Dark Waters of Hagwood

By Robin Jarvis

The race to save Hagwood has begun!

Wicked queen Rhiannon, High Lady of the Hollow Hill, is more intent than ever on finding the enchanted casket containing her heart. Made immortal through evil sorcery, she has ruled the land of Hagwood heartlessly for far too long. If someone can discover the lost casket and destroy the beating heart within, her terrible reign will end.
The werlings Finnen and Gamaliel—in possession of the golden key that will unlock the High Lady’s casket—race to find it first. Their quest leads them to the Pool of the Dead, where the hideous Peg-tooth Meg resides with her slimy snails and mutated sluglungs. Caught between the armies of Peg-tooth Meg and the High Lady, Gamaliel and his friends must make a desperate stand to save the world of Hagwood from the forces of evil.
This ebook features an illustrated biography of Robin Jarvis including rare photos from the author’s personal collection.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Open Road Media
• Release date: Jun 4, 2013
• ISBN: 9781453293416

Robin Jarvis

Robin Jarvis started writing and illustrating his own books in 1988 and, with his acclaimed ‘Deptford Mice’ and ‘Whitby Witches’ titles, quickly acquired a reputation as a bestselling children’s author. He has been shortlisted for the Carnegie Prize and Smarties Award, and twice won the Lancashire Libraries Children’s Book of the Year Award. Amongst children, his work has a cult following. Robin Jarvis lives in Greenwich, London.

Book preview

RISING HIGH ABOVE THE shadow-filled forest of Hagwood, a great green hill shimmered and sparkled in the climbing dawn. The glittering dew-drenched grasses on its slopes looked fiercely magical and proclaimed in loud, scintillating colors that beneath this lofty mound were ancient secrets and mysteries long hidden from mortal eyes. This was the Hollow Hill, and under its smooth contours lay the stone halls and mansions of the Unseelie Court.

The herd of small elf cattle that had been grazing throughout the night were now gathered in subterranean byres while, within deeper regions, the strange inhabitants of that forgotten kingdom slumbered beneath silver lamps, their hands resting upon long swords and thin, cruel daggers.

Yet not all were sleeping. In a small chamber delved deep beneath the hill, a small, wizened creature sat hunched upon a low stool. Surrounded by the shadowy swathes of fine dusty silk that draped and festooned the cold stone walls, the goblin nursemaid wagged her head, causing the straggly, twisted spire of her wild white hair to teeter and lurch from side to side. Muttering to herself, she carefully inspected the rows of dirty knitting her bony fingers had wrought that night and threaded a few more nettles and thistle heads into the wool.

A gentle radiance, like the first glimmering beams of a rain-washed sunrise, played across the goblin nursemaid’s ugly face, dancing over the crop of toadstool-shaped warts that bloomed around her mouth. The rosy light pulsed and flickered, shining through the spider-crowded canopy of gossamer strands that covered the basin-shaped cradle next to her, and, sucking her one wobbling tooth, she resumed her knitting.

So intent was she on her work that the nursemaid did not hear the stout door open and close behind her, and the clatter of her needles masked the firm, purposeful tread of her mistress’s approach.

Gabbity, a strong voice suddenly rang out in the chamber.

The nursemaid dropped a stitch and shifted upon her stool. My Lady! she croaked, rising to her large, leathery feet and curtsying.

The High Lady Rhiannon stepped into the pale, pinkish radiance that emanated from the carved oak cradle and breathed deeply. Throughout the years of her reign, her unearthly beauty had remained undiminished, and all loved and feared her. The dark cloud of her raven hair contrasted powerfully with the frozen pallor of her exquisite features.

How passed the night? the Lady Rhiannon demanded in a low voice.

The nursemaid showed her black gums in a leering smile and nodded eagerly. Most quiet, she said. Not so much as a yelp when I pinched his fat little legs. The little lordling was still as a pretty corpse.

Reaching out a slender hand, the High Lady parted the canopy, causing the spiders to flee this way and that into dark corners. She gazed at the infant within the cradle.

Lying upon cushions of moss-colored velvet, the mortal baby was fast asleep, and the rich pulse of human life that shone from him waxed and waned with each tiny breath.

No change in all these long years, Rhiannon whispered. Not a moment older since he entered the Hollow Hill.

Stooping over the sleeping child, she bathed her hands in the light, then drew her elegant fingers over her face and took another deep, intoxicating breath.

