Once Upon a Dreadful Time

by Dennis L McKiernan

  She studied the layout a bit longer, and then said, “Spurious or no, you are quite a puzzle.”

  It was just after dawn when a large bee buzzed down the length of the main street in the village of Ardon, followed by a man ahorse, galloping, with three steeds in tow: one was fitted with a small rack, several modest bags of provisions affixed thereon, and two were completely unladen. Down the main street they thundered, people rushing aside to get out of the way. And in a moment they were gone, leaving a wondering populace behind.

  “Do you think this has anything to do with the message the Sprites brought?” asked one.

  “Mayhap it was a kingsman on a mission dire,” said another.

  “He wasn’t wearing a tabard, like most kingsmen do. Instead, sporting a tricorn, he was, and on a metal helm, no less.”

  Two beautiful and buxom, dark-haired, blue-eyed sisters who lived at the far edge of the village watched as the horse-man galloped away.

  “Oh, Romy, I do believe it was a knight errant, for I saw armor ’neath his cloak.”

  “You are right, Vivette: armor indeed he wore. I wonder why he did not stop to dally?”

  “Mayhap the other knight errants did not tell him of us.”

  Romy sighed. “Perhaps none told him of the manner of our . . . hmm . . . entertainment.”

  “His loss,” said Vivette, plucking flowers to weave into her very long hair.

  Romy, plucking flowers as well, sighed and said, “Ours too.”

  Nigh the noontide, Regar and Flic and Fleurette passed through a twilight border to come into a dismal mire, bogland left and right of the road, with cypresses and black willows and dark, gnarled oaks twisting up out from the quag, some trees alive, others quite dead. And from these latter, long strands of lifeless gray moss hung adrip from withered branches, as if the parasite had sucked every last bit of sustenance from the limbs, hence, not only murdering the host, but killing itself as well. ’Round the roots and boles of the trees and past sodden hummocks, scum-laden water receded deep into the dimness beyond, the yellow-green surface faintly undulating, as if some vast creature slowly breathed in the turgid muck below. Ocherous reeds grew in clumps and clusters, and here and there rotting logs covered with pallid toadstools and brownish ooze jutted out at shallow angles from the dark sludge, the swamp slowly ingesting slain trees. Mounded above the fen, the road itself twisted onward, into the shadowy morass ahead.

  Within these miserable environs Regar stopped to change mounts, and he paid little heed to the surroundings, as he moved the black to the end of the line and switched the saddle to the bay.

  But Flic nervously eyed the bog as from within there came soft ploppings and slitherings. What made these sounds, Flic could not see.

  “Why are you uneasy?” asked Fleurette.

  “Because this reminds me of the swamp that Lord Borel and I passed through on our way to rescue Lady Michelle. If it is anything like that one, we best be on our way, for there could be an invisible monster living herein.”

  “It’s not invisible monsters we should worry about,” said Fleurette, pointing, “but those.”

  Gnats and bloodsuckers and biting flies came swarming out from the bog, drawn by the odor of lathered horses.

  But just as they reached the road, Regar jerked the cinch tight and leapt into the saddle, and with a “Yah!” away from the oncoming cloud he cantered, the road more or less following the line of the bee.

  Slowly the way ascended, and the mire to either side diminished. Walking, trotting, cantering, varying the gaits to preserve the horses, by midafternoon Regar’s small group broke free of the swamp to come into low rolling hills. They paused by a clear-running stream to water the horses and to give them some grain and to feed Buzzer some honey.

  Shortly, though, once again they took up the trek, and the sun slowly slid down the sky. As eve drew on, Buzzer flew back to the tricorn and landed. Flic said, “Time to find a good place to camp, for with night coming, Buzzer will soon be asleep.”

  “How about under that great willow up ahead and off to the left,” said Fleurette.

  “If it has a stream, well and good,” said Regar.

  And so they rode toward the massive tree, the willow fully a hundred feet tall, its long swaying branches hanging down all ’round, highlighted by the red light of the setting sun. Beyond the dangling branches they could see the massive girth of the bole, perhaps fifteen or twenty human strides across, and some three times that around.

