Once Upon a Dreadful Time

by Dennis L McKiernan

  On raced Slate and the pack, and soon they passed the small stone den where the bird-not-bird bitch two-legs had once lived, the den smelling of old char.

  They plunged into the tangle of the long-bad place, the trees twisted and stunted, some shattered, the branches hard and bare and clawlike. And the pack felt the faint itch of the same itch felt when the bird-not-bird bitch two-legs made the master go away on the wind.

  As they emerged from the long-bad place, a nearby Sprite looked out from a plane of ice and then vanished. But Slate ignored the tiny being, except to note it had gone.

  On ran the pack, and as the dawnwise light began to glimmer, they raced up the long slope and onto the flat where the master’s great den sat. And there to greet them stood the master’s two-legs bitch and others of the master’s two-legs pack.

  Michelle knelt and ruffled Slate’s fur, the huge Wolf deigning to be so petted. The remainder of the pack gathered about and waited their turns, some fawning, though Slate stood quite still.

  After she had greeted each Wolf, Michelle signed to the waiting attendants, and they brought buckets of water for the pack to drink. And when all had slaked their thirst, Michelle struck a posture, and then another, and rumbled as best she could, followed by a short whine. Then she murmured to Arnot, “I’ve asked Slate, where’s Borel?”

  With pricked ears and cocked head Slate replied: Where master?

  Michelle looked away and raised her nose to the wind, answering: Not here.

  Slate raised his nose and looked the same direction and whined: Not here?

  Michelle took on another posture and then shifted: Not here. Where Borel?

  Slate emitted a low rumble of disappointment and anger.

  Michelle: Where Borel?

  Slate gave a whine of uncertainty.

  Michelle growled low: Tell.

  Slate: Bird-not-bird bitch two-legs.

  Michelle gave a whine of confusion.

  Slate repeated: Bird-not-bird bitch two-legs.

  Michelle: Whine.

  Slate snorted and flopped down and looked at Dark and rumbled, for his own bitch and her delicate True-People-speak seemed more able to talk with the master’s bitch two-legs.

  Dark struck a single posture: Bitch.

  Michelle replied with a chuff of understanding.

  Again Dark struck a single posture: head low, tail down, eyes fixed straight ahead.

  Michelle frowned, for the posture could mean “bad” or “danger” or ‘’immediate threat” or any number of allied things, depending upon what came before or after. Nevertheless, with her heart sinking, she replied: Chuff.

  Dark: Two-legs.

  Michelle: Chuff.

  Dark: Bird.

  Michelle: Chuff.

  Dark: Not-bird.

  Michelle: Whine.

  Michelle turned to Arnot. “They have told me they do not know where Borel is, and now are trying to tell me something having to do with a bird and peril and a female.”

  Arnot shrugged and then looked at the others standing nigh. “Any suggestions?”

  Men looked at one another, yet none had ought to say.

  Michelle turned back to Dark and whined in puzzlement.

  Dark: Not.

  Michelle again frowned, for this could mean “no” or “not” or “stop” or the like, again depending on context. Michelle replied with a chuff.

  Dark: Not-bird.

  “Ah,” said Michelle, enlightened, followed by Chuff.

  Dark raised her nose high.

  Michelle sighed, for that posture could mean “air” or “wind” or “odor on the wind” or “scent” or other similarities. Chuff.

  And then Dark struck many poses, putting it all together: Bird-not-bird danger bitch two-legs. Master gone. Bad wind.

  With a cry of dismay, Michelle fell to her knees and buried her face in her hands and wept.

  36

  Seers

  It was not yet midmorn when, in the skies above the manors of the Forests of the Seasons, falcons from Valeray’s domain announced their presence and spiralled down to the mews. Waiting attendants detached message capsules and bolted away, while others fetched fresh mice for the raptors.

  In the Springwood, Steward Vidal, his face somber, came onto the training grounds, where Roél looked over the arriving recruits. “My lord,” said Vidal, distress in his voice, “we have received terrible news.” He handed the message to the knight.

