Dennis McKiernan - Once upon a Spring morn

Celeste glanced about. “The uprooted trees have long been lying to the side; hence I deem this was done some time in the past, yet the way is still being used by something or someone.”

“I agree,” said Roel as he remounted. “Nevertheless, let us follow this windrow to make our way through the forest, for it seems to be going in our direction and will ease the ride.”

Celeste strung her bow, adding, “As long as whatever uses it does not dispute our passage.” On they rode, following the wide path, and the sun climbed up the sky and across and down, and nothing and no one challenged them. As sunset approached, Roel and Celeste moved well off the swath, where they made camp in a small glade.

The next morn, once more they took to the path, and with the sun mounting the sky, they followed the way, pausing now and again to feed and water the horses.

As the noontide wheeled past, they emerged from the woodland, and came unto derelict fields where crofters had once cared for the land.

And they passed abandoned farmhouses, some in nought but ruins, and Celeste gritted her teeth and said,

“Lokar. It was Lokar who made the windrow through the forest. He used it as a way to fetch his dreadful fare.”

Roel looked back toward the woodland. “Oui. I think you are right, cherie.”

On they went, and more abandoned farms they passed. But in midafternoon they came to a roadway, and it led them across the fallow land to finally come in among tended fields. Along this way they went, and after some while and in the distance ahead they saw crofters driving herds and wagons in through the gates of a modest town, the settlement walled all ’round with a high palisade.

“Protection against Lokar,” said Roel. “Mayhap against other enemy as well.”

On they rode, and as they drew closer, Roel said,

“Look! Along the wall they have huge ballistas.”

“Ballistas?”

“Great, heavy bows. And these are arrow casters, or perhaps instead I should say spear casters.”

“More protection against Ogres,” said Celeste.

Roel nodded and said, “Those and other foes. But come, Celeste, let us pick up the pace. If Lokar be the only one who raids these environs, we have good tidings for them. Besides, the ville looks prosperous, and I have a taste for a good hot meal and a frothy mug of ale.”

Celeste laughed and said, “Ah, men, always thinking of their stomachs.”

“Only our stomachs?”

Again Celeste laughed. “Ah, not always, for they would have other pleasures to sate their needs. For me I would have a hot bath as well as a good meal and a fine goblet of wine. -Oh, and a soft bed to sleep in, for last eve I swear I slept on a rock the size of a boulder-

grinding into my back it was-yet this morn when I found the stony culprit, it was no larger than a pea.” Roel broke into guffaws and managed to say, “Ah, the true test of a princess, eh?” And then he spurred forward into a trot, Celeste following, the princess laughing as well.

Closer they drew, and closer, and now they could see the very tall logs of the high palisade were sharpened to wicked points. Roel also pointed out that some of the wagons among the train moving toward the town were equipped with ballistas to guard the crofters and their herds.

Celeste and Roel reached the gates just as the last of the herds were being driven through. And as they waited for sheep to flock in, followed by a gaggle of geese, a guardsman came and, raising his voice above the bleating of lambs and honking of fowl, asked Roel, “Your names and your business here in Le Bastion?”

“I am Chevalier Roel, and my companion is Celeste de la Foret de Printemps. Our business is to seek lodging for the night.”

“And have you a smith or an armorer?” asked Celeste.

The ward of the gate canted his head in assent. “Oui, demoiselle, Monsieur Galdon; he is a fine smith as well as a gifted armorer.”

“And where might we find Monsieur Galdon?”

“We would see your mayor, too,” added Roel.

“You have a need to see our mayor?”

“Oui,” replied Roel. “We might have some welcome news.”

“Welcome news?”

Gesturing at the palisade and the ballistas above, Roel said, “I note you are well defended. Is it perchance to ward off a giant Ogre?”

The man nodded. “Oui.”

“More than one?”

“Non, Chevalier Roel. Just one.”

“Would his name be Lokar?”

Alarm filled the man’s face, and he looked over the fields in the direction of the unseen woodland. “Oui, that is his name. He shouted it often when he came to our walls.”

“Stay calm, Sieur,” said Roel. “You have nought to fear.” He gestured at Celeste and added, “For my companion slew Lokar three days past.” A look of disbelief filled the guard’s features. “Non.

That cannot be. A mere demoiselle slay such a monster?

Non. You are making a mockery of me.”

“I swear on my honor as a chevalier it is true,” said Roel, “and that is why we would see your mayor.” Celeste growled, “And this ‘mere demoiselle’ would also see your armorer.”

The guardsman called his captain, and Roel repeated to him that Lokar had been slain by Celeste. The captain shook his head in disbelief; nevertheless he escorted the two to the town hall. Mayor Breton of Le Bastion was a tall yet portly man, bald-headed but for a ruddy fringe of hair running ’round the back of his head from one ear to the other. He invited them into his humble chamber, and there Roel introduced Celeste as la Princesse de la Foret de Printemps.

A gleam of skepticism shone in the mayor’s eye; even so he bowed to Celeste and treated her with deference.

When they were seated, Celeste told of her capture by Lokar, and her subsequent slaying of him.

Making noncommittal comments throughout the telling, the mayor clearly did not believe her. And when she was finished, Breton said, “Your tale is very interesting, Princess, and you describe him well, but perhaps you slew someone else, for Lokar is a giant of an Ogre.” Celeste sighed in exasperation, and before Roel could reassure the mayor, Breton said, “Tell me, what brings you two to my ville?”

Stifling his own frustration, Roel said, “We are on our way to rescue my sister and my two brothers.” The mayor frowned as if searching for an elusive memory. “And where might they be?”

“In the Changeling realm,” replied Roel.

“The Changeling realm? I warn you, Chevalier Roel, no one ever returns from- Wait! Wait! Now I remember. You are the third knight to come through my town seeking the land of the Changelings.”

“Laurent nearly seven years past? Blaise nearly four years agone?”

“Oui, those were their names.”

“Hai!” exclaimed Roel, clenching his fist in joy. “They are my brothers, and they went seeking my sister, Avelaine, stolen by the Lord of the Changelings himself.” Breton looked closely at Roel. “I see the resemblance now, for you do favor them. Ah, me, but they were brave, these brothers of yours, for each in turn helped repel Lokar from our very walls. And each promised to make an end to him upon returning from the Changeling realm. But, alas, they did not heed my warning, and I fear both are lost.”

Now the mayor looked at Celeste and then back to Roel. “And you say you slew Lokar?”

“Not I,” said Roel, “but Celeste instead. Mayor Breton, what we tell you is true. As I said to your gate wards, I swear it on my honor as a chevalier.” With wonder in his gaze Breton turned to Celeste.

“Princess, you must forgive me, but I found it altogether preposterous to believe that a mere slip of a fille had succeeded in slaying Lokar. Such is quite improbable.”