And with that dreadful utterance, again the sound of shuttles and battens intensified, and then vanished as did Lady Lot.
19
Reaper
Just after the noontide, Luc and Maurice came to a long slope leading down into a wide meadow, in which a rich stand of grain grew. High on the slope stood a massive oak, and ’neath its widespread limbs sat a very large man with a great scythe across his knees. As Luc and Maurice slowed to a trot and headed for the scarlet- and gold-leafed tree, the man stood and grounded the blade of his scythe and swept his hat from a shock of red hair and bowed.
Luc called out, “Bonjour, Reaper.”
“Bonjour, Prince Luc,” the Reaper replied as he straightened up and donned his cap. Huge, he was, seven or eight feet tall, and he was dressed in coarse-spun garb, as would a crofter be.
Luc reined to a halt next to the large man and dismounted, and Maurice followed suit, and both knight and guide began changing saddles to remounts.
“What news, my lord?” asked the Reaper.
“Ill word, I’m afraid, Moissonneur.”
“Ill word?”
“Oui. It seems the witch Hradian has come into possession of a token to set free the wizard Orbane from his imprisonment.”
“That is ill news indeed,” said the Reaper.
“If so,” replied Luc, “we will need all the aid we can summon.”
“My lord, I will come when the time is right.”
Luc frowned at this odd turn of phrase, yet he said, “We will welcome you,” and both he and Maurice mounted up.
Luc then saluted the Reaper, and the huge man bowed in acknowledgment and watched as the two galloped away.
Then the Reaper sat down with his back to the great oak and positioned his huge scythe across his knees and smiled unto himself.
20
Warnings
After Laurent and Édouard galloped away, the Ice Sprite they had enlisted flashed from his icicle to the frozen mere where many of his kindred played, and he relayed the message to all. They in turn spread throughout the Winterwood, alerting their kindred as to the dreadful news. And as they went from icicle to frozen stream to ice-clad trees and boulders, unlike their winged kindred, they did not seem to cross through the intervening space at all; instead they were here, and then they were there. Hence, the word spread much more swiftly throughout this realm than through the other Forests of the Season, for it seemed as if an Ice Sprite could cross enormous distances in the blink of an eye.
And winged Sprites briefly came from the Springwood and Autumnwood and Summerwood, and they paused just long enough to tell of the plans for dealing with the crows ere fleeing back to their more hospitable domains.
And as in the other realms, the Ice Sprites spread the word from hamlet to hunter, from cottage to fortress, from snowy vale to icy mountaintop, and to all beings wherever they found them, as long as ice was at hand.
And they, too, alerted the Root Dwellers, and they spied upon the crows massed along a section of the starwise border, waiting for winged Sprites to come flying through.
And the Root Dwellers harvested long, slender thorns, and they plotted and planned among themselves.
And while that was in progress, Ice Sprites went through the twilight borders along particular sectors of the Winterwood, to cross into other frozen realms, and they alerted their kindred, and the reindeer herders, and the seal hunters, and the woods-men hewing trees, and other such hardy beings, and these folk, too, were dismayed to hear of the appalling news. Yet they clenched their jaws and straightened their backs and promised they would be ready.
And as the Ice Sprites bore the warning onward they also sought Raseri the Dragon and Rondalo the Elf, but this day it was in vain.
21
Conundrums
Down into a fog-laden vale plunged Roél and Dévereau. Their passage caused swirls in the clinging vapor, as of ghosts flying through the mist. But soon up a long slope they surged, and back into the sunlight of the Springwood they ran, the air among newly leafed-out foliage bearing the scent of the forest, fresh and full of promise. Yet old were these trees, some of them, their roots reaching deep, their great girths moss-covered, their branches spread wide and interlacing with others overhead. Oak there was, proud and majestic, and groves of birch, silver and white; maple and elm stood tall, with dog-wood and wild cherry blossoms filling the air with their delicate scents. And down among the roots running across the soil, crocuses bloomed, as did small mossy flowers, yellow and lavender and white. Even though much of the woodland seemed aged, here and there stood new growth—thickets of saplings and lone seedlings and solitary treelets, all reaching upward in the search for light, their hues more vivid than those of their ancient kindred. Birds flitted among the verdant leaves, their songs claiming territory and calling for mates. The hum of bees sounded as they moved from blossom to blossom, and elsewhere beetles clambered along greening vines and stems. Overhead, scampering limb-runners chattered, and down among the grass and thatch, voles and other small living things rustled. And streams burbled and splashed among stones, as if singing and dancing on their way to some collective goal. Bright and dark and twilight were these woods, and full of wakened life, and Roél, though he had lived herein for some four years in all, was filled with the marvel of this splendid place.
