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, Roél’s spear was lost to another of the foe, but Roél 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 mêlée 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 shrieked 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 Émile 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.
51
March
Under the flare of lightning and the judder of thunder raging in the black skies above, from the ridge Émile 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.
Léon 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 Léon nodded but said, “Either that, or the terrible cloud has destroyed all.”
“It is the Sickness,” said Peti.
“Sickness?” asked Émile.
“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.”
Émile turned to her. “Non?”
“Non.”
“Then what other use could he possibly have for such a dreadful thing?”
Michelle glanced from Luc to Émile 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 Émile.
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 Ta
pestry 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 Émile, “—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.”
Roél 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 Roél,” 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 Émile 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 Émile, but to the headwaters instead, for from there he could foul the river its entire length.”
“Mais oui,” said Émile, 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 Émile,” said Léon, “we must needs somehow foil Orbane’s plan.”
“But our forces are devastated,” said Bailen.
“Nevertheless,” said Léon.
“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 Émile.
“The armsmasters are taking the tally now,” said Léon.
Émile 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 Émile, and he said, “When and if they begin to move, we must know which route they take, and 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?”
Émile 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 Léon 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 Émile, “the throng marches, the Sickness moves, they are faring through the hills a point to dusk of sunwise.”
“Is that the way toward the River of Time?”
“Oui, Sieur, it is.”
Émile jumped to his feet and summoned his bugler. “Sound the alert, for we march.”
As planned, they left their wounded behind, along with a chirurgeon and three healers, with instructions for the lesser of the hurt to aid with the greater. Too, one of the Sprites remained with them to guide the mule-drawn wains through the shadowlight bounds on their way to a goodly sized distant town.
All in the force that went sunwise were mounted on horses, with mules and asses in the train. And in haste they travelled the first day, and soon they were beyond the marching throng and the Sickness, and then the allies turned on the course pointed out by the Sprites.
That evening they came to the twilight border, and when they passed through, they emerged under clear skies, where the blackness and lightning and thunder had been left behind. And here did they gain another six hundred men who were on their way to the mire, for that was where the rendezvous had been called. Yet they turned their march toward the goal set by Émile: the headwaters of the River of Time.
As Orbane moved across the land, once the Sickness had cleared the morass, where it flowed it destroyed all plants as well as the animals—those that did not flee—leaving nought but wither and sere behind.
The following day, Orbane and his throng reached the sunwise border, and here it was that once again the wizard commanded the witch to lend him her power. And he cast a great spell, and then ordered the march to continue, and when they went through the twilight bound, so, too, did the thundering skies above as well as the pollution below.
Hradian had known that shadowlight borders are tricky, and usually a storm or blowing air and rivers and other such oft did not flow across as would a traveler go but appear somewhere else altogether. And although birds in the air passed through twilight marges much the same as did people, the air itself did not; instead it blew elsewhere. In contrast, fish and other aquatic creatures seemed to remain within the stream and flow through wherever the water went—though that was not the case with boats. And so, when Orbane had cast his spell and had caused the Sickness and the black skies to pass through as he had wished—first starting the darkness across, then his throng, followed by himself and Hradian and the corruption, with the remainder of the darkness following after—it had taken great magic indeed, and Hradian could but marvel at his power.
Just on the opposite side, a battalion of Goblins joined them—Dunters all, it seems.
And so the army marched, as did the throng, and each took on new recruits as across the realms they went. But as to Orbane, nought but barren soil was left along the wide, wide track of the dreadful pall.
Under the hollow hills, at last Auberon pronounced all was ready, and Regar was given a fine horse and glittering armor, as well as a new bronze sword and a long-knife and a long lance pointed on both ends. But he kept his own bow and quiver, though the Fey Lord filled it with arrows he said would not miss.
And the Fairy army—three tho
usand strong—rode up and out from the mounds, with arms and armor flashing in the sunlight of early morn and small silver bells ringing ajingle upon the caparisons of magnificent, prancing steeds.
And then did Flic and Fleurette and Buzzer join Regar, and Flic said, “Oh, my prince, we thought you trapped, thought that you had eaten food or taken drink and would be caught for a millennia or more.”
Regar looked at them in puzzlement. “Thought me trapped? I was under the hill for but a mere day.”
“No, my lord,” said Fleurette, “you have been under the mound for nearly two moons altogether.”
“Two moons?”
“Just two days shy.”
Alarmed, Regar turned to Auberon. “We must ride, my lord, else we will be too late.”
Auberon lifted his silver horn and sounded a long cry. And the Fairy horses leapt forward, Auberon leading the way.
52
Gap
Some seven thousand strong the allies now marched, for they had collected additional warbands along the way. And as they tramped toward a distant goal, “Look ahead, my lord,” said Léon to Luc.
“I see it,” said the prince, “and surely so has Sieur Émile.”
To the fore stood a craggy mountain range, and the Sprites led the army toward a gap in the chain.
“It seems quite narrow,” said Léon.
“We are yet at a distance, Léon, and no doubt it will be wider when we get there.”
Léon barked a laugh, even as he nodded in agreement.
They rode onward, and shortly there came a page to summon them to Émile’s side. Forward they spurred, and soon they reached the vanguard, and within a quarter candlemark all the commanders had arrived.
“Should it be a suitable lieu, I deem we can make a stand in yon slot,” said Émile, raising his voice so that all could hear.
“If we do so, my lord,” said Captain Valodet, a newcomer and commander of four hundred horse, “we might not be able to flank them.”
“Oui, Captain, we might not. Yet on the other hand, they might not be able to flank us either.”
Once Upon a Dreadful Time Page 30