Once Upon a Summer Day, page 33
Flic drew his silver épée and saluted the king. “Thank you, my lord. I will wear it with pride. Yet I remind you, the adventure is not finished until we free Roulan and all those entrapped by Rhensibé.”
Arle looked at Flic and then Borel and finally Chelle and said, “Oh, I have not forgotten that quest, my friends. As soon as you return with the magicien or sorcière to deal with that foul witch, I and my men will ride with you.”
“We thank you, my lord,” said Borel, and again he and the king embraced, and again Chelle hugged and kissed Arle, and then they mounted up and watched as Buzzer flew ’round and took a sighting on the sun and then shot off toward the demesne on the generally sunward bound of the Winterwood, an adjacent realm where grew yellow daffodils and blue morning glories and red clover, all three of which Flic and Chelle identified after Borel had described them.
And so, with a packhorse in tow, out from Níone they rode, and some townsfolk stood along the street to wave them good-bye. Up the far hill they fared—Borel and Chelle ahorse, Flic on the tricorn—all of them following a beeline for a distant border. And as they topped the rise, behind them there sounded a long and resonant horn cry: it was King Arle’s au revoir.
Borel and Chelle turned and waved good-bye, Flic waving as well, and Chelle cried out, “Au revoir, King Arle, for we will meet again.”
And then they turned and rode over the hill and down the far side and away.
49
Minion
Out from Níone they rode, over hills and through forests for the entire day, Borel and Chelle talking and Flic achatter, Buzzer flying somewhat ahead, though the bee often returned to make certain they were following her line. Now and again they came to a river they had to ford, and at these flows Flic would fly upstream or down- to scout out a suitable crossing. Flic also flew whenever they came to a drop or a rise the horses could not traverse, and the Sprite would find a fitting place for the steeds to make their way onward.
And the sun rose into the sky and across and down, and when evening came, they camped in a woodland green.
The next day they crossed a twilight border, and came into a lowland of reeds and many lakes. And though Buzzer could fly a straight line over water and vegetation alike, it took the riders three days altogether to wend a passage through. And as they finally emerged from a twilight border and into a land of rock and grass and thickets, Borel looked back and said, “All it would take is one good long rain to submerge that entire realm.”
“That might be so, my lord,” said Flic, “nevertheless ’tis the way Buzzer knows.”
Chelle laughed and said, “Let us hope she doesn’t come to a place of bottomless mud, a place she could easily fly over but we could not cross at all.”
“If it comes to that,” said Flic, “we will simply go into a different realm and see if she can find her way from there.”
“How many demesnes of Faery has she been in?” asked Chelle.
“I think ’tis a number beyond count,” said Flic. “But each realm must have flowers, else it simply isn’t within her ken.”
“Like the Endless Sands,” said Borel.
“Yes,” said Flic, “like the Endless Sands.”
“I saw no flowers in the place we just came from,” said Chelle.
“The reeds, my lady,” said Flic, “they flower in their season.”
“Ah,” said Chelle, and on they rode.
A twoday later, early morn found them wending their way up through a high mountain pass, and ahead at the crest of the col stood a man, as if waiting. And he held a great black sword unsheathed.
“A toll-taker, do you think?” said Chelle.
“Perhaps,” said Borel. Even so, he loosened the keepers on his long-knife and sword and spurred forward to ride ahead of Chelle.
On toward the man they went, and now they could see that he was lean and tall and hairless, and he wore only a dhoti, and there was a ghastly white pallor to his skin. His fingers were long and bony, as were his legs and arms, and yet he sported a small rounded belly, as if it were swollen from lack of food.
“My lord,” hissed Flic. “There is something about this creature, or so my Fey vision tells me. I think he is not a man at all, but a thing of a different sort. Just what, I cannot say.”
Grimly Borel rode on, and he reined to a stop some paces short of the being.
“I have been waiting for you,” said the man—the thing—his voice hollow, his words strangely accented, and he smiled a wicked smile, and his teeth were nought but fangs.
“Waiting for us?” said Borel. “How so?”