But unlike other times and other days, he did not stop to revel in the glory, but pressed his mount onward toward the distant goal.
Now and then across Roél’s vision a winged Sprite would flash, much like a hummingbird in its swiftness, bearing the warning through some part of the realm. And occasionally, Root Dwellers and other such elfin folk would try to keep pace with them, but swift were the steeds and their riders, and shortly the small beings would be left far behind.
Even though their mission was urgent, of necessity Roél and Dévereau paused to relieve the horses, to water them and feed them a bit of grain and allow them some respite. And at these stops, they would change tack to fresher mounts and shortly take up the ride again, the horses pounding through the soft loam and the detritus of the forest floor.
One of these halts occurred nigh the noontide in the hamlet of Auberville, where the Sprite-borne warning had already come, and an assembly of folk looked unto the chevalier for answers. While the horses rested, Roél replied to their queries as best he could, but at last he and Dévereau mounted up to push on. Yet ere leaving, Roél wheeled his horse toward the gathering and said, “At this time, we are doing all we can to meet the threat of Orbane. Yet whether or no he gets free, in but a few days men will arrive to begin training those who are able-bodied, for there might come a time when battle cannot be avoided, and we must be ready. Thereafter, if the call to assemble is sounded, all fighters will then report to wherever the muster is to be held. Even so, some must remain behind, not only to protect the realm, but also to provide for the oldsters and youngsters and the sick and lame and enfeebled, for, though you might be eager to join the fight, we cannot abandon those herein who will need your aid.”
And with that, Roél and Dévereau spurred away.
Across flowered glades hammered the mounts, spring melt trickling from the shadowy feet of trees, where snow yet huddled out of the rays of the sun.
And the sun itself slid through the sky and across and down as the day crept toward the eve. And as the orb set and dusk drew down on the land, Dévereau called out, “But a league or so and we’ll be at the manse.”
“Oui, Dévereau, I know,” answered Roél, for he was quite familiar with the route between Springwood Manor and the Castle of the Seasons, having travelled it a number of times. Yet he was glad of Dévereau’s company, for the flaxen-haired youth was of good spirit. Besides, should they meet up with trouble along the way, the youth, a member of the Springwood warband, was quite handy with a bow.
And as they galloped down a dark gallery of trees, in the near distance ahead something small and white stood upon the way.
“Rein
back, Dévereau, rein back,” called Roél. “We know not what this might be.”
“Think you it is a trick of the witch?” called the youth, even as he and Roél slowed their mounts to a walk, the horses breathing heavily, lather running down their flanks.
“I know not,” answered Roél, and he drew Coeur d’Acier, its silvery blade rune-marked.
Dévereau strung his bow and nocked an arrow, and slowly they pressed forward, both scanning the surround for waiting foe, yet in the light of dusk they saw none.
Now Roél gazed ahead at the creature in the trail. “Dévereau, methinks ’tis a goat.”
“Indeed, Sieur, but something or someone small lies on the ground at its feet.”
“I see,” said Roél, frowning, then urging his mount onward. “Perhaps a new kid or a small child. Even so, keep a sharp eye.”
And as they neared, they could see it was a youngster, a femme lying facedown. When they came unto her, Roél sheathed his sword and reined to a stop and leapt from his horse. The goat bleated and sidled but did not flee, and Roél turned the child over and cradled her head and shoulders. She was breathing but unconscious and looked to be no more than eight or nine summers old.
