow,” said Khreeh. Like most goblins, he had a smattering of human speech. “Exactly to our taste.”

“Thank you, thank you, masters,” Apples blubbered. “I’ll praise you to the people in the Greenleaf World.” .

“We understand how you feel,” Brumm assured him. “We will think of you as sharing the banquet we hold in your honor.”

“Come,” said Drongg, “let us hurry you to your prize.”

Again bitterness seared Runt’s throat. He could not help himself, he had to risk a peek around the corner, to cast a final silent malediction.

Torch flames flapped and streamed. A score of goblins or more swarmed around Apples. Their ornaments jingled as they capered, chattered, and cackled. The boy walked like one in an enchanted dream.

Astonishment rammed through Runt. Where were they bound? He knew the castle well. Errands had taken him everywhere on the ground floor and numerous places on higher levels, even into the belfry of the Ghoul-Calling Bells. No door barred on top lay in this direction.

Then those doors couldn’t really lead to freedom, he decided. The goblins had fooled the children, as a precaution. Runt gave a slight shrug. Lies were a part of life.

Excitement blazed. He could learn the true way out!

Crouched, heart athunder, he sidled onward.

Formerly he would not have been that reckless. On this day, he was driven half from his wits by pain, wrath, jealousy, heartbreak—Squeaky had kissed Apples—He gave scant thought to the likely consequences, were he seen. He scarcely cared. The possibility that he too might use that door seemed worth any hazard.

Yet his senses were strung wire-taut and he moved like another drift of torch smoke.

The hall went between rooms that stood open, deserted by those who thronged joyful Apples. It ended at a blank wall and a quite ordinary door. Runt had never ventured to glance behind it. Hitherto in this section, a goblin had always kept him in view. He had only vaguely wondered what lay there. All this while, the Greenleaf World?

He ducked into a chamber and lurked among grotesque tall vases. Peering around the entrance jamb, he saw Hork fling the door open with a flourish.

Apples jarred to a stop. “But,” he stuttered. “But.”

“You know we mislike bright light,” Hork said. “We will escort you through this anteroom to where we bid you a tender farewell.”

“I see. Thank you, lord.” Apples trotted forward. The goblins pullulated with him. The last of them shut the door.

Runt waited. He thought he heard noises but could not be sure, for huge waves beat through his head and shook his bones.

It was forever and it was an eyeblink until the goblins returned. Runt hunkered as small as might be in his hiding place. If they found him here and now, maybe he would die. Maybe first he would tend the loathly worms. Certain it was that he would never go free.

The goblins passed by in a troop. They gibbered and gabbled. Runt understood some of it. “Ale for us, the best of Mother Carrion’s brew,” Drongg exulted. “Then a sound sleep, and then Smaga readies the feast, eh?”

“Ei-ya-a,” they shrieked.

The last of their clamor had hardly died from hearing when Runt darted forth. Strange how steady his hands were as he laid hold of the latch. He drew the door aside just enough to let him past and immediately closed it anew. Wildly, he looked about for the portal beyond.

There was none. He stood in a bare brick chamber lit by a candelabrum whose nine arms twisted like limbs under torture. Their tallow tapers stank. A gutter ran between flagstones which glistened, freshly mopped. Implements for housekeeping stood against a wall. At the middle was a large, rough wooden table, blackly stained. Knives and cleavers lay on it. They too shone newly washed.

Runt screamed.

When he came to himself again, he lay on the floor in a puddle of his vomit. Cold gnawed into his marrow; his teeth clattered. He opened his eyes. They were aimed straight at the sight above the table—Apples, naked, blanched, hung by a hook from the ceiling.

The boy’s mouth was open. His tongue stuck out, gray. His eyes were dry and unblinking. His belly was also open, empty. The goblins had piled his entrails in a bucket. Economical, they had caught most of the blood in another.

“I didn’t mean it, Apples,” sobbed a voice somewhere. “I didn’t want this. Truly I didn’t.”