  “Oh, look!” cried Fleurette. “A door and windows. Oh, my, what a place of wonder.”

  There was indeed a door into the trunk, and it of a pale yellow hue; two windows on either side looked out on the world. Willow-bark shutters, standing wide, graced both windows and the door.

  Regar stopped just outside the long limbs, and dismounted. Even as he did so, the door opened, and therein stood a lithe, redheaded woman. Her face was narrow, her eyes emerald green and aslant, her skin alabaster, tinged with gold.

  “Bon soir,” she said. “I have been expecting you.”

  Regar stepped ’round from the opposite side of the horse to greet her, and at one and the same time, both he and she drew in sharp breaths.

  Never had he seen someone so beautiful.

  Never had she seen someone so handsome.

  “Demoiselle,” he said, bowing, “I am Regar.”

  “Prince Regar,” added Flic.

  The demoiselle didn’t even seem to hear the Sprite, so entranced was she by the man. “Sieur,” she said, curtseying, “many know me as the Lady of the Bower, yet my name is Lisane.”

  “Oh, look, a Unicorn, “ breathed Fleurette, awe in her voice, for even in Faery, they were rare.

  At the far side of the clearing a splendid white creature stood. Horselike, it was, but smaller and with cloven hooves and a pearlescent horn jutting from its forehead, a thin spiral groove running up from its base to its very sharp tip. Of a sudden it snorted and retreated into the forest beyond.

  Momentarily, Lisane’s face fell, but she managed a smile and said, “ ’Tis Thale. He senses . . .” Lisane did not finish the spoken thought, yet she knew that Thale had read her heart at that very moment. Then Lisane brightened and said, “Sprites. I have not seen Sprites for many a day.”

  “Then, my lady, you do not know?” asked Regar.

  “Know what?”

  “So that’s what the cards meant,” said Lisane. “It wasn’t a spurious reading after all.”

  “Spurious reading?” asked Fleurette.

  “I am a seer,” said Lisane. “I divine the future through taroc.”

  “Ah,” said Regar, “so that’s what you meant when you said you were expecting us.”

  A blush rose to Lisane’s cheeks, and she cast her gaze down and aside. “Oui, Prince Regar. I saw you in the cards.”

  Regar swirled his cup and studiously watched the motion of the tea, for every time he looked at Lisane she took his breath away.

  Fleurette nudged Flic and quietly giggled. Flic frowned at her in puzzlement and shrugged as if to say, What?

  They were gathered in Lisane’s tiny kitchen: Regar and Lisane sitting in the only two chairs; Flic and Fleurette seated atop the plank table; Buzzer quite asleep on Regar’s tricorn set off to one side.

  “Then, my lady,” said Regar, “can you divine the meaning of Lady Verdandi’s rede?”

  “It seems to mean that war is on the way.”

  “Then you think Orbane is free?”

  Lisane took a deep breath and slowly let it out. “This morn I was jolted awake by something unknown. Mayhap it was Orbane’s escape. The cards would seem to say so.”

  “The cards again?” said Fleurette.

  Lisane nodded. “Let me show you what I saw. . . .”

  . . . Regar frowned. “And I am this Naïf and you the Hierophant?”

  Again Lisane blushed. “Oui.”

  “What about us?” asked Flic, standing and peering at the wheels of cards.


  Fleurette elbowed Flic. “We’re not important.”

  Lisane shook her head. “Ah, do not be too quick to judge, Fleurette, for the six of cups signifies friends, and that’s where I think you are. Still, that might not be, yet the cards do not see all.”

  “Even so, they seem to spell doom,” said Regar.

  “Things are dire, that I admit,” said Lisane. “Yet the taroc speaks not to what will be, but rather what might be, and then only if the reader has interpreted wisely and true, and only if the acts portrayed are not contravened by actions unshown.”

  They sat in silence for long moments, but then Regar said, “Do you believe the four Knights in opposition to the Magician are Luc, Roél, Blaise, and Laurent?”

  Lisane shrugged. “Mayhap, but then again the knights might simply indicate armies in opposition to those of the Mage, if indeed armies become involved.”

  “Well, it’s all quite beyond me,” said Flic, stretching and yawning. “Oh, my, but I must sleep.”

