Once Upon a Dreadful Time

by Dennis L McKiernan

  “Nay, they seem to be all gone.”

  “Then let us stop and call my kindred, for they have messages to bear.”

  Luc and Maurice hurtled through Valeray’s duskwise marge to find themselves running sunwise in the Autumnwood, and a mass of crows sprang into the air to churn about as the riders plunged on. Soon the crows settled back to their perches and waited as they were told to do by that strange person who flew on a brush-ended broken-off limb.

  And the knight and guide raced deeper into the woodland where eternal autumn lies upon the land, a place where crops afield remain ever for the reaping, and vines are overburdened with their largesse, and trees bear an abundance ripe for the plucking, and the ground holds rootstock and tubers for the taking. Yet no matter how often a harvest is gathered, when one isn’t looking the bounty somehow replaces itself. How such a place could be—endless autumn—was quite strange; nevertheless it was so.

  Of course, how three other allied realms of this woodland could be—one of eternal winter, another of eternal spring, and one of eternal summer—was just as peculiar.

  Yet these four realms supported one another: the Winterwood somehow gave all needed rest; the Springwood, awakening and renewal; the Summerwood, growth into fullness; and the Autumnwood, fruition. Even in Faery, where mysteries are commonplace, the existence of these four was odd in the extreme.

  And it was into the realm of everlasting largesse that Luc and Maurice raced, and soon they were out from under the dark swirling cloud of birds.

  And just as had the other knights, soon Luc called a halt to summon winged Sprites and give them their messages to bear.

  Then on they galloped, heading for Autumnwood Manor.

  16

  Riddles

  It was yet early morn as Laurent and Édouard rode atrot through the snow-laden bottom of a gully, when in the distance ahead, where the walls curved inward to make the passage strait, stood an old woman, her hands raised in a gesture bidding them to stop.

  “ ’Ware, Édouard,” said Laurent. “For all we know, this could be an ambush, or might even be the witch herself.”

  “Sieur, it might also be someone who offers aid,” said the lad, used to the ways of Faery.

  Laurent grunted a wordless reply, and he took up his crossbow and cocked it and set a quarrel in place, all the time his gaze sweeping along the somewhat overhanging rims above for sign of foe, but all he saw was white hoarfrost and overburdening snow and dangling ice.

  And as they neared the crone, “Make way, old woman,” called Laurent. “We ride in haste.”

  The hag did not move, and, in spite of his urgings, Laurent’s mount came to a halt, as did Édouard’s, the remounts in tow stopping as well.

  The crone gave a gummy smile. “In haste you say? Heh! You don’t know what haste is.”

  “Heed, old woman,” said Laurent, “we are on an urgent mission. Now give way.”

  The hag moved not. “Have you any food? I’m hungry.”

  Even as Laurent shook his head, Édouard tossed her a half loaf of bread. “Madam,” said the youth, “we truly must needs ride onward. Will you please give way?”

  “Well at least there’s someone here who knows courtesy,” snapped the crone, glaring at Laurent. She held up the bread. “I need something to wash this down.”

  Laurent ground his teeth, but unloosed a small wineskin from his cantle. “Here,” he growled and tossed it to her, the old woman spryly snatching it from the air.

  And in that same moment a shimmering came over her, and there before the knight and his guide stood a beautiful demoiselle with silver eyes and silver hair, and she was clad in a silver-limned ebon robe. And the air was filled with the sound of looms weaving.

  As Édouard gasped, Laurent sprang from his horse and knelt before the maiden. “My lady Skuld, forgive me. I knew not it was you.”

  “Whether or no it was me, still you should not have abandoned all courtesy, Sieur Laurent.”

  “Indeed, I should have not, Lady Wyrd.”

  “Ever proud, my knight. Someday your arrogance will do you ill if you do not mend your ways.”

  Without a word, and yet on his knees, Laurent nodded.

  In the snow behind him, Édouard now knelt, and in a small voice asked, “My Lady Who Sees the Future, have you come to give us a message?”

  “Indeed, and since you each have done me a favor by giving me bread and wine, I can do so, yet under the rules I follow, first you must answer a riddle.”