Runt crawled to his feet. He felt numb, as hollow as the corpse. Thought clanked slowly. Here was the end of service, for every child who ever dwelt in the castle. Tomorrow the goblins would strip off the flesh. They would bring it to their kitchen. Smaga, their chef, would supervise the children on his staff as they spiced and cooked it, sauced and served it. How natural that child waiters told their mates what jolly occasions the going-away feasts were.

If the goblins knew Runt knew, would they hold a second banquet at once? They might pickle him for snacks. They might consider it a jest to give the mess a share.

Well, they would not. A water bucket was still full. Runt carefully cleaned his tunic, his skin, and the floor. The scrubbing stung his injuries. They reminded him of the price of talking freely. This time he would keep silence. He would go about his work, make no further trouble, and—and—

What?

Why, when no Greenleaf World awaited him?

“Goodbye, Apples,” he mumbled, and left.

Stunned as he was, he went with little caution. However, no goblins were present, and his path through the labyrinth avoided their festival salon. Noises of carousal echoed faint. Not many remained awake. He must have been in the butcher room a long while.

Entering familiar territory, he hastened his steps. At least his bunk was nigh. At least he could creep into it, pull the blankets over his head, and be alone. Tomorrow, when the alarm horns roused children to their labors—tomorrow, among the goblins, he would take care to look away from their mouths.

A light burned outside the quarters but none within. The entrance yawned black. Runt stopped. He cringed, remembering. “No,” he whimpered. “Please no.”

Pallor glimmered. He sprang back. Almost, he fell. His heart racketed.

Squeaky stepped out of the common room. The tunic she had thrown on was wanness and shifty shadows. Legs, arms, face shone white. A living white, though, he thought crazily. Blood beat in a fine blue vein beneath her throat. Wide eyes beheld him. Brilliances moved in them. “Runt,” she breathed. “Where were you? I couldn’t sleep, I was so afraid for you. Are you well?”

He stood slack.

She came to him and took his hands. “You’re cold,” she said. “Freezing cold. What’s wrong? What happened, Runt?”

“Who cares?” he rasped. “What does it matter?”

“I care,” she answered. Did that blood in her rise through the cheeks and over the brow? Warmth flowed from her into him.

She shivered. “Something terrible has happened,” she knew.

He strove. Finally: “Yes,” he got out. “Something terrible will.”

“What is it?”

His wounds twinged. “I told you—earlier—”

“You daren’t?” Her grasp tightened. She lifted her head. Light rippled down the loose hair. “I understand. No, don’t say. I don’t—” Tears gleamed on lashes. “I, I don’t want them to hurt you, ever again.”

“But they will hurt you!” shouted someone.

She let go. “Runt, are you sick?” she asked anxiously. “Come in with me. I saved your ration for you, and part of mine. You’ll feel better when you’ve eaten.”

“Eaten? Squeaky, Squeaky! The hook, the knives, the buckets!”

She glanced behind. Half wakened, a child made a sound. Her palm rose to cover his lips. “Hush, Runt. Here, come where we can talk quietly. Do.” Her hand tugged at his.

He lurched after her. They found a niche. In darkness they sat, enfolding one another, and trembled. Soon his head dropped to her breast. He wept. She held him, stroked his hair, and crooned.

“No,” he said at last. “They won’t do that to you. I won’t let them.”

And he told her. Now she clung to him, in need of his strength. He knew not where he found it for her, but he did.

“What’ll we do, what’ll we do?” she stammered in sightlessness. Only the faintest unrestful flame-flicker hazed a stony corner.

He felt how she shivered. Beneath it felt the throb of her aliveness. His nostrils drank odors like sunshine, and thyme, and things for which he had no name. Confusion tumbled through him. It swept bewilderment away. Out of a sudden vast clarity, he said: “We’ll escape. Those doors they tell us open on the Greenleaf World, they’ve got to go somewhere.”