“Not you, O Man,” said the creature. “You may ride on past, for it is the woman I am here to slay.” Then the being looked past Borel to Chelle. “Rhensibé summoned me; she wanted you to know she had done so. And she told me to say unto you that the moment you are slain, so shall die all those enspelled in your father’s manse. Know this as well, Woman: you cannot escape me, for I am of Enfer itself, and I am bound to Rhensibé until you are dead.”
He looked back at Borel and said, “Ride on, O Man, ride on.” And he stepped forward, his great black sword raised, his gaze fixed on Chelle.
Flic took to wing, Argent in hand.
“Yahh!” cried Borel, and he drew his sword and spurred his horse forward to deal the thing a death blow, but the creature cut the horse’s legs out from under Borel, and the steed screamed and tumbled to the ground.
Yet Borel had leapt free, and with his long-knife now in his left hand and his sword in his right, he ran at the creature and swung and slashed a great deep cut across the thing’s swollen abdomen.
But no blood flew. No ichor. And the being laughed, and even as he did so, the great gaping wound vanished.
Shang! Down came the creature’s own blow, and Borel barely deflected it, ebon shocking into bronze with numbing force. With a backhanded sweep Borel lashed his long-knife up and at the creature’s throat. But with a warding bash of its bony arm, the thing fended Borel’s blade and took another deep cut, this one on its arm, but the gash healed nearly instantly.
Chelle leapt from her mount and ran to Borel’s downed steed; and even as the horse thrashed about—unable to rise, for its forelegs were shorn in two—Chelle grabbed Borel’s bow from its saddle scabbard and snatched up an arrow.
At one and the same time, crying “Die, Démon, die!” Flic dove down and stabbed and stabbed with Argent at the creature’s head and neck and back, yet the Sprite was no more bothersome than would be a gnat.
And Borel lashed his sword upward in a slashing cut, only to find the creature’s dark weapon blocking the way. Borel sprang leftward, to come at the thing’s flank, but with its own backhanded blow the monster swung its black blade, and Borel barely managed to fend.
Chelle struggled with all her might to string Borel’s bow, yet she could not quite slip the loop over the upper arm and into the groove.
Now Borel struck left and right with both of his blades, half of which the creature fended, yet the other half found their marks . . . to no avail, for as quickly as a cut was made, just as quickly did it heal.
And still Flic stabbed and stabbed with Argent, yet each puncture closed instantly.
Borel sprang back from the creature, his breath now coming in harsh gasps.
“Fool of a man,” cried the thing, “do you not know I am a Démon, a Fiend, a Diable, and nothing smelted, cast, carven, or forged can hurt me?”
And then it attacked, and black rang on bronze, the Fiend driving the prince back and back, and Borel parried and riposted, blocked and counterstruck, but the Démon was mighty, and it drove Borel hindward, and now it was all Borel could do to fend the creature off.
Of a sudden—ching!—Borel’s long-knife went flying. And moments later—clang!—he lost his sword. And the Diable smashed him down with a blow of its fist.
Chelle screamed, and the Fiend turned toward her. But Borel kicked out, smashing the Démon in the leg. The creature grunted, and swung back toward Borel, and raised its great black blade up for a death-dealing blow.
And as she saw the dark sword swing up, with strength born of desperation, Chelle strung the bow.
And in that same moment the Diable screamed in agony, for Buzzer had returned, and she found Flic striking and striking at a monster; without any hesitation whatsoever, Buzzer hurled herself at the creature and ran out her stinger and stabbed the Fiend in the neck.
And even as the Démon howled in anguish and slapped at the bee, Chelle set the arrow to string and cried out, “Flic, away!” and as the Sprite flew up from the Fiend, Chelle summoned strength she knew not she had and drew Borel’s bow to the full of her pull and loosed the flint-tipped shaft at the Démon . . . and it struck the creature dead center in the back.
“Ygah!” cried the Fiend, and it dropped the black blade and staggered and vainly clutched at the deeply embedded arrow jutting out, black blood seeping.
And snarling a Wolflike growl of rage, Borel leapt to his feet and jerked the flint knife from his belt and stabbed the blade into the Diable’s heart, and a dark ichor gushed forth.
