Once upon a dreadful time ou-4

by Dennis L McKiernan

  “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, humidite 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 Remy standing by, Mage Caldor presented Luc 282 / DENNIS L. MCKIERNAN

  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?”

  “Non. It only gives direction, not distance.”

  “Can you make one of these to find Princess Liaze?” Caldor frowned. “Have you her vital fluids-sueur, sang, larme, the rest?”

  Luc’s features fell. “Non.”

  “Then I cannot,” said Caldor.

  Luc sighed and said in resignation, “I was afraid it would be so.” He looked at Remy and said, “Still, we can now run down the witch, as well as the wizard if he is with her.”

  “Beware, Prince Luc,” warned Caldor, “for though it points to Hradian, the compass might lead you across a twilight bound into quicksand or lava or an ocean or into other dire ends, for the needle knows only which direction she lies and not what is along the way.”

  “Even so,” said Luc, “it is a marvelous device, Mage Caldor.” The prince turned to the jeweler and smiled and said, “Thank you, Minot.” The craftsman returned the smile and bowed, and Luc inclined his head in acknowledgment.

  “My lord,” said Zacharie, ‘’although the armies are even now on the way and will learn of this device as soon as they arrive, I would send falcons to the other stewards so they, too, will know the legion now has a means to find Hradian and most likely Orbane. For ’tis good news, and will strengthen the hearts of those of us who must remain behind.” Luc nodded. “By all means, Zacharie, let it be so.”

  . .

  Two days later, Blaise and the legion of the Summerwood was the first to arrive, followed close on by Emile and the command of the Castle of the Seasons. Then came Laurent’s Winterwood force, with Lady Michelle and a Wolfpack leading. And two days after that, Roel and the Springwood warriors arrived.

  At last they were all together: five battalions assembled under the leadership of Sieur Emile.

  And on that same day, Sprites came winging from the sunwise bound with word that several throngs of Goblins and Bogles had come together in a great swamp, and, given the directions that other of Orbane’s allies fared and their likely courses, it seemed they were on the way toward that same goal.

  Soon, mayhap, Orbane would have his horde ready to march, yet as to where he would ultimately lead his vast swarm, only the Fates and he knew.

  Uncertain Trek

  Emile peered at the unwavering, silver needle. “Dawnwise of starwise-east of north? But won’t that just lead us back into Valeray’s demesne?”

  “Not likely, Papa,” said Roel. “There is only a limited segment of the starwise borders in each of the four forests that leads into Le Coeur de les Saisons. The rest of the starwise bound will take us elsewhere.”

  “Several elsewheres,” amended Luc.

  Emile shook his head and pointed sunwise. “But the Sprites came from that southern-er, sunwise-bound to b
ring us news of the great swamp where Orbane’s allies muster. Shouldn’t that be the direction we march?”

  “This arcane compass gives us the most direct route to Hradian,” said Luc, “and where she is we are likely to find Orbane.”

  “And the key to the Castle of Shadows,” added Michelle.

  “If she yet has it,” said Blaise.

  “But the Sprites can lead us to them as well,” said Laurent.

  “But not by the shortest route,” said Roel.

  “Argh!” growled Laurent. “Faery and its blasted twilight borders.”

  Emile looked at Luc. “Trust you this Caldor, this mage who will not fare with us into battle? We go by his word alone if we follow this device of his.”

  Luc stood a moment in thought. Finally, he said, “Malgan vouched for him, and Minot worked beside him and said Caldor seemed to know what he was doing.” Emile frowned. “Malgan?”

  Michelle said, “One of the seers whose visions of darkness led us to believe our loved ones are perhaps trapped in the Castle of Shadows.”

  “And you trust him?”

  Luc sighed and said, “In spite of the fact that he twitches and flinches and talks to invisible beings. . oui, I trust him.” Emile pursed his lips. “And this Minot. .?”

  “The jeweler who fashioned the compass.”