  Roél frowned and read and blanched. Shaken, he turned to the captain of the houseguard. “Theon, I leave you in charge until Armsmaster Anton returns. See to the men.” And without another word he spun on his heel and ran toward the manor, Vidal following apace.

  To his quarters hurried Roél, and therein he unracked his armor and—

  “My lord,” asked Vidal, “what is it you plan to do?”

  “Find Céleste and the others,” replied the knight.

  “But you do not know where to search.”

  “I will ride through all of Faery if necessary,” spat Roél.

  Some distance away in the Autumnwood Manor, Luc looked at tall and gaunt Zacharie. “It matters not, Steward, for no matter where Orbane has cast them with his black wind, I will find them.”

  “But, my lord,” said Zacharie, “Faery is said to be an endless place, hence setting out with no knowledge whatsoever will lead to nothing at all.”

  In Summerwood Manor, Blaise glared at grey-haired Lanval. “Then what do you suggest I do?”

  “My lord, nearby is the Lady of the Mere, and she at times gives aid.”

  “And just who is this Lady of the Mere?”

  “A seer, my lord. A seer.”

  In the armory of Winterwood Manor Laurent set down his helm and looked at Michelle. “A seer?”

  Michelle nodded. “Or so the Steward Arnot tells me.”

  Arnot inclined his head. “Vadun lives starwise from here, a day’s journey beyond the blight.”

  “And he will be able to tell us where this black wind of Orbane’s has taken them?”

  Arnot frowned. “He is a dream seer, hence might or might not be able to aid.”

  Michelle said, “ ’Tis better than setting out and searching at random.”

  Roél sighed and reracked his armor. “You are right, Vidal. But where can we find a seer?”

  “I know of four: the Lady of the Mere in the Summerwood; Seer Malgan in the Autumnwood; Vadun, a voyant de rêves in the Winterwood; and Lisane, the Lady of the Bower, yet I am not certain where she lives.”

  “And there is none in the Springwood?”

  “None I know of.”

  “Are there any in Valeray’s domain?”

  Vidal shrugged and turned up his hands.

  “Then we must send falcons to the other manors and bid them to seek out these seers and discover what they can of where Orbane has had our family borne off to.”

  “Ah, me,” said Luc, “my first impulse was to ride out and seek Liaze, yet it seems a hopeless cause without further knowledge. Send for Seer Malgan; mayhap he can give us aid. In the meanwhile, there is a war to plan, yet once my father takes command of the army—”

  “But, my lord, will he not need you to lead the Autumnwood battalion?”

  Luc sighed. “Truelove versus the good of the many, a terrible choice to make.”

  Blaise looked at Lanval. “Where do I find this Lady of the Mere?”

  Lanval slowly shook his head. “She only appears at dawn, and she does not come at just anyone’s beck, and things must be quite dire, else she appears not.”

  Blaise spread his arms wide and gestured about. “The king, queen, princes, and princesses ripped away on a black wind. What is more dreadful than that?”

  “Orbane,” replied Lanval gravely. “The wizard is a good deal more terrible, for he threatens all of Faery and not just King Valeray and Queen Saissa and their get and Princess Camille and wee Prince Duran.”

  Blaise slammed a fist into palm. “Bloody Orbane!�
�� He turned to the steward and said, “Oh, Lanval, ’tis the wont of knights to ride to the rescue, and yet for the moment I and my brothers and Prince Luc cannot. And even did we know where they were, still we are faced with an ill choice, for there is Orbane and his armies we must defeat.”

  “My lord, I suggest you remain at the manor and see to the planning of the war. On morrow’s dawn I will go to the mere; mayhap she will come at my call.”

  Michelle gazed out a window slit at the snow. “With Orbane on the loose it means that Raseri and Rondalo did not succeed.”

  Arnot nodded and said, “Oui, my lady, they did not, yet mayhap they are still on the hunt. ’Tis another thing a seer might be able to answer.”

  Michelle sighed. “Very well, then, Arnot, have Armsmaster Jules ride in haste to Vadun and pose him our questions. Mayhap in spite of the fact that this mage is a voyant de rêves he can shed light on Raseri and Rondalo and on where Orbane’s black wind took my Borel and the others; to his Troll holes or the dungeons of one of his many castles, I imagine, and none knows where they all are. In the meanwhile, send messages to the remaining manors and have them also seek the aid of seers.”

