Dennis McKiernan: Once Upon a Winter's Night

Reaching a high branch and clinging to the trunk, her breath coming in fear-driven huffs, Camille looked down at the cavorting Goblins below, as once again the moon broke through the clouds. And she peered across the twisted ’scape, desperately seeking the Bear.

Oh, my guardian, where are you when I do need you so?

And then, on a stony ridge and momentarily silhouetted against the gibbous moon, Camille saw what looked to be the great, hulking Troll shaking a fist at a man. But what would a man be doing out here in this dreadful place? And whence had he come? The moon fled behind another cloud, and she saw no more. In that short glimpse, she had not espied the Bear, though a large dark shape off to the left might have been him, yet it could just as well have been a boulder instead. Too, he could have been just this side or that of the ridge where Olot stood and hence would not have been seen.

And midst the jeers coming from the darkness below, and in the blustery wind, now and again from the direction of the ridge Camille could hear snatches of voices arguing:

“… slew ten of my…”

“… attacking…”

“… daughter…”

“… never will I…”

“… She will fail, and then the geas…”

The tree trembled as if Camille looked down in the dimness, and just then the moon broke clear.

Jeered on by his mates, the Redcap who had pawed at her came clambering up the bole. Camille gritted her teeth and turned so that she could kick at him. In counter, he scuttled around the twisted trunk so as to avoid her strikes. Camille then moved to another gnarled branch to meet his maneuver, but again he scuttled counter and scrambled higher and, leering around the trunk, reached for her. And just as his long-fingered hand grasped her wrist- thuck! — a feathered shaft sprang full-blown from his left eye, the arrow point punching up and out through the crown of his skull.

Even as he fell away from Camille and crashed down through crooked branches, fury exploded below, wild Wolves slamming into and through and over shrieking Redcaps, tearing out throats, snapping necks, hauling down running Goblins from behind.

In a trice it was over, all Redcaps slaughtered and silence fallen within the wood, but for the bluster of the wind and a growl or two from Wolves making certain that every Goblin was slain.

“Ho, Lad,” came a cry, “are you all right?”

In the moonlight a man with a bow strode under the tree and stood amid the Wolves.

Camille, her voice shaking with the residue of fright as well as in relief, called down, “I am well, O Sir. And I thank you for coming to my aid.”

“Well, then, climb on down, Lad, and let’s have a look at you.”

Glancing again at the ridge, Camille saw neither Troll, nor man, nor Bear; they were gone from the light of the gibbous moon.

“Come, come, Lad,” said the man, gesturing to the Wolves. “My companions are quite civilized.”

As Camille turned about to clamber down the tree, her golden hair swung ’round as well, and the man below huffed in revelation and said, “I see I should have called you mademoiselle instead, my lady.”

Descending, Camille said, “You may call me my lady if you wish, but only if I must call you my lord.” As the man laughed, Camille climbed down the last few feet, then paused and looked at him. Tall and slender, he was, with pale, pale eyes-ice-blue perhaps, though Camille could not be certain in the glancing light of the moon. He was dressed in varied greys-cloak, leathers, boots, vest, jerkin-their colors much like those of the Wolves at hand. Around his head and across his brow, a silver-runed, grey leather headband held his silver-grey, shoulder-length hair in place.

Yet smiling, the man reached out a hand to aid her to step to the ground. As she took it, he said, “I am Borel. And you are…?”

“Camille, Good Sir. Yet names can wait, for urgency presses, and I ask you and yours to aid my Bear.” She looked at the grinning Wolves, with their lanky frames and long, lean legs, the pack standing and waiting as if for a command, a few facing outward on guard.

Once more clouds slid across the moon, and in the dimness Borel said, “Bear?”

“The one who is taking me to Lord Alain, Prince of the Summerwood.”

“Ah. That Bear. And just why is he taking you to the Summerwood?”

The light brightened and Camille said, “I am to be Alain’s wife.”

“Ah, then, you are the one,” Borel said, and he frankly eyed her face and form, appraising. And at last he said, “Now I can see why he was so smitten.”

“How know you this?”

“He is my brother,” replied Borel, “for I am the Prince of the Winterwood.”

“Brother and prince you may be, Good Sir, yet again I ask, will you give aid to my Bear?”

Borel looked about. “Where-?”

“He is with a monstrous Troll-”

“The one we’ve been tracking,” gritted Borel. He gestured at the slain Goblins and added, “Along with his Redcap band.” Borel glanced up at the riven sky. “A storm is coming, yet we may have a chance. Where is this Troll now?”

“He was on a ridge yon,” said Camille, pointing through the dead trees toward the cloud-covered moon. “He has my Bear, and I fear-”

But even as she spoke, there came a crashing from the direction of the ridge. Hackles raised, all the Wolves turned to face this menace, and Borel nocked arrow and stepped between Camille and the oncoming threat and drew the weapon to the full, aiming toward the sound of shattering wood. And then the Bear burst forth from the tangle, a thunderous roar bellowing. But upon seeing the Wolves and the man, he skidded to a stop, the roar dying in mid-bellow. Grunting, he sat down.

The Wolves relaxed, their hackles falling, and one or two of the animals set their tails to wagging. “Ah,” said Borel, “you are safe.” And he eased his bowstring even as Camille rushed ’round and forward.

Camille flung her arms about the Bear’s neck. “Oh, Bear, I thought you imperilled.”

The Bear merely grunted in reply.

Releasing him, Camille said, “Bear, I would have you meet Prince Borel, brother to Prince Alain.”

“We’ve met,” said Borel, slipping the arrow back into his quiver. “For as I said, Alain is my brother, and-”

The Bear growled low, as if in warning.

Borel pushed a palm out to allay the Bear and murmured, “As you wish.”

Stepping to the arrow-slain Goblin and leaning his bow against the tree, Borel said, “Now about that Troll, has he any more Redcaps in his train?”

“I think not,” replied Camille, looking about at the slaughter and shuddering. “My Bear slew ten of them, and you and your Wolves killed the rest. As far as I know, the Troll is now alone, but perhaps for some unknown man I saw standing with him on the ridge.”

The Bear huffed.

Borel grunted as he jerked the arrow free from the skull of the dead Redcap, then began scouring it with snow to scrub away the dark grume. “I would be rid of this Troll who has invaded my demesne.”

Camille looked about at the tangle. “My lord, ’tis a drear and dread realm you rule.”

Borel glanced up from where he knelt. “The Winterwood is not all like this cursed sector, my lady, for herein not even the Ice Sprites dwell. Elsewhere, my principality is the most beautiful of the four.”

“Four?”

“Aye. Spring, Summer, Autumn, and Winter: four seasons and four forests, ruled by four siblings: Celeste, Alain, Liaze, and me.”

“You four rule all of Faery?”

“Oh, no, Camille,” said Borel, rising, sliding the now clean arrow in among the others. “There is much more to Faery than just the Forests of the Seasons.”

Taking up his bow, Borel turned to the Bear. “Just as did you come running this way at the sound of my Wolves slaying the Redcaps, this Troll, he ran the other way when he heard?”