Dennis McKiernan - Once upon a dreadful time

“Then, my lady,” said Regar, “can you divine the meaning of Lady Verdandi’s rede?”

“It seems to mean that war is on the way.”

“Then you think Orbane is free?”

Lisane took a deep breath and slowly let it out. “This morn I was jolted awake by something unknown. Mayhap it was Orbane’s escape. The cards would seem to say so.”

“The cards again?” said Fleurette.

Lisane nodded. “Let me show you what I saw. . ”

Regar frowned. “And I am this Naif and you the Hierophant?”

Again Lisane blushed. “Oui.”

“What about us?” asked Flic, standing and peering at the wheels of cards.

Fleurette elbowed Flic. “We’re not important.” Lisane shook her head. “Ah, do not be too quick to judge, Fleurette, for the six of cups signifies friends, and that’s where I think you are. Still, that might not be, yet the cards do not see all.”

“Even so, they seem to spell doom,” said Regar.

“Things are dire, that I admit,” said Lisane. “Yet the taroc speaks not to what will be, but rather what might be, and then only if the reader has interpreted wisely and true, and only if the acts portrayed are not contravened by actions unshown.” They sat in silence for long moments, but then Regar said,

“Do you believe the four Knights in opposition to the Magician are Luc, Roel, Blaise, and Laurent?”

Lisane shrugged. “Mayhap, but then again the knights might simply indicate armies in opposition to those of the Mage, if indeed armies become involved.”

“Well, it’s all quite beyond me,” said Flic, stretching and yawning. “Oh, my, but I must sleep.”

“I’ll fix a pillow by the hearth,” said Lisane.

Fleurette smiled and said, “There is no need. We can find a place up in the branches of your tree.”

“It is certainly no bother, Fleurette. Besides, I think it safer inside.”

Regar stood. “I will sleep out beneath the fronds of your willow, my lady.” Lisane seemed as if she had something to say, yet she remained silent.

. .

As mid of night approached, and the waxing crescent moon sank low, Regar lay awake, his face toward the stars wheeling above and glinting down through the long strands of willow.

Yet he saw not the leaves nor the celestial display, for his mind was filled with the features of Lisane, his heart quite stolen away.

He heard a soft step, and turned to see Lisane, the moonlight shining through her filmy negligee.

With his pulse pounding in his ears, Regar raised up on his elbows. “My lady, I-”

She knelt and put a finger to his lips. “My prince, I did not tell all I saw in the cards, for early this morn, long ere you arrived, I dealt out what might happen this day, and it seems it has come true.”

“My lady?”

Lisane took him by the hands and raised him up. “Come with me. I will show you.” And she led him into her bower.

With the twigs of her besom smoking and threatening to burst into flame, down Hradian spiralled toward the town, while the wizard Orbane laughed in glee and crowed,

“Not only have I escaped the Great Darkness, I sent a fearsome enemy into that dreadful void.”

“My lord,” gasped Hradian, “I am too weary to go onward, and my broom needs new willow twigs, else it will fly like nought more than a stick.”

“Very well, Acolyte, come to rest in the village, for I would have food and drink and entertainment. Too, I would have you stanch my leg.”

They came to ground in the center of the hamlet, and faces peered out through the windows of the inn, stark with mouths agape. Shocked villagers cried out in fear and rushed into homes and slammed shut the doors, though should the wizard or witch want in, there was nought could be done to stop them.

Limping slightly, Orbane strode toward the hostel, where a white-lettered but otherwise black sign proclaimed the place to be Le Mur Noir . Hradian followed, though she paused a moment to dunk the glowing end of her besom into the horse trough to extinguish the smoldering twigs. She caught up with her master as he stepped across the porch, the door opening at his gesture. The innkeeper quailed to see the wizard and witch enter his small establishment. He started to bolt but, with whispered word and a casual wave, Orbane arrested his flight. And Hradian ground her teeth in envy, for this was a spell she could not master. Oh, her three sisters could do so, and they had laughed at her pitiful attempts, but the spell was simply beyond her grasp. Even so, she was much better with herbal magery than they, and in turn she had laughed at them.

“Food and drink, fool,” Orbane snarled at the innkeeper,

“for I have had neither lately.”

Hradian frowned. “My lord?”

Orbane snorted. “One of the foulnesses of that loathsome castle, Acolyte: neither food nor drink are provided or needed.

One cannot enjoy a good meal or a fine vintage, or the simple pleasure of emptying one’s bladder or bowels.” Orbane again gestured at the innkeeper. The man jerked about and faced the wizard, and then slumped as he was released.

“M-my lord,” he stuttered, “I have b-but simple fare: a joint of beef, a flagon of ale, a loaf of bread is all I can provide.”

“Away, and bring it,” commanded Orbane, and he stepped into the common room.

Patrons therein blenched as wizard and witch entered. Orbane looked ’round, then gestured. “Out!” he commanded, but then, even as they stood to go, Orbane’s eyes lit up and he said,

“Non, wait. Hommes out, femmes remain.” The women sat down as the men left, some bolting, others reluctant and in tears yet helpless to do ought else.

Orbane drew down his trousers. “Acolyte, deal with my leg.”

Hradian unslung her rucksack and rummaged about within.

She withdrew packets of herbs and simples and bandages. Even as she treated his wound, there where the arrow had pierced, she could not help but to glance in anticipation at his now-erect member.

And when the treatment was done, in between bites of beef and bread and gulps of ale, Orbane swived every femme in the place, some several times.

And Hradian laughed to see his joyous diversion, and shrieked in pleasure at her own.

Then Orbane left the inn and began swaggering from house to house.

. .

At dawn the next morning, the innkeeper delivered a bundle of willow twigs to Hradian. She shed the charred withes from her besom, and bound new unto the shaft. The moment it was ready, she and Orbane took flight, leaving behind a stricken village in which every woman wept.

Through many twilight bounds they flew and over the lands below as the sun crept up and across the sky and down, and, as the eve drew upon them, Hradian guided her broom o’er the stench of her vast swamp.

They lit upon the flet of her cottage, and Crapaud plaintively croaked upon his mistress’s return, but seemingly took no note of Orbane.

“Oui, oui, all right, you may feed at will,” snapped Hradian.

Crapaud waddled to the edge and fell into the mire.

Orbane surveyed the immensity of the bog and drew in a deep breath and took in the odor. “Mayhap it will do.” And he gestured down at the undulant surface and up rose a thin tendril of a thick, yellow-green gaseous vapor, motes swirling within. Orbane reached out and touched the miasma with a single finger and lifted it to his nostrils and inhaled. He turned to Hradian and smiled. “You have chosen well, Acolyte. It is virulent, this Sickness lying at the bottom of your swamp. It will be more than enough to accomplish the deed, and then shall I rule. But to begin with, I must reawaken the hatred in my allies of old, and reassemble my armies.”