Once Upon a Dreadful Time

by Dennis L McKiernan

  Ere Arnot could shoo them away, Laurent stepped across the heavy-planked floor to a wide marble circle inset in the wood, within which was a great hexagonal silver inlay depicting a delicate snowflake. Laurent looked at the anxious faces and said, “The message the Sprites have brought is true: the witch Hradian does indeed have a key to the Castle of Shadows. We do not know if she has the means or the knowledge to use it, but if she does, then without doubt she will set Orbane free.”

  Some in the hall gasped, while others’ faces grew grim. A few shed tears.

  Laurent went on: “Regardless, we must needs prepare for such an eventuality, hence able-bodied men throughout the Forests of the Seasons must stand ready, for surely Orbane will raise his own forces to become master of the whole of Faery.

  “All is not bleak, for even now the word is spreading across the realms, and others will answer the call. We will have allies, and powerful ones at that, one of whom is your very own prince who will be here in but a few days.

  “So, let me ask that you go about your business in the knowledge that we will meet the challenge. Dark times might be coming, but brighter times lie beyond.”

  Then Laurent smiled and said, “Now, I wonder, could Édouard and I have a warm meal, with a soothing hot bath afterward?”

  For a moment none said ought, but then a redheaded woman snapped, “Well, you heard Sieur Laurent. To my kitchen, tout de suite!”

  As the staff bustled away, Laurent turned to Arnot and said, “Steward, I would have you join Édouard and me, for I bear messages from Prince Borel, and I would have you know all that has come to pass. Much will be afoot in the coming days, and we must make ready.”

  Outside a soft snow began to fall, as if the Winterwood paid no heed to these matters of men.

  In the dining chamber of Autumnwood Manor, Luc set down his glass of wine and turned to Zacharie, steward of the realm. “The princess will be here within a few days. She and the warband will start their journey as soon as the ceremonies are concluded at the faire. In the meanwhile, we need send falcons to the other manors and King Valeray’s castle as well, reporting our safe arrival.” Luc frowned and added, “And I would also tell them of Moissonneur’s strange reply.”

  “Strange reply? The Reaper?” asked Zacharie, a tall, gaunt man with dark hair and pale blue eyes.

  “Oui,” said Luc. “When I told him we would need all the aid we could summon, he said, ‘My lord, I will come when the time is right.’ It was as if he would be waiting for some unknown event ere joining us. Do you know what it might be?”

  “Non,” replied Zacharie, “but Princess Liaze might.”

  “Or even King Valeray,” said Maurice, ’round a mouthful of roast duck.

  “What know you of him?” asked Luc.

  “The Reaper, you mean?” said Zacharie, and at Luc’s nod, the steward went on: “Very little, I’m afraid. It seems he has always been under that oak, waiting for someone to need grain from the field below. It is only then he leaves the tree and takes that great scythe of his and with a few strokes—swish, swash—the yield is ready to be sheaved.”

  “And otherwise he never goes away from the oak?”

  “Non, my lord, at least not to my knowledge.”

  “Then what does he eat and drink, and how does he obtain it?”

  Zacharie turned up his hands. “I know not, my lord.”

  “Did he participate in the last war against Orbane?”

  “I think not, my lord,” said Zacharie. “Some say there is an old Keltoi legend that the Reaper waits for some event, just as you have surmised.”

  “Hmm . . .” mused Luc. Then he took a deep breath and dug into the green beans.

  In the bathing house of Summerwood Manor, with their bellies full, Blaise and Jérôme and Regar luxuriated in hot water, soaking the soreness of the long, swift ride from their bones. On the tub’s edge sat tiny Flic, with Buzzer adoze on a soft towel nearby. At hand stood grey-haired Lanval, steward of this demesne. Also close by sat a young man at a small table, with quill and inkpot and parchment ready. “And what would you have in this message, Sieur Blaise?” asked Lanval.

  “Ah,” replied the knight. “We need to tell all the others just what it is that Lady Verdandi said, for perhaps they can unravel the riddle. Now let me see, how does it go? Ah, oui:

  “ ‘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.’ ”

  The steward nodded at the young man, and the youth began scribbling, pausing now and again for clarification from Blaise.

