And Liaze sang of love, and spectral riders hid their faces in their hands.
And still Lord Fear sat unmoved and unmoving in his corner alone.
And Liaze sang of women and joy and of ships sailing on the sea, and of rivers and trees and of farming the land, and of buying horses and going to market, and of things and things more.
Her songs were happy and sad and short and long, ballads and ditties and lyric poems, and the riders wept dark shades of tears.
And then Lord Grim pushed away his mug and stood and whispered, “ ’Tis time.”
Liaze put the harp in the rucksack and shouldered the strap, and out they strode in the predawn night, where they mounted up and rode away.
Across the dark vault they hammered, black sparks flying, the hellpack baying out in the lead, while behind them the sky began to lighten. But ere the dawn came, toward a looming mountain they sped, and lo! a massive wall of gray stone split wide, and into the gap and darkness raced the Hunt—black hounds, spectral horses, wraith riders, Lord Fear, and the Princess Liaze—the mountain to boom shut behind.
Light bloomed in the stone cavern, and the horses trotted to a stable of sorts, and the hounds took to the kennels.
Lord Fear came and offered Liaze his arm, and he led her and the riders to a large banquet hall, where the table was laden with viands and roasts and goblets of black wine.
“My lady,” whispered Lord Death, pulling out a chair on the right hand of his throne.
Liaze sat, and Lord Grim poured her a goblet of the black.
Yet Liaze neither ate nor drank, but merely asked for water instead.
The other riders dug in with gusto, though they remained wraithlike in aspect. How they could eat, Liaze did not know, yet eat and drink they did. Perhaps the food is spectral, even though it looks very real.
Liaze tried to engage Lord Grim in converse, mayhap in the hope he had seen Luc and would tell her where he was. But Lord Death only listened and did not speak, and he seemed fascinated by her vitality and by her auburn hair, so in contrast to the stark grays and blacks and whites of his halls within the cold depths of his mountain.
Finally the banquet came to an end, and once more Lord Fear offered his arm. He led Liaze to sumptuous quarters, though no colors graced the chambers other than black and white and gray.
He bowed to her and Liaze curtseyed in return, and then Lord Terror withdrew. And when he was gone, Liaze shuddered, and she sat on the edge of the black-curtained bed and wept. Have I made a dreadful mistake? Oh, Luc, my Luc, mayhap I have lost you forever.
Finally she dried her tears, and she opened the rucksack and took of biscuits and honey and drank water to wash it down, all the while thinking, Mayhap morrow night I will see my Luc, or perhaps the black mountain of Lady Wyrd’s rede.
She found a bathing chamber, and there she undressed and saw to her needs. And then she took to her bed, and, exhausted, slept between black satin sheets.
A sonorous gong ringing somberly awakened Liaze from her rest. And she went about her toilet, and refilled her small waterskin. She dressed and took up her bow and arrows, her long-knife, and her rucksack. And when she turned to step to the door, she gasped, for Lord Dread silently stood in her chamber and gazed at her with his cold, black eyes.
“My lord,” she said, curtseying.
“My lady,” returned his chill whisper, and again his sight came to rest on her flaming auburn hair.
“Sieur, I be hight Liaze, Princess of the Autumnwood; what be your name, if I might ask?”
“Name?” Lord Fear seemed to ponder the question, as if it were altogether an unfamiliar concept. “Ah, names,” he whispered, his words like ice to the ear. “I am known by many names. To some I am Gwynn Ap Nunn, and to others Annwn, to still more I am at times called Odin, and to others still, I am Wotan. In some countries they think I am female and call me Perchta, and Holda, and the White Lady known as Gaude. These are a few of the names that have been attributed to me, yet they are all wrong—merely guesses—for I have only one name, my true name, which I will not reveal to any . . . not even to you, Princess Liaze. Nay, not even to one such as you.”
Liaze felt a chill run through her heart at these last words: Not even to one such as me? What does he think I am?
“Come, Princess. Dusk has fallen, and we must ride.”
“As you will, my lord.”