Behind her, the goblin nursemaid cackled. No, no change. Not now, not never. Not since your poor father the King was killed. Permanent as the roots of the Dooit Stones our little lordling is. Locked in your power for good an’ always, the dainty mite. Why do you ask, My Lady? There’s nothing occurred to alter matters, is there? Nothing to give you worry and fret?

Rhiannon paused. The baby had stirred in his sleep to raise a chubby hand, seeking love and comfort in his dreams. No emotion disfigured the High Lady’s face; she regarded the infant a moment longer then retreated, letting the netted canopy fall across the cradle once more.

Remember to whom you speak, she warned the nursemaid. If you question me once more, I will cut off your head and impale it upon your own knitting needles.

With a gasp of terror, the goblin nursemaid stumbled backward and covered her wizened face with her wool, stinging her skin with the entwined nettle leaves. Taking a last lingering look at the web-shrouded cradle, the High Lady left the chamber and stepped into the dimly lit gallery beyond.

A mob of spriggans was waiting for her return. These foul-looking creatures, dressed in long mail, with a hideous array of knives and daggers spiking from their belts, were the royal bodyguard. Nothing escaped their yellow-eyed vigilance, and they suspected treason and treachery everywhere.

When Rhiannon appeared before them, they lumbered to attention and the clamor of their hobnailed boots thundered through the hill. With a rattle of armor, they straightened their short, crooked bodies the best they could, and the dark dots of their eyes darted within their slits.

The spriggans were restless. They were itching to go seek out her enemies. They lived to fight and stab and gash and slay. Their big fleshy noses sniffed assassins around every corner, and they had been cooped up inside the Hollow Hill for too long.

There’s plotters an’ traitors all ’round, M’Lady! their captain cried, drawing his bright dagger and executing several practice thrusts. I smells treason brewin’. Let me go deal with them dirty killers, sharpish.

The other spriggans whooped in bloodthirsty agreement and stamped on the floor.

Standing before her brutish escort, her slim frame towering over them, the High Lady raised a hand and at once the commotion was stilled.

Your Queen thanks you, Captain Grittle, she said. Yet be not overzealous in your duties. There are no enemies here. Not in this, the silent heart of my kingdom. Leave me. Go tend the elf cattle in their byres. I will call when next I need your protection.

Not daring to say any more, Captain Grittle and the other spriggans whirled about and hurried noisily back along the gallery.

Waiting until the racket of their stomping departure had disappeared, the High Lady turned and strode toward the end of the passage where a long tapestry depicting strangling weeds and brambles hung from a silver rail. Quickly, she pulled the heavy cloth aside to reveal an arched opening in the wall, beyond which a flight of stone steps wound up into the Hollow Hill. With a forbidding look upon her face, she began the long ascent.

IN THE TOPMOST REGION OF the hidden realm, in a domed chamber where written histories and parchments of lore were preserved, a klurie gazed around himself and rubbed the sleep from his eyes.

He was stunted and squat, with long arms and short, crooked legs. A pair of gold-rimmed spectacles was jammed on to his upturned nose, but there were many others arranged over the shiny pate of his head, and countless more sprouted and dangled from the pockets of his crimson coat. Shaking his head, he glanced at the stone shelves he had emptied, then ran his long, spoon-shaped fingers over the books and scrolls piled nearby. His ears twitched slightly when he heard familiar footfalls rising up the spiral stair, and he gave a despondent shrug.

Naught anywhere, M’Lady, he groaned morosely. In all the ancient bestiaries there is not a single word.

Standing beyond that avalanche of secret knowledge, Rhiannon glared at him, and her dark eyes glinted with displeasure.

Do you dare tell me, Master Bilwind, she demanded, that nowhere in this entire library is there a mention of those puny wer-rats that infest our western border?

The klurie fished a larger pair of spectacles from one of his pockets and exchanged them for those already in place on his nose.

I have scoured every volume, M’Lady, he answered, leafing unhappily through one of the books. Have I not pored over these works throughout the night? Even those written in secret hands, which only the correct eyeglasses may read, have been devoid of the information you seek. Those little shape changers were too insignificant to warrant any attention from the scribes of old, and remember, M’Lady, it was your command that forbade any new writings after the death of your most worthy father. Indeed, I know not why the creatures have merited your notice now. Surely they are beneath your lofty regard? They are dirty, squalid tree dwellers without a shred of nobility.