“No,” she moaned. “I couldn’t bear seeing—poor Apples—”

“Whatever we find, have we aught to lose?” Runt replied starkly. “This same night. Else the masters are bound to notice we’ve changed.” Resolution set. “And, you know, it could be those doors give on the outside. We know the masters go away and come back. We know they bring things home—food, cloth, gold, yes, toys and games and—and babes, Squeaky. Where do we come from, if not from outside?”

His voice cracked, a silly squawk. Fury at that flogged weariness and weakness till they fled him.

Squeaky clutched his arm. “We can’t go through.” Her words wavered. “The Terror—”

“That the masters—the goblins saved us from?” Runt sneered. “Do you believe that anymore? I say they stole us from the Greenleaf World, same as they steal everything else.”

“We can’t open those doors. We can’t reach the bolts.”

His mind leaped. “I know how. Three of us together can do it. You and me and—” He faltered. “And—”

“Who?” she wondered desolately. “The little ones aren’t strong or clever. The big ones, why should they believe you? Why shouldn’t they run and tell the masters?” She was still a moment. “I don’t know why I believe you, Runt. I truly don’t know why.”

It struck him hard: What an awful, stupid chance he had taken, speaking frankly to her. Nothing would be easier than for her to betray him, and the payment ought to be extra rich. Was she leading him on till she could sneak off? The thought flashed: If he killed her, nobody would know who’d done it. He had powerful hands. Laid around her neck—

“Maybe it’s because you trust me,” Squeaky said.

His arms dropped. He barked his knuckles on the floor. Horror rushed through him. He heard: “Or maybe it’s because you are you, Runt. You were always good to me.”

Had she forgotten his childhood teasing? Or had she put it aside, or even found a different meaning in it? He strangled on a sob.

She caught hold of him anew. “What’s the matter, Runt? Tell me.”

“We’ve got to escape,” he groaned. Escape from more than death. “But who will help us? Who can we ask?”

Silence drove the hammering of pulses inward until she, now curiously calm, proposed, “What about Cockeye?”

In the midst of everything, Runt bridled. “Cockeye? That pest?”

“He’d think sunlight of you, if you’d let him,” Squeaky said.

“No, he’s loud and flighty and can’t sit still a single minute. He’d bring the goblins straight down on us.”

“Runt,” she sighed, “if you say we must be three to open a door, I don’t know what you are thinking about, but I believe you. Well, you have to believe in me, and we both have to trust Cockeye, or we’ll never get anything done, will we?”

He sagged back against the wall, overwhelmed by thoughts altogether new. She stood up. “Wait here,” she said, and padded back to the sleeping quarters.

Alone, Runt sat in a whirl. His fist pounded the flagstones. What to do, what to do? He could leave before Squeaky returned with Cockeye. Those two might well be afraid to approach the goblins. He, Runt, might manage to skulk about, evading capture, lifting food and water by night, until he saw a goblin open a door. He might thereupon dart past, too quick to be caught. No, goblins moved faster. But they weren’t really so strong. He might kill that one and get away before others arrived.

Might, might, might, maybe!

And Squeaky would stand forsaken.

Runt stayed where he was.

He scrambled to his feet when the shadowy shapes came around the corner. His heartbeat slowed. The earlier clearness rallied. There was simply no more time for fear or doubt. “Let’s go,” he said, and led the way.

“What for, what for?” Cockeye demanded.

“Hush.” Squeaky tightened her clasp on his hand. “You promised when I woke you, if we took you along on this adventure, you’d do what you were told and stay quiet. Runt and I trust you. Please don’t fail us.”

Cockeye sucked in a breath and held it as long as he could.

Squeaky plucked Runt’s tunic. A flame showed tears on her cheekbones. “But the others,” she begged. “What about them? I left them sleeping. We can’t just go from them.”

“We’d never control the whole lot,” he replied. “Maybe later, when we’re free, we can bring help. We’ll try.”

“We will? Honest?”

“I don’t know, I can’t tell—Yes, Squeaky, we will.”

The nearest of the tall doors loomed before them. They heard the final shrill sounds of goblin revelry, echoing through the glooms. Squeaky looked up and up with dismay. “What we gonna do?” asked Cockeye. “Oh!” He laid palms over mouth and threw Runt a contrite glance.

