Once upon a dreadful time ou-4

by Dennis L McKiernan

  I believe Blaise is right: Verdandi’s rede can mean none else but the Firsts, and this is not the day to summon them.”

  “And when that day comes. .?” asked Laurent.

  “Then we Sprites will fetch them.”

  . .

  Orbane continued to hiss sibilant words, and Hradian sagged under the strain. Crapaud sat somnolent, and whether he felt the drain is not known. And as lightning shattered across the black sky and thunder boomed, the vapor yet spewed up from the swamp bottom in a bilious cloud roaring forth from the vortex and continuing to expand; and it oozed across the mire and among the trees and grasses. Some ten feet deep the vapor lay, a sickly yellow-green, and things wilted where it flowed.

  Yet these were swamp creatures and plants, and somewhat immune to the putrescence, and mayhap they would not die, nor, perhaps, would the swamp creatures living among them.

  And the morning went on, while at the far dawnwise bound of the morass, two armies made ready to do battle, one greatly outnumbering the other: the throng commanded by Cham Bolok, a towering Troll; the army commanded by Sieur Emile, a human. Each had his plan: one was committed to a victory by sheer numbers; the other was committed to winning by guile.

  . .

  As a line of riders came over the crest of the ridge Bolok grunted and then shouted, “Look alive, you slugs, they come at last.” But then he frowned. “What’s this? Just one- Ah, no, here come more.”

  He watched as to his left a group came tramping over the top and then marched down the long slope, spearmen all, their shields locked together, or so it seemed. And then another group came, and another after that, and then more. Bolok had never before seen a phalanx, much less as many as these. Their deployment puzzled him, for he had expected the humans to attack head on, perhaps in a wedge, but down the slope they came on a long diagonal. Bah! It matters not, for still my plan will work.

  “Stand fast, you slime,” he bellowed. Then he looked to his right, beyond Bogles and beyond Goblins, to where stood his Serpentines at the end of the long rightward arc of the throng, and he gestured for them to mount up. They would simply ride down the angle of these pitiful humans and round their flank and come at them from behind. And in that moment he would signal his own forces to charge the enemy and crush them in between.

  As lightning flashed and thunder roared in the dark skies overhead, Bolok watched as the enemy horsemen out front-

  a paltry fifty or so-rode toward his two hundred Trolls. The fools!

  . .

  And in the bowels of the swamp, at Orbane’s command, up from the under-bottom of the morass roared the Sickness, a dreadful miasma, spewing outward through the vast bog, fettered only by Orbane’s control.

  . .

  Down the angle the Serpentines hammered, the riders sissing cries as onward they plunged, with long, cruelly barbed spears in their grasp. Hairless were their steeds, scaled instead, a glittering green in the lightning, with pale undersides and long, lashing, whiplike tails, the mounts an impossible crossbreed of serpent and horse. And they blew and grunted with effort, and the ground shook under their pounding cloven hooves as down the phalanx they galloped.

  And in the lead Hsthir gloated, his long forked tongue flicking out and in, tasting the scent of the humans they would spit on their spears. And tonight the clutch would feed, yet not on fire-ruined meat as the stupid Trolls were wont to do, but on raw gobbets of flesh swallowed whole, as was only proper.

  And reveling upon the feast yet to come, Hsthir heeled his spikes into the plated flanks of his soth to urge it even to greater speed, though it was already running at full gallop.

  . .

  Bolok watched as the fifty or so enemy riders neared. But then-

  What’s this? — they reined to a halt. It was as if they were waiting for something to occur. Can this be some sort of trickery?

  And under roiling black skies, Bolok grasped his great horn and stepped forward, ready to call the charge as soon as the Serpentines rounded their flank, and his gaze swept the field, seeking, seeking. .

  . .

  Hsthir and the Serpentines neared the last of the phalanx, and he cried out the command for the clutch to-

  . .

  Running full tilt, Luc and the cavalry smashed headlong into the Serpentines’ flank, lances piercing, their horses bowling over the scaled steeds of the foe. The Serpentines could not bring their own spears to bear, and Luc and the cavalry drove on through, leaving nought but devastation in their wake. They spun their horses about and charged back into the disarrayed enemy, and some men, their pikes gone-embedded in fallen snake people-drew their sabers and laid about, hacking, hewing, slashing, while others hurtled back through, lances skewering foe.

