Once Upon a Dreadful Time

by Dennis L McKiernan

  “But this is not a single tower,” said Céleste.

  “Non, it is not,” said Raseri.

  “Then mayhap we are not in the Castle of Shadows,” said Liaze.

  “Perhaps not, but then again perhaps so,” said Raseri, “for there are legends.” The Drake looked at Rondalo.

  The Elf nodded and said, “My mother, Chemine, spoke of the lore and told some of it to me. She said the gods made the castle such that it would change to accommodate whoever was to be kept within.” Rondalo gestured wide. “Look about you. Behold this vast throne room—a hall to hold Raseri, n’est-ce pas?”

  Liaze shrugged, but said nought.

  “Is there ought else of the legends of the Castle of Shadows?” asked Camille.

  “Oui, and they seem to confirm that we are indeed imprisoned in it, for we need neither food nor drink, and we cannot escape.”

  Valeray looked about the chamber. “We need a way to break out.”

  “Think you we have not tried?” growled Raseri. He flexed his great black saberlike claws. “These walls resist my efforts to rend them asunder, and flame mars them not.”

  At these words, Camille fell into pondering, chasing an elusive thought skittering just beyond reach on the edge of her mind.

  “I wonder if something the Fates said in one of their redes spoken to the three brothers tells ought of our fate,” said Alain, watching Duran clip-clopping his toy horse across the floor.

  “Perhaps,” said Borel, also watching the wee prince down on his hands and knees with the toy. “For in the very moment that Orbane and Hradian appeared, I had solved at least a part of the rede Skuld gave to Laurent.”

  “Which part?” asked Liaze.

  Borel frowned and then intoned:

  “Swift are the get of his namesake, That which a child does bear.”

  Liaze shook her head. “And its meaning is . . . ?”

  Borel pointed at Duran. “The colts of Asphodel—the Fairy King’s horse—the namesake of that which the child does bear.”

  Camille, who was yet in deep thought, seemed not to hear Borel’s solution, but all the others looked at the young prince and his white horse with its tiny silver bells ajingle.

  “Mais oui,” said Alain, “you told us of that marvelous steed. And now that you say it, I think I know what the very next part of the rede means:

  “Ask the one who rides the one To send seven children there.”

  In that moment Camille broke from her pondering and exclaimed, “Aha! Now I know what it is I was chasing. Rondalo, you said that legend has it that the gods fashioned the Castle of Shadows such that it would change to accommodate whoever was to be kept within, oui?”

  Rondalo nodded.

  Camille then stood and turned to Raseri and curtseyed. “My Lord Dragon, your bedchamber upstairs is ready.”

  “My bedchamber? Upstairs? What is this banter of yours?” Raseri gestured at the steps to the archways above and the corridors beyond. “The stairwell is too narrow, the passages too constricted. This is the only chamber large enough to contain me.”

  “Then you have not tried?”

  “Non.”

  “Heed me, my dear Raseri, we must all of us here think beyond the bounds of our expectations, for, if the legends are factual, and this is truly the Castle of Shadows in the Great Darkness beyond the Black Wall of the World, we can prove it by you going to your chambers above.”

  “But there are no chambers for me above.”

  “Perhaps if you believe there are, then they will indeed be there. After all, the Castle of Shadows is said to be enchanted to accommodate its prisoners.”

  Raseri looked at Rondalo, and the Elf turned up his hands and shrugged, but Scruff gave a loud chirp as if to say “Try.”

  Rising up and wheeling about, the great Dragon headed for the stairs, and even as he did so, they swiftly started to expand, as did the balcony and archways and the corridors beyond.

  Camille then turned to Valeray and said, “Given the legends are true, surely this confirms we are trapped in a prison we have not the means to escape.”

  At these words, Saissa began to silently weep, and Valeray took her in his embrace, while Duran in his innocence laughed gaily as he galloped Asphodel away.

