Once Upon a Dreadful Time

by Dennis L McKiernan

  “The Sprites say they move dawnwise through the mountains,” said Laurent.

  “Even so,” said Anton, “we know not their goal, nor the best way to intercept them, should we wish our army to do so.”

  “No doubt they go to rendezvous with Orbane,” said Laurent. He clenched his jaw in frustration, and then spat, “By damn, I am discovering fighting a war in Faery is nearly impossible, not knowing where anything goes. I say this: give me a good map and knowledge of the terrain, and the particulars on the numbers and composition of the enemy, and a well-trained army to lead, and I can take on any foe. Yet even though we have Winterwood fighters at our beck and good scouts as well, we have no maps of any consequence to even know where to go. Bah! Faery! Herein things are all entangled in a maze of twilight borders, where a trivial adjustment can throw one leagues upon leagues away from where one would like to be.”

  “We must depend upon the Sprites to guide us, Laurent,” said Michelle softly. “Still, our aim is not to engage a Troll army, but to keep Orbane from realizing whatever goal he has in mind.”

  “Stop his armies and we stop him,” replied Laurent.

  “Perhaps,” said Anton. “Even so, Princess Michelle is correct: we must not go haring off to engage a Troll brigade. Instead we must try to find Orbane and do him in.”

  “There is an old adage,” said Michelle, “one my father often cited: cut off the head of the snake, and the body dies.”

  “I agree, my lady,” said Laurent, “yet how do we find this particular snake?”

  Michelle turned up her hands. “The Trolls will lead us to him, yet they are not the whole of Orbane’s might, for, as reported by Chevell, the Changelings are allied with the wizard, too, and together they will be formidable.”

  “Forget not the Redcaps and the Bogles,” said Anton. “In the last war they sided with Orbane as well.”

  As Michelle nodded, Laurent said, “I suppose we’ll have to wait for more Sprites to report movements of others of Orbane’s allies, then perhaps we can deduce where the muster will be. Still, I detest waiting until the whole of the enemy is assembled, for in numbers they gain strength.”

  “Oui,” said Anton.

  Laurent then added, “Had we our own armies gathered—those of the Forests of the Seasons, as well the one at the Castle of the Seasons—we could take on Orbane’s separate legions one at a time, rather than when they are all together. Given the reports of the previous war with the wizard, I’m afraid we’ll be rather thin to face the whole of his might.”

  “What of our allies from other realms?” asked Anton. “Surely they will add to our strength can we link up with them.”

  “The Sprites will guide them to us,” said Michelle, “just as soon as we know where we need be.”

  Clearly agitated, Laurent blew out a great breath of air. “Damn the gods for making such a puzzle place as is Faery.”

  “Mithras!” exclaimed Amelie, who had been standing quietly by the door. “Oh, Sieur Laurent, do not tempt the gods to take retribution.”

  Laurent sighed and his shoulders slumped, but he said nought.

  Michelle stood a moment in thought. “Anton, at dawn send falcons to the others, and tell them what the Ice Sprites have seen. Say unto them that until we know where Orbane is, we simply must wait.”

  Michelle then turned to Laurent. “Sieur, we are all of us frustrated by unfolding events and our inability to head things off, yet have faith, for surely evil will not win in the end. Now I say let us regain our beds and try to get some sleep.”

  “Oui, my lady,” said Laurent, and he and Anton bowed and withdrew.

  Amelie extinguished all candles but one at the bedside and the one in her hand and then withdrew as well. Michelle blew out the remaining light and took to her bower, yet she did not sleep again that night.

  By midmorning, falcons spiralled down from the skies above the other manors and the castle. And in those realms, Luc, Blaise, Roél, and Émile read the grim news.

  It was on the practice field in the Autumnwood where warriors drilled at spears that Luc sat with Rémy in the stands and mulled over the falcon-brought message. And the armsmaster said, “Lady Michelle is right: we need a way of finding where Orbane doffs his cloak, for he is the head of the snake, a head we must lop off.”

