Once Upon a Dreadful Time

by Dennis L McKiernan

  The debate had gone on, yet Michelle had been adamant, and finally Arnot yielded. And so she had practiced with her bow, and had run with the Wolves, and every day had become more fluent in their speech.

  Laurent could see the worth of having Wolves to reconnoiter, for he knew the value of good scouts. Even so, he would not have Michelle endangering herself. But she pointed out that no one else could speak their tongue; she also maintained she could remain somewhat at a distance while the Wolves did the work of reconnaissance. In the end Laurent threw up his hands and gave way as well.

  And so she ran with the grey hunters in daylight and moonlight as well as the twilight of dusk and dawn. And she told them what she planned.

  They agreed, for they would have Borel back at the side of his cub-smart two-legs bitch.

  It was at the end of one of these runs, when Michelle heard the sound of a clarion. Wolves pricked up their ears and gazed sunwise.

  Slate: Two-legs call. Tall four-legs run.

  Michelle: How many four-legs?

  Slate: Two.

  Michelle had learned that the Wolves had their own numbering method, six levels in all: one, two, four, more, small herd, big herd.

  Michelle: We run.

  And she and the pack began trotting toward the manor.

  After she had read the message, Michelle turned to Arnot and Laurent and Jules and said, “Well then, it seems there will be a war after all.”

  The men nodded solemnly, including the courier from Chevell.

  “Let us get the word to all the men throughout the Winterwood. Too, we need alert the Sprites in other realms to be on the watch for Orbane’s army on the march, for we will need to intercept his force, wherever it is bound. Also, we need to make certain that our allies in other realms know of this, and to rally under Valeray’s flag when we choose a place to rendezvous.”

  “That will be difficult, my lady,” said Armsmaster Jules.

  “How so?”

  “The twilight borders of Faery are tricky, to say the least. And wherever it is that it seems Orbane has decided to march, he can simply change his crossing point a minor amount and be headed somewhere else entirely.”

  “Then the Sprites must be at their best to keep us informed,” said Michelle.

  She glanced at Laurent, and he said, “This fighting in Faery is not like anything I have e’er done before, and so I depend upon you to get me and the army to the battle, for ’tis in combat that I know how and what to do.”

  Michelle nodded and said, “Arnot, Laurent, Jules, here is what I propose: have all armsmasters meet with Luc, for he is of Faery, while Sieur Émile and his sons are not. Hence, Luc should be more familiar with the ‘trickiness’ of the twilight borders as well as to the shifts in direction Orbane might employ. He and the armsmasters must come up with a plan not only for organizing the Sprites and finding our way, but also for tracking Orbane and his army so that we might intercept them. And when we do, it must be at a place to take advantage of the terrain, whether it be the high ground or an ambush or by meeting them in a narrow lieu, or anywhere we have the edge.” Michelle paused a moment in thought. “Too, Arnot, see that my sire gets Chevell’s message as well.”

  Even as Arnot said “Oui,” the courier said, “My lady, Prince Roél was to inform Sieur Émile.”

  “Indeed,” replied Michelle, “yet if that courier is delayed or worse . . .” Michelle paused, then turned to Arnot. “In fact, send falcons with Chevell’s words to all manors as well as the castle, for who knows what Orbane might have done?”

  “As you will, my lady,” said Arnot, and then he and the men withdrew.

  She sighed and peered into the flames of the hearthfire, yet she did not attend to ought there. Instead her mind turned toward the future and wondered what it would bring.

  That night, in between snatches of restless sleep, Michelle tossed and turned and tried to get comfortable, yet it seemed she could not. Finally, she arose from her bed and padded to a window and threw wide the shutters. In the cold bracing wind, she peered out on the bright ’scape, the full moon above shining down. And running through her sleepless mind was the question she’d been gnawing upon all eve: Who knows what Orbane might have done?

  And where are Raseri and Rondalo? Why haven’t they—Oh, Mithras, what if Orbane caused a dread wind to carry the Drake and Elf away? Mayhap that’s why we’ve not heard from them, and surely we should have by now. Are they, too, trapped in the Great Darkness beyond the Black Wall of the World?

