“Across my own dawnwise marge?” asked Valeray.
“Oui, my lord, just barely.”
“Think you she had just come from my demesne?”
Flic shrugged. “That I know not, my lord, yet if she were travelling in a straight line, she would have been flying sunwise as she entered the Springwood, and sunwise she did continue.”
Silence fell, and Flic asked, “Why would she be here?”
Valeray sighed and said, “She took the key to the Castle of Shadows, and with it she will set Orbane free.”
“Mithras!” exclaimed Flic, aghast. “What should we do?”
“As I said before you arrived, Flic, we have no choice but to raise our armies, warn the realms, and notify the Firsts.”
“My lord,” said Camille, “there is something else we simply must try: summon the one who can intercept Hradian and recover the amulet.”
“And that would be . . . ?”
“Raseri, my lord. Raseri.”
“Know you where he might be?”
“Non, yet Chemine might know, for her son Rondalo rides with the Drake.”
Valeray nodded and said, “We will need a swift messenger.”
“Sprites,” said Flic. “We are the swiftest messengers and, not only can we reach Chemine ere anyone, we can also alert the realms and notify the Firsts and, can we alert all Sprites, surely one of us will know where flies Raseri and Rondalo, or if not, can find them swiftly. What do we say to Raseri?”
“He must be told to fly to the Black Wall of the World, there to wait and intercept Hradian and recover the key—a simple silver amulet on a silver chain and set with a blue stone,” said Camille.
“Then let us Sprites bear the word,” said Flic.
“Well and good,” Valeray. “I will summon those of this demesne and give them the charge to rally all Sprites everywhere to spread the alarm throughout Faery and especially to alert the Firsts.”
“Oh, my,” said Camille.
“What is it, chérie?” asked Alain.
“What if Hradian anticipated that we would ask the Sprites to carry warnings to all, and that’s why she raised the crows.”
“My lady, your meaning?” asked Laurent.
But it was Flic who answered: “Crows are terrible enemies of Sprites. Whenever one of those black devils gets a chance, it will try to snatch up one of us.”
“And . . . ?” asked Laurent.
“And tear us to shreds and swallow us down,” growled Flic.
“Then we need to send messengers the crows cannot deter,” said Blaise.
“People, you mean?” asked Laurent.
“Wait a moment,” protested Flic. “What makes you think Sprites are not people?”
“I meant Humans,” said Laurent.
Flic huffed, but said nought.
“We will send both,” said Valeray.
“My lord,” asked Regar, “is one of these Firsts the Fairy King?”
“Oui. And he has a splendid army; it was key in delaying Orbane’s conquest until we could find a way of stopping him.”
“Then I would like the duty of bearing the warning to him.”
“Know you the way?”
“Non.”
“But I do,” said Flic. “Lord Borel and I went to his Halls Under the Hills when we were saving Lady Michelle.”
“Then you and Regar will take on that task,” said Valeray. He turned to the others and asked, “Who knows the way to Lady Chemine?”
“I do,” said Camille, “and so does Scruff. We also have been to Raseri’s lair.”
Even as Valeray winced at the thought of sending Camille on such a mission, “My lord,” said Luc, “methinks should you send Lady Camille to find Raseri and Regar to the Fairy King, by the time they succeed it will simply be too late. Non, Flic had the right of it when he said Sprites are the swiftest of messengers. We Humans would simply slow them down.”
“But the crows. . . .” said Liaze.
“We can fly at night,” said Flic, “when the crows are not likely to be awake.”
“My lord,” said Alain. “You say we are to raise armies, and that I am most willing to do, yet, though we have been in skirmishes, I have no experience in warcraft and neither does my armsmaster—battle, oui, but warcraft, non. Céleste has Roél and Liaze Luc, both war-trained and knights bold. I would ask that Blaise be my war commander.”
“And I Laurent,” said Borel.
“But who will organize the army of the Castle of the Seasons?” asked Saissa.
“Sieur Émile,” said Luc. “He has fought in many a campaign, I hear.”
Laurent and Blaise and Roél all nodded.
