“I will guide,” said Raseri.
“But shouldn’t we fly ahead?” asked Rondalo, still astride.
Borel laughed. “If these colts run as fast as does their sire, then it will be all you can do to keep up.”
“Pah!” snorted Raseri. “Let us test your words.”
And so all mounted up, Camille and Duran and Scruff together upon one of the colts, and just as the limb of the morning sun broke across the rim of the world, away they all flew, Raseri in the air above, Asphodel’s colts galloping across the lands below.
Although they were headed for the linn of the River of Time, Camille fretted, deeply concerned: Did we soon enough discover the way out of the Castle of Shadows, or—Oh, Mithras—are we already too late?
55
Crucible
Beneath the black skies in the uncertain dawn, from a distant knoll on the valley floor Sieur Émile and his commanders watched by lightning flash the stirrings of the distant throng. It was the morning after the foe had hammered the allies out from the pass to come down into the wide valley, shortly after followed by the dreadful Sickness. Night had then fallen, and each of the combatants had stopped to rest. But now it was morning, and once again Émile and his leadership assessed what was to be done.
Émile sighed and turned to Auberon and asked, “Where lies this River of Time?”
The Fey Lord pointed to the far side of the vale. “Beyond yon crest, out from this dale and into the next, there’s where the river flows.”
Émile frowned. “But you have turned us starwise . . . along the course of this valley. Should we not instead ride up and over?”
Auberon shook his head. “Non, for we cannot find the river that way, and even if we could, we would then intercept the course downstream of the headwaters.”
Laurent, his bandaged arm in a makeshift sling, said, “But where is the problem, my lord? Can we not simply turn upstream and follow the river back to the source?”
Auberon shook his head. “Non, Sieur Laurent, for only the Fates and mayhap ghosts can go against the flow of time, whereas we can only move with it. Try otherwise and the river itself will vanish, and we’ll not reach the wellspring. Instead, we must go some four leagues or so up this valley ere crossing over, and then turn sunwise to come upon the beginning. It is in fact the only way to reach the River of Time, for it can only be found by coming upon the source. Oh, perhaps there is another way, but, if so, I know it not.”
Luc said, “If that is how one must reach the river, by starting at the fount, then that’s why you turned us starwise, and I take it that Orbane has to do the same.”
Auberon nodded and said, “Oui, for there is no other way.”
“Four leagues from here to there? That’s all?” asked Roél. “Then Orbane is nigh upon realizing his goal.”
Blaise turned to his father and said, “Sire, let us send for the Firsts, for surely this is the last gasp.”
Émile looked to Auberon, and the Fey Lord sighed and said, “I agree. And though they will not arrive here soon, it is time they came.”
Luc said, “Though we are sore beset and few, if we continue to fiercely battle with Orbane’s throng, mayhap we can delay him until the Firsts get here.”
Roél on the far side of Sieur Émile nodded in agreement and said, “Let us make Orbane fight for every inch of the way and hope the Firsts come ere we are fordone.”
“We can do so,” said Auberon, “yet I think not even with their aid shall we long stem Orbane’s march.”
“Then I will call for the Sprites to tell the Firsts to come,” said Émile.
Auberon shook his head and reached for the silver clarion at his side. “By the time the Sprites can fetch them, they will most certainly be too late. Instead, I will summon them with my horn.”
But as the Fey Lord started to raise the trump to his lips, there came a horn cry echoing down the valley, and the riders turned, and starwise up the dale there came marching an army of men.
“Who can that be?” asked Laurent.
Regar and a rider, accoutered in a blue tabard marked with a silver sunburst, came galloping up the slope of the knoll to skid to a halt next to Émile. “Sieur,” said the sunburst-marked rider, “Duke Roulan sends his compliments. He says to tell you he brings four thousand men, of which sixty-five are knights.”
“Roulan? Michelle’s father?” asked Laurent.
“Oui,” replied the rider. “She is with him now.”
“Four thousand men; sixty-five chevaliers,” said Luc. “I deem this betters our chance of delaying Orbane until the Firsts arrive.”