Together they strode to the stables, where the wraithlike riders stood waiting, the ghastly steeds saddled and ready, and the dreadful dark hounds excitedly leaping at the interior stone of the mountainside, the dogs keen to be loosed.
Lord Dread mounted his black steed, and all the ghostly men followed suit. And as Liaze clambered upon her shadowy horse she noted the dark-brew black goatskin depended from Lord Grim’s saddle, yet the bag was flaccid, empty, and she wondered what brew the riders would drink this eve. Lord Terror blew a mighty blast on his horn of fear, and the mountainside opened to the night beyond, and out the dogs raced, baying their appalling howls, Lord Grim and the Wild Hunt speeding after as up into the sky they flew, Princess Liaze among them.
Once again they chased the crescent moon past many twilight borders, and they came upon a woman and child crossing a field, and when those two heard the helldogs baying, they fled toward a nearby cottage. Lord Fear sounded a dreadful cry upon his terrible black horn, and down swooped the monstrous pack, and mere paces away from the doorstone they embroiled the woman and child in an ebon cloud of snarling hounds racing by. With hideous fangs bared and slashing, yet leaving no marks behind, the helldogs rent their souls to shreds. And when the dark cloud was done, nought but death-white corpses lay asprawl in the wake of the beasts.
Liaze wept to see such appalling carnage, yet she hid her tears from Lord Dread. And on they rode, up into the sky, and across more twilight bounds.
They slew a drunkard along a road, and three fishermen on the shores of a tarn, for all of these made the mistake of fleeing before the terrible hounds. But three other people stood fast in the whirl of the dark pack—two men and one woman—and survived Lord Death’s dreadful test, though he did not tarry to see if they would take passage upon his wraithlike steeds.
Several more victims fell to the horrid pack, but finally Lord Death blew on his ghastly horn, and once again they stopped at the magnificent inn, and lo! the skin was full. Liaze’s heart sank, and she wept inside—Oh, Mithras, they are drinking the souls of those who ran—for now she knew whence came the dark brew. Yet by no outward sign did she permit Lord Terror to know she had guessed the appalling truth, but instead she followed him into the great common room. Once more Lord Fear sat alone, and he and the shadowy riders drank ebon ale, while Liaze played her harp and sang.
But ere dawn Lord Dread stood, and away they flew to the mountain and within. And as they did so, Liaze despaired, for though they had passed o’er many realms of Faery, still she had seen neither Luc nor the black mountain of Skuld’s rede, and she was entrapped with a horrendous band, their leader most monstrous of all.
Even so, she drew upon the well of her courage and vowed to let nothing show her disgust, and at the banquet in Lord Grim’s hall, Liaze asked, “Why do you do these things unto innocent souls?”
“Innocent?” came his icy whisper. “None are innocent, Princess Liaze. There are only the brave and those who are not, and the brave deserve to live, and the others to die.”
“It is a grim philosophy you have, my lord,” said Liaze.
Lord Death did not reply.
When the banquet ended, once again he escorted her to her stark quarters, and within her chambers his obsidian eyes glittered at her, and he reached out and touched her auburn hair. It was all Liaze could do to keep from shrinking away.
Then Lord Terror turned on his heel and stalked from the room, and Liaze fell upon her bed and wept.
The next night they rode through the skies, and folk did they find abroad, and so they reaped more souls that darktide, but Liaze did not see
ought of Luc or a black mountain. Again, they stopped at the inn and Liaze played her harp and sang while Lord Dread and his men drank of the black ale. As before, ere dawn they rode on to Lord Fear’s mountain, where they feasted as before.
During the banquet Lord Grim, cold as ever, whispered, “Princess, I would have you be my bride.”
Liaze suppressed a gasp, and she felt as if she had been struck a terrible blow in the stomach. Still, she managed to say, “My lord, there are better mates for you.”
“None so brave,” he whispered, his words as of shards of ice falling. “Others have cried out in protest at my nightly deeds, but you have not.”
“Even so, my lord, I yet say I am unworthy.”
“I would have you in my bed, Princess Liaze.”
Liaze inwardly shuddered and she remained mute, not trusting her voice to say ought.