  And from somewhere within the phalanx, a horn sounded, and the riders facing the Trolls parted, and concealed behind them had been the heavy crossbowmen, and they released a deadly volley into the massed enemy, bringing down some fifty of the hulking brutes, Bolok out front being the first one slain.

  And then with a shout from Laurent, he and Blaise and Roel and fifty others lowered their lances and charged.

  And at the horn cry as well, the shields of the phalanx warriors were unlocked, and through the now-opened lines stepped the archers, Michelle among them, and they loosed a great flight of arrows, the shafts to arc down among the foe, slaying Goblin and Bogle alike.

  Yet the enemy answered in kind, their arrows sissing through the air in return, but the archers had stepped back behind the first row of the phalanx and once again the shields overlapped.

  And Michelle stood directly behind Galion, his shield to cover them both.

  “Yahh!” cried Laurent as he smashed in among the Trolls, his lance stabbing one in the throat, to lodge in the creature’s spine, and the weapon wrenched from Laurent’s grasp as the slain Troll fell. To Laurent’s right, Roel’s spear was lost to another of the foe, but Roel hewed about with Coeur d’Acier, the silver-flashed rune-bound steel blade keen and devastating.

  Blaise yet held his pike, and stabbed and stabbed as he hammered on through, but then a Troll smashed down the knight’s horse, and Blaise crashed to the soil, stunned.

  The Troll loomed above him and raised his great club to crash it down upon Blaise, but then the monster jerked back, his arms falling to his side, and he looked down in astonishment at the point of the heavy crossbow bolt now jutting forth from his chest. And with a sigh he fell sideways, dead ere striking dirt. And Blaise scrambled to his feet and caught up a free-running mount and reentered the fray.

  On the left flank of the phalanx, surviving Serpentines in full disarray fled from Luc’s cavalry, and the prince and his men now turned and spurred toward the enemy’s right flank. A few of the Goblins there spun ’round and bolted back into the mire, and others, seeing them flee, ran into the bog as well. Yet some stood their ground and loosed arrows at the oncoming men, some to fatally strike, others to wound, and still others to miss altogether.

  In the main body of the allies, again the shields unlocked, and again archers loosed, and arrows flew and enemy fell, and arrows flew in return, some to bring down men, most to bounce harmlessly from the again-overlapping defense.

  In the center, one of the Trolls bashed through the knights to reach Bolok’s corpse, and he took up the horn and blew a blast even as a crossbow bolt slew him. With ululating yells, the elements of the foe charged, and the phalanx closed ranks, the spearmen ready to meet the onrushing foe.

  Luc’s cavalry rounded behind the masses of the throng, and they smashed into the unprotected rear of the enemy, and some Goblins threw down their weapons and fled, though most turned to give battle.

  Luc fought his way toward the melee taking place among the Trolls and knights, even as the Bogles and the Long-Armed Wights and the throng’s greater numbers managed to smash open the phalanx. .

  . . and the battlefield turned into chaos.

  The Goblins rushed in among the men with dreadful effect: Skrikers shriek
ed out long, wordless death cries as they hacked with axes; Dunters clacked grinding noisemakers even as they laid about with clubs; Redcaps shrilled and stabbed with pikestaffs. And the Bogles and Long-Armed Wights smashed and slashed with their flails and scythes, and slew man after man.

  But the men with their spears and swords and shields and greater discipline managed to form squares and deal devastating death in return.

  Next to Galion, who watched for arrows and fended with his shield, Michelle stood on the battlefield, surrounded by seven Wolves, and she calmly nocked and drew and aimed and loosed, choosing Bogles and Wights as targets.

  The foe veered away from Slate and the pack, all but the most foolhardy, and those that attacked paid with their lives, their throats torn away by fangs.

  And still knights and Trolls and men with heavy crossbows fought in their own private battle, for should the Trolls come in among the army proper, then their effect would be overwhelming.