Auberon nodded, and again raised his horn to his lips, and this time he sounded a call, though none there heard ought but a breath of air expelled.
“Now they will come,” said the Fey Lord.
Away from the Black Wall of the World ran the seven Fairy steeds, silver bells sounding the way, a single rider upon each but for the one who bore a mother and child and a sparrow. Above flew Raseri the Drake, and astraddle the base of the Dragon’s neck rode Rondalo, the Elven lord carrying his bow and lance.
O’er the hills and tors ran the mounts, the slopes and crags themselves no barriers to these chargers, and then straight into the woodlands they sped, slowing down not one whit, for the Fairy horses careened like swift zephyrs weaving among the boles of the trees.
Of a sudden, Raseri and Rondalo each cocked their heads attentively. “The Fairy Lord summons us,” said the Elf.
“Indeed,” replied Raseri, for both he and Rondalo were counted among the Firsts.
Above rivers and streams the Dragon flew, while below silver-shod hooves left nought but ripples ringing outward in their wake.
They came to a twilight border and plunged straight through, and Raseri groaned, for directly below were nought but the waves of a great wide sea. Yet, lo! the Fairy horses ran atop the water itself. And both Drake and Elf could hear the ringing laughter of little Duran below, as across the billows the steeds galloped without pause.
Armed with fresh arrows brought by Duke Roulan and quarrels for their large crossbows, the allies watched as the throng came boiling onward, and behind the foe flowed the Sickness, a vast cloud spread across the entire width of the valley, and it left nought but sterile and barren soil in its wake as it poured across the plant and animal life. Somewhere in the midst of this contamination marched Orbane, with Hradian at his side. And as the men and Fey looked on they saw that the ranks of the enemy had swollen, for in the night more Goblins and Serpentines had come, as well as Bogles and Trolls. And once again the allies were sorely outnumbered—seven to one at best; ten to one at worst.
Regar sighed and asked, “Is there no limit to the numbers of these foul creatures?”
“Were we in the mortal world,” said Lord Roulan, “then I would say yea; yet here in Faery, I think the answer might be nay.”
“What I don’t understand,” said Blaise, “is why doesn’t Orbane simply use that terrible cloud to drive us away? I mean, why fight battles? Why have a throng at all?”
“Because he is wary,” said Auberon. “For we might have some weapon or potion or device that would permit us to breach the miasma. He uses the throng to protect him on his march; to him they are nought but chaff. Even so, it swells his pride to have command over such beings.”
The warriors stood waiting, while knights sat their horses, as did the cavalry. Once again the chevaliers were assigned the task of dealing with the Trolls, while the cavalry would take on the Serpentines.
Howling wordless yawls, the front ranks of the throng charged, yet the archers and crossbowmen stood ready, but they flew no shafts.
On came the Goblins and Bogles and Trolls, and the Serpentines swept wide, for it was their intent to attack the allies from the rear, and this time Luc’s cavalry would not take them by surprise.
At last the Fey Lord cried, “Loose!” and arrows sissed through the air arching up and over and down, bringing death on keen points.
The skies flared, thunder boomed, and, sounding his horn, Luc started his cavalry at a walk; and with another horn cry he moved to a trot; another call, and they changed to a canter; and, with one final cry, they galloped full tilt, lances lowered, and charged toward the Serpentines, whose own cruelly barbed spears were lowered as they hurtled toward the men. And with horses belling, and Serpentine steeds hissing, and men yelling and Serpentines shrieking, as lightning detonated the very air they smashed into one another; and spears thucked into flesh and lances punched through scales; and the air was filled with the death cries of men, and the very last hisses of Serpentines.
While on the main battlefield crossbow quarrels now spitted Trolls and arrows felled Bogles, but then the two sides crashed together, and blood and grume flew wide as swords hacked flesh and cudgels smashed bone and flails ripped through armor and body alike.
And the greater numbers of the throng sought to surround the allies, yet swift warriors moved to interpose their shields and long spears before the flanking enemy.
