Dennis McKiernan - Once upon a dreadful time

And from deeper within the Springwood and Summerwood and Autumnwood, more Sprites came with long thorns in hand and silently glided toward the trees.

And from Valeray’s demesne, Sprites drifted on wings through the twilight bound, needles and scarfpins and thorns in hand, to join in the murder of crows.

And they settled to the roosts of given trees and at a specified signal, they stabbed through the eyes and into the brains of the ebon birds. Even though slain, the crows fell to the ground and flopped and fluttered for long moments, yet other dark birds asleep in adjacent trees did not note the passing of their

more, the troops of tiny warriors moved to the next set of full roosts.

In the Winterwood it was Ice Sprites who popped from frozen pond to icicle to ice-laden limbs, seeking blackbirds who perched on ice, and there the winter Sprites reached forth with their tiny fingers to oh-so-lightly touch the birds at the places where they grasped the clad branch; and the Sprites froze them to death, while the Root Dwellers of that forest slew the ones who sat on ice-free roosts.

When morning came in these four domains, the floor of each woodland along those portions of the starwise margins was littered with dead birds, like black leaves fallen to ground.

At dawn the day after Luc, Roel, Laurent, and Blaise and their guides had ridden away, Michelle and the Winterwood retainers as well as Avelaine and half of the Springwood warband prepared to set out for their respective manors. At Sieur Emile’s manse, Avelaine would pick up a small escort of men and ride on to her home in Port Mizon, there where her husband Vicomte Chevell readied a battlefleet with the intent of once and for all clearing out the corsair stronghold on the island fortress of Brados. Just how a release of Orbane from the Castle of Shadows might affect this seafaring mission, none could say, for Orbane was not noted for conflicts upon the brine, but the warring of armies on land instead.

Regardless, Michelle would be at Winterwood Manor by morrow eve to await the arrival of Borel, while Avelaine’s return to her port city would take a seven-day altogether.

Borel embraced Michelle and said, “I’ll be on my way the very moment the closing ceremonies are done; the Wolves and I will press through the night, so look for me the morning following the eve we get quit of this faire.” Lady Simone kissed Avelaine and said, “Take care, my daughter, for there is more than just you to worry about. I would not have my future grandchild placed in jeopardy.” Sieur Emile gently embraced Avelaine. “Avi, heed your mother, for in war, who knows what might come. Thank Mithras you live by the sea and should be fairly safe, for the war will be fought aland. Even so, the battles might come close, so be ready to hie to a safer place.”

“Oh, la,” said Avelaine. “I think this Orbane, even if he does get free, will be put down by you and the king and his men, to say nought of Rollie and Blaise and Laurent.”

“And Luc,” said Liaze, gazing toward the duskward bound beyond which lay her realm.

“Mais oui,” said Avelaine. “I did not mean to leave him out, nor Borel and Alain. All will do magnificently, of that I am certain.”

A tall, dark-haired man approached and said, “Lady Michelle, we are ready.”

“Oui, Armsmaster Jules,” replied Michelle to the warband leader.

“We are ready as well,” said stocky, redheaded Anton, captain of the Springwood warband.

Quick embraces were exchanged all ’round, and Valeray, Saissa and their get, as well as Camille and Duran, stepped back, along with Simone and Emile. The men and the two ladies mounted up, and, with a sliding of massive bars and the creaking of hinges, the gates of the castle were opened. With waves and calls of au revoir , across the flagstone clattered the horses and out into the land beyond, and as faire-goers watched, away trotted the war bands, one group heading dawnwise, the other starwise.

And as the two ladies and their escorts rode away on their separate paths, through the early morning light on glittering wings came Sprites to report to the king.

. .

It was midmorning when Michelle and Jules and the warband crossed over into the Winterwood. Foxes looked up from their feasting, and scattered away into the snow-laden ’scape.

Michelle marveled at the litter of crows, yet she and the others paused not, but pressed on toward a number of small fires glimmering not far ahead, around which tiny folk clustered.

. .

Past the crow-slaughter at the starwise bound of the Springwood rode Avelaine and her entourage. And they came among small beings, the wee Root Dwellers, where birds roasting on spits filled the air with a meaty aroma. These diminutive fey folk, some unclothed, others not, many now adorned with black feathers, bowed and curtseyed gracefully as the sparse cavalcade fared by. As always, Avelaine marveled at the sight of them, with their quite exotic elfin features-long tipped ears and tilted eyes, eyes usually filled with mischievous gaiety. And she listened to their tiny, piping voices, sometimes mistaken for bird twitters by those who did not know better. Some doffed crudely stitched hats, revealing nearly bald heads, while others sported hair to the waist, or even to the anklebone. And as they bowed and curtseyed to Avelaine, she nodded and smiled in return, giving them their due. And through the long gauntlet of Root Dwellers, some yet bearing the weapons used in the slaughter, rode the lady and her escort, while spitted crows roasted above flames.

When the warband had passed out of earshot, Captain Anton turned to Avelaine and said, “Remind me, m’lady, never to make enemies of the wee ones, else I am a dead bird.” Then he roared with laughter, as did all his men, Avelaine joining in.

. .

And so as the sun rode up and across the sky and started its slow descent, in the Winterwood and the Springwood, warbands of men escorted ladies toward home, while elsewhere in Faery and riding across the sky a figure, streaming danglers and tatters like ephemeral shadows, flew swiftly toward her goal.

Leaving Crapaud behind to ward the cote, up and up above the swamp did Hradian fly, her besom firmly grasped as she straddled the long, thick shaft. No sidesaddle rider she, for it gave her no pleasure to do so, and instead she fully reveled in the joy of flight, riding as she did.

High up above the foetid morass she soared, above the miasma of rot and stench, and away sunward she darted, the Black Wall of the World her aim, though it lay far, far away.

Across the world of Faery did Hradian soar through the dark, the starry skies witness to her flight. O’er the swamp she flew, and leagues fell away behind her. Finally a twilight wall she crossed, and out from the realm of her mire. And still she flew onward as the night wheeled above, until came the faint light of dawn.

Still onward she pressed through twilight bound after bound, morning now lighting the way. And she soared o’er dark mountains and rivers and steads and cities, villages and forests and lakes, and barren wastes of ice or sand or rock all passing

’neath her broom. And yet to these she but barely paid attention, for she had flown since childhood, and all was as familiar as treading the same road over and over again. And so she little noted the clouds like foreign castles and great chateaus rising all ’round, nor other strange shapes these billows of the sky

took on-shaggy animals, long dragons, boars, horses, cattle, and droll faces of women and men. Nor did she see damiers and echiquiers below in the patterns of sown fields over which she passed, nor the glitter of lakes like diamonds, nor the sails of ships like gull wings as above an arm of a distant sea she went, the fishermen plying their skills below.