  “Say on, my lady,” said Laurent.

  Skuld took a deep breath, and the sound of the looms swelled.

  “Glittering points

  That downward thrust,

  Sparkling spears

  That never rust.

  Name me.”

  As Skuld fell silent, and the clack of shuttles and thud of battens diminished, Laurent’s heart fell. Édouard started to speak, yet Skuld gestured him to silence and said, “This is for Laurent to answer here in the Winterwood.”

  Laurent looked up at her, his gaze narrowing in speculation, and then he glanced about and finally up at the overhang above. He grinned and pointed and said, “My Lady Wyrd, the answer is icicles.”

  Now Skuld smiled. “Indeed it is.”

  “And the message you would give us . . . ?”

  “As you might have heard, Sieur Laurent, I can only render aid in riddles.”

  Laurent nodded but did not speak.

  “Heed, then,” said Skuld. Once again the sound of weaving intensified.

  “Swift are the get of his namesake,

  That which a child does bear;

  Ask the one who rides the one

  To send seven children there.

  At the wall there is a need

  For seven to stand and wait,

  Yet when they are asked to run,

  They must fly at swiftest gait.

  The whole must face the one reviled

  Where all events begin:

  Parent and child and child of child

  Else shall dark evil win.”

  And as the timbre of looms fell, Laurent frowned and said, “But, my lady, I do not understand. Can you not say it plain?”

  “Non, I cannot,” replied the silver-eyed demoiselle. “But this I can tell you for nought: If you do not give this message to the one for whom it is intended, then all will be lost forever.”

  And with that dire pronouncement, again the clack of shuttles and thud of battens intensified, and then vanished as did Lady Skuld.

  17

  Alarums

  n the Springwood, Summerwood, and Autumnwood, Sprites I took to wing, and as they flew through these three forests, more and more of these tiny beings were alerted, and each of these fey creatures warned two more, and each of those in turn warned two, and so their numbers doubled and doubled and redoubled again, until all were bearing the alarum throughout the woodlands.

  And some went to the Root Dwellers, while others spied from leafy surround upon the crows massed along the starwise borders, and they counted the numbers of the ebon-feathered birds and noted the trees where they waited and ferreted out the most likely roosting spots therein. Back and forth among the Forests of the Seasons flew the wee messengers, and plans were laid, even as long, slender thorns were harvested and given to all who would engage.

  Then some of the larger Root Dwellers, those the crows would not attack, slipped through the starwise twilight bound and relayed those plans to the Sprites of Valeray’s realm.

  And the diminutive beings flew throughout the Springwood and Summerwood and Autumnwood, to all the hamlets and villages and crofts and mines and strongholds and manors and other such. And to the Humans and Gnomes and Dwarves and other beings therein they relayed the dreadful news that a means for freeing Orbane had come into the witch Hradian’s hand, and for the realms to prepare for his escape. They told them as well that the prince or princess or even the king would send word as to where to assemble should that event come abo
ut. Many gasped, for they thought that after his imprisonment Orbane would ne’er again be of concern, and others wept, remembering the last time he had been on the loose, while still others girded their loins and sharpened their weapons and oiled their armor of old, for if the wizard got free, then once again all Enfer would break loose upon this peaceful realm.

  And Sprites flew across various twilight borders to other realms, and they alerted their kindred there, and those in turn bore the messages onward, warning the inhabitants of their respective domains, and carrying the news beyond.

  Doubling and doubling and doubling again, it was as Peti had said: like wildfire did the word spread.

  And as evermore Sprites flew onward they kept an eye out for Raseri the Dragon and Rondalo the Elf, but of these two they saw nought.

  Yet Faery is endless, or so some have claimed, hence no one could gauge whether or no the word would reach all corners of that magical place, and if it would come soon or late or not at all.

  18

  Puzzles

  Following Jérôme, among the green-leafed trees of the Sum-merwood galloped Blaise and Regar, along with Regar’s tricorn passengers—Flic, Fleurette, and Buzzer. Across grassy glades they ran, and down into sunlit dells, and through long, enshadowed woodland galleries, and past stony cliffs over which crystalline water tumbled in roaring falls. Now and again they would pause to change mounts, and then take up the run once more.