  “Hah!” snorted Laurent. “A cowardly mage, a jittery babbler, and a ring-maker?” Luc’s eyes narrowed, and his lips grew thin, and he looked directly at Laurent. “Oui, Sieur. Coward, babbler, and craftsman: I trust them all.” Laurent bristled, but Roel said, “Stand down, Brother. As for me, mage, seer, and craftsman, those three I know not. But I do know Prince Luc, and him I do trust. And if he says to follow the needle, then I for one am with him.”

  “As am I,” said Michelle softly.

  Luc held up a hand of caution. “If we do follow the needle, Caldor gave me a warning: it only shows the most direct route to Hradian and not the safest. We will need have Sprites with us so that at every bound we come to we know what is on the other side ere we cross, such that we fall not into an ocean as once did Roel, nor that we pass into a realm of fire, or come to other such dire ends.”

  “Oh, my,” said Blaise. He gestured starwise. “One way the most direct, hence the quickest.” He then pointed sunwise.

  “The other way perhaps safer, yet slower.”

  “Celeste and I did not exactly fall into an ocean, Luc,” said Roel. “Yet I take your meaning. Boundaries can indeed be perilous, and crossing them blindly is best avoided.”

  Sieur Emile shook his head. “As for Sprites, I brought along Peti and Trit, but if we do indeed come to an ocean or a land of fire or other such, are we not then thwarted?”

  “Oui, at least for a while,” said Michelle. “But can we cross at another place, the compass will show us the shortest way from there.”

  “But, if I correctly understand these strange borders, that could be even farther away from our beginning, were we to take the sunwise route and follow the Sprites to the swamp.”

  “Here then is the dilemma,” said Luc. “One way is sure and mayhap roundabout, while the other is uncertain and direct.”

  “I would have your advice,” said Emile, looking about the table.

  “I say we follow the compass-the quickest way-and hope for the best,” said Blaise. “For if Orbane marches toward his goal, then too late is the same as never.” Laurent looked from Roel to Blaise to Luc to Michelle, and lastly to his sire. “Though I trust not this coward Caldor, still, if the compass will do as he has said, then I say Blaise is right, Pere: let us take the direct way.”

  “I agree,” said Michelle.

  “So do I,” said Roel.

  Emile looked at Luc.

  “I trust Caldor, for Malgan did vouch for him,” said the prince.

  Emile sat in thought for long moments. At length he said, “I cannot dispute the point Blaise made, for indeed too late is the same as never. But if we are wrong, then Mithras have mercy

  ’pon Faery.”

  . .

  And so they prepared to march on the course set by a silver needle. Even so, Luc added this advice: “Sieur Emile, I ween you should send Sprites to our allies, and have those armies follow them unto the swamp. Should they arrive ere we get there, have them wait unless they have no choice but to engage in battle, for ’tis better that we meet Orbane’s throng with a unified strategy than to fight him piecemeal.” Emile nodded and said, “So shall it be.” And Sprites were sent winging, though the courses they would lead the allies on were certain to be indirect.

  Two days later, fully stocked for a lengthy campaign, long trains of mules and asses laden with supplies, the Legion of Seasons set out, following the route chosen by a silver needle pivoting on a silver axle hubbed in diamonds and encased in a glass-lensed golden box. A bit to dawn of starwise they went, Michelle in the lead riding point, the arcane compass in her hand. Out before her ranged a pack of Wolves, now and then taking guidance from their master’s bitch. Riding on a tricorn Michelle wore were two tiny Sprites: Peti and Trit, who had come with Emile from Le Coeur. These two would report what lay across the twilight borders as they came to them.

  There had been much controversy over Michelle taking the lead, for with Sprites at their beck, who needed Wolves? Yet Chelle maintained that the Wolves with their better hearing and ability to scent were needed on point, for they could sense things the Sprites could not. Sieur Emile conceded that she was right, after which Michelle added, “And since I am the only one who knows Wolfspeak. .”

  Thus, she rode on point.

  Yet Armsmaster Jules would not let her ride out front alone, so he assigned to her an escort: Galion, a giant of a man and a fierce member of the Winterwood warband who four years past had performed exceptionally in the campaign against the Changelings.