“Think on it,” whispered Lord Fear.
Liaze canted her head in assent.
That night she lay curled in a ball on her black-satin sheets and she slept only fitfully.
Again they rode the Wild Hunt, and again they reaped souls, and again they stopped at the inn where the princess played the harp and sang. Once more they feasted in Lord Dread’s mountain hall, and this night in Liaze’s chambers the icy lord said, “I am impatient, Princess. What is your answer?”
“My lord, I yet say, I am unworthy.”
“Pha,” whispered the dark lord, and he reached out and touched her hair, and she did not blench nor draw away. “None has stirred my heart as have you.”
Can anyone stir a lump of ice?
Liaze merely smiled.
“Three nights from now, my lady,” Lord Fear coldly said, “I will take you to my bed, whether your answer be yea or nay.”
When he had gone, Liaze gave in to her tears, and she lay in bed and trembled, her knees drawn up to her chest, her arms wrapped ’round tightly.
Two more nights went past, and the Wild Hunt had ridden and had reaped souls, yet Liaze had seen nought of Luc nor of the black mountain. And each of these nights Lord Dread had pressed her for an answer, but had also coldly reminded her that, no matter, he would take her to his icy bed.
By this time Liaze had decided on a plan, and if that failed, then she would attempt to kill Lord Fear in spite of the legends that he was a deathless being. And she sharpened her long-knife and flexed her bow and examined her arrows and chose among them.
And on the third and last eve of his averral, when Lord Death came to her chambers to escort her to the ghastly horses to ride the Wild Hunt, Liaze said, “My lord, I have heard of two things I would see: one is a black mountain; the other is a blue château. Have you ridden o’er these in the past?”
Lord Grim looked at her, a glitter of curiosity hinted at in his jet-dark eyes. “Oui, I have,” he whispered.
“Could our course this eve take us o’er these places?”
Lord Death pondered a moment.
“As a wedding present?” added Liaze, reaching out and taking the dreadful being’s hand, gritting her teeth as she did so.
The dark lord looked down at his hand in hers and nodded, and on toward the horses they went.
If this does not work, Liaze, you will kill Lord Fear this night . . . or die in the attempt.
They mounted their wraithlike steeds, and Lord Grim blew the dreadful call on his dark horn. The mountainside opened; out flew the hounds; dark riders on dark steeds flying out after, black fire and shadows streaming in their wake. And in the lead rode Lord Death, Princess Liaze at his side.
Up they flew and away, up and into the night, a gibbous moon nearly full lighting the course among the ragged clouds.
O’er realms they sailed, Lord Terror passing over fleeing victims, ne’er sounding his demonhorn to signal the dogs to attack. For Lord Grim had a destination in mind, two destinations, in fact, and through shadowlight borders did he ride on his way to please his promised bride.
And over a blue manor in the center of a lake they flew, roses growing all ’round the shoreline. On the ramparts sentries stood, and knowing the fate of cowards they fled not as ’round the ramparts rode the Wild Hunt, hounds baying, shadows streaming, dark fire flying from hammering hooves.
Yet Liaze could see no sign of Luc, though he might well have been chained in the dungeons below.
Lord Death glanced at Princess Liaze and nodded, for he had delivered the first of the bridal gifts to her, and then he blew his horn and turned the Hunt onto another tack.
Through more shadowlight borders they ran, and still no victims did they take, for Lord Fear had other goals in mind this night.
And at last, in the distance ahead, Liaze could see a lone black mountain jutting up from a bleak plain, and the mountainsides glittered darkly in the moonlight, as if coated in obsidian. And the air above was cold, frigid, as if winter gripped the land, or as if the mountain itself was made of black ice.
And as they circled ’round the crest and ’round the crest once more, Liaze gasped and nearly cried out, for at the top, at the very top, under an open-sided pavilion, lay Luc, the knight asleep or deeply enchanted on a bed of black ice.
Lord Dread looked at Liaze and nodded, for the full of his bridal gift had been given.
“Straight to the inn, my lord,” cried Liaze, “for I would celebrate this night.”