  The prince nodded. “Finding Orbane is—” Of a sudden, Luc’s voice jerked to a halt, and the elusive thought that had been skating on the fringes of his mind for nigh on a fortnight suddenly burst clear. He slapped himself in the forehead and leapt to his feet. “Rémy, Rémy, what an utter fool am I. We have no way of directly finding Orbane, but Hradian is another matter altogether.” Luc spun on his heel and headed for the manor, the armsmaster hard after.

  “My lord?”

  “Ah, Rémy, we need to fetch the seer back here, madman though he is.”

  “Malgan, my lord?”

  “Oui, Malgan and all his invisible companions.”

  “But, my lord, why?”

  “I think I have something that will tell us where she is.”

  “My lord?”

  “Come with me, Rémy, and pray that I didn’t lose it, or that some servant hasn’t cast it away.”

  They rushed into the manse and up the stairs and into the prince’s quarters and to the large closet-chamber therein, Luc calling out, “Daimbert, Daimbert, where are you?”

  The valet stepped out from the adjoining bathing room and looked about in puzzlement, for he did not see the prince. “Oui, my lord? Oui?”

  Luc stuck his head from the closet. “Daimbert, hurry, I need to find my red waistcoat.”

  The valet bustled to the chamber and inside, where rack upon rack of fine garments hung. “Which red waistcoat, my lord?”

  “The one I took with me to the faire. Surely it came back with the baggage train.”

  “Mais oui, my lord,” said Daimbert. He stepped past several racks and to one with many different waistcoats. He fetched a red satin vest from among them and held it out. “Here it is, my prince.”

  Luc reached into the right-hand pocket and frowned, and then into the left-hand one. “Nothing! Daimbert, where is the vial I had in one of the pockets?”

  “Vial, my lord?”

  Luc’s face fell, and he glanced at Rémy, despair in the prince’s eyes. “Oui. A small vial, about so big.” Luc gapped his right thumb and forefinger some three inches apart. “It had residue of an ocherous hue.”

  “Ah, my lord, I remember it now.” Daimbert turned and stepped to a chest of drawers. “I did not know what it was, but even so, I put it here.” He turned and in his hand was the vial Alain had found at the faire at the side of Luc’s pavilion.

  “Oui!” Luc carefully took the small container from the valet. “Rémy, if Alain was right, this held a potion crafted by Hradian. If so, it might lead us to her, and the key to the Castle of Shadows. Not only that, but where Hradian is, I’ll wager we’ll also find Orbane.”

  Now Rémy’s eyes lit up. “Indeed, Prince.”

  “Fly like the wind, Rémy, and fetch Malgan, for I would have him use this to point the way.”

  In late afternoon of the following day, Rémy and a string of remounts returned with Malgan, the seer somewhat disgruntled at having to ride in haste, for his horsemanship was not the best, and, at the pace set and the sharp veerings through the woodland, he had nearly fallen from the saddle several times.

  Even so, amid his twitchings and flinchings and mutterings and hissings, and his asides to his invisible coterie, he said, “This vial indeed was used to change someone into someone else, and the ocherous residue seems still to hold the essence of someone, for among many other things, it has merde and urine and salive and sueur and—” Of a sudden, Malgan snarled to the vacant air on his left: “Of course I know what it is! Be still!” Then he turned back to the prince and said, “And humidité du vagin; and all of these are from the same femme.”

  Luc grinned at Rémy. “As I hoped.” Then he turned back t
o the seer. “Très bon, Malgan. Now tell me, will it point the way to this woman.”

  “Point the way? Oh, no.”

  “You mean you cannot find her?”

  Malgan snapped his head ’round leftward and shouted, “No! Stay out of this!” Then he said to Luc, “Oh, I can tell you where she is at this moment, though to do so I will have to destroy the vial. If you want it to point the—I said I would handle this!—if you want to point the way, Prince Luc, you will have to fetch Mage Caldor.”

  Luc frowned. “Caldor?”

  “The one Prince Alain calls a charlatan,” said Rémy.

  “Oh no,” said Malgan, “he is not a charlatan.” Malgan turned aside toward an invisible companion, if indeed there was one standing where Malgan looked, and asked, “What, what? Ah, I see.” He turned back to Luc. “Prince Alain calls Caldor a charlatan because Caldor could not lift the curse laid upon him by one of the Seals of Orbane—Yes, I know! I know! Now be quiet! I am the one telling this!—but none of us could lift that dreadful curse, for Orbane’s magic was simply too strong.”

