Dennis McKiernan - Once upon a Spring morn

Behind Roel, Celeste’s mount flinched and stutter-stepped, yet in spite of its frantic dancing the princess drew her arrow to the full and aimed and loosed. Even as the shaft hurtled through the fluttering light, the figure at the far end whirled and vanished, and the arrow hissed through where he had been and shattered against stone.

And the axes fell to the pave of the corridor, no longer under sorcerous control.

His breath coming in gasps, Roel said, “ ’Twas the Changeling Lord.”

Yet even as he said it, at the far end a huge knight in black armor and bearing a battle-axe with flames running along its blade rode out from a side archway on a horselike steed; but no horse was this mount, with its serpent scales and flaring yellow eyes and a forked tongue and cloven hooves.

And with a howl, the black knight charged down the corridor, his flaming axe raised for a killing blow.

Roel spurred his mount forward to meet the onslaught, Coeur d’Acier’s edge gleaming argent in the flickering torchlight.

Even as they closed, an arrow hissed past Roel to-

thuck! — pierce the serpent horse and plunge deep into its breast. A skreigh split the air, but still the creature thundered on.

Down swung the black knight’s fire-edged battle-axe, and with a mighty crash, it shivered Roel’s shield in twain, yet at the same time, Roel’s silver-chased, rune-marked blade swept under the black knight’s own shield and ripped open his gut. Roel spun his horse, and with a second blow, he sheared through the knight’s neck to take off his head, even as another arrow flashed along the corridor, this one to pierce the serpent horse’s left eye, and that creature shrilled and crashed to the stone. The black knight’s body smashed down beside his monstrous horse, and his head yet encased in his helm clanged to the pave just behind, his axe blanging down nearby, its flames now extinguished.

Celeste quickly nocked another arrow, but the grotesque knight and his hideous beast began to pool into slime. And a horrific stench filled the passage.

With their horses snorting and blowing in the malodor and trying to jerk back and away from the sickening smell, gagging in the reek, both Roel and Celeste prevailed and spurred past the now-runny sludge and on down the corridor.

To the right and through the archway whence the black knight had come, they found an extensive, torchlit stable.

“Mid of night is drawing upon us,” said Roel as he and Celeste rode halfway down the row of stalls and dismounted. “We must find Avelaine ere then.”

“Hsst!” cautioned Celeste. “Roel, at the far end, something or someone moves.”

Down to the far extent they crept, to find several horses in stalls. “Celeste, there is Imperial, Laurent’s horse, and Vaillant, Blaise’s. They are here; my brothers are here. But, if that’s true, then why haven’t they-?

Oh, are they prisoners?”

Mayhap dead, thought Celeste. No, wait, Lady Doom showed us their images in her farseeing mirror. Surely they yet live; else why show us them?

Quickly they tied their horses to stall posts, and then wrenched down two of the sorcerous flambeaus, and up a flight of stone stairs they went, to find themselves in a courtyard, the rain yet sheeting down.

As they crossed, lightning flared, and Roel gasped.

“Celeste, it is Laurent and Blaise.”

“Where?”

“Yon.”

In that moment another flash brightened the courtyard, and near a gaping entryway stood two figures.

“Take care, Roel, for the Changelings are shapeshifters, and this could be a trap.”

“Laurent, Blaise!” called Roel, and, sword in hand, he and Celeste ran through the rain to where they had seen the two, slowing as they neared.

Another flare.

The figures had not moved.

Stepping closer and raising their torches on high, they found two life-sized statues.

Celeste recognized both from the image in Lady Urd’s dark basin. And just as they had seen at the crossroads some nine days past, both Laurent and Blaise stood with their hands on the hilts of their swords, the weapons partially drawn or mayhap partly sheathed.

And their faces reflected either smiles or grimaces.

Were they preparing to do battle, or instead were they putting their swords away? Neither Roel nor Celeste could tell.

“Oh, Mithras, my brothers, an enchantment, have they been turned to stone?”

“I do not know,” said Celeste, “yet we cannot stand and ponder. ’Tis nigh mid of night, and we must find your sister.”

In through the opening they went, and they found themselves in a long corridor. From somewhere ahead came the sound of soft weeping.

“Avelaine!” called Roel, and down the hallway they trotted.

From a doorway at the end of the passage there stepped a maiden. “Avelaine, we have found you,” cried Roel in triumph. “We have found you in time.”

“Is it you? Is it truly you?” asked Avelaine, sweeping forward, a beautiful smile transforming her face.

Celeste’s heart plummeted even as Roel rushed forward and embraced Avelaine. Then he stepped back to look at his sister and said, “Where are Laurent and Blaise?”

Celeste came to stand beside Roel, and Avelaine glanced at her and smiled. “Roel, she spoke to us,” said Celeste in a low voice.

Roel shook his head. “Celeste, she is my sister,” even as Celeste held her torch up for a better look at this maiden, the light casting shadows against the walls.

Celeste drew in a sharp breath between clenched teeth.

And as Roel started to sheathe his sword, “No!” cried Celeste, and she dropped her bow and torch and grabbed Coeur d’Acier away from Roel, and in spite of his shout, with a backhanded sweep she slashed the keen blade through Avelaine’s neck, the head to go flying.

Down fell the body and the head.

“Celeste,” cried Roel, horrified, “what have you done?”

But then the head began to transform into a visage of unbearable hideousness ’neath hair of hissing snakes.

And as Celeste and Roel looked on, their own bodies began to stiffen, to harden, yet at that moment the corpse and its head collapsed into mucous slime and then to a malodorous liquid, and Celeste and Roel felt whole and hale again.

Celeste said, “She was not Avelaine.”

“But how did you know?”

Celeste handed Coeur d’Acier back to Roel and retrieved her bow and torch and said, “She had a shadow, and Avelaine does not. And I remembered Skuld’s words:

“What might seem fair is sometimes foul And holds not a beautiful soul.

Hesitate not or all is lost;

Do what seems a terrible cost.

“When I held up the torch, her shadow showed her true soul, her true form-that of someone with writhing snakes for hair-a Gorgon. Besides, she spoke to us, and Lady Lot said that until Avelaine is fully restored to slay all those who do so.”

“A Gorgon?” Roel glanced at the puddle that was her head and then looked over his shoulder toward the statues in the courtyard. “Laurent and Blaise, this is how they. .?”

Tears brimmed in Celeste’s eyes. “I’m afraid so.” Gritting his teeth, Roel said, “The Changeling Lord will pay dearly for this. Come, we yet need to find Avelaine.”

As they started down the hallway, again they heard the soft weeping. They came to a cross-corridor, and Celeste murmured, “This way,” and rightward she turned toward the sobbing.

To either side open doorways showed chambers furnished with tables and chairs and cabinets and lounges and other such. In some, fireplaces were lit; in others the rooms were dark, and some were lit by candles.

They arrived at the doorway whence the weeping came, and they stepped into a chamber where a maiden sat on the floor quietly crying. At hand stood a narrow golden rack o’er which a dark wispy garment draped.