  “I’ll fix a pillow by the hearth,” said Lisane.

  Fleurette smiled and said, “There is no need. We can find a place up in the branches of your tree.”

  “It is certainly no bother, Fleurette. Besides, I think it safer inside.”

  Regar stood. “I will sleep out beneath the fronds of your willow, my lady.”

  Lisane seemed as if she had something to say, yet she remained silent.

  As mid of night approached, and the waxing crescent moon sank low, Regar lay awake, his face toward the stars wheeling above and glinting down through the long strands of willow. Yet he saw not the leaves nor the celestial display, for his mind was filled with the features of Lisane, his heart quite stolen away.

  He heard a soft step, and turned to see Lisane, the moonlight shining through her filmy negligee.

  With his pulse pounding in his ears, Regar raised up on his elbows. “My lady, I—”

  She knelt and put a finger to his lips. “My prince, I did not tell all I saw in the cards, for early this morn, long ere you arrived, I dealt out what might happen this day, and it seems it has come true.”

  “My lady?”

  Lisane took him by the hands and raised him up. “Come with me. I will show you.” And she led him into her bower.

  32

  Putrescence

  ith the twigs of her besom smoking and threatening to Wburst into flame, down Hradian spiralled toward the town, while the wizard Orbane laughed in glee and crowed, “Not only have I escaped the Great Darkness, I sent a fearsome enemy into that dreadful void.”

  “My lord,” gasped Hradian, “I am too weary to go onward, and my broom needs new willow twigs, else it will fly like nought more than a stick.”

  “Very well, Acolyte, come to rest in the village, for I would have food and drink and entertainment. Too, I would have you stanch my leg.”

  They came to ground in the center of the hamlet, and faces peered out through the windows of the inn, stark with mouths agape. Shocked villagers cried out in fear and rushed into homes and slammed shut the doors, though should the wizard or witch want in, there was nought could be done to stop them.

  Limping slightly, Orbane strode toward the hostel, where a white-lettered but otherwise black sign proclaimed the place to be Le Mur Noir. Hradian followed, though she paused a moment to dunk the glowing end of her besom into the horse trough to extinguish the smoldering twigs. She caught up with her master as he stepped across the porch, the door opening at his gesture. The innkeeper quailed to see the wizard and witch enter his small establishment. He started to bolt but, with whispered word and a casual wave, Orbane arrested his flight. And Hradian ground her teeth in envy, for this was a spell she could not master. Oh, her three sisters could do so, and they had laughed at her pitiful attempts, but the spell was simply beyond her grasp. Even so, she was much better with herbal magery than they, and in turn she had laughed at them.

  “Food and drink, fool,” Orbane snarled at the innkeeper, “for I have had neither lately.”

  Hradian frowned. “My lord?”

  Orbane snorted. “One of the foulnesses of that loathsome castle, Acolyte: neither food nor drink are provided or needed. One cannot enjoy a good meal or a fine vintage, or the simple pleasure of emptying one’s bladder or bowels.”

  Orbane again gestured at the innkeeper. The man jerked about and faced the wizard, and then slumped as he was released.

  “M-my lord,” he stuttered, “I have b-but simple fare: a joint of beef, a flagon of ale, a loaf of bread is all I can provide.”

  “Away, and bring it,” commanded Orbane, and he stepped into the common room.

  Patrons therein blenched as wizard and witch entered. Orbane looked ’round, then gestured. “Out!” he commanded, but then, even as they stood to go, Orbane’s eyes lit up and he said, “Non, wait. Hommes out, femmes remain.”

  The women sat down as the men left, some bolting, others reluctant and in tears yet helpless to do ought else.

  Orbane drew down his trousers. “Acolyte, deal with my leg.”

  Hradian unslung her rucksack and rummaged about within. She withdrew packets of herbs and simples and bandages. Even as she treated his wound, there where the arrow had pierced, she could not help but to glance in anticipation at his now-erect member.

  And when the treatment was done, in between bites of beef and bread and gulps of ale, Orbane swived every femme in the place, some several times.

  And Hradian laughed to see his joyous diversion, and shrieked in pleasure at her own.