“Dévereau, your wineskin,” snapped Roél as he supported the child’s small frame, and he reached with his free hand toward his companion.
Dévereau untied the small leather bag from his cantle, and leapt down and uncapped the skin and handed it to Roél. Carefully, Roél dribbled a small amount in between the child’s slightly parted lips. She lightly coughed and then swallowed, and opened a dark eye and whispered “More, please, Sieur.”
“Oui, ma petite goatherd,” said Roél, and he gave her a second sip.
She opened her other eye and said, “More please, Sieur.”
As Roél tipped the skin to her lips, she grasped it with both hands and gulped and gulped and gulped.
“Non, child!” protested Roél, but with surprising strength she wrenched the wineskin from his grip and drained it. Then she looked up at Roél and cackled.
And of a sudden she was free from his embrace, and a dark shimmering came over her as she stood.
Roél sprang back and ripped free his blade from its scabbard, even as Dévereau snatched up his bow and nocked an arrow and drew.
And before them stood a black-haired, black-eyed toothless crone dressed in a black-limned ebon robe, and from somewhere, nowhere, everywhere came the sound of looms weaving.
Roél called out, “Dévereau, hold! Loose not!” and then he sheathed his sword and knelt before the hag and said, “My lady Urd.”
Behind him, Dévereau pointed his bow down and away and relaxed his draw, then he, too, fell to his knees in obeisance.
“Heh! Had you fooled, eh?” said Urd, even as she turned toward the goat and made a small gesture, and it vanished.
“Oui, my lady Doom,” said Roél, yet kneeling before her. “Given the straits we find ourselves in, have you come with a message?”
“Of course, of course,” snapped Urd. “Why else would I be here?”
“Only the Fates would know,” answered Roél, a tiny smile playing at the corners of his mouth.
Urd gaped a gummy grin and said, “Given to bons mots, are we?”
“I rather thought you would like such,” said Roél.
Urd hooted in glee and said, “And I thought no one could fathom even a trifle when it concerns the characters of my sisters and me.”
“My lady Doom, I remember the pleasure you took in small joys when last we met.”
“Hmm . . . Got to be careful around the likes of you, my lad, else I might let something unwarranted slip. Can’t be too caught up in tomfooleries, especially not given the events to come.” Urd’s smile vanished, and her face took on an aspect even more careworn than her aged features would suggest.
“Events to come,” said Roél. “That’s why you are here.”
“As always,” said Urd. “By the rules we follow, ’tis only in times of a future need that we might appear, and even then not always.”
“But I thought all was written,” protested Dévereau.
Urd shook her head. “Although we have seen, still no event is permanently set until I finally bind it into the Tapestry of Time.”
“How so?” asked the youth.
“My elder sister Skuld sees the future and weaves those scenes into the tapestry; Verdandi sees the present, and changes the weavings to reflect alterations in the events; and I finally bind all incidents into permanency. But heed me, Dévereau, Roél, great deeds are needed to change what Skuld and Verdandi weave and what I prepare to affix, but once I do the final binding, nought will recall any event whatsoever so that one might change the final outcome.”
“And what you and your sisters have seen is dreadful?” asked Roél.
“Indeed.”
“Then, my Lady Who Fixes the Past, tell me what I must do.”
“Heh. You know the rules, Roél. First you must answer a riddle, and then I will give you advice.”
Roél sighed and said, “Say on, Lady Doom, say on.”
Urd took a deep breath, and the clack and thud of shuttles and battens swelled:
“They stood there as if long dead,
Their children buried alive,
And someone well might wonder:
Did any of them survive?
Parents awoke at my passing;
New vigor seemed to flow;
Some children then did rise up,
Most all with a healthy glow.
Now my riddle is done;
I’ve given you sufficient hint.
Tell me, Roél, who am I,
And what is this grand event.”