  “Oui, m’lady,” replied the steward.

  When Arnot was gone, Michelle said, “And you, sieur knight, have a war to plan.”

  “As you command,” said Laurent, and he, too, stepped away from the chamber.

  Michelle looked long out through the slit at the black and white forest touched with subtle shades of grey. Finally, she took a deep breath and turned and strode from the armory.

  Once Borel came to rescue me, and then his Wolves saved us both. It is time I returned the favor to my love, and once again the pack will aid.

  Down the hall she trod, pausing long enough to take up a warm cloak. Then she stepped through a doorway and into the wintry ’scape beyond. At the edge of the woods she found the pack at rest, and she singled out Dark. Michelle struck postures and voiced growls Borel had said she might one day need:

  Michelle: I want learn all Wolfspeak.

  Dark: Master’s bitch want all True-People-speak?

  Michelle: All.

  Dark looked at Slate, and he raised his head and rumbled his unconcern and then laid his chin back on his paws.

  And so, slowly and laboriously, with many mistakes and many repeats, as well as many long work-arounds until the new word was understood, in spite of the fact that this two-legs had no tail and could not move her ears or raise any hackles, the bitch Dark began teaching Master’s bitch the words of the True People.

  37

  Changeling

  Nigh the noontide on the second day after the black wind had hurled her cursed enemies away to their doom, Hradian spiralled down toward a dark tower looming up from amid a cluster of stone buildings clutched among massifs and crags in dark mountains high. A long and steep roadway twisted up from the foothills below to disappear within an archway marking a passage through the wall surrounding the structures entire.

  “We are here, my lord,” said Hradian.

  “I am not blind, Acolyte,” growled Orbane as he peered downward. The lesser buildings, their roofs all connected, surrounded the broad, square-based, tall edifice. But there gaped an opening among the buildings, revealing a small plaza before the entrance to the tower. “That courtyard is where we’ll alight.”

  “Oui, my lord,” replied Hradian, and she headed toward the square. As she descended, Hradian added, “There are no Changelings about, Lord Orbane. The place looks abandoned.”

  “Bah, Acolyte. This is the seat of power in this realm. There will be someone to greet us.”

  Down into a deserted stone courtyard they settled, and before them at the foot of the tower an enshadowed opening yawned. Dismounting, Orbane said, “Come, Acolyte, let us see just who is the new Changeling Lord.” And toward the entry he strode, Hradian scuttling after.

  Into a long empty corridor they went and toward the far end, where stood a massive door flung wide. They passed a swath of something lying dark upon the hallway floor, something that might have once been a thick, oozing puddle, now long dried. Orbane paused and peered at it. “Grume,” he sneered, “the remains of a Changeling,” and then strode onward, the blackness crackling underfoot.

  Hradian stepped wide of the patch that had once been a shape-shifting being and scurried after her master.

  Through the doorway they went, turning rightward and toward the distant throne chamber, where long past Orbane had faced Morgrif, then the Lord of the Changelings. But Morgrif had refused to hew to Orbane’s cause, for there was nought of significance the Changeling Lord would have gained in such a venture. And so Orbane had gone away enraged, for Changelings would have greatly enhanced his armies, shapeshifters that they were.

  To either side open doorways showed room after room furnished with tables and chairs and cabinets and lounges and other such. In none were the fireplaces lit, and a layer of fine dust coated all.

  They passed a chamber where on the wall a huge celestial astrolabe slowly turned, the large disks of the golden sun and silver moon and the smaller disks of the five wandering stars—red, blue, yellow, green, and white—all crept in great circular paths. Black and silver was the lunar disk, echoing the current gibbous state of the waxing moon. But on they strode, did Orbane and Hradian, not pausing to marvel at this splendid device.

  Past more doorways they went, and as they came to a cross corridor, “Hsst!” murmured Orbane, signaling for silence.

  From leftward, drifting along this passage, came the cadent sounds of chanting, rising and falling in pitch.