  “Well, charlatan or no, Malgan, think you this Mage Caldor can use this vial to aid us in finding the woman whose residue of fluids reside herein?”

  “Oui, I do, we do. He might be able to fashion a compass that will point to this femme. Otherwise I’ll—All right! All right! I’m getting to it!—otherwise I can only tell you where she is at the moment I break it.”

  Luc sighed and turned to the armsmaster. “Rémy, where is this Caldor to be found?”

  “In the Springwood, my lord.”

  “Then send a falcon to Roél, and have him get Caldor here as swift as he can.”

  “Oh, no. Oh, no, we are not going,” hissed Malgan to someone unseen. “Yes, you are right: we did nearly fall off several times. No more fast rides. No more.”

  The following day a falcon came to Luc from Roél with the message that Garron, a member of the Springwood warband, had been dispatched with a string of remounts to locate Mage Caldor and hie him to Autumnwood Manor.

  In the afternoon of that same day, winged Sprites came flying to Springwood, Summerwood, and Autumnwood Manors bearing the news that armies of Goblins were on the march from their holes in the hills—Redcaps and Dunters and Skrikers alike. Too, vast numbers of Bogles as well as Long-Armed Wights were moving ’cross land from swamp to swamp, and the Serpentines were riding in bands out from their grasslands. Also, Trolls had emerged from their icy mountains and were tramping across more temperate realms, and the Changelings were moving toward Port Cíent. And these dread forces were slaughtering and burning as they went. Surely they were all headed for a rendezvous with Orbane. But where? None but the marchers knew.

  For that day and the next, falcons flew back and forth as well as to the Castle of the Seasons, and Sieur Émile ordered the gathering of the five armies under his overall command.

  They would start out a three-day hence and rendezvous in the Autumnwood, for there the food was plentiful, the harvest ever for the taking.

  In Port Mizon, Chevell embraced Avélaine, and they kissed one another. He then stepped into a tender, and a crew rowed him out to his flagship—the Sea Eagle. As its anchor was hoisted, sails were lofted and bellied in the wind, and slowly, majestically, the craft got underway on the outflowing tide. And as the Eagle sailed from the bay, Chevell on the fantail turned to wave Avélaine au revoir; she to wave him good-bye as well. Then into the waters beyond went the Eagle, where awaited the king’s fleet—eighteen ships of the line, each with a full crew as well as seventy-five marines aboard. Too, two swift sloops and a fast schooner sailed with the fleet—to act as scouts and escorts, to relay messages up and down the line, and to act as rescue vessels and take up any men in the water should a craft be sunk. And as the Eagle sailed from the bay, each of the other ships lofted canvas to match her pace. Three points to larboard of sunwise they fared, on a heading for Port Cíent, for somewhere between here and there they hoped to intercept the corsair fleet and the Changeling army thereon.

  Long were the craft in sight from the headland where Avélaine had gotten to, but finally the last sail disappeared o’er the horizon. It was then and only then that Avélaine let the tears flow.

  On the day after, two men and a string of lathered remounts galloped across the sward before Autumnwood Manor and came to a halt in the forecourt. As stableboys led the blowing horses away, the men stepped toward the entrance, where armed and armored members of the houseguard stood ward. A page, sitting on a side bench, leapt to his feet and waited as the men approached.

  “Your business?” asked one of the guards.

  “We are here at the request of Prince Luc.”

  “Your names, Sieur?”

  “I am Garron of the warband of Springwood Manor, and”—he motioned toward the other man—“this is Mage Caldor.”

  “Oh, my,” blurted the page, “the prince is expecting you. I will tell him you are here,” and off he dashed.

  “Sieur Garron, Mage Caldor, this way, please,” said the warder, and he led the men through the entrance and down a short corridor to the welcoming hall within, and from there to an intimate chamber, with comfortable chairs and a writing desk. “There is a washroom with a pissoir through that door, where you may refresh yourselves,” said the guard. “I believe Prince Luc will be along shortly. Need you ought, I will be at your beck.” He stepped out into the hallway and closed the door behind.

