Dennis McKiernan - Once upon a Spring morn

Swiftly she ran across the floor and scrambled up onto the cook pot and then the cauldron and finally the bed; across the blanket she trod, where she took up the wooden billet and moved to stand at Lokar’s cheek.

The Ogre yet snored.

Celeste positioned the point of the long-knife just in front of his right eye, and angled the blade, and raised the billet. . and hesitated. Of a sudden, the Ogre ceased snoring, and he opened his eyes, and gasped.

With sharp blow of the wooden billet Celeste drove the red-hot blade through Lokar’s eye and into his brain, the blade sizzling as it was quenched in his head.

The Ogre cried out and lurched up and fell back, and then his air left him in one long sigh, and he breathed no more. And his bladder and bowels loosed, and liquid and slurry splashed to the floor, and a great stench filled the chamber.

Gagging in the stink of urine and feces and burning flesh, Celeste reeled hindward, and turned and fled and scrambled down from the bed. Even as her feet touched the floor, she retched again and again. . but no vomit came, only a thin, yellowish bile.

And she wept, for she had never before slain someone in his sleep or even in near sleep and perhaps would never do so again, no matter how vile.

Still sobbing, she strode to the great boulder block shy;

ing the exit. And there she confirmed that she could not squeeze past it to the outside. Nor could she roll it aside.

Along with his massive corpse, she was trapped in the Ogre’s cave.

Escape

Celeste stepped to the woodpile and took up a length of sturdy limb to use as a lever, and she bore it back to the boulder blocking the door. She set one end in between the edge of the massive stone and the cavern wall and pried with all of her might. . to no avail.

Next she sat with her back to the wall and placed her feet against the limb, and braced as she was, she tried to use her leg strength to roll the boulder. The limb flexed, but the boulder moved not.

Perhaps if I had a fulcrum. .

She fetched a thick billet from the woodpile, and as close to the boulder as she could lodge it, she jammed the log upright between limb and wall. She moved to the far end of her improvised lever and pushed with all of her strength, trying to nudge the weight away. .

again to no avail.

With tears of frustration blurring her vision, she walked back into the cavern, and wiping her eyes, she examined the walls for a crevice or rift that would lead to freedom, but she found nought.

Taking a burning brand from the fire, she peered into the well. . and water glimmered some forty or fifty feet below. Yet it stood still. It does not flow; hence perhaps is not a stream leading out from this prison.

Up at the smoke hole above she looked, and then examined the walls and the ceiling leading that way, but she saw no cracks or protrusions by which she could reach that cleft without climbing aids.

All I have is ten feet of rope- No, wait, there is also the rope on the well bucket. Even so, I have no pitons or jams, hence no way up unless I can improvise.

Celeste moved to the trunk at the foot of the Ogre’s cot. She studied it a moment, and then stepped back to her improvised stair and climbed up. Holding her breath, for here the stench was strongest, she climbed up and onto the bed and strode past the corpse and to the chest.

Using her length of rope tied to the hasp, after a struggle she managed to haul the lid back, where she tied it to the foot of the bed, and scrambled down into the trunk.

Inside she found clothing of a size for ordinary people, along with goods suitable for travel-rucksacks, flint and steel, tinderboxes, knives, a bow, arrows, some feminine supplies, a cutthroat razor, a jar of salve of some sort, and other such paraphernalia.

Oh, my, these are the possessions of Lokar’s victims.

A glint caught her eye, and she took up an argent heart-shaped locket on a broken silver chain. She opened the leaves and inside and facing one another were small painted portraits in profile of a handsome, dark-haired man and a beautiful, redheaded woman.

She snapped the locket shut and started to lay it aside, but on impulse she slipped it into her pocket.

She continued to search through the goods, finding combs and mirrors and various herbs and simples and boots and undergarments and scarves and other such fare, but she found no climbing gear.

Clambering out of the chest and crossing the chamber, Celeste scaled up to the top of the sideboard and examined the utensils there-huge spoons, knives, cleavers-none of which offered a way to reach the smoke hole high above the open-pit fire.

Weary with defeat and needing sleep, Celeste sighed and sat down.

Oh, Roel, my Roel, where are you?

By lamplight and firelight, she surveyed the cavern for something she might have overlooked. Beyond the fire, beyond the well, a massive corpse lay on a bed.

And then she knew what she would do, and she lay down to sleep.

Roel was up before dawn, and he fed the horses and watered them and then took a meal of his own as he watched the sky slowly gain light.

Celeste, my love, are you even yet ali- Roel, stop that! She has to be alive. Oh, Mithras, please, Mithras, let it be so.

He saddled the steeds and laded the packhorses even as the sun broached the horizon, and he examined the stony floor where yester he had lost the track.

Nothing!

Sighing, he climbed the ridge on the left and down into the slot below. Once more he swept back and forth, seeking spoor-an overturned rock, an imprint of some sort, anything that would show him the way. Along the floor he went, sunwise and then starwise, but nought did he find.

Back up the ridge he clambered, and at the top he slowly turned about.

Celeste, oh, Celeste, where are-? Wait! What’s that?

Oh, Mithras, it must be her!

Quickly Roel scrambled down from the ridge and ran to the horses, and he leapt astride his mount and spurred away, the other animals in tow.

Hacking, coughing in spite of the wet cloth covering her mouth and nose, Celeste poured water upon the great armload of straw she had ripped from the mattress. She then cast it onto the fire where other wetted straw now burned, releasing dark smoke up toward the hole above, though it also filled the cavern.

At least it somewhat covers the reek of the dead Ogre.

Back to the straw-filled mattress she trod, where she tore out more of the bedding, and she carried it to the well.

Once again she tossed Lokar’s rope-tied goblet into the shaft, for the drinking vessel served as her pail, the Ogre’s wooden bucket too massive for her to use. She drew up the goblet and dipped her improvised mask into the water and then retied it around her nose and mouth. Then she wetted the straw.

She took it to the fire and set it aside.

Wood. I need more wood. Can’t let the straw smother the burn.

To the woodpile she went, and took up an armful and headed back to the fire pit.

Even as she knelt to jam branches into the coals, a rope came snaking down from above.

Celeste leapt to her feet. Oh, Mithras, please let it be.

She grabbed the end of the line to keep it out of the fire.

She pulled away her wetted mask and cried, “Roel!

Roel!”

There was no answer.

She stood, her heart in her throat, and moments later a figure came sliding down through the dark smoke.

It was Roel.

Even as his feet touched the floor, he reached for Coeur d’Acier, but he could not draw it, so fierce was Celeste’s embrace.

And she wept, as did he.

“I thought I had lost you,” whispered Roel.