The Démon looked with disbelief into the icy eyes of this puny man who had somehow just slain it, and Borel twisted the flint and jammed it deeper and gritted, “All perilous blades are not what they seem.”
And then the Fiend collapsed, the creature dead even as it struck the ground.
50
Acolyte
“Flint,” said Borel, embracing Chelle, she yet trembling in the aftermath. “Your flint arrow and my flint knife were neither smelted, cast, carven, nor forged, and when I kicked him, I knew he could be hurt. And then Buzzer stung him, saving my life. And then you shot him with a flint-headed arrow, and I stabbed him in the heart with a flint knife . . . and both the arrowhead and the knife were knapped from stone.”
“Neither awake nor in a dark dream are perilous blades just as they seem,” said Chelle. “Isn’t that what Lady Wyrd told you?”
“Oui,” said Borel.
“Hmm . . .” said Flic, looking at his épée, “it seems a silver blade isn’t always proof against creatures of darkness. Perhaps Argent isn’t quite as perilous as I thought.”
“Nevertheless, Flic, it slew the Shadows, and were I you I don’t believe I’d throw it away,” said Borel. Then he looked at the slain Démon. “By the bye, I think you should call Buzzer off. The thing is dead, you know.”
Flic glanced at the bee, yet circling above the Démon just in case it was feigning death.
Chelle looked, too, and then all three broke into laughter, and it went on and on, and they could not seem to stop themselves, for after all they had just cheated death . . . they were yet alive.
But from behind came a grunt, and they turned to see Borel’s horse, and abruptly the laughter stopped. Borel sighed and retrieved his long-knife and sword. The sword he sheathed, but the long-knife he kept in his hand, and he went to the steed and knelt and said, “Sorry, my friend.”
And Chelle looked away as Borel put his horse beyond the reach of pain.
Borel then stepped to the Démon’s side and took up the black sword, and he looked about and then walked to a large split boulder and jammed the blade into the crevice and, with a grunt, snapped the sword in two. The moment the blade broke, the shards of the weapon burst into violent flames, and Borel sprang back and flung the blazing hilt from him.
Chelle cried out, and Borel whirled to see the Démon aflame as well, with Buzzer and Flic fleeing the fire and toward Chelle. The Sprite and the bee landed on her shoulders, and all watched as both the Fiend’s corpse and its weapon furiously and swiftly burned to ashes.
“My lord,” said Flic, “I think next time you should be wary of breaking a Démon’s sword, for, as Lady Wyrd said, neither awake nor in a dark dream are perilous blades just as they seem.”
Borel saddled the packhorse and distributed the supplies between the two steeds, and Borel said, “Flic, we need find a town and get another horse.”
“And me a bow with arrows to suit,” said Chelle. And when Borel looked at her, she added, “I nearly didn’t get yours strung, my love, and your arrows are much too long.”
Flic nodded and said, “I will talk to Buzzer. Perhaps there’s a ville nearby with a garden she remembers.”
A quarter candlemark later, they rode down from the pass and out onto a plain, and there did Buzzer turn and take a new heading. And late in the day they came unto Arens, a modest ville with several inns and a number of stables.
They took a room in Le Taureau Noir, and luxuriated in hot baths and ate delicious hot meals and downed copious glasses of hearty red wine. And Chelle and Borel slept in a real bed, and they made love.
They stayed in Arens that night and two more, resting, relaxing, eating, acquiring another horse and replenishing their supplies, and obtaining a bow and arrows for Chelle.
But when the next day dawned, they rode away from the Black Bull inn, and through the town and to a nearby hillock, and there Buzzer took a bearing, and off the bee shot on a line for the demesne along the sunward marge of the Winterwood.
Through twilight borders they fared, and across lands of Faery, but midmorn of the fifth day they emerged from an umbrous bound and came unto the realm where grew yellow daffodils and blue morning glories and sweet red clover. They had entered the stream-laden demesne adjacent to the Winterwood.
On they rode, splashing through rills and runs and streams, and nigh the noontide of the second day within this land they arrived at another twilight wall.