A snarl marred the loveliness of Rhiannon’s face, and the librarian bowed so quickly that several pairs of spectacles were catapulted from his head and landed at her feet.

What else would you have me do, Majesty? he beseeched.

Stand before me, she instructed with a voice as bitter as a frozen night.

Carefully stepping over the discarded volumes, Yimwintle Bilwind shuffled toward her and stooped to retrieve his eyeglasses. W-worshipful Queen, he stammered.

Your dusty wisdom has failed me, she told him. I must never be disappointed. I am your High Lady, your beloved sovereign. Look at me, misshapen turner of moldy pages.

The klurie raised his face to gaze up at her and trembled as the reflected lantern light flashed and flared over the innumerable lenses that adorned him. I am blameless in this, he yammered. My eyes cannot see what is not there to be read.

Then I shall punish your eyes, she said coldly.

Raising her shapely hands, she held his ugly head in her smooth palms and fanned her fingers with hideous purpose.

Drink whilst you can of my immortal loveliness, she commanded. Remember it well, for you are doomed never to look on my beauty and splendor again.

A moment later Yimwintle’s agonized screeches echoed throughout the chamber, and he fell to his knees, clutching his face.

Now no lenses, however potent their charm, will ever aid you, Rhiannon murmured.

Stepping away from the whimpering klurie, she stared contemptuously at the jumbled book mountains. I must seek my own counsel, she declared.

Arrayed in a simple gown, as soft and gray as the winter dusk, she glimmered like a flickering shadow through the dappled lantern light, passing between pillars carved into towering images of giant dandelions, field scabious, and campion. Emerging from this colonnade of gigantic weeds, the High Lady ascended a flight of marble steps until, at last, she reached a high-backed marble chair. There, perched upon one of the ornate scrolling arms, was a large barn owl.

The bird observed her approach with unblinking, golden eyes. Then, with a click of its beak, it spoke in a low, mournful voice.

Mistress of the Twilight, the owl intoned, why didst thou not tell the dolt the cause of thine interest in the little skin changers? Hath the hour not come for thy subjects to know?

And what would you have me tell them, my provost? Rhiannon demanded sharply. That I did breed a race of thorn ogres in the secrecy of the cold hills and had them slay the Wandering Smith, the last surviving Pucca? Nay, you are the only one who knows my secret; such knowledge must never reach the ears of the Unseelie Court. Neither must they learn that those accursed wer-rats did vanquish my thorny pets.

Truly their doughty cunning outmeasures their paltry size. What shalt thou do now, O Queen?

Gracefully, the High Lady sat upon the marble chair and stroked the top of the owl’s head, trailing her long fingers through its soft feathers. Master Bilwind’s wretched cries were still floating through the gloom, but she ignored them and tilted her beautiful face to glare up at the domed ceiling.

Out there, she murmured, in the world above, lies the casket that the Smith stole from me. Though I have searched these many years, I have never discovered where it was hid. If I cannot find it, then I shall not know an hour’s peace and my life is in danger with each passing moment. Too long have I endured this constant terror. Rhiannon of the Hollow Hill should fear nothing, and yet here She is cringing from the lowest creatures in Her realm. Little did I know, the day I performed those dark rites taught to me by the troll witches of the hills, it would lead me hence.

The owl stared at her. And yet, it said, without their foul arts thou wouldst not have found the courage to put thyself upon thy throne. How else could thee have murdered King Ragallach, thy father, and lay the blame upon thy brother?

Rhiannon’s fine brows lifted. Who can tell? she muttered, feeding the bird the librarian’s eyes. Perhaps I possessed the courage all along. Was it indeed necessary to weave sorceries about my heart and remove it, still beating, from my breast? Was there really any doubt or hesitation in my mind? I wonder.

Yet remove it thou didst, the owl said chewily. And into the golden box it was placed. These many years it hath remained there, pulsing and thumping, and thou hast been untouched by guilt or remorse. Deathless and merciless art thou, O Queen.

Deathless only until the casket is opened and a knife plunged into my heart.

The owl shook its head. May that moment ne’er come to pass, it said woefully.

I am certain, Rhiannon said, that, ’ere he perished, the accursed Smith told this most precious of secrets to one of those puny creatures who call themselves werlings. He would not surrender his life till that knowledge had been passed on. Did you not capture one of their kind—a long-nosed twig of a thing? What was the name he bought his life with?

