Once upon a Spring morn ou-2

by Dennis L McKiernan

  Oh, Laurent, Blaise, let none of these be you.

  On he went through the clinging vapor, the huge knight coming toward him, mist eddying about.

  “To first blood?” called Roel.

  In response the Red Knight swung his huge sword up and ’round and brought it across in a crashing blow, only to meet Roel’s shield; yet the shock of the strike benumbed Roel’s left arm.

  Again the giant swung his great sword up and ’round, but this time the massive blade met Roel’s Coeur d’Acier.

  Clang! Chang! Blade met blade and metal screamed.

  And Roel feinted and parried and struck, and the blades whistled through the air as back and forth knight and knight struggled, the fog churning about them. The giant of a knight hammered at Roel, his blows mighty, and of a sudden Roel reeled hindward and fell, for he had been struck upon the helm, the bronze and padding and a partial parry all that saved him from a crushing death. And the huge knight sprang forward, his great blade whistling down, only to strike stone, chips flying, for his target had rolled away. Roel gained his feet, and as the next strike whistled past, he stepped inside the reach of the knight of the bridge, only to be flung aside by the backhanded sweep of a mailed fist.

  At the end of the span, horses danced and snorted and huffed in fear, yet Celeste paid them no heed. As the mist cleared she could see struggling figures, closing,

  leaping apart, whirling about one another, blades swinging, the sound of their strikes like that of hammers on anvils. And Celeste drew and aimed, yet she could not loose her shaft, for in the blowing white vapor she could not be certain of her target nor the flight of her arrow given the swirling air.

  And then the mist cloaked all, and still the cry of tortured metal rang along the gorge.

  Forward, I must move forward. Yet what if I distract Roel? What will I-?

  Of a sudden, silence reigned.

  Oh, Mithras, is it-?

  “Roel!” she called, her voice choked with fear.

  Footsteps neared.

  Celeste drew the shaft to the full and aimed into the white.

  A fog-shrouded form appeared, yet she could not see just what or who it-

  — and Roel stumbled out from the mist and fell to his knees, his dented shield clanging down beside him. His chest heaved and blood slid down his face.

  Behind her the horses suddenly calmed.

  Dropping her bow and arrow, with a cry of anguish Celeste sprang forward. “My love, are you-?” As she fell to her knees before him, he raised his head and looked at her and smiled. “Ah, Mithras, but he was mighty. Never have I fought so hard.”

  “But you’re bleeding.”

  “I am?”

  “Oui. Your forehead.”

  Roel reached up and touched his face and looked at the blood in surprise. Then he removed his helmet. “He struck my head a glancing blow. It must have happened then.”

  Celeste examined the wound, more of a scuffing of skin than a cut. She embraced him and gave him a kiss and said, “ ’Twas your own helm did it, cheri. A bit of salve and a bandage should be enough.”

  “If you don’t mind, I’ll wait here,” said Roel, yet panting.

  Celeste stepped to the horses and rummaged through the gear. Then she returned with clean cloth and a small tin. In moments she had Roel’s scrape salved and swathed. He took some of the remaining cloth and started to clean Coeur d’Acier, but the blade gleamed like new-there was no blood whatsoever upon the silvered steel.

  “What th-? But I struck him through.”

  “Something mystic is afoot,” said Celeste. Then she gestured hindward and said, “The horses knew.” Roel frowned down at his blade and then looked at the princess. “Come, let us see.”

  Groaning to his feet, Roel stepped to the now-placid horses and took up the reins of his steed, Celeste following. Walking, they moved upon the span, the white vapor swirling with their passage, and the horses calmly let themselves be led, no longer skittish and balking.

  As they crossed, Roel carefully examined each and every knight’s head spitted on a pike, fearing the worst for Laurent and Blaise, but whether those of his brothers were among the skulls so mounted he could not say, for with flesh rotted or gone and dangling hair in disarray he could see no resemblance whatsoever. He spent no time examining the helms, for doing so would yield nought, for, like him, Laurent and Blaise had traded all armor for gear of bronze in the mortal city of Rulon ere ever entering Faery.