  Michelle did not sleep again that night.

  43

  Throngs

  Under dark, brooding skies sped Hradian, to come in among snow-laden mountains, their grim jagged crags and rearing massifs looming all ’round. The peaks marched away beyond seeing toward starwise and dawnwise and duskwise bounds, and seldom did outside folk come this way, and then only if they were desperate, for this was the Chaine Maléfique, and herein did dreadful Trolls live. Yet Hradian felt no fear of these monsters, for, along with other dire folk, they were her allies. Besides, Orbane was with her, and he could easily keep them at bay.

  Deeper into the bleak mountains she flew, until at last she espied her goal. Then down she spiralled and down, down toward a large gape of a cavern below, the opening yawning wide. She came to ground at the entrance, where she and Orbane dismounted. And standing just inside the mouth hulked an enormous being. Hideous, he was, and massive, some nine foot tall or so. And all about him was a terrible miasma, a rotting stench, like a burst-open animal lying days dead in a hot summer sun. He was dressed in greasy hides, and he had yellow eyes and green-scummed tusks that showed as he bared his teeth at the appearance of this twain.

  As Hradian and Orbane started for the entrance, “Stanna!” demanded the Troll in a guttural growl.

  Orbane paid him no heed and strode on. “Stoppa!” roared the huge creature.

  Still Orbane trod forward, and the Troll stepped in front of the wizard.

  Orbane muttered a word and made a gesture, and the monster stood rooted in place.

  “Acolyte, I lend you a meager portion of my might; you may destroy this creature for trying to bar my way.”

  “My lord, is that—?” Hradian’s words chopped short as she realized she was about to ask him if it were “wise.” Instead, she pushed an upturned clawlike hand out toward the chest of the Troll and, with nearly orgasmic power pulsing through her, as if she were squeezing something, she slowly closed her fingers.

  The Troll groaned but once, its face turning gray, and then it crashed down at her feet, dead ere it hit the stone.

  On into the cavern strode Orbane, with a floating globe of arcane light preceding him and Hradian scurrying after. Twisting and turning, they followed the way as it wrenched deeper into the darkness. But at last they came to a torchlit hall, a number of Trolls therein, the stench nearly unbearable. And on an upraised dais and in a massive chair of stone sat one larger than the rest.

  “Bolock!” called Orbane.

  The Troll’s yellow eyes flew wide in astonishment. “Lord Orbane?”

  Orbane laughed. “Indeed, my old ally. And I have come to tell you that this time we will not fail.”

  Bolock turned to the other Trolls and snarled, “Down, fools! Can you not see Lord Orbane has returned?”

  As Trolls groveled on the stone cavern floor, Orbane stepped to the dais.

  Bolock grinned, his great tusks a dingy green in the yellow torchlight, and he said, “But I thought you were trapped in the—”

  “I was, but I escaped.”

  Behind Orbane, Hradian’s shoulders sagged, for it was she who had got her lord free, and yet he gave her no credit. Still, she understood that if the minions thought he had escaped on his own, then they would think him even greater than anyone could imagine. Nevertheless, she desired the praise that would come with recognition.

  “I have a new plan, Bolock,” said Orbane, “one that your throng will share in, and the rewards you and your
like will reap will be unimaginable. . . .”

  Over the next fortnight, Hradian ferried Orbane thither and yon throughout portions of Faery, where he exhorted his allies of old to gather from far and near. They went to the great grasslands to enlist the Serpentines and their scaled, cloven-hoofed steeds; to the hills to gather up the Goblins; to the swamps to command the Bogles to heed the call; and to other domains as well. Most immediately joined Orbane’s cause; some delayed their decisions; still others refused him outright, those who were powerful enough to tell him no. The congress of Wyverns were among those who rejected Orbane’s demand, their flames smoldering as a warning to the wizard that if he tried to use his powers they would incinerate him; although Orbane could have immobilized them, still he would not make enemies of these powerful creatures, and so he left in a rage of frustration.