And the knights charged into the Trolls again and again, and for once the chevaliers outnumbered the monstrous foe. Even so, knights were felled by the terrible beings, and both Laurent and Blaise were wounded in the mêlée, Laurent for the second time.
And standing with Galion at her side, and surrounded by Wolves, Michelle calmly loosed arrow after arrow, felling Bogle after Bogle. . . .
But then the Sickness flowed across the combatants, and the men and Fey withdrew, the knights and cavalry fighting a rearguard action, while the bulk of the warriors retreated, taking their wounded with them, but leaving their dead behind.
Long did the colts of Asphodel course upon the vast sea, while Raseri flew above. Through numerous twilight borders they went, passing from calm to roiling waters, from warm oceans to cold, from a sea as smooth as glass to one raging with storms. And as they ran and flew, the sun rode up into the sky. And somewhere during this passage, Duran fell quite asleep.
And then up ahead they sighted a sheer cliff, and when the racing mounts came to the vertical rise, up the face of the stone they ran, leaping from ledge to ledge, their gait so smooth even sleeping Duran did not waken.
Across a wide plain they sped, and then up the slopes of low mountains the Fairy horses coursed, and they leapt o’er vast chasms hidden by the jagged rocks.
Over the range they passed and through another twilight marge to race across a vast bog, the steeds running so lightly they left not a track therein.
And still the sun rode through the sky, rising toward the zenith.
Time after time the allies engaged the foe, and time after time they were driven away by the dreadful miasma.
And they retreated and retreated, but at last Auberon turned them up the slopes of the valley, for this was the place where Orbane would cross over to come unto the headwaters of the River of Time.
They fought a battle on the slope itself, attacking from the high ground, and they wrought devastation upon the enemy, yet devastation was also wrought upon them.
Finally, they withdrew to the vale through which the river itself flowed, and they marched down into the dale toward the linn over which Time plunged.
Those in the lead could see in the distance a cascade plummeting down a precipice, and a long, silvery ribbon of water—if indeed it were water and not Time itself—flowing away sunwise. Yet it seemed right at the falls the spill had no origin, either that or it sprang directly from a misty cloud hovering above, the silvery vapor glimmering as of a gleaming within.
“This is it,” said Auberon. “Here is where all time originates. And it runs from the future through the present to the past. Where the river ends, none I know has said, though, as you tell me, Princess Camille believes it flows out from Faery to spread over the mortal world. It is also told that the Fates themselves live along the banks of this numinous stream, yet I myself cannot say. You see, we Fey avoid this place, for we would not suffer the ravages of time. We believe that’s for mortals to do. Yet here we must make a stand, for Orbane has forced it to be. Would that we could win this day, but I think it’s not in the cards to do so.”
Regar looked at the falls and the river flowing out beyond, and he said, “Grand-père, Lisane, my own truelove, has read those very cards, and she says the outcome is in doubt, and so she thinks we have a chance.”
“As do the Fates,” said Blaise, “whose redes have given us hope.”
“May their sight be such that they see victory for us,” said Auberon.
And there near the precipice of the cascade in the valley of the River of Time, the allies arrayed themselves for one final stand.
The colts emerged through another bound and came to a fiery land, with the ground arumble and mountains spewing flame, but they dodged and darted through the peril, as Raseri above flew onward.
Past that land, across a great plain they ran, while the sun continued to edge toward the zenith. Another border they breached, and another and another, and Camille had lost all count, as over snow they raced and lakes and ponds and ice and through the streets of towns and cities and within tall, vine-laden trees so closely bunched as to seem impossible to pass, yet the colts somehow managed. And finally they came to a long and wide and vast barren track completely desolate of all life, and along that scar the colts did turn, Raseri above veering that way as well.