As Borel and Chelle dismounted, Flic and Buzzer flew through the marge and quickly back, and the Sprite came shivering. “Snow, ice, barren trees: what a dreadful realm you have, my lord, for surely it is the Winterwood.”
Borel, fetching winter gear from the packhorse, grinned and shook his head. “Dreadful you say? Non. Marvelous say I, for it is both savage and peaceful, with times when the wind howls like fury come alive, flinging snow and ice in its rage, and other times of preternatural stillness, when one can hear a snowflake fall across the width of a vale. Non, my friend, ’tis a breathtaking realm for all days are different, yet somehow all the same.”
“Well, you can have it, my lord, for neither Buzzer nor I can deal with the cold: she would fall dormant, and me?”—Flic grinned—“I do believe I would fall dead. Besides, now that Buzzer and I have delivered you securely to your realm, you will be safe as soon as you pass through this twilight wall.”
Chelle’s face fell and she said, “Surely you two are not leaving us, are you, Flic?”
Flic sketched a bow in the air and said, “I must, my lady, for, truly, neither Buzzer nor I can withstand such cold as is in the Winterwood. Ah, me . . . I am but a warm-weather friend, oui?”
“Non, my friend,” said Borel, shaking out cold-weather gear. “Most certainly not.”
“But where will you go?” asked Chelle, taking a winter cloak and gloves and warm stockings from Borel. “I would see you again, my friend. Besides, there’s my père and mère and their guests to set free, and I would have your épée at my side.”
“My lady, I will of certain be one of your chevaliers, though how I will cope with King Arle’s iron, that I cannot say. But first, and most immediately, I will seek out my Fleurette, for she is waiting, and I love her as much as Borel loves you. But then—”
“But then,” said Borel, pulling on his socks and then his boots, “you will come to the Summerwood, for I would have you and Buzzer attend my brother Alain’s wedding.”
Chelle clapped her hands even as Flic said, “Summerwood?”
“White camellias,” said Borel, looking at Buzzer, the bee hovering at Flic’s side. “Red, red roses, and yellow ones as well. And lilacs.—Oh, and something called hydrangea. But do not ask me more, for that is the extent of my knowledge.”
“I will see if she knows,” said Flic. And he and Buzzer landed on a patch of ground. After a moment of silent converse, Buzzer did a waggle dance. Then she paused and did an entirely different dance of waggles. Flic laughed and looked up and said, “She knows the Summerwood, and so we will be there. She also said that for someone as slow as you are, my lord, you seem to get about a lot.” Flic broke into giggles, as did Chelle, and Borel’s guffaws joined them.
Borel and Chelle pulled on gloves and fastened cloaks about their shoulders, then mounted.
Buzzer and Flic took to wing and hovered, and Flic drew Argent and saluted both the lord and his lady.
“Au revoir, my wee friend,” said Borel.
“Till we meet again,” said Chelle.
“See you in the Summerwood,” said Flic, and then Buzzer circled ’round and took a bearing, and both bee and Sprite shot away.
When they were beyond seeing, Chelle and Borel turned their horses and rode into the Winterwood.
All the rest of that day and into the night rode the two, for, no longer needing the guide who went dormant in the dark, they could press on. And the nearly full moon rose and lighted the way before them.
The land was extraordinarily still, with no wind whatsoever, and through the quiet they rode, the only sound that of the horses and the creak of leather. But then from far off there came the hoot of an owl, and Borel answered in kind. And for a mile or so, these two kept up a running conversation, and closer to one another they came, and then a silent shape swooped through the air and across and up; a snowy owl it was.
“Oh, how beautiful,” said Chelle, watching the flight as the owl rose and briefly silhouetted itself against the moon, ere it vanished among the stars.
On they rode, and as the moon passed through the zenith they came to a pine grove standing dark in the night.
“Here we will stay the eve, my love,” said Borel, leading the way inward.
Midst the evergreens stood a cabin, unlit and unoccupied. They dismounted and unladed the horses and rubbed them down. Borel stepped into the tiny lodge and returned bearing blankets with which he covered the steeds.