“He can command the combined army as well,” said Luc.
“Let it be so,” said Valeray.
Dinner was called, and to the gold room they went, where they were joined by Sieur Émile and Lady Simone and Vicomtesse Avélaine. Valeray took a moment to introduce Regar and Flic to them and to tell of the calamity that had come to pass.
Upon hearing the ill news, Michelle turned to Regar and said, “In addition to the Fairy King and his army, we need enlist the aid of the distaff side—the good Fairies themselves—for they are most wise in the ways of magic.”
Even as Regar nodded, Valeray shook his head and said, “For some reason those so-named good Fairies refused to use their powers in the last war.”
“What of the rumor that Orbane has some Fairy blood flowing in his veins?” asked Saissa.
Valeray shrugged. “ ’Tis but a rumor.”
“Still, I will ask for their help,” said Regar.
“What of magekind?” asked Camille. “Will they not rally round?”
Again Valeray shook his head. “As to the mages, all of those who opposed Orbane were slain in that dreadful war. I think they will refuse.”
A pall fell upon the gathering, and they sat quietly throughout the meal, but afterward their spirits seemed to recover, and once again they took up the task of how to deal with Orbane, should he be set free of his prison.
And the planning continued deep into the night. . . .
. . . As did the revelry outside the walls, where gaiety and laughter and singing and games and trysts lasted through much of the darktide as well, the minstrels and jugglers and stilt-walkers and vendors and faire-goers and lovers and others completely unaware of the doom about to fall.
13
Entrails
A cross bound after bound flew Hradian through the dark. The fingernail-thin sliver of a moon had long set, and only the glittering stars illumined the night in those realms where the sky was clear. But in one, rain hammered at her mercilessly and she cursed the gods above, and in another she raged through blinding snow, and in still another she hacked and coughed as she veered among sulphurous fumes spewed from mountains of fire. Muttering maledictions, she hurtled across clear but frigid air above snowy peaks, only to shout, “It’s about time!” as she sped beyond another marge to come into warm summer. Yet soon, above chill desert sands she flew, ranting because the heat of the day had fled in the darkness. And so it was as onward she went o’er realm after realm, moaning, cursing, raving, screaming, or laughing in glee at her very own cleverness.
But at last in the silvery light of dawn she passed through a final marge to come into the odiferous reek of the great mire. In the bogland below, bubbles slowly rose to the slime-laden surface to plop and eject their hoards of miasma; things slithered and wriggled and splashed, some with sinewy bodies and grasping claws, others with no legs or hard shells and great jaws, still others with slimy skins and long tongues. Black willows spread clenching and avaricious roots through the reeking muck and dangled long whiplike branches down, and dark cypress wrenched up out from the sump and ooze to spread gray-lichen-wattled branches wide. Mossy fallen logs decayed in the quag to add heat to the rot of the swamp bottom, with dead creatures putrefying alongside until something happened by to rip and rend at the rancid flesh.
And above t
his foetid morass flew Hradian, heading for the center of the vast mire, where her cottage lay.
Weary, at last she spiralled down to alight upon the flet of her cote, where a great bloated toad squatted.
“I have it, Crapaud—the key! The key!” cried Hradian, dancing about in spite of her fatigue. “Oh, Crapaud, we were so clever, so very clever, and our potion worked to perfection. We became the slut Liaze to all eyes, to all senses, we did. And, oh, how we duped that fool Luc, into thinking we were her.” Hradian flashed the silver amulet on high, and cried, “And now we have the key. And after I rest, we, you and I, Crapaud, we will discover just how this amulet can be used to free our master Orbane.”
Then Hradian squatted and stared the toad in one of its gummy eyes. “What say you to that, my fine familiar?”
Seeming to realize that something was expected of him, Crapaud swelled the sac of his throat and emitted a gaseous croak, rather much like a great noxious belch, filling the air with the stench of his utterance.
“Exactly so,” cried Hradian, and she leapt to her feet and strode into the hut, where she flung off her clothes and fell into her cot. Moments later she was sound asleep.
