Dennis McKiernan - Once upon a dreadful time

“Your business?” asked one of the guards.

“We are here at the request of Prince Luc.”

“Your names, Sieur?”

“I am Garron of the warband of Springwood Manor, and”-

he motioned toward the other man-“this is Mage Caldor.”

“Oh, my,” blurted the page, “the prince is expecting you. I will tell him you are here,” and off he dashed.

“Sieur Garron, Mage Caldor, this way, please,” said the warder, and he led the men through the entrance and down a short corridor to the welcoming hall within, and from there to an intimate chamber, with comfortable chairs and a writing desk. “There is a washroom with a pissoir through that door, where you may refresh yourselves,” said the guard. “I believe Prince Luc will be along shortly. Need you ought, I will be at your beck.” He stepped out into the hallway and closed the door behind.

Moments later, Luc strode in. He nodded to Garron, for they knew one another from the campaign some four years past in the realm of the Changelings. Luc introduced himself to Caldor, the mage a tall, bald man in rune-marked blue robes. Even as Caldor bowed, Malgan entered the room, the seer hissing to unseen companions and instructing them to be polite. The moment Caldor straightened and saw Malgan, a supercilious sneer filled his face.

“I did not know he would be here,” said Caldor.

“Seer Malgan recommends you highly,” said Luc.

Caldor’s eyebrows raised in surprise.

“Malgan tells me you are just the mage I need to accomplish a critical task.”

“Oh?” Now Caldor frowned at the seer.

“Shut up! Shut up!” muttered Malgan to someone unseen on his left. “You may not tell him he is an ass.” Garron coughed to cover a snort of a laugh, and Luc sighed.

“Never mind him,” said Caldor, haughty disdain in his tone.

“Just what is this task you would have me do?”

“I have a vial that contains the essences of a certain femme-

salive, humidite du vagin, urine, sueur, and merde.”

“Don’t forget the drops of sang and larme ,” hissed Malgan.

“There are blood and teardrops in there as well?” asked Luc.

“Oui, my lord. Did I not say?” Malgan whipped to the left and whispered, “See what you made me do! I missed telling him.” Then he turned back to the prince and said, “I think they were tears of pain, as if brought about by someone deliberately hurting themselves to cause tears to fall.”

“Ah, oui, that makes sense, given the femme.”

“My lord,” said Caldor, drawing himself up to his full height,

“I am not some common hedge witch; prince or no, I do not stoop to spells for fetching or finding femmes whom hommes lust after, no matter who they are.”

Luc burst into laughter. “Oh, no, Caldor. I do not lust after this femme. Just the opposite: I would run her down and slay her.”

“And just who is this woman you wish me to help you kill?”

“She is Hradian the Witch. And heed me, Caldor: where she is, so, too, I deem, will be Orbane, and I would slay them both.” Caldor gasped in fear. “You want me to help you against Orbane? Oh, non, non. I will not oppose him, for to do so would mean my doom, for spells cast against him rebound, and the caster is slain by his own power.”

Seer Malgan also sucked air in through clenched teeth, for, until that very moment, he knew not Luc’s aim.

“I do not ask you to help me slay Orbane, Mage Caldor, nor even to aid me to kill the witch. Instead, I would have you make for me a thing that will lead me to Hradian.”

“I have not the skill,” said Caldor.

“He lies, he lies,” hissed Malgan, to someone down at his feet. “Can you not see he lies?”

Luc’s eyes narrowed in perilous threat.

Caldor’s shoulders slumped, and he sighed and admitted,

“Oui, Malgan is correct. I do have the skill to make you what you desire. -But I will not accompany you on your quest.”

“Non, non,” muttered Malgan to the unseen host surrounding him, “we won’t go either. Oui, oui, I promise.” Luc shook his head in mild disdain, and Garron growled in sheer contempt. And Luc said, “All I ask is that you give me what I need. And as for running down Hradian and thereby Orbane, neither of you need take part.”

Caldor nodded, and Malgan whispered aside, “See, I told you.”

Then Caldor said, “Let me see this vial for myself. And I will need a place to work, as well as the aid of someone with a fine hand at shaping glass and fashioning settings for gems, preferably someone who can work silver or gold-a jeweler or the like.”

. .

Three days later, with Steward Zacharie and Jeweler Minot and Armsmaster Remy standing by, Mage Caldor presented Luc 282 / DENNIS L. MCKIERNAN

with a small gold disk-shaped case no larger than the palm of his hand. When its lid was opened, Luc saw inside and under glass a silver, arrow-shaped needle that pivoted on a silver axle, each pointed end of which rode within a tiny diamond hub, one in the golden base and one embedded in the glass lens. The arrowhead itself was ocherous in color, as if some of the residue within the vial had been affixed thereon. And no matter which way Luc turned himself or rotated the case, the needle pointed a bit to dawn of starwise.

“It will always point at the witch,” said Caldor, “and will take you to her by the most direct route.”

“You mean the shortest?”

“Oui.”

“Does it in some fashion tell how far away she is?”

“Non. It only gives direction, not distance.”

“Can you make one of these to find Princess Liaze?” Caldor frowned. “Have you her vital fluids-sueur, sang, larme, the rest?”

Luc’s features fell. “Non.”

“Then I cannot,” said Caldor.

Luc sighed and said in resignation, “I was afraid it would be so.” He looked at Remy and said, “Still, we can now run down the witch, as well as the wizard if he is with her.”

“Beware, Prince Luc,” warned Caldor, “for though it points to Hradian, the compass might lead you across a twilight bound into quicksand or lava or an ocean or into other dire ends, for the needle knows only which direction she lies and not what is along the way.”

“Even so,” said Luc, “it is a marvelous device, Mage Caldor.” The prince turned to the jeweler and smiled and said, “Thank you, Minot.” The craftsman returned the smile and bowed, and Luc inclined his head in acknowledgment.

“My lord,” said Zacharie, ‘’although the armies are even now on the way and will learn of this device as soon as they arrive, I would send falcons to the other stewards so they, too, will know the legion now has a means to find Hradian and most likely Orbane. For ’tis good news, and will strengthen the hearts of those of us who must remain behind.” Luc nodded. “By all means, Zacharie, let it be so.”

. .

Two days later, Blaise and the legion of the Summerwood was the first to arrive, followed close on by Emile and the command of the Castle of the Seasons. Then came Laurent’s Winterwood force, with Lady Michelle and a Wolfpack leading. And two days after that, Roel and the Springwood warriors arrived.

At last they were all together: five battalions assembled under the leadership of Sieur Emile.

And on that same day, Sprites came winging from the sunwise bound with word that several throngs of Goblins and Bogles had come together in a great swamp, and, given the directions that other of Orbane’s allies fared and their likely courses, it seemed they were on the way toward that same goal.

Soon, mayhap, Orbane would have his horde ready to march, yet as to where he would ultimately lead his vast swarm, only the Fates and he knew.