“Listen,” Runt said. “If I stand here by the jamb and brace my arms on the wall, can you climb and stand on my shoulders, Squeaky? My tunic’ll give you a hold. And then can you get onto hers, Cockeye? From there, step off onto that shelf and swing the bolt free.”

“Why?” the small boy wondered, carefully soft-voiced.

“Can’t stop to explain. Will you do it, you both? Can you?” They had better be able to, Runt thought.

They were, barely. As Cockeye was swarming over Squeaky’s back, she, precariously in the middle, started to fall sideways. Runt felt her weight shift, heard her gasp, and took a counterbalancing step. Agony jabbed into his back. He held fast and held silent. A minute afterward, he heard a thud as the bolt swiveled.

Sweat sprang forth all over him, more cold than the air. “C’mon down, quick,” he wheezed. Cockeye scrambled to a safe jumping height. Runt’s back could take no more. He and Squeaky toppled in a heap.

He clenched his teeth and clambered from her. Squeaky saw him lamed. “Lean on me,” she said. Her left arm circled his waist, her right hand caught an iron knob and pulled. The door creaked open—loud enough to rouse Apples, thought Runt through the fog of pain.

No sunlight, no flowers, no moon or stars lay beyond. A chill breath wafted out of darkness. It smelled of damp and mould. Cockeye shrank back. “I’m scared,” he said.

“Don’t be,” Runt gritted. Squeaky helped him hobble through. Cockeye gulped and followed.

They found themselves on the landing of a stair that plunged down into the murk. Flames, blue at intervals along rough stone walls, gave light to walk by. “This has got to go somewhere,” Runt pushed between his lips. “You wouldn’t expect the Greenleaf World right outside the castle, would you? Come on.”

Squeaky closed the door. They couldn’t very well lower the bolt that was on this side, but maybe the goblins hadn’t heard anything, maybe they wouldn’t soon notice the inner fastening loosened.

Deep the stairs went before they ended in a tunnel that reached beyond sight. Each step he took sent a knife through Runt’s back. He tottered on, harshly breathing. How delicious it would be to curl on the wet stone, wrap sleep’s blanket snug around him, and dream forever. But they were bound to the Greenleaf World, weren’t they? And his friends might yet have need of him.

He heard Squeaky tell Cockeye the reason for their faring. The boy keened. “Naw, can’t be, awful! I don’t b’lieve you!”

“Well,” said the girl wearily, “if you don’t, you can turn around and go back to the masters. P’r’aps when they’ve caught us they’ll give you a sweetmeat.”

Cockeye swallowed hard, then clutched her free hand again. “I’m coming ’long,” he told them, and stumped onward.

However toilsome for the children, wrung as they were, the tunnel was not much over three miles long. At the end—at the end!—they found a slanting door. Runt was past caution or hope or anything save pain. He fumbled at the handle. The door wouldn’t budge for him. Squeaky tried. It swung heavily on noisy hinges.

The air that met their faces was fresh but nearly as cold as underground. Light also was as dim, gray light from no source in view, shadowless, veiled by countless little white flakes. Those dropped in silence to an earth they had already decked, a ground where shrubs were formless colorless masses within which lurked thorns and sharp twigs. It sloped, the children had emerged on a hillside, but they saw only a few yards before the white blindness overtook their eyes.

“What’s this? No Greenleaf World?” cried Cockeye. It was the tone of a child struck for no known reason.

“I can’t say,” Runt grated. “We’ve got to keep going, that’s all.”

Squeaky shut the door. Its outer surface was a box of dirt in which grew dense heather, so that when it lay closed it was indistinguishable. She took note of a lean lichenous stone rising nearly—a menhir of the Ancients, though she did not know that. It must be a landmark for the goblins. Not that she meant to return, whatever laired ahead. Shuddering, she hurried to Runt’s aid. His gait staggered.