  Orbane did not approach some beings, for he knew they would not ally themselves with him, such as Lord Dread, who was the leader of the Wild Hunt. Neither did Orbane speak to such creatures as the Pooka, or Corpse-candles, or the Spriggans, and other such. For although some of those were deadly, still he needed an army for his plan, and they simply would not do, for some were wild, others stubborn, some cowardly, and still others independent with agendas of their own, hence would not yield to his command.

  And after each meeting, as the witch flew the wizard toward the next goal, Orbane laughed at what fools these dolts were, expecting he would reward them. “No, no, Acolyte, my plan will rain chaos not only over all of Faery, but the mortal world as well. And as both the wise and the unwise alike flounder about in such madness, I will become master of all.”

  And so, from many parts of Faery, long marches began, dreadful allies all heading for a rendezvous with their lord and master. Bearing flails and cudgels and barbed spears and other such brutish weaponry, they came. And in the beginning, each croft and hamlet and village and town they encountered they pillaged and raped and slaughtered and burned. In their wake they left nought but ruins, and men slain and women murdered and half-eaten corpses of children torn asunder. Soon every dwelling or ville they came to they found abandoned, the inhabitants run away to hide in the hills or the forest or in other surround. Even so, the deserted steads and towns did not survive.

  And in the temperate lands, from the screening foliage of nearby woodland trees and bushes and from the concealing stalks of field grasses, tiny beings followed the dreadful progress and noted the lines of the march, and soon wee Sprites went winging toward distant goals, while in the frozen realms, Ice Sprites watched long moments and then flashed away.

  44

  Geas

  When her silver mirror went black, Gloriana staggered and fell weak, nearly swooning, and Auberon scooped her up in his arms and bore her to her bed, all the while calling for her ladies-in-waiting. He knelt at the bedside and took her hand in his and chafed her wrist and whispered to her, but what he said, Regar knew not. First one and then another and then two more Fairy maidens came rushing in. “My king,” said the first, “we will attend her now.” After a hesitant moment, Auberon kissed the queen’s fingers and stood and motioned to Regar, and together they stepped from the room.

  “I’m afraid it came as a great shock to her, to us both,” said Auberon as they walked down the corridor. “We each thought him safe, locked away as he was, in the Castle of Shadows.”

  “My lord,” said Regar as they entered another chamber, “the Wizard Orbane is your son?”

  Glumly, Auberon nodded. “Blood of my loins, as is your mother.”

  “And yet you raised your armies against him in the last war.”

  “Oui. He had to be stopped, and without my aid it could not have been done . . . or rather, it could not have been done in time. I and the others delayed him until a solution could be found. Little did we know that two thieves would provide the key to defeating my son.”

  “Two thieves?”

  “Valeray and Roulan.”

  “Valeray? Of Le Coeur de les Saisons?”

  At Auberon’s nod, Regar said, “But he is now a king.”

  “Oui, and Roulan is now a duke. ’Twas their rewards for the part they played in the war, for they are the ones who stole the amulets that brought Orbane down. My son’s own magic did him in, just as foreseen by Lisane.”

  “Lisane? You know Lisane?”

  “Oui. A lovely Elfmaiden she is.”

  Regar’s eyes flew wide in startlement. “Elfmaiden? Lisane is an Elf?”

  Auberon frowned. “You know Lisane?”

  Regar’s gaze softened. “She is my truelove.”

  “And yet you did not recognize her as an Elf?”

  “I have not had dealings with Elves,” said Regar.

  Auberon laughed. “Ah, my petit-fils, did you not see her faint golden hue, much the same as yours?”

  “But my own mère had a hint of d’or about her, and so I thought it but natural.”

  Auberon smiled and said, “ ’Tis the glimmer of both Fairies and Elves, for we are much the same.”

  The intimate room they had entered was lit with soft light. A sofa and two comfortable chairs centered about a low table formed a conversation pit, and on a sideboard sat glasses and a crystal decanter filled with a deep ruby-red wine. At Auberon’s gesture, Regar took one of the chairs, while the Fairy King poured a bit of the liquid into each of two goblets. He handed one to Regar and kept the other for himself and sat in the chair opposite.

