Dennis McKiernan: Once Upon an Autumn Eve

Finally all the arrows were spent, and as Liaze stepped to the standing haycock and retrieved her shafts, Zoe glanced at the disappearing limb of the setting sun and then at Autumnwood Manor and said, “My lady, the dinner mark approaches. Would you have me draw a bath and lay out a gown?”

Liaze sighed and stood a moment, then peered up at the waxing half-moon and said, “I think this eve I will bathe in the pool.”

“The pool?”

“ Oui. I feel the need for solitude.”

“Oh, my lady, that place is”-her brown eyes filled with trepidation, Zoe looked toward the cluster of great willows among which the pool lay, hidden by the drooping branches reaching all the way down to the ground, their autumn gold leaves ablaze in the last rays of sunlight-“is, well, I don’t know, dark in some manner, I would say.”

“Dark?” said Liaze. “But Zoe, how can you think of it being dark among all those bright leaves?”

“I don’t know,” said Zoe. “Perhaps instead of ‘dark’ I mean it feels, umm, ‘closed in,’ as if… as if-Oh, it’s just that you can’t see out or in, and things can come creeping through the branches unseen. Regardless, my lady, instead of seeking solitude, I think you need cheerful company about.”

“Company?” Liaze frowned, puzzlement in her amber-some would say “golden-brown”-eyes. “Why so?”

Zoe turned up a noncommittal hand. “Well, for these past three weeks, ever since the wedding-on the journey from Summerwood Manor all the way here and in the days since-you seem… um, how shall I say

… morose? Oui, morose.”

Liaze slipped the last of the arrows into the quiver. “Morose?”

“Saddened, somehow,” said Zoe, brushing away a stray lock of her own brown hair.

Liaze shook her head. “No, Zoe. Not saddened. Reflective instead.”

“Reflective?”

Liaze took a deep breath and slowly let it out. “Yes, reflective. I have been pondering the ways of love and the way I would have things be. My brothers, you see, have found their heart mates, whereas Celeste and I…” Her words fell to silence.

“Ah, pishposh,” said Zoe. “You are so beautiful, my lady, and one day the right man will come along and-”

Liaze held up a hand to stop the flow of Zoe’s words. “One day, you say? Well, Zoe, for all of my life these one days have flown by and still he hasn’t appeared.”

“Oh, Princess, do not be dejected. Perhaps this is the very day, or tomorrow, or the next-”

“Hush, Zoe, and leave me to my reflections. I shall bathe at the pool and treasure my solitude.”

“As you wish, my lady. Shall I ready a change of clothes? One of your splendid gowns should cheer you up.”

Liaze looked down at her hunting leathers and sighed and then turned to Zoe and forced a smile and said, “The pale green one. I’ll come in a candlemark or so.”

As Zoe walked toward Autumnwood Manor, Liaze unstrung her bow and then set out for the stand of willows, where she pushed aside the dangling branches and made her way inward, the gold of the leaves fading to bronze in the deepening twilight. As she passed through curtains of foliage and among the great boles, behind her the swaying branches of her passage swept the ground, as if to eliminate her track. Finally she came to the very center of the grove, where the trees gave way to a small open glade, and there, among great, flat white stones, lay a broad, deep pool, limpid and welling with spring-fed water, a rill flowing out from one end to dance and sing between mossy banks on its journey to a distant sea.

Liaze strode past a small stand of cattails and to one of the horizontal slabs, where she set down her bow and unslung her quiver, and then quickly doffed her boots and hunting leathers and the silken undergarments ’neath.

And in the silvery light of the half-moon above, she stepped to the edge of the pool and stood a moment, her reflection in the slow-welling water that of an athletic woman, trim and tall with auburn hair and firm, high breasts, her roseate nipples erect in the crisp autumn air, her narrow waist flaring into slim hips and down into long, sleek legs, a reddish triangle captured between.

And then she dived into the pool, her entry smooth with little splash, and she swam down and through the crystalline water and across, the moonlight from above illumining the lucid depths below, where more large, flat white stones scattered upon the bottom with white sand between brightened the whole of the basin.

To the other end she swam and up, and surfaced, blowing, the chill water bracing, invigorating. She stroked to a large rock at the verge, the pool deep at its edge, and with her arms and a kick or two, she levered herself up onto the brink of the slab, and twisted about to sit with her feet in the water.

And that’s when she heard the sound of pounding hooves, and the nearby call of a silver clarion, answered by distant blares of horns less precious.

And even as she stood and turned, an ebon horse bearing a rider came pounding through the golden willow branches and up the rill, water splatting aside. And it hammered to the rim of the pool, where it skidded to a halt, the horse squatting on its haunches to stop, spray flying.

And the rider, a broken sword in hand, blood streaming down his face, fell from his horse as if slain.

And the raucous blats of following horns drew nearer.

With the blare of horns drawing closer, Liaze glanced across the pool to where lay her bow, and then at the fallen rider and the dark horse at his side, the steed blowing and snorting, its eyes rolling, whites flaring in the moonlight. Making up her mind, she stepped toward the downed man, but the ears of the black flattened, and it bared its teeth.

It has been trained.

“Doucement, mon beau! Du calme!” Liaze demanded in the old tongue, trying to find a command the horse would obey. When she struck upon “Recules!” the black horse’s ears flicked forward and then back. “Recules-toi!” she said, and the horse backed away, still blowing.

Swiftly, Liaze stepped to the collapsed rider where he lay on the mossy bank and knelt at his side and rolled him over. At the movement, his eyes opened, and he looked up at her, his gaze momentarily widening. “Ange?” he said, and then he swooned.

Liaze only had time to note that he had dark hair and his forehead bore a brutal wound, and he wore a light chain shirt- A chevalier — when horns blatted just outside the grove, and someone nigh at hand barked guttural commands as running feet thudded past.

Liaze again glanced at her bow lying too far away. Then she looked at the horse and back at the wounded chevalier.

She sat the man up, and in that moment a dark form-swart and some four foot tall, skinny-armed and bandy-legged-came crashing through the willow branches. And even as it yelled in triumph at the sight of easy prey-a downed man and a naked woman-it charged toward her, cudgel raised. Liaze snatched up the damaged sword, nought but a jagged half-blade, and spitted the onrushing creature through and through, the Goblin to shriek and collapse, its ruddy hat falling from its head.

Redcaps! Here in the Autumnwood! And he called out!

Once more horns blatted, and from the direction of the manor clarion cries answered.

And as nearby feet now pounded toward the willow grove, again she sat the man up, and, struggling, got him to his feet, and somehow she managed to lift him onto the horse’s withers in spite of the black’s skitting and shying.

Harsh shouts and raucous blares sounded in the willow grove, and Redcaps poured forth from the dangling branches. And among the Goblins a massive form moved. A Troll!

Jerking the broken sword from the dead Goblin, unclothed Liaze leapt into the saddle, and, crying out “Yah! Yah!” she heeled the horse in the flanks, and, blade in hand and swinging low and wide, she charged through the recoiling Goblins and past the oncoming Troll, and then galloped in among the willow branches, the limbs lashing her naked form as would whips.