  Flic frowned and asked, “I say, will all of that writing fit on a falcon-borne message, or will the bird have to walk all the way under the load?”

  The men laughed, and Lanval said, “Fear not for the falcon, Sieur Flic, for the message will be transcribed in diminutive script on the thin strip of tissue the birds customarily bear in their message capsules.”

  “Are all four missives to be the same?” asked the youth.

  “Oui, Randin,” said Blaise. “—Oh, and add that we arrived safely.”

  “Won’t they deduce that from the mere fact that you dispatched a message?” asked Flic.

  “Oh, right,” said Blaise. “Scratch that, Randin.”

  “You might add,” said Regar, “that Flic, Fleurette, Buzzer, and I are pushing on for the halls of the Fairy King.”

  “When?” asked the youth.

  “On the morrow,” said Regar. Then he looked at Flic. “Right?”

  “Oui,” replied the Sprite. “We cannot delay in something such as this. I’ll get Buzzer to dance out a course for us.”

  Regar frowned. “Dance out a course?”

  “Oui,” said Flic. “You see, Buzzer can fly the most direct line to anywhere she has been. All we need to do is describe the type of flowers there, and some of the terrain. And she will do a honeybee dance to tell me the direction we must go. It will surely be shorter than the one Borel, Buzzer, and I followed when we were on the quest to rescue Lady Michelle.”

  Blaise glanced at Buzzer and said, “Honeybee dance? But she is not a honeybee.”

  “Non, she is not,” said Flic, “but I taught her the dance and she adopted it immediately.”

  “There is a story here for the telling,” said Regar. “But I must say that I don’t know any of the kinds of flowers that grow in my father’s domain.”

  Flic grinned. “You forget, my prince, that both Buzzer and I have been there ere now.”

  In the Springwood, as Roél dried off, he said, “I wonder if any of the others ran afoul of the Three Sisters?”

  Vidal frowned and said, “Sieur Roél, I would not characterize coming across any of the Fates as ‘running afoul’ of them.”

  Roél smiled at the dignified, silver-haired steward. “Think you they might take offense?”

  “Who knows?” asked Vidal, casting his eyes skyward.

  Roél laughed, then sobered. “Still, I wonder.”

  “If others did indeed receive redes from the Ladies Wyrd and Lot and Doom, then surely things are dire,” said Vidal.

  Roél frowned. “Hmm . . . Isn’t it true that they only appear when one or more of Valeray’s get are present? If so, then why did Lady Doom appear to Dévereau and me?”

  Vidal shook his head. “Non, Valeray’s get are not necessary for the Fates to show themselves, for they aided Lady Camille, and she was alone.”

  “Oui, I had forgotten about Camille, but every other time—Look, they did appear before Céleste and me on our quest to rescue Avélaine, and they did manifest in front of Camille and Alain and the staff of Summerwood Manor along with the Dwarves of the Nordavind on what was then Troll Isle, as well as at several other gathering
s where many were present. And so, setting aside the early part of Camille’s quest, in all of those cases, the get of Valeray were on hand.” Roél paused, his gaze lost in thought. Finally he said, “I wonder why this might be different?”

  Vidal shrugged. “None knows the ways of the Fates, Sieur Roél. Certainly not I.”

  Roél sighed and laid the towel aside and slipped into a silken robe. “Regardless, if the others think to send messages, we will soon know whether or not any other Sister appeared.”

  Vidal nodded. “Come the dawn, falcons will fly, and then we shall see.”

  Roél yawned and stepped through the doorway and toward the bed. “Even if none else received a cryptic message, at least the Sprite-borne warnings are spreading and the muster has begun.”

  Vidal nodded and stepped to the chamber door, where he took up a glass-chimneyed candle to see his way to his own rooms. “Let us pray to Mithras that one of them has found Raseri and Rondalo, and that they have intercepted the witch so that it won’t come to another war with Orbane.”

  “Indeed,” said Roél, yawning again as he crawled into the canopied bed.