  When they came to the mid of the bridge, Roel looked about and frowned and said, “Here should lie the corpse of my foe, yet nought do I see.” On they went, Roel yet looking at the spitted heads but recognizing nought, and when at last he and Celeste came to the end of the span, there on a pike was mounted the visored helm of the giant Red Knight of the bridge, yet it was empty.

  Roel turned to Celeste. “This was on the head of the one I fought, the one I slew. How can it be?” But ere she could answer, Roel muttered, “I know: Faery. ’Tis Faery.”

  Before them gaped a tunnel into the stone of the opposite cliff, and into this they strode.

  The sound of shod hooves rang and reverberated within the rocky way, yet ere long they emerged from the passage to come out upon a narrow plateau.

  Directly before them and rearing up into the sky loomed the twilight wall.

  They had come unto the next bound.

  28

  Crossroads

  Roel stepped back to a packhorse and took from it a length of rope and began tying it about his waist.

  “This time I will go first.”

  “But you are weary from your battle with the bridge knight,” said Celeste. “Besides, I am lighter and you are stronger; hence ’twill be easier for you to haul me back than for me to haul you, should such be called for.” Roel handed Celeste the line. “Then tie me to your horse and mount up, and if need be, pull me back.” He took his shield from his saddle and then drew Coeur d’Acier. “Ready?”

  Sighing, Celeste tied the line to the forebow of her saddle. Then she tethered Roel’s animals to her packhorse. She mounted and said, “Ready.” Paying out the rope, she let Roel move ahead and then followed. Into the twilight they went, the other horses trailing after. Darker it got and darker, and Celeste stopped just short of the midmost wall of ebon.

  Roel stepped through.

  The line jerked taut.

  “Roel!” cried Celeste, and she spun her mare about and rode swiftly away, the other horses in a confusion but following.

  And she dragged Roel after. .

  . . and he was shouting.

  When she realized Roel was behind her, Celeste haled her mare to a halt.

  Disentangling himself, Roel stood. . and dripped.

  He was covered in yellow-green slime.

  Concern and wilderment on her face, Celeste leapt from her mount and ran to him. “Are you injured?” And he looked at her and burst into laughter. “Were you going to drag me at a gallop through all of Faery?”

  “I thought an Ogre or some such had you. The rope snapped tight. What happened?”

  “Oh, love, I merely fell down. ’Tis a swamp on the other side.” He began wiping the odiferous sludge from his face.

  Celeste wrinkled her nose and drew away.

  Roel glanced at her and said, “Come to think of it, mayhap I should have let you go first.” And he burst into laughter again.

  Celeste and Roel had to lead the animals afoot through the treacherous murky waters, where quags and quicksand and sinkholes might lie. The horses were slimed to the hocks, and Celeste, too, was covered in slime full to her waist and up her left side to her shoulder, for she had taken a fall, and only her grip on the reins had preserved the relative cleanliness of her right arm.

  Slow was their progress as they passed through stands of saw grass and reeds and wove their way among hummocks. Dark willows wrenched up out of the muck, and gray tree moss dangled down from lichen-wattled limbs.

  Things unseen plopped and slithe
red and gurgled, and oft great bubbles rose to the surface and slowly burst, releasing horrendous odors. Now and again they had to double back to find a safer route through the slime-laden, waterlogged mire. But occasionally they came to more solid ground, and the first time they did so, Celeste looked down at herself and cried, “Leeches!

  Roel, leeches! Ghaa! I hate leeches!” And she whipped out her long-knife and began raking them from her leathers even as they oozed up her legs and sought entry to her flesh.

  Roel, however, ignored those on his garb and began scraping the parasites from the legs of the horses.

  When all of the animals were cleared of the bloodsuckers, Celeste and Roel mounted up and made good time until the solid ground gave way to mire again.

  And that was the way of their travel through the morass: wading and leading the horses, scraping off leeches and riding, and then wading and leading again.