The sound of looms abated, and Roél’s heart fell. Dévereau started to speak, yet with a gesture Urd silenced him and said, “This is for Roél alone to answer here in the Springwood.”
Here in the Springwood? Is that another hint? Roél frowned in deep thought. What is it vis-à-vis this demesne that might give a clue to the answer? He looked about in the twilight to see burgeoning trees and flowers and new leaves, and sprouts pressing upward. It was a woodland of eternal—
“Spring, my lady Doom, bringing with it resurrection and life anew. The ones standing as if long dead are the trees and shrubs and grasses and other such in their winter sleep. And the buried children are seeds in the ground. And when spring comes they quit their slumber, vigor flows, and seeds sprout. And so, my lady Urd, I say the answer to your riddle is the coming of spring and the awakening of life.”
Fretting, he looked up at her, and Urd said, “Exactly so, Roél. It is spring and rebirth, indeed.”
Dévereau shook his head. “And here I thought it had to do with parents grieving over children trapped in a collapsed mine or cave and the ones who came to dig them out.”
“Heh!” crowed Urd. “Fooled you, eh?”
“Oui, Lady Doom.”
“That’ll teach you to stop and think ere speaking, laddie.”
“Lady Urd,” said Roél, “have you a rede now to give us?”
“Impatient, are we?”
“Somewhat, my lady Doom, yet I am at your behest.”
Urd nodded and cackled, her toothless smile wide, and once again the clack of shuttles and thud of battens intensified.
“ ’Pon the precipice will ye be held,
As surely as can be,
Yet can ye but touch the deadly arcane,
The least shall set ye free.”
And as the sound of weaving fell, Roél frowned but remained silent, yet Dévereau said, “But, Lady Doom, I, for one, do not understand. Will you not tell us more?”
“Non, I will not,” replied the black-eyed crone. “But this I can tell you for nought: If you do not solve this rede, Roél, then all as we now know it to be will come to a horrible end.”
And after laying that terrible responsibility upon Roél, again the clack and thud intensified, and then vanished as did Lady Urd.
&nbs
p; 22
Manors
Just after dusk, Laurent and Édouard spurred up a wide, snow-laden pathway along the face of a high bluff, and as they crested the rise, they came into the lights of a great mansion—Winterwood Manor—the walls of which were fashioned of massive dark timbers cut square, and its roof was steeply pitched. A full three storeys high, with many chimneys scattered along its considerable length, the manse spanned the entire width of the flat. All along its breadth the windows were protected with heavy-planked shutters, most of them closed as if for a blow. Even so, enough were open so that warm and yellow lanternlight shone out onto a stone courtyard cleared of snow. Atop the lofty river bluff it sat like a great aerie, not only for surveying the wide vale below but also the white world beyond.
With remounts trailing behind, the knight and his guide crossed the flat and came unto the courtyard and clattered upon the stone of the broad forecourt, where lit lanterns illuminated their way, and warmly dressed men were on hand to greet them.
Reining to a halt, from his sweat-lathered horse Laurent somewhat stiffly dismounted, and to the men who took the steeds in hand he said, “Rub them down well, and feed them extra rations, for they did run most gallantly.”
“Oui, Sieur,” said one of the men, while another asked, “Is it true the word Ice Sprites brought? Does the witch Hradian really have the means to set Orbane free?”
“Sadly, so,” said Laurent.
“Enough,” commanded one of the men, tall and spare and somber. “We must let Sieur Laurent and Édouard warm themselves and have a meal. There will be plenty of time to learn exactly what is afoot.”
The men touched their caps in obeisance and led the horses away, as Arnot, the steward of Winterwood, escorted Laurent and Édouard ’neath a sheltering portico to the great double doors, and they passed along a short corridor to come to a broad welcoming hall. And there assembled were a somber gathering of members of the mansion household—maids, servants, foot-men, seamstresses, bakers, kitchen- and waitstaff, laundresses, gamekeepers, and others—men and women deeply concerned, though they managed smiles in welcome and bowed or curtseyed accordingly.
Once Upon a Dreadful Time Page 13