  Elsewhere the battle raged on, and the cavalry swept through the enemy again and again, and, even though outnumbered, the humans slowly gained the upper hand, though at dreadful cost.

  But then, oozing outward from the swamp came a bilious yellow-green vapor. And slowly it began to envelop the battle.

  Slate lifted his muzzle and then postured before Michelle: Bad smell bad. Go!

  Michelle frowned and looked at him: Go?

  Slate: Go!

  Of a sudden, Trit landed upon Michelle’s shoulder. “Princess! The Sickness-from the swamp it comes. You must flee.

  Now!”

  Michelle looked at the oncoming miasma. It did not seem to affect the throng, but men began retching, and horses nigh foundered, and Michelle gasped as a nauseating whiff filled her nostrils. Sprites flew thither and yon, crying out to the allies; and some of the wee beings fell to the ground, overcome by the dreadful vapor.

  And from the slopes above the plain, there came a horn cry, as Emile sounded the retreat, for the Sprites had borne the alarm to him as well.

  Hacking and wheezing, some vomiting, taking up their wounded and leaving their dead behind, the men began to withdraw, snatching up fallen Sprites as they fled. Yet the throng did not pursue, for they had had enough of battle.

  And in the heart of the swamp under black, roiling skies riven by flares of lightning, Orbane released Hradian, and she fell to the flet beside Crapaud. And Orbane looked about at the lovely putrescence and laughed, for his spell was complete: he had raised the Sickness, the great contamination, and now nothing and no one could stand in his way, and he would be ruler of all.

  March

  Under the flare of lightning and the judder of thunder raging in the black skies above, from the ridge Emile and the others watched as the miasmic cloud spread out over the battlefield.

  They could see little within the bilious depths, yet now and again they glimpsed shadowy movement therein, which showed that Goblins and Bogles and Trolls yet lived. And then the yellow-green vapor began to withdraw back into the swamp, and when the field was finally clear of its dreadful presence, the ground was bare of all plant and animal life, and no corpses of horses or men or even foe remained, nor did any of the surviving throng.

  All bodies were gone, though some weaponry yet remained.

  “They’ve dragged our dead away,” spat Laurent.

  “For what purpose?” asked Blaise.

  Leon sighed and shook his head. “Goblins and such savor human flesh, and Trolls love the meat of horses.”

  “You mean they’ve taken them for food?”

  Laurent spat an oath, and Leon nodded but said, “Either that, or the terrible cloud has destroyed all.”

  “It is the Sickness,” said Peti.

  “Sickness?” asked Emile.

  “Oui. . the dreadful contamination that lies in the under-bottom of each and every swamp. Somehow Orbane has raised it up.”

  “The Goblins and Bogles and Trolls seemed unaffected by it,” said Luc, “but it nearly did us in. It is a great pollution-a dreadful weapon.”

  At these words, a murmur of agreement muttered among the men, but for Michelle it triggered an elusive thought along the margins of her mind. Of a sudden she snared it and said, “I think Orbane does not intend it as a battlefield weapon.” Emile turned to her. “Non?”

  “Non.”

  “Then what other use could he possibly have for such a dreadful thing?”

  Michelle glanced from Luc to Emile to his sons, finally settling on Laurent. “Recall what I said that Camille had told me about the River of Time.”

  Laurent nodded. “That if Orbane ever got free, he would pollute it.” Michelle said, “And Luc has rightly named the cloud just that: a pollution.”

  “How does Camille know this thing?” asked Emile.

  Laurent looked at Michelle, and she said, “The Fates are the ones who told her.”

  “Just what is this River of Time Orbane would despoil?” asked Blaise.

  Michelle said, “As Camille tells it, it seems that somewhere in Faery, time flows in a silvery river, and along this flow is where the Three Sisters fashion the Tapestry of Time: Skuld weaving what she sees of the future; Verdandi fixing present events into the weft and warp of the fabric; Urd binding all forever into the past. Camille speculates the river flows out of Faery to spread over the mortal world, for time itself does not seem to touch Faery, though some say it originates herein.”

  “And just what would polluting the River of Time do to Faery?” asked Emile, “-or to the mortal world, for that matter?”