Crapaud waddled to the entry and peered inside and emitted a plaintive rasp, but Hradian did not stir from her slumber. After a second throaty grate went unanswered, the toad hitched about and lurched to the edge of the flet and fell into the water. After all, he was quite hungry, and whether or no the witch gave him leave to hunt, still he had to eat. Awkwardly stroking, legs askew, down into the slime he struggled to finally disappear.
The day came and went, and even as twilight faded and night drew on, a squashy splop awakened Hradian, and in the dimness she could just make out the distended form of a dripping Crapaud waddling past the doorway, with long, mucuslike tendrils of bog ordure clinging to the toad’s warty hide and trailing behind to drag over the dark and reeking swamp-bottom footprints he left in his wake.
Hradian slapped a hand to her chest to find at her throat the amulet upon its chain. “Ah, my love, the talisman is indeed here. We thought it might have been a magnificent dream, but instead it is a glorious fact. We did indeed fetch the key for ourselves, we did. Oh, clever us. Our sisters could not have done what we did, now could they? Ah, no need to answer, for we know it is true.”
Hradian swung her feet over the edge of the cot and stood, the amulet the only thing on her person. After squatting at the edge of the flet and above the swamp water to relieve herself, she stepped to the fireplace and swung a kettle over the hearth. In moments she had a fire ablaze. She opened a cabinet and took up an herb jar and spooned some black leaves into a pot. Then she fetched a strip of dark jerky and stood at the window and chewed the stringy meat. A crescent moon hung low on the horizon, and she watched as it sank among the black willow and dark cypress, the grey moss dangling down from the branches diffusing the already dim light.
“As soon as it disappears, my love, then we set about finding the key to the amulet.—No, no. Wait! We set about finding the key to the key.” Hradian cackled at her own bon mot. “We are so clever, we are.”
The kettle began to steam, and Hradian poured hot water over the herbs in the pot. She took up a knife and stirred the brew. Then she thumbed the blade and frowned. Using a whet-stone, she honed the knife to razor sharpness, then stepped to her cot and cached the blade under one edge of the mattress.
Sipping her drink, once again she moved to the window, and watched the last of the horns of the crescent moon sink beyond the rim of the world. “Good, Love, it is now gone, and our best work always is done in the moonless dark of night.”
She turned to the doorway. “Crapaud, Crapaud! I need you now.”
The monstrous toad waddled to the opening.
“Fetch us a Bogle.”
Crapaud yawed ’round and floundered to the edge of the flet and fell into the swamp. After a number of ungainly strokes, he managed to disappear under the surface.
Hradian looked about the cabin. “Ah, my love, you know that a human would be better, but they are stubborn and would fight back. Of course, an Elf would be better yet, or a true Fairy, but they are even more powerful. Besides, no humans, Elves, or Fairies are at hand, and so a Bogle it must be. Certainly it will mess the floor. The cot as well. But we shouldn’t mind, for we will soon be dwelling in a castle of our own, won’t we, love. With servants and lackeys and, oh, yes, handsome young muscular men. And soft beds fit for a princess, fit for the princess we will be. No! Not princess, but queen! Or empress. Hmm . . . What do they call a queen of all the world? Never mind, my love, we can call ourselves whatever it is we wish.”
Even as she mused over what title she would bestow upon herself, a great croaking din arose in the swamp. “Ah, my Crapaud has sent forth the call. It is much easier than making a fetch of ourselves, isn’t it, my sweet?”
Hradian felt her excitement rising, and, thinking of what was to come, she stepped to the cot and lay down and made herself ready.
A splop sounded on the flet, and Hradian drew in her breath, but it was only Crapaud returning to his station.
A time passed, and the racket without fell silent.
“Oh, oh, love, he is almost here.”
And with a heaving splash, by the firelight Hradian saw in the doorway a Bogle standing, swamp bottom dripping from his dark form, his male member tumescent in anticipation.
It was as Hradian was riding on top, she could see in the Bogle’s eyes the peak coming, and it was at his climax that she ripped the keen knife through his stomach and up into his heart, and she shuddered and screamed in orgasmic pleasure in that same moment.