The three went downhill because that was the least hard way. Their bare feet soon left blood spots behind. However, the falling white stuff swiftly covered every track. The goblins could not trail them. Belike that made scant difference. They would leave their bones here rather than traded off to the ghouls. Starving, hurting, on their last strength they covered several thousand paces. They reeled a bit longer on hope, before it too drained away.

“No use,” Runt coughed. “I can’t go on any more. Leave me.”

“N-n-never,” Squeaky answered. She hauled him onward while her gaze roved right and left. Yes, there, a dip in the slope, bushes clustered around, shelter of sorts. “This way. Please. Trust me.”

He collapsed in it. She knelt beside him and felt how chilled he was, saw how lids drooped over eyes rolling back in his head. “You must get warmer, Runt,” she said, wondering if he heard. “Here, Cockeye, you sit close on his left side and I’ll be on his right.”

“But I’m cold an’ tired m’self,” the younger boy objected.

“He gave us everything he had,” Squeaky said. “It’s our turn.”

Cockeye shook his head at the baffling new idea but obeyed. After a time he noticed how the flakes melted on his skin. He scooped some off the ground, cautiously licked it, at length put it in his mouth. “Hey,” he yelped, “this turns into water! We don’t got to stay thirsty, anyhow.”

“Maybe we’ll find something more, if we keep trying,” Squeaky said.

Light increased. The snowfall slackened until it was no more. Runt slept, huddled between his comrades. They looked across a rolling white landscape beneath a leaden sky which, at one point low above the horizon, was somewhat brighter. But they lacked words for what they saw, or understanding of it. When black wings flapped overhead and a hoarse caw drifted down to them, they cowered.

Distance and terrain hid the castle, not that they would have recognized it. Otherwise they felt themselves far indeed, illimitably far, from the Greenleaf World. ,

Abruptly Cockeye straightened. His finger jabbed the air. “Yonder, yonder!” he squealed. “See it?”

The girl squinted against the weird whiteness. Over a ridge a hundred yards away came a form walking, high and gaunt as the marker stone. Four lesser things loped after it, heads near the ground as though they sought what to devour. “A goblin?” she wondered. “No. But—”

“It’s a people!” shouted Cockeye. He bounced up. Runt slumped back. A snore rattled in his gullet. “A people like in the pictures!”

“Get down,” Squeaky told him frantically. “How do you know? We’ve heard about demons and trolls and, and everything horrible.”

Cockeye stood where he was. His glance challenged hers. “I think it’s a people,” he said, “an’ if we don’t fetch it, it’ll go by not knowin’ an’ we’ll die. I … I b’lieve it.”

Squeaky sat mute for a space. The crow jeered at her.

“You may be right,” she said. “I suppose I have to believe too. What else? Can you run and meet … whatever that is?”

“Whoo-ee!” yelled Cockeye. Squeaky held Runt close and watched the short figure bound away over the snow.

Despite his years, Oric the hunter still ranged widely. Scornful of fears that spooked in the homes of men, he quested for deer onto Mimring Heath, alone but for his hounds. Thus it was that he saw a boy speed, stumbling and panting, across the waste toward him. “Hold, Grip,” he ordered. “Down, Greedy. You, Loll and Noll, quiet.” The dogs cut off their baying and stood by his spear.

The boy’s red hair made a single splash of color in the winterscape. When he fell at Oric’s feet, the hunter saw bruises and slashes on his shins, gooseflesh everywhere, for he wore merely a tunic of coarse weave, fouled by hard travel. “Well, well,” Oric said. “What have we here?” He laid down his weapon and hunkered to help the boy rise.

The boy started. He squirmed aside, jerked onto all fours, scuttered off like an animal. His eyes shone enormous in the chalkiness beneath his freckles.

“Ascared, are you?” Oric drawled. “You galloped to me, but when you came nigh, I was too strange, eh? Or is it the hounds? They won’t bite you, younker.”