  Flic said I was to take neither food nor drink, for—

  “Fear not, Grandson,” said Auberon, with a smile. “I have not magicked the liqueur. Besides, I am not certain it would work against you, Fairy-blooded as you are. You may safely drink.”

  Regar hesitated but a fraction, and then took a sip. A warm glow slid down his throat and into his chest.

  “It is made from bluebells and blackberries,” said Auberon, sipping his own. “An old family recipe, very old. Someday I’ll tell you how ’tis done.”

  An amiable silence fell between them, one that could not last, for dreadful events were afoot. Finally Regar said, “Well then, Grand-père, your only son, my mother’s half-brother, my own demi-oncle, is now loose, and once again there will be war. Will you aid this time? Raise your armies and oppose your own son?”

  Auberon sighed. “Oui, I must, for to do otherwise leads to chaos.”

  Regar nodded. “And will you and your good Fairies oppose him with your magic?”

  “We cannot,” said Auberon.

  “You cannot?”

  “Non. Gloriana has laid an unbreakable geas upon us all, herself included, and, by her fiat, neither Fairy magic nor Elven magic can be used to oppose her son.”

  “What of his armies? Can you use your numinous powers against them?”

  Auberon’s shoulders sagged. “Not while they protect Orbane. The queen’s love for her only child has tied our hands, and our magic cannot oppose him . . . nor aid him, for that matter. No Fey magic whatsoever can be used.”

  “But you can fight his armies with sword and spear and such?”

  “Oui, though we cannot bring them to bear against Orbane himself. As I said, the queen has tied our hands.”

  Regar frowned in puzzlement. “But, if Elven magic cannot be used against Orbane, then how is it in times gone that Lisane, an Elfmaiden, was able to see his downfall? And of recent she has read the taroc and again sees looming a great struggle, though this time not how it will end.”

  “Her magic is not in direct opposition, for it only speaks of possible outcomes and not sureties.”

  “I see,” said Regar. They sat in silence for a moment, but then Regar took a deep breath. “My lord, would you stop someone who is neither Elf nor Fairy from taking your son’s life?”

  A tear slowly slid down Auberon’s face, and he tried to speak, but could not. He looked at Regar in agony, and finally turned his face away.

  “You would not oppose?”

  At last Auberon found his voice enough to c
hoke out, “I would not.”

  He would let others slay his son, though they can be neither Fairies nor Elves. And given the geas of Gloriana, I wonder if I, with Auberon’s blood flowing in my veins, though dilute, can raise my sword or loose an arrow against their only son, my oncle, evil though he is. And if not I, then who, I wonder, will dare do the deed and reap the wrath of the Fairy Queen?

  45

  Compass

  y lady?” A lithe handmaiden bearing a glass-chimneyed “Mcandle crossed the chamber to come to the side of the bed.

  Michelle struggled up from the tangle of blankets. “Oui, Amelie.”

  “My lady, Steward Anton and Sieur Laurent stand at the door.”

  Michelle swung her feet out from under the covers and caught up her robe. “Light candles, Amelie, and give me a moment, then let them in.”

  Shock registered on Amelie’s face. “Into your boudoir, my lady?”

  “Oui, Amelie, into my boudoir.”

  The princess stepped into her private bathing chamber and relieved herself, then splashed water upon her face to drive out the last dregs of sleep and took up a towel and blotted dry. When she stepped back into the bedchamber, Amelie stood by the door, and, at a signal from Michelle, the demure handmaiden, with blood rising to her face, summoned the two men in.

  “Princess,” said Anton, bowing, Laurent at his side bowing as well.

  “We would not have disturbed you,” said the steward, “but the Ice Sprites bring ill news.”

  “Ill news?”

  “Oui. It seems a great army of Trolls is on the march.”

  “Where?”

  “In the Chaine Maléfique.”

  Michelle nodded, for the Baleful Range was well entwined within the lore of Faery. “Whence are they bound?”

  “Ah, my lady, that we cannot say, for with the twilight marges, a minor shift in where they cross could lead them somewhere altogether different.”