Dennis McKiernan - Once upon a Spring morn

“Let me go forward and see what I can find,” said Roel, and he handed the reins to Celeste, and then took his crossbow from its saddle scabbard and cocked and loaded it.

“Take care,” said Celeste, as he moved toward the bridge.

No sooner had Roel set foot on the pave than at the other end a giant of an armored knight-a great two-handed sword in his grip-stepped onto the far end of the span.

A crimson surcoat he wore, and the mist swirled, shrouding him and revealing him only to veil him again.

“Friend, we would pass,” called Roel.

He received no answer from the fog.

“Then we will hold and you may pass,” Roel cried.

Yet the armed and armored man, now vaguely discernible, did not respond but stood waiting.

Roel sighed and turned to Celeste. “ WdBr means

‘warded bridge.’ ”

“Why would someone stand athwart this span?” asked Celeste.

Roel shrugged. “For toll? Perhaps that’s it.” Then he called out, “What be the toll?”

The giant of a man, some nine feet tall, made no response.

“Perhaps the Changeling Lord set him here to keep interlopers from his lands,” said Celeste.

Roel walked back to his horse, and unladed and un-cocked his crossbow and slid it into its saddle scabbard and the quarrel to the quiver. Then he slipped his helm on his head and took down his shield and drew Coeur d’Acier from its sheath.

“Cheri?” said Celeste.

“I must accept his challenge,” said Roel.

“I’ll simply feather him,” said Celeste, reaching for her bow.

“Were the air currents still and could you see him clear enough, perhaps,” said Roel. “But, non, my love,

’tis something I must do, for a gauntlet has been flung.” Celeste shook her head. “Men.”

“Nay, love. Knights.”

He tenderly kissed her and stepped onto the span and strode into the churning vapor. The moment he moved forward, so, too, did the massive warrior.

Her heart hammering with fear for Roel, Celeste strung her bow and nocked an arrow, not one of the blunts but a keen point instead.

Roel then passed a pike jutting up from the wall of the bridge, and now he could see the round object affixed thereon: ’twas the spitted head of a knight, helmet in place, rotted flesh dangling from bone. To left and right Roel looked as he trod onward. More pikes came into view; more knights’ helmeted skulls gaped at the passing warrior.

Oh, Laurent, Blaise, let none of these be you.

On he went through the clinging vapor, the huge knight coming toward him, mist eddying about.

“To first blood?” called Roel.

In response the Red Knight swung his huge sword up and ’round and brought it across in a crashing blow, only to meet Roel’s shield; yet the shock of the strike benumbed Roel’s left arm.

Again the giant swung his great sword up and ’round, but this time the massive blade met Roel’s Coeur d’Acier.

Clang! Chang! Blade met blade and metal screamed.

And Roel feinted and parried and struck, and the blades whistled through the air as back and forth knight and knight struggled, the fog churning about them. The giant of a knight hammered at Roel, his blows mighty, and of a sudden Roel reeled hindward and fell, for he had been struck upon the helm, the bronze and padding and a partial parry all that saved him from a crushing death. And the huge knight sprang forward, his great blade whistling down, only to strike stone, chips flying, for his target had rolled away. Roel gained his feet, and as the next strike whistled past, he stepped inside the reach of the knight of the bridge, only to be flung aside by the backhanded sweep of a mailed fist.

At the end of the span, horses danced and snorted and huffed in fear, yet Celeste paid them no heed. As the mist cleared she could see struggling figures, closing,

leaping apart, whirling about one another, blades swinging, the sound of their strikes like that of hammers on anvils. And Celeste drew and aimed, yet she could not loose her shaft, for in the blowing white vapor she could not be certain of her target nor the flight of her arrow given the swirling air.

And then the mist cloaked all, and still the cry of tortured metal rang along the gorge.

Forward, I must move forward. Yet what if I distract Roel? What will I-?

Of a sudden, silence reigned.

Oh, Mithras, is it-?

“Roel!” she called, her voice choked with fear.

Footsteps neared.

Celeste drew the shaft to the full and aimed into the white.

A fog-shrouded form appeared, yet she could not see just what or who it-

— and Roel stumbled out from the mist and fell to his knees, his dented shield clanging down beside him. His chest heaved and blood slid down his face.

Behind her the horses suddenly calmed.

Dropping her bow and arrow, with a cry of anguish Celeste sprang forward. “My love, are you-?” As she fell to her knees before him, he raised his head and looked at her and smiled. “Ah, Mithras, but he was mighty. Never have I fought so hard.”

“But you’re bleeding.”

“I am?”

“Oui. Your forehead.”

Roel reached up and touched his face and looked at the blood in surprise. Then he removed his helmet. “He struck my head a glancing blow. It must have happened then.”

Celeste examined the wound, more of a scuffing of skin than a cut. She embraced him and gave him a kiss and said, “ ’Twas your own helm did it, cheri. A bit of salve and a bandage should be enough.”

“If you don’t mind, I’ll wait here,” said Roel, yet panting.

Celeste stepped to the horses and rummaged through the gear. Then she returned with clean cloth and a small tin. In moments she had Roel’s scrape salved and swathed. He took some of the remaining cloth and started to clean Coeur d’Acier, but the blade gleamed like new-there was no blood whatsoever upon the silvered steel.

“What th-? But I struck him through.”

“Something mystic is afoot,” said Celeste. Then she gestured hindward and said, “The horses knew.” Roel frowned down at his blade and then looked at the princess. “Come, let us see.”

Groaning to his feet, Roel stepped to the now-placid horses and took up the reins of his steed, Celeste following. Walking, they moved upon the span, the white vapor swirling with their passage, and the horses calmly let themselves be led, no longer skittish and balking.

As they crossed, Roel carefully examined each and every knight’s head spitted on a pike, fearing the worst for Laurent and Blaise, but whether those of his brothers were among the skulls so mounted he could not say, for with flesh rotted or gone and dangling hair in disarray he could see no resemblance whatsoever. He spent no time examining the helms, for doing so would yield nought, for, like him, Laurent and Blaise had traded all armor for gear of bronze in the mortal city of Rulon ere ever entering Faery.

When they came to the mid of the bridge, Roel looked about and frowned and said, “Here should lie the corpse of my foe, yet nought do I see.” On they went, Roel yet looking at the spitted heads but recognizing nought, and when at last he and Celeste came to the end of the span, there on a pike was mounted the visored helm of the giant Red Knight of the bridge, yet it was empty.

Roel turned to Celeste. “This was on the head of the one I fought, the one I slew. How can it be?” But ere she could answer, Roel muttered, “I know: Faery. ’Tis Faery.”

Before them gaped a tunnel into the stone of the opposite cliff, and into this they strode.

The sound of shod hooves rang and reverberated within the rocky way, yet ere long they emerged from the passage to come out upon a narrow plateau.

Directly before them and rearing up into the sky loomed the twilight wall.