  41

  Corsairs

  “Ah, there it is,” said Orbane. In the distance ahead lay a rocky upjut of an island in the clear waters of the sparkling sea. Even from the height Hradian flew, as they neared they could see that its craggy interior was filled with scrub and twisted trees, though here and there groves of tall pines stood. Some five miles across it was and thrice that around, and the shoreline itself was nought more than a rocky shingle, sand absent for the most part. Massive blocks of stone reared up here and there along the perimeter, but mostly long cliffs of sheer rock rising up from the sea beringed the entire isle. On the far side loomed a fortress of gray stone, sitting atop a low rise jutting out from the fall of the land. On beyond and farther down, another half mile or so, stood a town, curving about a modest bay. Rover ships were moored in the dark waters of the cove, with the arc of the island shouldering up all ’round. Hradian and Orbane could see folk in the streets of the port, and the docks were busy. Farther on, out on the brine, vessels fared away from the bay, while others approached. They were three-masted dhows for the most part, with lateen sails a vivid red to strike fear in the hearts of their victims, for they were corsairs, and this was the Isle of Brados.

  As to the fortress itself, roughly square it was, an outer wall running ’round o’er the rough ground, some ten feet high and three hundred feet to a side and five feet thick at the top, wider at the base. A road ran down through a series of switchbacks to the town below.

  Between the outer bulwark ringing ’round and the main bastion lay nought but open space, the land completely barren of growth; ’twas a killing ground should invaders come.

  Centered within this outer wall and killing ground, the dark citadel stood: also built in a square some two hundred feet to a side, a massive wall stood some fifty feet high to the banquette with towers and turrets along its length and a great courtyard within. And at the very midpoint of the quadrangle stood a tall slender structure, mayhap some seventy feet high, window slits up its length, arrow slits up its sides as well.

  And as Hradian and Orbane spiralled down, from somewhere below there came the clanging of an alarm gong, and, on the fortress walls, horns blew, and men pointed upward at the besom-riding pair.

  “Acolyte, land on the balcony ringing ’round the top of the tower.”

  “Oui, my lord.”

  But as they approached, armed and armored men rushed out, crossbows and cutlasses at the ready. Yet with a whispered word and a simple gesture, Orbane halted them in their tracks, and they stood like statues, no longer able to move.

  As warders in the courtyard below and upon the fortress walls called out in alarm, Hradian came to rest among the men frozen in place, and Orbane moved past them and into the chamber beyond, his acolyte following.

  They came into a large room, with windows all ’round overlooking not only the fortress itself and the nearby surrounding terrain, but also the town below and the dark bay beyond.

  In the center of the chamber sat a large round table, a scatter of charts thereon, and at the far edge stood a swarthy and bearded man, also frozen in place.

  “My lord,” hissed Hradian. She pointed at an open trapdoor, revealing a spiral stair leading downward. “More come.”

  But Orbane paid her no heed, and instead stepped to the man and made a small gesture, releasing him from the spell.

  As the man raised a forearm in a protective flinch, louder came curses and running footsteps of ascending brigands, and Hradian darted to the trapdoor and slammed it to and shot the bolt, barring the corsairs from entry.

  “You have seen but a mere iota of my power,” said Orbane.

  The man, in spite of his fright, lowered his arm and glared. “And you are?”


  “I am Orbane.”

  Once again fear filled the man’s features; even so, he found his voice. “You escaped?”

  “I did.”

  “What is it you want?”

  “I want to see your commander, for I have an alliance to propose, one that will gain you incalculable riches.”

  A hint of greed flashed through the eyes of the man. “I am Burque, Captain of Captains.”

  A hammering rattled the trapdoor, and voices called out, “Burque, open the way. We’ll deal with these interlopers.”

  Orbane sneered at these words. “You command these rabble, Captain?”

  “Oui. But, my lord, I ask you to harm them not, for they only seek to come to my aid.”

  “Ah, loyalty, eh?”

  “Oui, for unlike the days of Caralos, under my command they prosper.”

  “Caralos?”

  “The former Captain of Captains, slain here in this tower by an unknown hand during a fireship raid.”