  Michelle shrugged. “That I do not know, Sieur, yet if Time itself is despoiled in some manner, the result cannot be pleasant. Too, it seems to me that the greater harm, whatever it is, will occur to the mortal world.”

  “Why is that?” asked Blaise.

  “Because, if Camille is right, Time spreads over the mortal world, while in Faery it is confined.”

  Roel slammed a fist into palm. “Confined or not, I say it is enough that Skuld, Verdandi, and Urd each tell that dreadful calamity will befall Faery, too.”

  “I agree with Roel,” said Luc, “for we here cannot know what effect the contamination of that arcane river will bring-

  it is beyond our ken. Yet if Orbane is to use the Sickness to pollute Time’s flow, he will have to move it from this swamp to wherever the river is.”

  Sieur Emile pursed his lips and then asked, “But where along the river would he go to do this deed?”

  Luc frowned. “I do not think he would go somewhere along the course, Sieur Emile, but to the headwaters instead, for from there he could foul the river its entire length.”

  “Mais oui,” said Emile, nodding. He turned to Michelle.

  “Just where is this river?”

  Michelle turned up her hands.

  “We know,” said Peti.

  “The Sprites know?”

  “Oui. It is a place we avoid, for we would not suffer the ravages of Time.”

  “Ravages or no, Sieur Emile,” said Leon, “we must needs somehow foil Orbane’s plan.”

  “But our forces are devastated,” said Bailen.

  “Nevertheless,” said Leon.

  “First,” said Luc, “we need to know if indeed the Sickness is at Orbane’s beck. Then we need to know whether he will march or not. If he does march and the pollution goes with him, then we need to know if this river is indeed his goal. Lastly, we need to know whether or no we have the wherewithal to stop him.”

  “What is the count of our able-bodied?” asked Emile.

  “The armsmasters are taking the tally now,” said Leon.

  Emile nodded then said, “Peti, the Sprites need fly above the swamp and keep track of the foe.”

  “Oh, my,” said Peti, alarmed.

  But Trit took her hand and said, “We will just have to fly at height, well above the corruption.”

  Peti nodded, then looked at Emile, and he said, “When and if they begin to move, we must know which route they take, an
d if it is toward this River of Time then we need to get ahead of them and plan an ambush or trap, or find some other means of thwarting Orbane.”

  “What about the dreadful miasma?” asked Bailen. “I mean, if Orbane does move the contamination, how do we counter that?”

  Emile looked from face to face, but none knew the answer.

  . .

  The tally of able-bodied came to just over four thousand. In addition, there were some six hundred wounded who had made it free of the battleground, and they were being attended by chirurgeons and healers. Some three thousand four hundred men had been lost in the battle-four of every ten men. Five Sprites had been felled by the bilious pall, half their total, though the men had managed to take up three of them during the retreat; even so, the loss of just two Sprites had been keenly felt by all. Of the fifty knights Leon had brought with him, thirty-five were yet hale. As to the enemy casualties, none knew the count.

  . .

  “Those fools, those bloody fools,” seethed Orbane. “More than half my Trolls and Bogles, and nearly all my Serpentines.”

  “Half the Goblins as well,” said Hradian.

  “Pah!” spat Orbane. “Who cares about the Goblins? They are just fodder. ’Tis the Trolls and Bogles and Serpentines I count on to protect me on the march.”

  “Yet your throng gave good account of themselves, for they dragged nearly four thousand human corpses away from the battlefield to feast upon, and surely just as many men suffered wounds. I deem this ragtag army will flee the field, my master, and you will be free of these pests who would stand in your way. Compared to you, my puissant lord, they are less than fleas, than mites.”

  Orbane rounded on Hradian and glared into her eyes, and she fell to her knees and trembled before him. Then he threw her on her back and parted her legs and slid in between, and she began screaming in pleasure.

  . .

  The following day the raging darkness above began moving, and shortly after, Dil, one of the Sprites, came winging into the encampment. “Sieur,” he said to Emile, “the throng marches, the Sickness moves, they are faring through the hills a point to dusk of sunwise.”