  They passed through the village of Fajine, where folk had gathered in the square and hailed the riders.

  Blaise and the others paused a moment, and someone called out, “Is it true what the Sprite who came just said: that Orbane is free?”

  Blaise frowned. “I think what you heard is not the message they bore.”

  “He’s right,” called a man. “The Sprite only told us that Orbane might be set free and to be ready for such an event, should Prince Alain send word.”

  “Regardless,” said another. “Has Orbane been set free?”

  Blaise shook his head. “That we cannot say. Yet the witch Hradian has the means to set him loose. So alert your fighting men, and be ready to assemble at Summerwood manor should the call to muster come.”

  Somewhere within the small gathering a woman burst into tears. And Prince Regar added, “We have sent for one who might be able to stop the witch, yet we cannot be certain of success.”

  Ere any could ask more, Blaise spurred his mount, and away galloped the riders, remounts in tow.

  A candlemark later as the noontide drew on, they paused at a meandering wooded stream to water the horses and to give them grain and a bit of a breather.

  “That was fast,” said Regar.

  “What was?” asked Blaise.

  “That the Sprites had reached the village ere we got there.”

  “Not very,” said Flic. “I mean, those people acted as if the messenger had just come, and had I been bearing the warning, I would have been long gone from there.”

  Blaise laughed and said, “Lord Borel once told me of this penchant of yours to speak of just how swift you are.”

  As Flic sputtered and searched for a reply, Fleurette said, “Well, it’s true. Flic is the fastest Sprite I have ever seen.”

  “And I suppose you have seen many, Lady Fleurette?”

  “I have. And in the Sprite races, Flic has never lost.”

  “Then I apologize, Sieur Flic, for you must be swift indeed.”

  Somewhat mollified, Flic started to speak, but in that moment, from beyond an upstream turn there came the cry of “Oh, help! Oh, help!”

  With a shing! Blaise drew his sword, even as Regar swiftly strung his bow and nocked an arrow. Jérôme drew his own blade.

  Flic, his épée in hand, said, “Let me go see.” And ere any could object, he darted away, Buzzer flying in his wake.

  Moments later, Flic and Buzzer returned, the Sprite’s épée now sheathed. “It is a silly woman up in a tree. She says she cannot get down.”

  “Are you certain it is just a woman, and not the witch in disguise?”

  “I have Fey sight,” protested Flic. “Were she glamoured, I would have seen it, just as I would have seen it had I been at the faire when Hradian came englamoured.”

  “As would have I,” said Fleurette.

  Blaise nodded, though he did not sheathe his sword. “Well then, let me go see what is to be done.”

  “I’ll go as well,” said Regar, and he did not unnock the arrow from his bow.

  “Sieur Blaise,” said Jérôme—

  “Stay with the mounts,” said Blaise, and he and Regar set off upstream, Flic and Fleurette and Buzzer again riding the tricorn.

  Jérôme sighed and sheathed his blade and watched them until they vanished beyond the turn.

  ’Round the bend fared the knight and bastard prince, along with two Sprites and a bee, and aseat on a low limb of a widespread oak sat a distressed, yellow-haired demoiselle, a small basket in hand. She was clad in a gingham dress, though her feet were bare. Relief swept over her face at the sight of the men coming to rescue her.

  “Oh, sieurs, I am so glad to see you, for I need aid in getting to the ground.”

  “What are you doing up this tree, m’lady?” asked Regar.

  “Collecting birds’ eggs, Sieur, for my sisters and me.”

  “Your sisters?”

  “Oui, I have two.”

  Blaise sheathed his sword and stepped among the great gnarled roots spreading out from the bole and across the ground. “Mademoiselle, if you would trust me, please lower the basket first, and then yourself afterward. I will catch you.”

  “Oh, Sieur, but I am afraid.”

  “Then I will climb up, and ease you down to my friend.” He turned to Regar. “N’est ce pas?”