The owl puffed out its chest. Lufkin, it replied. Finnen Lufkin. If the Smith disclosed his hiding place to any, then he is the one. O Enchantress of the Midnight Forest, why do we not send a company of Redcaps to capture all werlings? Put each to the torture and feed them to the spriggans. They deserve death for daring to rebel against Rhiannon of the Hollow Hill!

No, my love, the High Lady answered. My subjects are not to be trusted. They must not discover what that casket contains; there are too many nobles in my court who would eagerly strip the woodland bare to bring about my ruin. Though I said otherwise to Captain Grittle, treachery and ambition flow through my halls as surely as the Hagburn trickles through the forest.

Leaning back in the chair, she considered what she must do, and slowly a cruel smile stole onto her lips.

I have decided, she announced. My army of thorn ogres failed, so where force has floundered, I shall employ stealth and guile.

Hopping from foot to foot and unfurling its great wings, the owl climbed on to her wrist. And what may I do to aid thee? it entreated.

Lifting her hand, Rhiannon brought the bird’s flat face close to her own and stared at her most loyal and faithful of servants.

You alone I can trust, she said with as much tenderness as her empty breast could provide. Before I act, I must first garner such knowledge as I can. Hear me, my provost. Let all the eyes of the wilderness that are in my service keep a watch upon the western edge of the forest. Marshal them and report to me everything that passes in that land. Neglect nothing, however small—from the nibblings of mice to the riotous play of squirrels. The shape-shifting skill of the wer-rats must not be forgotten.

But, Majesty! the owl protested. We have the rhyme to strip them of that trifling talent! Their petty disguises can no longer avail them.

The High Lady closed her eyes, and they sparkled beneath her lashes. I know, she said. Yet they must be allowed to think their peril is over and go on with their lives as before.

And what will ye do?

I shall use the powers that are mine, she answered darkly. Now is the hour for deadly enchantments. Go at once—do my bidding.

With a sweep of its wings, the bird soared into the air, wheeled high above its mistress’s head, then flew between the sculpted pillars to obey her command.

Clasping the arms of the chair, Rhiannon breathed deeply. I have much to prepare and make ready, she whispered. There are other things that dwell in the deeps of Hagwood, nameless evils I shall stir and wake to aid me. Before the moon wanes, the golden casket will be mine once more.

As she spoke, Yimwintle Bilwind’s yowling finally disturbed her, and she rose to return to him.

Through the colonnade of stone-wrought writhing weeds the High Lady went until she stood again by the heaped books and gazed down upon the librarian’s stricken form.

I have dealt with you too severely, dear Master Bilwind, she stated, and thus must crave your pardon. To dwell within the Hollow Hill and never to gaze upon the fair symmetry of my face is too harsh a sentence for any to bear. I would not have you suffer so unjust and bleak a fate. Therefore I release you.

Taking a long silver dagger from her belt, Rhiannon raised her hand and put the klurie to death.

CHAPTER 1  *

THE ARRIVAL OF NANNA ZINGARA

BEYOND THE HAGBURN, IN that corner of the forest where the werlings lived, Kernella Tumpin was feeling greatly pleased with herself. Sitting in the branches of an oak tree, she beamed with delight, then hugged her knees, feeling guilty to be so happy.

Two days had passed since the battle against the thorn ogres. Many werlings had died in that brutal onslaught. The terror of the conflict was still fresh in the survivors’ minds, yet there was no time to mourn or dispel those hideous images. Only that morning the elders had summoned everyone, even the smallest children, to a meeting at which the terrible events were discussed and debated.

Recalling how she had been singled out for especial praise, Kernella’s guilt dissolved and her smile broadened even more. It was she who had discovered that the thorn ogres’ weakness was fire. Sighing, the girl wished she had thought of something clever to say when they had applauded her, but, annoyingly, the discussion had moved briskly on. Still, it had been one of the most glorious moments in her young life.

With that memory, Kernella’s face glowed a ruddy pink, emphasizing her freckles, and with her goofy teeth protruding she resembled a very smug, blushing rabbit. Even Finnen Lufkin had cheered her, and the thought of that caused her to squeak and bury her face in the woolen neck of her snookulhood.