Dark blood spurted over her chest to gush down her loins and spill onto the bed, where it streamed to the floor, pooling below.
Reveling in the flood, Hradian waited until the surge ebbed to a trickle, then freed herself and stepped away and called, “Crapaud, Crapaud, I need you now.”
The huge toad waddled in.
“Taste the blood, Crapaud.”
Crapaud’s long tongue lashed out and splatted into the puddle under the cot, then disappeared back into his mouth.
Heaving and grunting, Hradian rolled the slain Bogle off onto the floor, and after a struggle she managed to get the corpse onto its back.
Hradian reached out and touched the toad between the eyes. “Now, Crapaud, lend us your power.”
The toad seemed to fall dormant, and, clutching the amulet in one hand, and pawing with the other, Hradian began sifting through the Bogle’s blood-warm entrails, seeking an omen, seeking a clue as to just how to use the talisman. After but a moment she said, “Huah, there is no mystery to the talisman at all. Had we known it was this easy, Love, we wouldn’t have had to kill the Bogle. Oh well, no loss that.”
Once more she touched the toad. “Awaken, Crapaud, I am finished.”
Crapaud opened his eyes, and emitted a croak.
“Yes, yes, you can clean up the mess.”
Another croak sounded.
“Very well, that, too. After all, you will need sustenance while I am gone.”
And Hradian took up an axe and, grunting with effort, she hacked the corpse to pieces for her familiar to consume in the days to come.
Even as Crapaud’s long tongue flicked forth to snatch one end of the entrails, the viscera uncoiling as the toad gulped away, Hradian, now sweating and blood-smeared and spattered with grume and bits of dark flesh, stepped out to the flet, where, using a pail, she dipped up a bucketful of swamp water. She muttered a spell over the sludgy liquid and watched as it cleared, and then sluiced herself down.
Several more times she dipped and sluiced, and finally clean of all sign of her gruesome handiwork she strode back into the hut and threw on her long black gown, the one with the danglers and streamers and lace.
After she buttoned up her high-top shoes, she turned to Crapaud, the toad yet swallowing length after length of intestine, rather like trying to gulp down a very long rope all of
one piece a foot at a time, the rope stretching from stomach through gullet and throat and out the mouth to the blood-drenched remains of the corpse. “Ward the cote, Crapaud. I go to fetch our master from the imprisonment foisted upon him by those who should grovel at his feet, or rather, by those who will grovel at our feet, and soon we’ll be living in a castle fitting to our station, a magnificent dwelling past all compare.”
Crapaud tried to reply past the gore-slick viscera, some of it ingested, most of it yet to slither out from the lower half of the hacked-apart torso, yet all that he managed to utter was a choking belch.
Hradian snatched up her besom and stepped to the flet and, with a high-pitched shriek of joy, she took to the air. And soon she was nought but a dark form streaming tendrils of shadow, a silhouette growing smaller and smaller to finally vanish against the stars.
And in the cottage behind, Crapaud continued to swallow and swallow and swallow the seemingly endless gut.
14
Tocsin
Morning dawned at the Castle of the Seasons and, as the sun cleared the horizon, buglers stood on the battlements and sounded a special call. Faire-goers looked up to see what was afoot, but only a few of them knew that it was a signal requesting Sprites to attend King Valeray.
Even as the clarions sounded, from dawnwise a Sprite and a bumblebee came winging. And waiting on the ramparts for them stood Flic, and he heaved a great sigh of relief as Fleurette and Buzzer sped toward the merlons.
As they alighted, Flic embraced Fleurette, while Buzzer, somewhat agitated, hummed her wings and paced ’round the two. “She missed you,” said Fleurette, “as did I.”
“What of the crows?” asked Flic.
“They did not cross through the border.”
“Ah,” said Flic, relieved.
Fleurette glanced down into the courtyard, where nine men prepared for travel, with several others at hand. “What is going on, and does it have ought to do with what we saw?”
“Indeed, and I’ll tell you along the way, for we are going to the Fairy King Under the Hill.”
Once Upon a Dreadful Time Page 10