  Moments later, Luc strode in. He nodded to Garron, for they knew one another from the campaign some four years past in the realm of the Changelings. Luc introduced himself to Caldor, the mage a tall, bald man in rune-marked blue robes. Even as Caldor bowed, Malgan entered the room, the seer hissing to unseen companions and instructing them to be polite. The moment Caldor straightened and saw Malgan, a supercilious sneer filled his face.

  “I did not know he would be here,” said Caldor.

  “Seer Malgan recommends you highly,” said Luc.

  Caldor’s eyebrows raised in surprise.

  “Malgan tells me you are just the mage I need to accomplish a critical task.”

  “Oh?” Now Caldor frowned at the seer.

  “Shut up! Shut up!” muttered Malgan to someone unseen on his left. “You may not tell him he is an ass.”

  Garron coughed to cover a snort of a laugh, and Luc sighed.

  “Never mind him,” said Caldor, haughty disdain in his tone. “Just what is this task you would have me do?”

  “I have a vial that contains the essences of a certain femme—salive, humidité du vagin, urine, sueur, and merde.”

  “Don’t forget the drops of sang and larme,” hissed Malgan.

  “There are blood and teardrops in there as well?” asked Luc.

  “Oui, my lord. Did I not say?” Malgan whipped to the left and whispered, “See what you made me do! I missed telling him.” Then he turned back to the prince and said, “I think they were tears of pain, as if brought about by someone deliberately hurting themselves to cause tears to fall.”

  “Ah, oui, that makes sense, given the femme.”

  “My lord,” said Caldor, drawing himself up to his full height, “I am not some common hedge witch; prince or no, I do not stoop to spells for fetching or finding femmes whom hommes lust after, no matter who they are.”

  Luc burst into laughter. “Oh, no, Caldor. I do not lust after this femme. Just the opposite: I would run her down and slay her.”

  “And just who is this woman you wish me to help you kill?”

  “She is Hradian the Witch. And heed me, Caldor: where she is, so, too, I deem, will be Orbane, and I would slay them both.”

  Caldor gasped in fear. “You want me to help you against Orbane? Oh, non, non. I will not oppose him, for to do so would mean my doom, for spells cast against him rebound, and the caster is slain by his own power.”

  Seer Malgan also sucked air in through clenched teeth, for, until that very moment, he knew not Luc’s aim.

  “
I do not ask you to help me slay Orbane, Mage Caldor, nor even to aid me to kill the witch. Instead, I would have you make for me a thing that will lead me to Hradian.”

  “I have not the skill,” said Caldor.

  “He lies, he lies,” hissed Malgan, to someone down at his feet. “Can you not see he lies?”

  Luc’s eyes narrowed in perilous threat.

  Caldor’s shoulders slumped, and he sighed and admitted, “Oui, Malgan is correct. I do have the skill to make you what you desire.—But I will not accompany you on your quest.”

  “Non, non,” muttered Malgan to the unseen host surrounding him, “we won’t go either. Oui, oui, I promise.”

  Luc shook his head in mild disdain, and Garron growled in sheer contempt. And Luc said, “All I ask is that you give me what I need. And as for running down Hradian and thereby Orbane, neither of you need take part.”

  Caldor nodded, and Malgan whispered aside, “See, I told you.”

  Then Caldor said, “Let me see this vial for myself. And I will need a place to work, as well as the aid of someone with a fine hand at shaping glass and fashioning settings for gems, preferably someone who can work silver or gold—a jeweler or the like.”

  Three days later, with Steward Zacharie and Jeweler Minot and Armsmaster Rémy standing by, Mage Caldor presented Luc with a small gold disk-shaped case no larger than the palm of his hand. When its lid was opened, Luc saw inside and under glass a silver, arrow-shaped needle that pivoted on a silver axle, each pointed end of which rode within a tiny diamond hub, one in the golden base and one embedded in the glass lens. The arrowhead itself was ocherous in color, as if some of the residue within the vial had been affixed thereon. And no matter which way Luc turned himself or rotated the case, the needle pointed a bit to dawn of starwise.

  “It will always point at the witch,” said Caldor, “and will take you to her by the most direct route.”

  “You mean the shortest?”

  “Oui.”

  “Does it in some fashion tell how far away she is?”