Dennis McKiernan - Once upon a dreadful time

“Laurent.”

Even as Laurent clenched a fist and grinned, “But aren’t Luc and Laurent needed to lead their own battalions?” asked Leon.

“Non. Luc’s battalion will be led by Armsmaster Devereau, and Laurent’s by Armsmaster Jules.”

“And what of me and Roel?” asked Blaise.

“You both will join Laurent and the knights against the Trolls, and Armsmasters Bertran and Anton respectively will lead your battalions.” Emile looked down at the battle plan scratched in the dirt. “You see, except for delegating our champion of champions to lead the cavalry and eliminate the Serpentines, our knights are more valuable in dealing with the Trolls than in any other role, and all of the armsmasters are well suited to command.”

Emile turned to Luc. “And you, my boy, when the Serpentines are done in, we will turn the tables on them, for you will bring the cavalry about and trap the enemy between your hammer and our anvil.” Luc smiled and inclined his head in assent.

“Now to the archers,” said Emile, and Michelle stood and watched Emile draw, “this is how we will proceed. . ”

. .

Thus went the planning through the early morn, in the midst of which Emile paused and looked again at the enemy. “Hmm. .

I wonder. We are outnumbered some six to one. Mayhap this is the time to rally the Firsts to our side.”

“Non, Papa,” said Blaise, his eyes lighting up with sudden understanding, “I think this is not the time.”

“Your meaning?”

“Lady Lot’s rede,” said Blaise, “the one she gave me, I think I understand it.”

“Lady Lot?” asked Bailen. “Verdandi? She gave you a rede?”

“Oui,” said Blaise.

“Grim are the dark days looming ahead Now that the die is cast.

Fight for the living, weep for the dead; Those who are first must come last.

Summon them not ere the final day

For his limit to be found.

Great is his power all order to slay, Yet even his might has a bound.”

Blaise looked down at the waiting enemy. “I just now realized that the key is in the line ‘Those who are first must come last.’ And who else could that mean but the Firsts? Too, I think this is not the ‘final day’ spoken of in Verdandi’s conundrum, and so we should not summon them except a extremite .”

“We don’t know how to summon them anyway,” said Laurent.

“But we do,” came a tiny voice.

Emile and the others skewed about. It was the Sprite Peti, now sitting on Michelle’s shoulder.

“Demoiselle?” said Emile.

Peti took to wing and flew in among the men, where she alighted on Sieur Emile’s arm. “The other Sprites tell me that 324 / DENNIS L. MCKIERNAN

the Firsts are nearly assembled, and they but await the word as to where to go. Yet they also heed Lady Verdandi’s rede, and will not come ere what they judge to be the so-called ‘final day.’

I believe Blaise is right: Verdandi’s rede can mean none else but the Firsts, and this is not the day to summon them.”

“And when that day comes. .?” asked Laurent.

“Then we Sprites will fetch them.”

. .

Orbane continued to hiss sibilant words, and Hradian sagged under the strain. Crapaud sat somnolent, and whether he felt the drain is not known. And as lightning shattered across the black sky and thunder boomed, the vapor yet spewed up from the swamp bottom in a bilious cloud roaring forth from the vortex and continuing to expand; and it oozed across the mire and among the trees and grasses. Some ten feet deep the vapor lay, a sickly yellow-green, and things wilted where it flowed.

Yet these were swamp creatures and plants, and somewhat immune to the putrescence, and mayhap they would not die, nor, perhaps, would the swamp creatures living among them.

And the morning went on, while at the far dawnwise bound of the morass, two armies made ready to do battle, one greatly outnumbering the other: the throng commanded by Cham Bolok, a towering Troll; the army commanded by Sieur Emile, a human. Each had his plan: one was committed to a victory by sheer numbers; the other was committed to winning by guile.

. .

As a line of riders came over the crest of the ridge Bolok grunted and then shouted, “Look alive, you slugs, they come at last.” But then he frowned. “What’s this? Just one- Ah, no, here come more.”

He watched as to his left a group came tramping over the top and then marched down the long slope, spearmen all, their shields locked together, or so it seemed. And then another group came, and another after that, and then more. Bolok had never before seen a phalanx, much less as many as these. Their deployment puzzled him, for he had expected the humans to attack head on, perhaps in a wedge, but down the slope they came on a long diagonal. Bah! It matters not, for still my plan will work.

“Stand fast, you slime,” he bellowed. Then he looked to his right, beyond Bogles and beyond Goblins, to where stood his Serpentines at the end of the long rightward arc of the throng, and he gestured for them to mount up. They would simply ride down the angle of these pitiful humans and round their flank and come at them from behind. And in that moment he would signal his own forces to charge the enemy and crush them in between.

As lightning flashed and thunder roared in the dark skies overhead, Bolok watched as the enemy horsemen out front-

a paltry fifty or so-rode toward his two hundred Trolls. The fools!

. .

And in the bowels of the swamp, at Orbane’s command, up from the under-bottom of the morass roared the Sickness , a dreadful miasma, spewing outward through the vast bog, fettered only by Orbane’s control.

. .

Down the angle the Serpentines hammered, the riders sissing cries as onward they plunged, with long, cruelly barbed spears in their grasp. Hairless were their steeds, scaled instead, a glittering green in the lightning, with pale undersides and long, lashing, whiplike tails, the mounts an impossible crossbreed of serpent and horse. And they blew and grunted with effort, and the ground shook under their pounding cloven hooves as down the phalanx they galloped.

And in the lead Hsthir gloated, his long forked tongue flicking out and in, tasting the scent of the humans they would spit on their spears. And tonight the clutch would feed, yet not on fire-ruined meat as the stupid Trolls were wont to do, but on raw gobbets of flesh swallowed whole, as was only proper.

And reveling upon the feast yet to come, Hsthir heeled his spikes into the plated flanks of his soth to urge it even to greater speed, though it was already running at full gallop.

. .

Bolok watched as the fifty or so enemy riders neared. But then-

What’s this? — they reined to a halt. It was as if they were waiting for something to occur. Can this be some sort of trickery?

And under roiling black skies, Bolok grasped his great horn and stepped forward, ready to call the charge as soon as the Serpentines rounded their flank, and his gaze swept the field, seeking, seeking. .

. .

Hsthir and the Serpentines neared the last of the phalanx, and he cried out the command for the clutch to-

. .

Running full tilt, Luc and the cavalry smashed headlong into the Serpentines’ flank, lances piercing, their horses bowling over the scaled steeds of the foe. The Serpentines could not bring their own spears to bear, and Luc and the cavalry drove on through, leaving nought but devastation in their wake. They spun their horses about and charged back into the disarrayed enemy, and some men, their pikes gone-embedded in fallen snake people-drew their sabers and laid about, hacking, hewing, slashing, while others hurtled back through, lances skewering foe.