The rest of the meeting had dealt with matters of less interest to Kernella. The betrayal by Terser Gibble, the Great Grand Wergle Master, had caused many angry outbursts. That once-respected tutor had saved his own cowardly skin by committing the worst crime any of them could imagine. He had surrendered the secret passwords that unlocked every werling transformation. Since the battle, the mere mention of his name was enough to set tempers boiling, cause fists to clench, and draw foul curses from the gentlest folk. It was a good thing he had disappeared; otherwise, there was no knowing what frightful revenge might have been visited upon him.

Throughout long, peaceful ages the werlings had depended on the shape-shifting art of wergling as their best defense. Now that any marauding force could rob them of that, how could they protect themselves from the might of the High Lady? The merciless tyrant of the Hollow Hill was far too powerful a foe for them to overcome, and everybody despaired.

It was decided that all wergle training was to be suspended and each family must arm itself and prepare for the contest to come. Lookout parties were assembled to watch the borders of their realm, from the Hagburn in the east, the Silent Grove in the south, the cinder trackway in the west, and the birches in the north. Nobody had the remotest idea how they could withstand an invasion of goblin knights or a horde of Redcaps, but at least they felt as though they were doing something. Hagwood had suddenly become a frightening and perilous place. The werlings had incurred the wrath of Rhiannon Rigantona, and all feared the retribution that would surely follow.

It was such a warm spring afternoon, however, that Kernella found it impossible to be anxious or afraid. As part of the team whose duty was to observe the overgrown cinder path and the barren heath beyond, she was having a very pleasant time. The new leaves shone brightly in the sun and a gentle breeze ruffled her short reddish hair. If only the company was more to her liking.

Looking through the branches toward the next oak, Kernella saw a plump werling boy with a large nose contentedly nibbling the last of the provisions that were supposed to keep until sunset. Popping the final crumb of chestnut pie into his mouth, Tollychook Umbelnapper suddenly became aware that he was being watched, and he gave Kernella a shy wave.

All’s well up here! he called with his mouth full.

A frown puckered the girl’s brow, and she turned away crossly. Why had she been put in this group? Most of them were younger than she, and Kernella felt that she had been lumbered with looking after a pretty useless bunch. The main danger lay to the north and east of their land, not here, where, across the trackway, there was only the exposed heathland and, beyond that, the Lonely Mere.

I should’ve been put in Finnen’s party, she grumbled to herself.

Opening the neck of the small velvety bag she wore around her neck, she sorted through the neatly bound tufts of fur it contained and wondered if she ought to spend the time practicing her wergles. Even though it was no longer any defense, Kernella, like most werlings, loved turning into other creatures. One of her favorite animal forms was the squirrel, and she twirled the appropriate token in her fingers before squeezing her eyes shut and concentrating hard.

The girl’s face grew a little redder, and she grunted and strained until, finally, she shoved the fur to her nostrils and gave it an almighty sniff. In an instant an odd-looking squirrel was sitting in her place, dressed in her green cloak and wearing the same goofy smile.

Popping the fur back into her pouch, Kernella jumped up, swished her new bushy tail several times behind her, then hopped from branch to branch around the tree, whistling tunelessly. If Finnen had been present, she could have had fun teasing him, but even on her own she was enjoying wearing this shape so much that all threats and dangers seemed very remote.

As she capered about the oak, shaking its leaves and causing the weaker boughs to bend and creak under her ungainly feet, a small fox cub came hurrying beneath the nearby trees.

Sitting upon its back was Liffidia Nefyn, the young werling girl who had saved the cub from the webs of Frighty Aggie. In memory of its ghastly plight, Liffidia had called the fox Fly, and the two were now inseparable.

Kernella! Liffidia cried as they approached the oak. Kernella!

At the base of the tree, Fly halted and the girl swung herself from his back.

Wait here, she told him, throwing her arms about the cub’s neck for a farewell hug. I must go tell her.

With that she sprang up the trunk.

Watching her disappear into the branches overhead, Fly lay down, rested his chin between his paws, and whined softly.

Kernella Tumpin was still prancing foolishly as a squirrel when Liffidia found her. With a spray of leaves in each hand and others twisted into a crown about her ears, Kernella was swaying from side to side, trilling a soppy song she had invented in which she was a princess waiting for her true love to rescue her. She looked ridiculous and sounded worse.