  A distance behind Chelle rode the vanguard, Roel in the lead, and behind them rode the bulk of the legion, first the Battalion of the Castle of Seasons, followed in order by the Springwood, Summerwood, Autumnwood, and Winterwood battalions, with elements of the supply train scattered throughout. Some three thousand men and five thousand animals in all, the army stretched out nigh some three leagues from front to rear as through the Autumnwood they travelled.

  Nigh sunset two days later, they came to the starwise border, and the silver needle yet pointed steadily a bit dawnwise.

  Emile turned to Vardon, armsmaster of the Castle of the Seasons, and said, “Let us hope we do not pass back into Le Coeur, else all this march has been a waste.”

  While Michelle and the Wolfpack and Galion waited-Michelle with her bow strung and an arrow nocked; Galion with his mace in hand; and all those behind bearing arms as well-

  Peti and Trit flew through the bound. In but moments they came flying back. “It’s a grassy prairie,” said Trit, “with nothing in sight but rolling plains.” Michelle looked left and right and noted a laden cherry tree and an apple tree dangling fruit. She pointed them out to Trit and said, “Fly back and inform the vanguard precisely where to cross, then catch up.”

  “Oui, Princess.”

  As Trit shot away and Peti settled on the tricorn, Michelle gave a short bark, and the Wolves got to their feet and loped through, Michelle and Galion following. Into the twilight they went, the way growing darker and then ebon and then lighter, and, when they emerged, Michelle glanced at the setting sun, for more oft than not bearings shift ’round when passing through a marge, sometimes greatly, other times less, and once in a while not at all. On this occasion, although they had angled into the shadowlight heading a bit to dawn of starwise, they emerged heading due duskwise. Michelle flipped open the top of the arcane compass and saw the needle now pointed due duskwise as well.

  They camped that eve on the broad plains, and for the next two days, both filled with drenching rain, they crossed the sea of grass, where antlered herds of shaggy yet deerlike animals fled before them.

  Midmorn of the following sunny da
y, they passed into a mountain vale, with swift, icy streams leaping and cascading down stony slopes from snowy heights, where wild goats and large-horned sheep watched from among rocky crags as the army passed below.

  And in this land of steep slopes, they acquired three hundred more fighters, swelling their ranks to three thousand three hundred.

  One more day saw them crossing long, rolling dunes while a cold wind blew and filled the air with fine grit, and nought else moved across the land.

  The next day they slogged through marshy lowlands, tall reeds swish-swashing as they went and blocking any line of sight for all but the Sprites, and then only when they were airborne. Gnats and biting flies and mosquitoes swarmed about them, and leeches feasted upon the unprotected legs of the horses and mules and asses, while red-winged ebonbodied birds cawed and hurtled through the air just above the tops of the reeds, feasting upon the insects stirred up by the passage.

  And thus did the army progress, where at every twilight marge they came to Trit and Peti would cross first to scout the way and make certain that no visible calamity awaited the march on the opposite side. And always would Chelle take a new bearing and follow the line of the needle.

  The morning of the tenth day of the march, with their numbers now nigh four thousand, found them trekking through a realm of nought but blue flowers and flights of small yellow butterflies. And as Chelle opened the lid of the compass to take another bearing, she discovered the needle inching across the dial: leftward it gradually swung, starwise. She watched as it continued to edge along, and finally she raised a hand to call a halt. And she and Galion waited for Roel and the vanguard to catch up.

  Roel spurred his horse forward and came alongside. “Is ought amiss?”

  “The needle, it creeps,” said Chelle, passing the compass to him.

  Roel peered at the arcane device, then he looked at Chelle and said, “I deem the witch is on the move.”

  “As do I,” said Chelle, nodding. “Think you Orbane’s throngs are on the march as well?”

  Roel shrugged and again peered at the contrivance. Peti flew down from the prow of Michelle’s tricorn and perched on Roel’s wrist and watched the needle’s gradual progress. Finally she said, “Last night was the dark of the moon, an ill omen at best. Perhaps it was what Orbane was waiting for, there in the swamp, wherever it might be.”