  And gnats whined and flies bit and midges crawled into ears and nostrils and across eyes, and batting and slapping and raking, Celeste thought she would go entirely insane, though Roel seemed inured to it all.

  Sunwise they fared, ever sunwise, as the day grew and peaked and waned, and just at dusk, they finally emerged from the swamp and onto solid ground, where rolling hills stretched out before them.

  Exhausted and itching and well bitten, and filthy beyond their wildest imaginings, they made camp and built a fire and heaped pungent greenery upon the blaze and let the smoke drive all but the worst of the flying pests away.

  They unladed and fed and watered the animals and groomed and treated them for their wounds, spreading a salve o’er the places where the parasites had sucked.

  Then they used some of their drinking water to wash themselves, and they changed their clothes. Fortunately, they both had been wearing leathers and boots, which protected them from the leeches. Even so, they suffered from the many bites they had taken from the flying pests, especially the gadflies, a number of which were yet whining about.

  “Would that we had tails,” said Roel as they ate. He occasionally flicked a fly from his fare, though for the most part he ignored them and consumed gnats, midges, and all, unlike Celeste, who seemed to believe that each insect that landed on her food polluted it nearly beyond redemption, and she spent much time plucking away tiny pieces of her fare, where gnats and flies had walked, and flipping the infinitesimal pinches away, and taking bites in between landings.

  As Celeste plucked and flipped another speck, she frowned. “Tails? Whatever for?”

  Roel merely pointed at the horses. Munching oats from their feed bags, head to tail they stood, each swishing flies away from the face of another.

  Celeste laughed and said, “Ah, oui, tails would be a treat right now.”

  She flipped away another tiny piece of bread and quickly took a bite before another fly could land, and as she chewed she said, “I don’t know about you, love, but I am going to sleep entirely under cover.” In spite of her matted hair and the odor yet clinging, and regardless of his own filthy state, Roel embraced her and kissed her tenderly and said, “Then do so, cherie. I’ll take first watch and keep the fire going.” The moon was on high when Roel, sword in hand, quietly awakened Celeste. “Shh. . ready your bow, for someone moves through the swamp.”

  Celeste looked, and a light bobbed among the trees.

  “Ah, love, ’tis the Will o’ the Wisp you see. Follow it not, or it will lead you to a watery death.”

  “A watery death, eh?”

  “Oui. Some think it a tricksy Boggart, out for a mere prank, while there are those who believe it’s a ghost of someone who has drowned and wishes the same fate for others, and it bears a candle to lure the naive; hence it is also called a Corpse-candle. It has many other names, yet regardless as to whether it is Boggart or ghost or something else altogether, it is not wise to stalk after one.”

  Roel frowned. “I know of ghosts, but what is a Boggart?”

  “Generally a Brownie who’s been soured by mistreatment.”

  “Well, ghost or Boggart, will it threaten us?”

  “Non. It will remain in the swamp and bob about and try to entice you to follow.”

  “Then go back to sleep, cherie. I will remain on watch.”

  Celeste glanced at the moon directly overhead, the silvery orb some four days past full and said, “Roel, Roel, what am I to do with you? It is well beyond mid of night. It will do ill for you to be weary on the morrow and in the days to come. Non, love, you must sleep. I will set ward now.”

  Celeste was adamant, and so Roel took to his bedroll, and immediately fell into slumber, leaving Celeste to watch the ghostly light of the Corpse-candle drifting o’er the murky waters of the mire.

  The sun was well risen when they set off again, for Roel had slept late, yet Celeste was aware of the urgency to get on with the quest, and so, at last, she had awakened him. And now they were on their way once more.

  Across the rolling hills they fared, travelling due sunwise still, and in late morn they came upon a clear-running stream burbling out from a woodland. They watered and gave rations of grain to the horses, and then shed their clothes and waded in calf-deep to wash away the last of the mire. As Celeste scrubbed her pale blond hair, Roel began to harden at the sight of her, but feeling the need to press on, he plopped down into the chill flow. In spite of the cold water, he remained thrilled by her beauty and by her shapely form and her undeniable charms, and only by thinking of other things did he suppress his risen desire.