  As the knight pulled the covers about himself, Vidal said, “Bonne nuit, Sieur, et bon repos, for tomorrow promises to be demanding.”

  Roél did not reply, for he was quite sound asleep.

  Vidal withdrew and softly closed the door and went into the darkness beyond.

  23

  A Murder of Crows

  The sun had long set, followed by the moon, and in the dark-ness of the Springwood and the Summerwood, as well as the Autumnwood and the Winterwood, from within the embraces of the roots of the trees along a key portion of the starwise bounds of each forest, small beings emerged in the night and stealthily climbed upward. And they had with them razor-sharp shards of flint and obsidian, and slender barbs and nooses and other such weaponry, all of a size for the Root Dwellers, and all silent when compared to brute-force smashing weapons, such as hammers and mauls. Out along the limbs the tiny people crept, searching, seeking, hunting for crows, and death came mutely among the birds.

  And from deeper within the Springwood and Summerwood and Autumnwood, more Sprites came with long thorns in hand and silently glided toward the trees.

  And from Valeray’s demesne, Sprites drifted on wings through the twilight bound, needles and scarfpins and thorns in hand, to join in the murder of crows.

  And they settled to the roosts of given trees and at a specified signal, they stabbed through the eyes and into the brains of the ebon birds. Even though slain, the crows fell to the ground and flopped and fluttered for long moments, yet other dark birds asleep in adjacent trees did not note the passing of their kindred. And when all fell quiet once more, the troops of tiny warriors moved to the next set of full roosts.

  In the Winterwood it was Ice Sprites who popped from frozen pond to icicle to ice-laden limbs, seeking blackbirds who perched on ice, and there the winter Sprites reached forth with their tiny fingers to oh-so-lightly touch the birds at the places where they grasped the clad branch; and the Sprites froze them to death, while the Root Dwellers of that forest slew the ones who sat on ice-free roosts.

  When morning came in these four domains, the floor of each woodland along those portions of the starwise margins was littered with dead birds, like black leaves fallen to ground.

  24

  Leave-taking

  At dawn the day after Luc, Roél, Laurent, and Blaise and their guides had ridden away, Michelle and the Winterwood retainers as well as Avélaine and half of the Springwood warband prepared to set out for their respective manors. At Sieur Émile’s manse, Avélaine would pick up a small escort of men and ride on to her home in Port Mizon, there where her husband Vicomte Chevell readied a battlefleet with the intent of once and for all clearing out the corsair stronghold on the island fortress of Brados. Just how a release of Orbane from the Castle of Shadows might affect this seafaring mission, none could say, for Orbane was not noted for conflicts upon the brine, but the warring of armies on land instead.

  Regardless, Michelle would be at Winterwood Manor by morrow eve to await the arrival of Borel, while Avélaine’s return to her port city would take a seven-day altogether.

  Borel embraced Michelle and said, “I’ll be on my way the very moment the closing ceremonies are done; the Wolves and I will press through the night, so look for me the morning following the eve we get quit of this faire.”

  Lady Simone kissed Avélaine and said, “Take care, my daughter, for there is more than just you to worry about. I would not have my future grandchild placed in jeopardy.”

  Sieur Émile gently embraced Avélaine. “Avi, heed your mother, for in war, who knows what might come. Thank Mithras you live by the sea and should be fairly safe, for the war will be fought aland. Even so, the battles might come close, so be ready to hie to a safer place.”

  “Oh, la,” said Avélaine. “I think this Orbane, even if he does get free, will be put down by you and the king and his men, to say nought of Rollie and Blaise and Laurent.”

  “And Luc,” said Liaze, gazing toward the duskward bound beyond which lay her realm.

  “Mais oui,” said Avélaine. “I did not mean to leave him out, nor Borel and Alain. All will do magnificently, of that I am certain.”

  A tall, dark-haired man approached and said, “Lady Michelle, we are ready.”

  “Oui, Armsmaster Jules,” replied Michelle to the warband leader.

  “We are ready as well,” said stocky, redheaded Anton, captain of the Springwood warband.