  “By an unknown hand, eh? Was it not you?”

  “Nay, my lord, though oft I contemplated it. Instead it was someone who stole a valuable map ere it could be delivered to the one who commissioned its theft.”

  “Well, Burque, ally with me and you will not have to stoop to petty thievery, but instead prosper beyond your wildest dreams.”

  “And what would this alliance demand of me?”

  “Just that you transport an army of mine from Port Cíent to a distant shore.”

  “A distant shore?”

  Orbane nodded. “Another port.”

  Burque frowned and said, “You want to loot the town?”

  “Not just the town, but the whole of Faery and all the riches within. And you will share in the wealth.”

  “But to dream of conquering the whole of Faery is folly,” said Burque.

  Rage flashed in Orbane’s gaze, rage quickly quelled. “The army you will transport will be but a minuscule part of the whole, I merely need you to put them ashore at the nearest place where they can join me.”

  Boom! Boom! There came a great pounding on the trapdoor, as if the men below were using a ram.

  “My lord!” shrilled Hradian, desperation in her eyes.

  Orbane sighed in exasperation and gestured at the entry, and a dead silence fell. Then he turned to Burque. “Well?”

  “This army of yours we are to transport from Port Cíent, are they assembled? If so, it will take me a good six moons to gather most of the fleet together.”

  “Nonsense,” snapped Orbane. “Simply take me to where there are seagulls, and I will send messages to all.”

  “You can do that, my lord?”

  Again ire at being questioned crossed Orbane’s face, but he held himself in check. “The gulls, Captain, the gulls, and I will have your fleet at Port Cíent in less than a fortnight.”

  “And this army we are to transport, how many in all? For that will determine the number of ships.”

  “Mayhap two thousand or so,” said Orbane.

  “Your pardon, my lord, but a mere two thousand does not seem to be much of an army to me.”

  Orbane smiled. “If they were just men, then I would agree. But this is an army of Changelings.”

  “Changelings!” blurted Burque. “I am not certain my men will put up with Changelings on their ships.”

  “Are you not the Captain of Captains?” seethed Orbane.

  “I am, but—”

  “Let me put it this way, my Captain of Captains, if you do not transport them, then they will find a way to come unto Brados, and when they arrive they will destroy all that is here. They are Changelings, and you have no defenses that will stop them from the air and sea and land and under the land. So, you can either move my army for me and win your riches, or not do so and see your fiefdom utterly destroyed and your fleet at the bottom of the sea.”

  Three days later, with the agreement struck and the message-bearing gulls long gone, Hradian and Orbane left Brados. The Captain of Captains was glad to be well quit of them, for Orbane had ruined many a woman in the town, and Hradian many a man.

  Another day went by, and in the harbor at Port Mizon, a seagull landed upon a dhow, one of the ships captured of recent by a ship of King Avélar’s fleet. The gull, a capsule attached to a leg, did not seem afraid of men, and in fact sought one out. Within a candlemark the missive was in the hands of Vicomte Chevell.

  “It is in the old corsair cipher,” said Chevell, peering at the runes. “One I well know.” He reached for a quill and parchment.

  Within but moments he had the message decoded. He paled and said, “Oh, my,” and then turned to an aide. “Fetch me a horse.”

  As the lad ran away, “A horse, Captain?” asked Armond, former second in command on Chevell’s Sea Eagle but now a captain of his own vessel—the Hawk.

  “Oui. I must see the king. It seems Orbane is loose.”

  “Orbane loose?”

  Chevell nodded. “And that’s not all. The corsairs are sailing to Port Cíent to board an army of Changelings and deliver them here.”

  42

  Distant Drums

  Messenger falcons flew back and forth among the Forests of the Seasons as well as to and fro the king’s demesne, and, given the seers’ visions and Michelle’s and Luc’s conjectures, all decided the most likely place for Valeray and Saissa and the princes and princesses was that they were somewhere in the Great Darkness beyond the Black Wall of the World. And from the legends concerning that void, the only safe place to be therein was the Castle of Shadows, else one could be lost forever, mayhap even falling endlessly through the impenetrable dark. And so they concluded there was nought to be done but to find Hradian and retrieve the key, and then to seek someone who knew the way to that inescapable gaol and hope against hope that is where the prisoners would be found. They also decided the best chance of running down Hradian lay with Raseri and Rondalo, about whom they had heard nought whatsoever since the Ice Sprite had found them.