  Free of grime and dressed once more, notwithstanding the underlying sense of urgency, they took time to clean their leathers-wetting and scraping away the semisolid muck yet clinging to the garb until pants and jackets were habitable once more-for who knew what might lie ahead? Who knew what the Fates might have in store for them?

  After a quick meal of their own, they mounted up and on they went, and the hills began to flatten until they rode across undulant plains, mostly grassland, though a few thickets were scattered here and there.

  Sunwise they went and sunwise, and they came to a road curving out from two points starwise of sunup and bending ’round to bear directly sunwise as well.

  Now following this route, on they forged, and the sun crossed above and arced in its invariant descent toward sundown.

  “Whence fares this road? I wonder,” said Roel.

  Celeste retrieved her vellum chart and began unfolding it. “That I cannot say, yet let me see if there is any clue on our meager map.” After a moment she shrugged and said, “This route is not on our sketch, but that is no surprise, for many things are missing. This I can say: it seems there are only two twilight borders left to cross, and if the drawn gaps between notations are anywhere close to accurate, we should be in the Changeling realm within three or four days.”

  “Well and good,” said Roel, “for there are only eight days beyond this one ere the fall of the dark of the moon.”

  “I do hope that is time enough,” said Celeste, refolding the vellum.

  “It will have to be,” gritted Roel. .

  . . And on they rode.

  As the sun lipped the horizon, “What’s that in the distance ahead?” asked Celeste.

  Roel stared down the track and frowned and held his hand to the right side of his head to shade his eyes against the sullen rays of the setting sun glancing across the ’scape. Finally he said, “It looks like a gibbet.”

  “A gallows out here in the middle of the plains?”

  “Oui. It seems so.”

  “Then that object dangling is- Oh, Roel, is it a person?”

  “Oui, cherie. Ah, but look, there is someone beyond.”

  “Where? Oh. Someone sitting. Come, let us see what is afoot.” Celeste spurred her horse into a canter, as did Roel, and as the last of the sun fell below the horizon, they could see that the gibbet had been placed at a crossroads, for running sunrise to sunset another route ran athwart the one they followed. Closer they drew, and closer, and now they could see
the corpse of a young man hanging from the crossbeam of the gallows, and nearby and among low mounds a young woman sat weeping at the edge of an open grave. As the two came riding up, the demoiselle sprang to her feet and cried out, “Oh, monsieur, will you please help me? My Joel has been wrongly put to death, and I am sentenced to bury him, but I have no way to cut him down.” Roel frowned. “Wrongly put to death? And you must bury him? Who did this thing to you?”

  “My papa, for he caught us making love, and we are not wedded. He said that Joel must be a devil to have done such a thing to me. He clubbed my lover and brought him here and hanged him, where other criminals have been put to death.” She gestured at the low mounds. “I must bury Joel here among the other graves at this crossroad so that his ghost will be baffled, hence will not find its way to me or to haunt my papa.” The girl broke into tears.

  Gritting her teeth, Celeste said, “ ’Tis your pere who should be hanged. Roel, cut the lad down. We must help this fille.”

  Celeste leapt from her saddle and embraced the sobbing demoiselle, while Roel, standing in his stirrups, clutched the corpse and cut the rope. He eased the body to the ground, and then dismounted and took him up and bore him to the graveside. He clambered into the cavity, and gently drew the boy in and laid him down. As Roel climbed back out, the demoiselle looked at Celeste and quietly said, “It seems you two are at a crossroads as well.”

  Celeste peered into the eyes of the girl, and black as midnight and deep they were.

  The girl disengaged herself from Celeste’s embrace and glanced duskward at the darkening twilight heralding the onrush of night, and then she smiled and said to them both, “Thank you for the favor. It is one of the required things.” Celeste sighed and said, “Roel, I think it is as you once deemed when you said whom next we would meet; I believe this young demoiselle is none other than Lady Doom.”

  A darkness enveloped the fille and then vanished, leaving behind a bent and toothless and cackling crone dressed in ebon robes limned in satiny ebon as well.