Page 122 of The Knucker King

Morgana let out a short, sharp laugh. “The peasant’s name for them.”

“Be it a ‘peasant’ name or not, what do you know of them?” he snarled.

She baulked. “They are called Spriggan. That is their old name, their true name,” she replied, still fiddling with the broken pieces of her crown. “Spriggan from the Green.” She managed to affix the jagged edges together, a dull spark connecting them. “They are Folk from the Green, so they are ‘Greenfolk’. At least that is what the peasants…” She wrinkled her nose as she referred to his other subjects. “… call them.”

He bristled at her insult to his Faeries but ignored it as he sought more information. “And the Green is?”

“An Otherworld, like the Underneath,” she concluded, sticking another broken piece to her crown with sputtering magic.

“Understood.”

With that, Trewoofe swept from the throne room, lashing his tail from side to side. He deliberately whacked the crystalline columns as he exited, making the courtiers squeal indignantly.

“No Tall One is to enter my nesting cavern again. I will not hesitate to return and rip you all apart if I smell you there in the future,” he snarled over his shoulder as he exited through the carved archway.

The hunt was on.

Trewoofe flicked his tongue as each tunnel split like veins under the earth, trying to track where Orfeo had fled. Clearly, the Tall Ones had been running rampant in his absence, every tunnel reeked of them, and smaller singing crystals had been gouged from the walls.

Frustration boiled over as he attempted to single out the Prince Consort’s particular scent. He whacked an abandoned geode in his path, ricocheting it into the healing waters where it sunk with a dulcet plop. He flexed his talons, fracturing the compacted earth beneath his paws. He raked them repeatedly, trying to work out the tension along his spine so he could concentrate on tracking. He blinked in surprise as flowers popped into existence. They were beautiful, with wild curling petals and honeyed scents, reminding him of his lovely Avice. While it happened above, flowers had never grown from his presence in the Underneath before, and he did not have the time to try and understand it.

The hunt continued.

Eventually, the Tall Ones’ overwhelming scents reduced, and lingered to a singular trail that plunged into a tunnel. The passageway was stained with the taste of salt. He slipped into the water, head above the surface, tongue brushing in and out of his mouth like a panting beast. He was determined not to lose Orfeo’s scent amongst the slowly building smell of the sea.

Trewoofe rode the current down another split in the passageways. He exited the water and shoved himself through another tunnel. The space was barely wide enough to fit his massive body. He squeezed his legs to his sides, wriggling forward on his belly, the scent of the Prince Consort strengthening with every lurch forward.

He saw the reflection of a pair of mismatched eyes – blue and green – in the gloom of the cavern ahead. He let out a hiss, clicking his fangs together in anticipation of when they would slice Orfeo’s head from his neck.

“My King, can you hear me?”

He tried to look around, but his body was wedged. Surely Avice had not followed him down to the Underneath? Realisation struck. Her voice came from the purple crystal ahead of him. Trewoofe had not known that when he had made the pendant for Avice, that it meant she could call him through any of the matching-coloured crystals. He lurched himself forward, pressing his chin to the geode.

“Little witch, I cannot tell you how happy I am to hear your voice.”

“It works!”

His tail lashed happily, banging the walls of the tunnel, dusting him with soil. “Of course it works. You must remember that I called for your help.”

She giggled. “Oh, yes. How is Mary?”

They exchanged a sweet and tender conversation about Mary, the recovering mother, and to Trewoofe’s surprise, the news that the iron poison would no longer be a threat to his Kingdom. After he promised Avice that he would enquire about Hope and Boarden’s wellbeing, Trewoofe found the courage to tell her that he had not yet slain the Tall One who had hurt her. Wonderful as she was, Avice said she understood and even showered him with praise that made him feel light as a feather. Their conversation came to an end as Avice announced she had arrived at her cottage.

“Make sure you rest,” he said. “Sweet dreams. I will miss having you in my arms tonight.”

“Good night, my King.”

Her voice faded away and Trewoofe let out a frustrated growl. He had caught himself between two desires, the first being to keep Avice safe, and the other to do whatever she asked.

Foolish Knucker, you could have told her no. You just did not want to.

He sneezed out the dust that had gathered in his nostrils, the movement rolling down his coils and shaking the entire tunnel. Ahead of him, a pink crystal fell loose from the ceiling, falling in a puff of dirt. An idea struck him as he wriggled forward, remembering that the towering geode in the gathering area of Wulver-led was a matching colour.

Perhaps my little witch’s sharp mind is influencing me. He nudged the gem with the very tip of his snout, holding the image of the pink geode and Wulver-led in his mind. “Olwilla?”

A pause, and then the scuffle of claws echoed from the crystal. “King Trewoofe! Is that you? I heard you had returned to the Underneath and that you are courting? Congratulations.”

The Knucker knew that Good Neighbours were salacious gossips, but this was ridiculous. “I have, and I am,” he huffed.