  Then Orbane left the inn and began swaggering from house to house.

  At dawn the next morning, the innkeeper delivered a bundle of willow twigs to Hradian. She shed the charred withes from her besom, and bound new unto the shaft. The moment it was ready, she and Orbane took flight, leaving behind a stricken village in which every woman wept.

  Through many twilight bounds they flew and over the lands below as the sun crept up and across the sky and down, and, as the eve drew upon them, Hradian guided her broom o’er the stench of her vast swamp.

  They lit upon the flet of her cottage, and Crapaud plaintively croaked upon his mistress’s return, but seemingly took no note of Orbane.

  “Oui, oui, all right, you may feed at will,” snapped Hradian.

  Crapaud waddled to the edge and fell into the mire.

  Orbane surveyed the immensity of the bog and drew in a deep breath and took in the odor. “Mayhap it will do.” And he gestured down at the undulant surface and up rose a thin tendril of a thick, yellow-green gaseous vapor, motes swirling within. Orbane reached out and touched the miasma with a single finger and lifted it to his nostrils and inhaled. He turned to Hradian and smiled. “You have chosen well, Acolyte. It is virulent, this Sickness lying at the bottom of your swamp. It will be more than enough to accomplish the deed, and then shall I rule. But to begin with, I must reawaken the hatred in my allies of old, and reassemble my armies.”

  Hradian nodded but said, “Yet first, my lord, we must visit revenge upon Valeray and his—”

  “Silence!” roared Orbane.

  Hradian fell to her knees and pressed her hands to her mouth and peered down at his feet.

  Orbane gritted his teeth in rage. “You presume to tell me what I must do?”

  “Non, Master. It’s just that Valeray and his get are allied with the Three Sisters, and—”

  “What? Skuld, Verdandi, and Urd?”

  “Oui, my lord. The Sisters aid them at every turn.”

  “Why did you not tell me this before?” demanded Orbane.

  Hradian pressed her forehead against the flet and mumbled, “Because I am a fool.”

  “Where are they now, this Valeray and his children?”

  “My lord, let me look in my dark mirror, and then will I say.”

  “Very well. Arise and do my bidding.”

  “Oui, Master.”

  Hradian backed away on hands and knees and then stood. She stepped into the cote and too
k up her bowl and filled it with water and in moments peered into ebon depths.

  The next morning again she gazed into the arcane mirror, and then she and Orbane took to flight, on their way to avenge the deaths of the three acolytes and to remove the principal allies of the Fates, but most of all to take revenge for the imprisonment of Orbane.

  33

  Mizon

  Three and a half days after setting out from the Castle of the Seasons, Avélaine and her escort rode into Port Mizon. They had ridden in haste, remounts in tow, the journey taking but half the usual time. Rather than going to her estate, Avélaine headed for the docks. Stopping on a hill above, she saw Vicomte Chevell at the central pier poring over plans and speaking with a number of men. And beyond and anchored in the bay were perhaps a dozen large ships and numerous smaller ones.

  “Merci, Malon, I’ll walk from here; my legs need the stretch after so much time in the saddle,” said Avélaine as she dismounted. “Take the men on to the manor and find food and drink and quarters for a good rest. You and they deserve a day or two with nought to do ere heading back to my father’s manse.”

  The grizzled retainer frowned. “But, Lady Avélaine, how will you—?”

  “Fear not, the vicomte will see me home.”

  Malon touched a hand to his brow, then wheeled his horse, as did his men, and, trailing remounts, they trotted away.

  Down the slope headed Avélaine, yet ere she reached the bottom, one of the men with the vicomte said something to him and pointed. Chevell turned and shaded his eyes, and then broke into a lope toward her, and she ran down the hill toward him.

  He caught her up and whirled her ’round, and rained her face with kisses. “Oh, Avélaine, I missed you so.”

  And after another kiss, this one long and breathtaking, she replied, “I missed you too, my love.”

  He set her to her feet and said, “My eyes are hungry to look at you,” and he held her at arm’s length. ‘’Avélaine, you are so beautiful. Are you weary from the journey?”

  Avélaine laughed. “Do I look that haggard?”