  Regar nodded, and as Blaise climbed, the prince sheathed his arrow and slipped his bow across his back.

  Blaise took the basket with its grass-cushioned eggs and gave it into Regar’s upstretched hands, and the prince set it to the ground.

  Then Blaise grasped the mademoiselle by the wrists and, with her emitting small whimpers, he lowered her to Regar’s embrace.

  Blaise leapt down as Regar eased the femme to earth, the prince saying, “There, my lady. Safely done.”

  And in that moment the basket and eggs vanished and a shimmering came over the mademoiselle, and there before them stood a matronly woman with golden hair and golden eyes and dressed in a gold-limned ebon robe, and the air was filled with the sound of looms weaving.

  As Regar stepped back in surprise, “Lady Verdandi,” said Flic, even as Blaise knelt and said, “Lady Lot.”

  Following Blaise’s action, Regar knelt as well.

  “Blaise, Regar, Flic, Fleurette, Buzzer,” said Verdandi, smiling.

  “So much for Fey sight,” said Fleurette.

  Verdandi laughed. “Not even Fey sight can pierce the disguises my sisters and I wear.”

  Blaise said, “My Lady Who Sees the Everlasting Now, have you come to give us a rede?”

  “Oui, I have, and, since you have helped me, I can do so, but only if you answer a riddle.”

  Flic groaned, but otherwise didn’t speak.

  “A riddle?” asked Regar.

  “By the rules my sisters and I follow, you must do so ere any of us can render aid.”

  Blaise sighed in resignation, but then he seemed to brace himself. He looked up at her. “Say on, Lady Lot.”

  Verdandi nodded and took a deep breath. And as the sound of weaving intensified, she said:

  “You will find me in beds, in friendship, in love, But not in enmity or cold winds above. I come from without, and I come from within; I am oft shared among good women and men. From hearts and hearths, though not quite same, You will say I arrive; now tell me my name.”

  As the clack of shuttles and thud of battens diminished, Fleurette cried, “I know, I know,” yet Verdandi pushed out a hand to silence the Sprite.

  As Blaise’s heart fell, Verdandi said, “It
is Sieur Blaise’s to answer here in the Summerwood.”

  Here in the Summerwood? What is it about the Summerwood that makes it another clue? Blaise looked about, seeing full-leafed trees amid lush and verdant undergrowth, and a greensward leading down to the stream, and he heard birds singing in the distance, and the sound of the brook as the clear water tumbled o’er rocks on its way to a distant sea. Yet none of these fit the words of the rhyme. This domain, where everlasting summer lies on the—

  “Warmth, my lady,” said Blaise. “It is found in beds, in friendship, in love, but not in enmity or cold winds above. It arrives from hearths without and hearts within, and is often shared by good women and men.” Blaise fell silent, and waited with bated breath for Lady Lot to speak.

  “Indeed,” said Verdandi.

  Even as Blaise gave a sigh of relief, “I knew the answer,” whispered Fleurette to Flic.

  “I didn’t,” said Flic.

  “My lady Lot,” said Regar, “the rede you are to give us, is it a riddle as well?”

  “Oui. By the rules my sisters and I follow, we can do nought else.”

  Again Flic groaned and Blaise braced himself, as did Regar. Only Fleurette seemed eager to hear the rede.

  Once more the sound of weaving intensified, and Verdandi intoned:

  “Grim are the dark days looming ahead Now that the die is cast. Fight for the living, weep for the dead; Those who are first must come last.

  Summon them not ere the final day For his limit to be found. Great is his power all order to slay, Yet even his might has a bound.”

  Verdandi fell silent, and the clacks and thuds diminished. And Blaise looked at Regar in confusion, and received a shrug in return. Flic shook his head in bewilderment, and Fleurette turned up her hands in puzzlement.

  “My lady Lot,” said Blaise, “can you not—?”

  “Non, I cannot,” said Verdandi. “Yet this I can tell you for nought: Heed my rede, all of it, and make certain you do not send word prematurely, else the world will be fallen to ruin.”