Dennis McKiernan - Once upon a Summer Day

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, Demon, 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 Demon, 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 Demon 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 Demon 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 Demon 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 Demon… 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 Demon 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.

“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 epee, “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 Demon. “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 Demon 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 Demon’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 Demon 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 Demon’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.