  Some five days after the seers had given their visions, Prince Roél and Armsmaster Anton strode among the men at wooden swordplay on the training grounds at Springwood Manor, and they corrected feints, and showed the way of parries and ripostes, and demonstrated shield bashes, and other such one-on-one combat tactics, giving praise where praise was due, and correction where it was warranted. Elsewhere in the Springwood, in scattered villages, where men from the towns and nearby steads had gathered, experienced warriors of the manor warband also conducted lessons in the art of killing foe while preventing them from doing the same. Likewise, in the Summerwood, Autumnwood, and Winterwood, and in Valeray’s realm, men were training at arms as well, for Luc and Laurent and Blaise and Émile and the war bands under their command were hard at work preparing, should war become necessary.

  In the Springwood, Roél finally called a halt to the duels, and he stood on a small platform and looked out over the men—some three hundred altogether—as they gathered ’round.

  And he raised his voice so that all could hear: “ ’Tis not likely any of us will have the luxury of fighting a single foe, for in war all is chaos and madness, with enemy before and aflank and behind, and mêlée is the rule. And so—”

  A distant horn cry interrupted Roél’s words.

  He frowned and looked toward the far woods.

  Again sounded the horn, and bursting out from among the trees came a rider, a remount in tow. Across the sward galloped the stranger, and he wore the tabard of a king, but just which king it was—

  “ ’Tis Avélar’s man,” said Anton.

  “Oui, I see it is,” replied Roél.

  Once more sounded the horn, and, with the men parting before him, up to the stand galloped the youth. He leapt from his steed and called, “A message from Vicomte Chevell.” He unlooped the canister strap over his head and from ’round his shoulder and handed the container to Roél.

  Roél popped the cylinder open and took the parchment from within and unrolled it. “ ’Tis
in Avélaine’s hand.” A moment later—“Merde! Orbane is free.”

  A murmur of consternation whispered through the men. Anton glared at them, and the mutter quelled.

  Roél looked at the armsmaster and said, “It seems Raseri and Rondalo did not intercept the witch ere she let the wizard loose. We can only hope they succeed in running Orbane and Hradian down and killing them.”

  Roél then read the remainder of the message and sighed. “It seems the corsairs are to ferry an army of Changelings to Port Mizon. Chevell intends for the king’s fleet to intercept them at sea and thwart Orbane’s scheme.”

  As Roél fell silent, “My lord,” said the courier, “I am to say that this same message has been sent to your brothers and Prince Luc, but that you are to send the message on by falcon to your sire, for those swift fliers can reach him ere we could by riding.”

  Roél nodded and called an aide to him. “Take this to the scribe and have him set down a copy in his finest hand to go by falcon to Sieur Émile.” Roél glanced at the sun. “And haste! For there is yet enough of the day for the falcon to reach the Castle of the Seasons.”

  “Oui, my lord,” said the lad, and off he sped.

  In the Winterwood, Michelle ran through the snow, the Wolfpack ranging among the trees, her guardians on the run. She had begun training each day, for, in spite of Steward Arnot’s protestations, she was determined to go on the campaign against Orbane should war come to Faery.

  “But, Princess, war is no place for a lady.”

  “Nonsense, Arnot. Ever have there been women warriors. Besides, what better scouts to have than a pack of Wolves?”

  “Sprites, my lady. Sprites.”

  “Sprites cannot withstand the chill.”

  “Ice Sprites can.”

  “Oui, but the campaign mayhap will go from summer to winter to spring to fall, depending upon which borders we cross. Neither the Ice Sprites nor the winged ones can follow in places, but the Wolves and I suffer not those limitations.”