Dennis McKiernan - Once upon a dreadful time

Dark: Master’s bitch want all True-People-speak?

Michelle: All.

Dark looked at Slate, and he raised his head and rumbled his unconcern and then laid his chin back on his paws.

And so, slowly and laboriously, with many mistakes and many repeats, as well as many long work-arounds until the new word was understood, in spite of the fact that this two-legs had no tail and could not move her ears or raise any hackles, the bitch Dark began teaching Master’s bitch the words of the True People.

Nigh the noontide on the second day after the black wind had hurled her cursed enemies away to their doom, Hradian spiralled down toward a dark tower looming up from amid a cluster of stone buildings clutched among massifs and crags in dark mountains high. A long and steep roadway twisted up from the foothills below to disappear within an archway marking a passage through the wall surrounding the structures entire.

“We are here, my lord,” said Hradian.

“I am not blind, Acolyte,” growled Orbane as he peered downward. The lesser buildings, their roofs all connected, surrounded the broad, square-based, tall edifice. But there gaped an opening among the buildings, revealing a small plaza before the entrance to the tower. “That courtyard is where we’ll alight.”

“Oui, my lord,” replied Hradian, and she headed toward the square. As she descended, Hradian added, “There are no Changelings about, Lord Orbane. The place looks abandoned.”

“Bah, Acolyte. This is the seat of power in this realm. There will be someone to greet us.”

Down into a deserted stone courtyard they settled, and before them at the foot of the tower an enshadowed opening yawned. Dismounting, Orbane said, “Come, Acolyte, let us see just who is the new Changeling Lord.” And toward the entry he strode, Hradian scuttling after.

Into a long empty corridor they went and toward the far end, where stood a massive door flung wide. They passed a swath of something lying dark upon the hallway floor, something that might have once been a thick, oozing puddle, now long dried.

Orbane paused and peered at it. “Grume,” he sneered, “the remains of a Changeling,” and then strode onward, the blackness crackling underfoot.

Hradian stepped wide of the patch that had once been a shape-shifting being and scurried after her master.

Through the doorway they went, turning rightward and toward the distant throne chamber, where long past Orbane had faced Morgrif, then the Lord of the Changelings. But Morgrif had refused to hew to Orbane’s cause, for there was nought of significance the Changeling Lord would have gained in such a venture. And so Orbane had gone away enraged, for Changelings would have greatly enhanced his armies, shapeshifters that they were.

To either side open doorways showed room after room furnished with tables and chairs and cabinets and lounges and other such. In none were the fireplaces lit, and a layer of fine dust coated all.

They passed a chamber where on the wall a huge celestial astrolabe slowly turned, the large disks of the golden sun and silver moon and the smaller disks of the five wandering stars-red, blue, yellow, green, and white-all crept in great circular paths.

Black and silver was the lunar disk, echoing the current gibbous state of the waxing moon. But on they strode, did Orbane and Hradian, not pausing to marvel at this splendid device.

Past more doorways they went, and as they came to a cross corridor, “Hsst!” murmured Orbane, signaling for silence.

From leftward, drifting along this passage, came the cadent sounds of chanting, rising and falling in pitch.

Orbane smiled. “Acolyte, I think we hear the whinings of the new Lord of the Changelings.”

Leftward he stepped, and Hradian gasped, “My lord, be wary.”

Orbane stopped and slowly turned and glared at her, and she fell to her knees and groveled.

Then he laughed, and took up the pace again, leaving Hradian to scramble after.

Down the passage ahead, an archway glowed, and, as Orbane approached, the sound of chanting grew.

At last the wizard and witch came to the entry, and it led into a grand room bare of furniture, with a great, round skylight centered overhead: the main source of illumination in the chamber, though candles also cast a glow. The marble floor was dark with long-dried puddles: the mingled remains of many slain Changelings. And on the floor as well lay a bundle of black rags wrapped about a desiccated corpse. Yet these things did not interest Orbane, for there with his back to the door, at the center of the chamber in the midst of a circle engraved in the floor with five black candles ringed ’round, each joined by five straight lines forming an enclosed pentagonal shape, a manlike being stood with his arms upraised, and he chanted, as if invoking some great spell.

In that moment there came an anguished cry from Hradian, and a clatter as she dropped her broom. Past Orbane she darted and across the dried puddles of dead Changelings and to the corpse on the floor. “Nefasi!” she shrieked as she dropped to her knees next to her long-dead sister.

In the pentagram the being whirled about, his chant cut short, and a dark shimmering came over him and of a sudden he was no longer there but instead stood as a massive Ogre.

Eighteen feet tall, the monster roared and raised huge taloned hands to attack, but with a casual gesture, Orbane stopped the Ogre in its tracks, the creature unable to move.

To one side Hradian wailed, and she clutched the corpse in her arms and rocked back and forth in seeming agony. And she kissed the parchmentlike lips, skin sluffing to the floor in response.

Again Orbane made a gesture, and silence fell within the room, though Hradian yet rocked and howled, but no sound whatsoever seeped beyond the tight, encircling bounds of Orbane’s spell.

Once more Orbane turned to the Ogre. “I will set you free, but only if you shift back to your lesser self.” He twitched a finger and added, “Do you agree? You may nod.” Slowly and with effort the Ogre nodded, and Orbane said, “I warn you,” and then he made another gesture.

The Ogre’s tense muscles slumped, and its hands dropped to its side, and a darkness shimmered over the gigantic form, and a manlike being stood where the Ogre had been. Dressed in black, slender he was and tall and dark-haired, and his fingers were long and tapered. His eyes were deep gray and his features hawklike, much like those of the former Changeling Lord slain, or even of Orbane himself.

“That’s better,” said Orbane. “Now give me your name.” The man glanced from Orbane to Hradian and then back again. “Effroi.”

“Terror, you say?” Orbane laughed. “Well, Effroi , I am Orbane.”

“Orbane!” blurted Effroi, his dark eyes wide in astonishment. “But he is, I mean, you are, that is, in the Castle of Shadows-”

“I was, but am no longer, Effroi.”

Orbane then looked at the circle and the black candles and the pentagon. “What is it you were trying to do?” For a moment it seemed as if Effroi would not speak, but at last he said, “I was trying to recover the cloak of my sire.” Orbane smiled unto himself. “Morgrif was your sire, then.” His words were not a question.

“Oui,” said Effroi.

“And this cloak?”

Again Effroi hesitated before answering. Finally he said, “It contains the power of the Changeling Lord.”

“Ah, I see. And who has it now?”

“The Queen of the Changelings.”

“Your mere, I take it?”

“Oui. She will not yield it to me, the rightful heir.”

“And you want this cloak because. .?”

“With it I can fetch mortal virgins and keep my people strong.”