Again and again the throng hammered into the allies and pressed them back and back. But then from the slope on the foe’s right flank, a white steed with a pearlescent horn charged into the enemy. And a small brown man with a tiny bow stood on a jumble of boulders and flew wee crookedy missile after crookedy missile into the ranks of the throng. They were Thale the Unicorn and Adragh the Pwca, and high on the slopes above, Lisane winged shafts into the mass. Tisp the Sprite flew overhead, and she called all the Sprites to her, for just as were Lisane and Thale and Adragh, Tisp herself was a First. She gave a command to the Sprites, and they flew into the surround and gathered thorns and burrs and dropped them down on the enemy. Even as they did this, down the slope strode a huge man bearing an enormous bronze battleaxe—’twas Big Jack bearing Lady Bronze; another First had come—and he waded in, swinging Lady Bronze, leaving a bloody swath in his wake. And darting among the Skrikers and Dunters and Long-Armed Wights veered wildcats with foot-tall, leather-clad, tattooed men astride; Lord Kelmont and the Lynx Riders had come with their fatal arrows dealing death, even as more of the Firsts arrived and joined the fight. Yet the throng pushed them back and back, and soon the battle reached the linn, where the knights had gathered to make a stand.
But in that moment there came riding on a lark a tiny Twig Man. “One side, one side,” squeaked the inch-tall being, “I will stomp them to death.”
“Thank Mithras, ’tis Jotun,” cried Auberon, “come at last.”
“But how can he be of any significant help?” shouted Laurent.
“Just watch,” Auberon replied.
The Twig Man leapt free of the lark, and then he whispered a word. There came a great whooshing outpush of air, icy cold, as if all the heat, all the power, had been sucked from it. Laurent gasped, for looming up toward the lightning-filled black roiling sky itself stood a giant of a man. Fully two hundred feet or more he towered upward, and he was dressed all in green and had brown hair. The Giant looked down upon the shrieking foe and lifted a foot and stomped. The world seemed to shudder, there at the headwaters of the River of Time, and a hundred or more Goblins were squashed. And he lifted his foot again, and Lynx Riders darted out from the fray as Goblins and Bogles and Trolls fled screaming.
And in the midst of the Sickness, Orbane hissed in rage, for he knew the corruption would not affect Jotun, for it would but swirl ankle-high on the Giant. Yet there was a way to stop the colossal being, in fact a way to stop them all—all the Firsts, all the humans, all the Fey—though it meant his great plan would be slowed to a crawl. And he raised his voice and shouted an arcane word, and Jotun and Big
Jack and Thale and Adragh and the rest of the Firsts were frozen in place, as were Auberon and Luc and Roél and the remaining allies. All humans, all Fey, all Firsts, all Wolves, as well as all members of the throng, all were frozen in place by Orbane’s dread power. And down from the skies drifted Sprites, their wings outstretched in uncontrolled glides, like maple seeds whirling down.
And at the linn the knights and others stood and watched and waited, for they could not move, not even a finger.
And there upon the entire battlefield it was as if all were nought but game pieces upon a board played by the gods, and the whole stood still, waiting for the moves to come. And though the churning black skies above roared with the claps of riven air, still in the brief silences between the cracks of lightning and the booms of thunder, there came to the ear what seemed to be the faint sound of looms weaving.
Long moments passed, and dimly at first but then more clearly, two figures could be seen moving forward through the miasma.
Yet, from above there came a skreigh! while at the same time down the slopes of the vale seven white Fairy horses ran. To the linn they galloped, there among the unmoving men and Fey. And Valeray and Saissa, Céleste and Liaze, Camille and Duran and Scruff, and Borel and Alain, all leapt from their mounts, even as Raseri and Rondalo came to land nearby.
“Roél, chéri,” cried Céleste, as did Liaze call out to Luc, and Borel rushed to Michelle, his love yet surrounded by Wolves, all of them unmoving.
“What is this?” muttered Valeray, as he stepped among the men.
And emerging from the miasma came Orbane, Hradian closely following. “How did they escape?” asked the witch, her hand touching the amulet at her throat, the silver token set with a blue gem, to see if it was still there.
And then she reached for the other token at her throat— a clay seal on a leather thong—to send these fools back into prison. But in that moment Orbane said, “Acolyte, lend me your power.”
“Yes, my lord,” she replied, her hand falling away.
Once Upon a Dreadful Time Page 33