Smiling, he took a piece of cheese from his pocket and tossed it. The boy retreated farther. Oric rose. “I’ll retrace your steps, slow-like,” he said. The boy yammered. “Sorry, I don’t follow you.” Oric cupped hand to ear. “Repeat?”

“You a people?” he heard. The accent was so peculiar he must think before he knew what was meant. “Y-y-you won’t eat me?”

Knowledge struck into Oric. His vision blurred. “No, kid,” he answered most gently, “I won’t. I’ll bring you home.”

He started along the tracks in the snow. A peek behind showed the boy squatted where the cheese had fallen, ravenously consuming it, before slinking after him.

As he neared the two others, he stuck his spear in the ground, bade the dogs sit, and advanced empty-handed. A girl looked up at him, terrified, but did not leave the half-conscious boy she hugged. “I guess you couldn’t,” Oric murmured, “and me, I’d better prove I’m harmless.”

Under the wild stares he brushed a space clear, gathered wood, with flint and tinder started a fire. Eventually the younger boy ventured close and crouched by the coals. Later the girl half supported, half lugged the older boy there. Oric left food for them. He settled a ways off, unpacked his flute, and played the prettiest tunes he knew.

In due course he went to the bigger lad. Although the companions withdrew, they did not bolt. He laid down his cloak and blanket. “Wrap those around you,” he told them. “Best I can do.” He lifted the slumped body. “We’re going home,” he said to the girl. “You want to carry my spear for me? That thing with the shaft.” He nodded at it. “Careful of the edge. But it’s comforting to have a defense.”

She did as he suggested. At first he moved cautiously, lest she panic and attack him. When she seemed more at ease, he lengthened his stride.

It was a slow journey, with frequent stops. The strength of Oric’s youth was diminished, and Runt—the girl uttered the name—became a heavy burden. Camped at eventide, he had as much as he could do to make a new fire and cook supper. “You and Runt take my bedroll,” he told the girl. He grinned wryly. “I don’t suppose anything can happen that shouldn’t. Uh, Cockeye, you and I’ll bundle up in my cloak to keep warm, if possible.”

The small boy hung back. “Suit yourself,” Oric said. “Whenever you like, you’re welcome.”

The overcast parted. Stars glittered. The children cried out. It grew bitterly cold. Cockeye crept to lie with Oric among the hounds.

By morning Runt could walk, albeit painfully, and progress was easier. They reached farmland about noon, Yorun shortly after sunset. Along the way, the children exclaimed at everything they saw. They kept aside, together. Often alarm sent them scuttling. But they would return to tag after their guide.

Dusk settled blue over the town. Snowclad roofs reached toward the earliest returning stars. Light spilled yellow through window glass. Oric led the children to the house of Guthlach the smith.

At a knock, that man opened the door. Limned against lamp-glow, he stood black and huge, sudden as the blow of a hammer. Cockeye shrieked and scampered back. Runt shoved Squeaky behind him and poised with fingers bent like claws, teeth bared, ready to fight.

“Slow, slow, friend,” Oric urged the smith. “I’ve got company for you who’re easily scared. They’ve been with the goblins, I think.”

“What?” sounded from within. Guthlach’s wife brushed him aside and sped forth. “Our Westmar come back?”

“I fear we’ll never know for sure,” Oric said. “A baker’s dozen of years since you lost him, am I right? But I thought this is a home that’d give fostering.”

“Gladly, gladly,” she wept, knelt in the snow, and held her arms open to the half-seen children.

“They escaped?” rumbled Guthlach. “What can they tell us?” He hit fist on wall; it thundered. “How I’ve dreamed o’ this!” he roared.

“Slow and easy, now,” cautioned the hunter. “They’ve had a dreadful time, plain to see.”

The wife waited on her knees, patient as the rising moon. Runt took a step toward her, and another. Squeaky went past him, hand in hand with Cockeye. They stood atremble, but they stood, while the wife rose to embrace them.

“Yes, let them heal,” she said through her tears. “Let them talk to us when they’re ready, when the leaves are green again.”

Thus begins “The Wrath of the Fathers,” Aeland’s epic.