  Orbane smiled. “Acolyte, I think we hear the whinings of the new Lord of the Changelings.”

  Leftward he stepped, and Hradian gasped, “My lord, be wary.”

  Orbane stopped and slowly turned and glared at her, and she fell to her knees and groveled.

  Then he laughed, and took up the pace again, leaving Hradian to scramble after.

  Down the passage ahead, an archway glowed, and, as Orbane approached, the sound of chanting grew.

  At last the wizard and witch came to the entry, and it led into a grand room bare of furniture, with a great, round skylight centered overhead: the main source of illumination in the chamber, though candles also cast a glow. The marble floor was dark with long-dried puddles: the mingled remains of many slain Changelings. And on the floor as well lay a bundle of black rags wrapped about a desiccated corpse. Yet these things did not interest Orbane, for there with his back to the door, at the center of the chamber in the midst of a circle engraved in the floor with five black candles ringed ’round, each joined by five straight lines forming an enclosed pentagonal shape, a manlike being stood with his arms upraised, and he chanted, as if invoking some great spell.

  In that moment there came an anguished cry from Hradian, and a clatter as she dropped her broom. Past Orbane she darted and across the dried puddles of dead Changelings and to the corpse on the floor. “Nefasí!” she shrieked as she dropped to her knees next to her long-dead sister.

  In the pentagram the being whirled about, his chant cut short, and a dark shimmering came over him and of a sudden he was no longer there but instead stood as a massive Ogre.

  Eighteen feet tall, the monster roared and raised huge taloned hands to attack, but with a casual gesture, Orbane stopped the Ogre in its tracks, the creature unable to move.

  To one side Hradian wailed, and she clutched the corpse in her arms and rocked back and forth in seeming agony. And she kissed the parchmentlike lips, skin sluffing to the floor in response.

  Again Orbane made a gesture, and silence fell within the room, though Hradian yet rocked and howled, but no sound whatsoever seeped beyond the tight, encircling bounds of Orbane’s spell.

  Once more Orbane turned to the Ogre. “I will set you free, but only if you shift back to your lesser self.” He twitched a finger and added, “Do you agree? You may nod.”

  Slowly and with effort the Ogre nodded, and
Orbane said, “I warn you,” and then he made another gesture.

  The Ogre’s tense muscles slumped, and its hands dropped to its side, and a darkness shimmered over the gigantic form, and a manlike being stood where the Ogre had been. Dressed in black, slender he was and tall and dark-haired, and his fingers were long and tapered. His eyes were deep gray and his features hawklike, much like those of the former Changeling Lord slain, or even of Orbane himself.

  “That’s better,” said Orbane. “Now give me your name.”

  The man glanced from Orbane to Hradian and then back again. “Effroi.”

  “Terror, you say?” Orbane laughed. “Well, Effroi, I am Orbane.”

  “Orbane!” blurted Effroi, his dark eyes wide in astonishment. “But he is, I mean, you are, that is, in the Castle of Shadows—”

  “I was, but am no longer, Effroi.”

  Orbane then looked at the circle and the black candles and the pentagon. “What is it you were trying to do?”

  For a moment it seemed as if Effroi would not speak, but at last he said, “I was trying to recover the cloak of my sire.”

  Orbane smiled unto himself. “Morgrif was your sire, then.” His words were not a question.

  “Oui,” said Effroi.

  “And this cloak?”

  Again Effroi hesitated before answering. Finally he said, “It contains the power of the Changeling Lord.”

  “Ah, I see. And who has it now?”

  “The Queen of the Changelings.”

  “Your mère, I take it?”

  “Oui. She will not yield it to me, the rightful heir.”

  “And you want this cloak because . . . ?”

  “With it I can fetch mortal virgins and keep my people strong.”

  Orbane smiled. “Ah, and these mortal virgins, you plow them yourself and sow your seed?”

  Effroi jerked a nod.

  “Why not merely take the cloak from the queen?”

  “Her magic is too powerful, and she insists that we woo these mortal women instead of taking what is rightfully ours in our traditional manner.”