Who will save this maiden’s skin? she warbled. From evil ogres and fiends so grim? Use your sword and do not miss. Oh, sweet Lufkin, give me a …

Liffidia coughed. The squirrel leaped in surprise and dropped the leaves, and the crown slipped down over one eye.

What are you doing here? she demanded, her temper bubbling to cover her embarrassment. "You should be on duty at the elm, away yonder. We’ve got hours yet before we can leave our posts. I knew you couldn’t be relied on; you’re too young and silly and—thin."

Before she could say any more, Liffidia interrupted and spoke with such urgency that even Kernella grew silent.

There’s something coming this way! the young girl cried. I heard it, crunching over the cinder track.

The squirrel’s tail drooped, and her whiskers quivered in alarm.

You imagined it, came Kernella’s worried voice. No one ever uses that path no more.

Well, something is! Liffidia insisted. Must have passed by the old gallows already. It’ll be here soon.

At that moment a startled cry rang out from Tollychook’s tree, and the boy came scrambling down the trunk. He pelted across the ground, dodged past Fly, and raced up the oak to join them.

Noises! he puffed, flailing his arms in panic. Strange noises ’eaded right fer us. The attack’s happenin’ now; we’re the first to get killed! Oh, I’m not staying ’ere—I want me mam and dad.

Kernella scolded him and covered his mouth with her paw to keep him quiet. Trying not to snivel, Tollychook bit his lip. Liffidia put her arm around him, and Kernella tiptoed along one of the branches, her squirrel ears flicking this way and that. Then she heard too.

It was a sound she did not recognize, or rather many sounds, but they were all bound together, creating a confused whole. Something was definitely thudding and rumbling over the gravel and with it came a jumble of squeaks and creaks, followed by rattles and tinkles. Among this uncommon clamor, a cracked voice could be heard, first muttering, then chuckling.

’Tis the goblin knights! Tollychook whimpered. Them’s ridin’ on their ’orses, comin’ to chop off our heads.

As if to confirm his suspicion, they all heard a sudden snorting, and nightmare visions of coal-black armored steeds with hot breath steaming from their nostrils came galloping into their minds.

We must warn the others, Liffidia hissed to Kernella.

Why for?’ Tollychook sobbed. We’ms all dead anyways. Warnin’s won’t do no good ’gainst all them. Tiddly little morsel bits fer the crows to guzzle—that’s what we’ll be."

The two girls prepared to spring away, but it was too late.

Around the bend in the track the mysterious horrors finally lumbered into view, and the little werlings gaped in astonishment.

It’s not wearing no armor, Tollychook breathed, his panic slightly deflating.

That’s no knight, Kernella tutted.

But ’tis a horse! he admitted.

Pooh! she retorted. Not a very big one, and it’s shabbier than my brother’s breeches.

Then what is it? Liffidia asked.

Ambling along the track below, a tired-looking, shaggy-haired beast plodded wearily on its way. It was a donkey. No werling had ever seen one before, and none of the three children watching had even heard of such animals.

The creature seemed most peculiar to them, and Liffidia liked it immediately. But the donkey was not alone.

It was pulling a small gypsy caravan, resplendent in glossy red paint, embellished with yellow flourishes. In one side there was a window with green shutters that swung lazily on their hinges. Hanging from the roof were curious objects strung on wires: there were bottles containing syrupy liquids, a string of wishbones, and a clattering collection of cut-glass stoppers that glinted and winked in the lowering sun like large diamonds. Alongside their glinting grandeur a jam jar housing an assembly of wriggling worms proved a sharp contrast. Next to that there was a tin lantern perforated with tiny holes that formed the shapes of moons and stars. In among all this were lengths of brightly colored ribbon and, suspended from the rear corner, an assortment of lopped animal tails, which wagged breezily from side to side with the motion of the caravan.

This outlandish conveyance’s four wooden wheels were covered in the same cheerful yellow that decorated the caravan, as was the small birdcage that dangled by the door. Inside, a goldfinch was too busy rocking to and fro to sing, but, as the cage was adorned with dozens of tiny bells, its silence was more than compensated for by a sweet, incessant jingling.

Sitting beneath the tight-beaked bird, with the donkey’s reins in one hand and a short-stemmed clay pipe balanced in the other, was the small hunched

Reviews for Dark Waters of Hagwood

[Manish Meharda · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

awesome...cant wait for third