  Quick embraces were exchanged all ’round, and Valeray, Saissa and their get, as well as Camille and Duran, stepped back, along with Simone and Émile. The men and the two ladies mounted up, and, with a sliding of massive bars and the creaking of hinges, the gates of the castle were opened. With waves and calls of au revoir, across the flagstone clattered the horses and out into the land beyond, and as faire-goers watched, away trotted the war bands, one group heading dawnwise, the other starwise.

  And as the two ladies and their escorts rode away on their separate paths, through the early morning light on glittering wings came Sprites to report to the king.

  It was midmorning when Michelle and Jules and the warband crossed over into the Winterwood. Foxes looked up from their feasting, and scattered away into the snow-laden ’scape.

  Michelle marveled at the litter of crows, yet she and the others paused not, but pressed on toward a number of small fires glimmering not far ahead, around which tiny folk clustered.

  Past the crow-slaughter at the starwise bound of the Springwood rode Avélaine and her entourage. And they came among small beings, the wee Root Dwellers, where birds roasting on spits filled the air with a meaty aroma. These diminutive fey folk, some unclothed, others not, many now adorned with black feathers, bowed and curtseyed gracefully as the sparse cavalcade fared by. As always, Avélaine marveled at the sight of them, with their quite exotic elfin features—long tipped ears and tilted eyes, eyes usually filled with mischievous gaiety. And she listened to their tiny, piping voices, sometimes mistaken for bird twitters by those who did not know better. Some doffed crudely stitched hats, revealing nearly bald heads, while others sported hair to the waist, or even to the anklebone. And as they bowed and curtseyed to Avélaine, she nodded and smiled in return, giving them their due. And through the long gauntlet of Root Dwellers, some yet bearing the weapons used in the slaughter, rode the lady and her escort, while spitted crows roasted above flames.

  When the warband had passed out of earshot, Captain Anton turned to Avélaine and said, “Remind me, m’lady, never to make enemies of the wee ones, else I am a dead bird.” Then he roared with laughter, as did all his men, Avélaine joining in.

  And so as the sun rode up and across the sky and started its slow descent, in the Winterwood and the Springwood, warbands of men escorted ladies toward home, while elsewhere in Faery and riding across the sky a figure, streaming danglers and tatters like ephemeral
shadows, flew swiftly toward her goal.

  25

  Pilgrimage

  Leaving Crapaud behind to ward the cote, up and up above the swamp did Hradian fly, her besom firmly grasped as she straddled the long, thick shaft. No sidesaddle rider she, for it gave her no pleasure to do so, and instead she fully reveled in the joy of flight, riding as she did.

  High up above the foetid morass she soared, above the miasma of rot and stench, and away sunward she darted, the Black Wall of the World her aim, though it lay far, far away.

  Across the world of Faery did Hradian soar through the dark, the starry skies witness to her flight. O’er the swamp she flew, and leagues fell away behind her. Finally a twilight wall she crossed, and out from the realm of her mire. And still she flew onward as the night wheeled above, until came the faint light of dawn.

  Still onward she pressed through twilight bound after bound, morning now lighting the way. And she soared o’er dark mountains and rivers and steads and cities, villages and forests and lakes, and barren wastes of ice or sand or rock all passing ’neath her broom. And yet to these she but barely paid attention, for she had flown since childhood, and all was as familiar as treading the same road over and over again. And so she little noted the clouds like foreign castles and great châteaus rising all ’round, nor other strange shapes these billows of the sky took on—shaggy animals, long dragons, boars, horses, cattle, and droll faces of women and men. Nor did she see damiers and échiquiers below in the patterns of sown fields over which she passed, nor the glitter of lakes like diamonds, nor the sails of ships like gull wings as above an arm of a distant sea she went, the fishermen plying their skills below.

  And still through looming walls of twilight she flew, Faery borders, one after another, so many she lost count as the sun slid up the sky and across and down. Yet Hradian pressed on, her flight draining her of energy, for it took much out of her to maintain the spell. And besides, she had flown very far the past three days—all the way to and from Valeray’s demesne, and now, with but a short rest, onward to the Black Wall.