Lord Death smiled a grim smile, and now he turned the Hunt, and away they flew.
As the dark horses ran through the air, Liaze took sight on guiding stars, for she planned on using them to follow on her return. And she fumbled into the rucksack at her side, and she withdrew the red scarf, her grip tight so as not to lose it. And she tied it ’round her neck, and it flew out behind in the wind of her passage. And she prayed to Mithras that Gwyd was in place and waiting, and that he would see the scarf, and that the plan he had hatched would work. Oh, Mithras, please let it work.
As they came to a twilight border, Liaze tried to espy a landmark at the point of their crossing, but on this side she saw nought to guide her; yet, as they passed out of the far side, she noted a twisted tree, its arms pointing toward the shadowlight they had just flown through.
On sped the Wild Hunt, and again they came to a crossing, and she noted a jumble of boulders on this side, and a wide pool on the other.
On they flew and Lord Fear sounded his dreadful horn, and there ahead lay the magnificent inn. Down swirled the dogs, down spun the horses, down went Lord Dread and Liaze. And nowhere did Liaze see any sign of Gwyd nearby; she could only pray that the Brownie was nigh and had seen the scarf and was ready.
Her wraithlike horse came to a stop, and when Lord Grim had given her his leave, Liaze dismounted and entered the inn at his side.
The ghastly spirits of the shadowy riders gathered at the bar, but they took up no mugs of dark brew, for they had taken no souls that nighttide. Lord Death then raised his empty mug in salute to Liaze and icily whispered, “This night to my bride.”
The riders all hoisted their own empty glasses, and from many voices a ghostly echo wailed, whether in grief or joy Liaze could not determine, yet she smiled and took up her harp.
And once again she sang of life and living, and, as before, all the riders crowded ’round closely, trying to recapture the essence of that which they had once held dear.
And Liaze sang of children, and once more the shades of the riders groaned as would a chill wind swirl among icy crags.
And Liaze sang of love, and spectral riders wept ghostly wails at what they had lost.
And still Lord Fear sat unmoved and unmoving in his corner alone.
And Liaze sang of life and women and the joy of ordinary living: of fishing and hunting and the reaping of grain, of boats on a river and of sails on the sea, of farming and herding and planting trees, and of horses and cattle and going to market, and of things such as these and things more.
Her songs were filled with joy, and filled with tears, and filled with love. She sang ballads and ditties
and long lyric poems, and the riders laughed ghostly laughs or wept spectral shades of tears.
And just as Lord Dread pushed away from his table, Liaze called out, “The Wild Hunt.”
She struck a chord and began a chant, and Lord Grim settled back to hear: The sky was dark,
The storm clouds blew,
A chill was on the land,
Yet, Molly dear,
The message read,
I need your healing hand.
Across the moor
She started out
To reach her father dear.
For he was ill,
And she would aid,
Yet Lord Death she did fear. . . .
Liaze sang as she had never sung, her words telling of the Wild Hunt and of its reaping of cowardly souls, as well as the doom of heroes. And she sang that these fatalities and dooms mattered not to Lord Dread, Lord Fear, Lord Grim, Lord Terror, Lord Death, for the leader of the Hunt was cold and forbidding. And as Liaze sang she moved among the shades, and they sobbed as would a frail wind, and still Liaze sang and sang, verse after verse pouring golden words from her throat. And the silver harp seemed enchanted, the notes pure and clear, the concordant strings voicing precious harmony.
Yet at last she saw through the narrow gap in the drapery a tiny glimmer; ’twas the sign she and Gwyd had said would signal either her rescue or her ruin, and in that moment the song, the very song, came to an end.
And as Liaze’s voice and the silver strings finally fell silent, a quietness settled over all . . . only to be broken by a nearby cock’s crow.
Liaze threw back a drape, allowing in light from the rising rim of the sun just now broaching the edge of the world.
And ghostly wails went up from the shadowy riders, and they shrieked and screamed, and as if something had reached up from the ground below, they were jerked down through the floor, down into the earth, down out of sight.
Once Upon an Autumn Eve Page 21