Dennis McKiernan - Once upon a dreadful time

“Oui,” said Blaise at the prince’s side. “Note how it moves: it follows Orbane’s horde.”

“To what purpose?”

“With it, somehow, Orbane intends to pollute the River of Time.”

Auberon sighed and looked at Regar. “It comes from the under-bottom of swamps, where it lies entrapped unless someone or something sets it free. It can cause great illnesses among living things, and will slay all that remains within its embrace too long.”

“Even the Fey, grand-pere?”

“Especially the Fey, mon petit-fils .”

“Can you do nothing to stop it?” asked Luc. “Use Fairy magic or such?”

“Non. Gloriana’s geas has seen to that.”

“Gloriana?” asked Blaise.

“Orbane’s mere,” said Regar.

Blaise cocked an eyebrow, an unspoken question in his gaze.

“Auberon’s consort,” said Regar, quietly. “Orbane is their only child.”

“Oh, my,” said Blaise, but then fell silent.

As they watched the throng and the Sickness move across the plains and toward the gap where the allies stood, Auberon sank into thought. Finally he said, “But there is something I can do, and that is to cast a protection spell over all of us.”

“All of us?” asked Emile.

“All of the allies,” replied Auberon.

“Horses too?”

“Oui. Horses too.”

“But what of the geas?” asked Regar.

“This spell is to give us temporary protection from some of the ills of the Sickness ,” replied Auberon, “hence is a healer’s charm, and one, I think, that I will be able to cast, for it is not in direct opposition to Orbane.”

“Will it negate the putrescence?” asked Emile, hope playing across his face.

“Not completely,” replied Auberon. “It will protect us on the fringes of the contagion, but the deeper one goes into the miasma, the less effect it will have.”

“Will it allow one of us to reach Orbane?” asked Regar.

Blaise swiftly glanced from Regar to Auberon to see the look of sad dismay that flickered across Auberon’s face. But then Auberon’s mien shifted to one of determination, and he said,

“I don’t know. Certainly it will not protect one of the Fey long enough to reach him, and you, my grandson, are one of the Fey.

But as to a human doing so, that I cannot say.”

“I will go,” said Laurent.

And I , said Blaise and Roel together.

“But first,” said Luc, pointing to the masses of Goblins and Bogles and Trolls and Serpentines, “we will have to win our way through that.”

“You four?” asked Regar. “You four will go after Orbane?” A rakish grin crossed Luc’s face as he glanced at the three others. “We four.”

We four! they responded.

“But as you say, Prince Luc,” said Auberon, “first you have to win your way through an entire throng.” The Fey Lord turned to Emile. “My archers will stand to the fore, for with each arrowcast, we will bring one of them down. . until we run out of shafts, that is, for there are more of the foe than we bargained for.”

“And I will stand with your archers,” said Michelle, sitting ahorse to one side, with her Wolves gathered ’round.

“It will be perilous, my lady,” said Auberon.

“Nevertheless,” replied the princess.

Auberon looked to Emile for a countering word, but he merely shook his head and said, “I lost that argument long past, my lord. Besides, she will have seven Wolves and a warrior named Galion to protect her.”

“Trained Wolves?”

“Oh no, my lord,” replied Chelle. “It is Borel’s pack. We work as a team.”

Auberon smiled and said, “And where is your prince, my lady?”

“Trapped with the others in the Castle of Shadows,” said Chelle, “or so it is we think.”

Regar took in a sharp breath at this news, and both Flic and Fleurette burst into tears. “What others?” asked Regar.

“The entire royal family,” said Chelle. “Valeray, Saissa, Borel, Liaze, Alain, Celeste, Camille, and Duran-all trapped, borne away on a black wind. Mayhap Raseri and Rondalo, too, for a black wind bore them away as well.” Auberon gestured at the roiling sky. “He was always master of the winds; the rage above declares it, if nought else.”

“You’ve got to get them out,” said Fleurette, choking back her tears.

Luc jerked a nod and said, “As soon as I retrieve the key to the castle and we find someone to fly it through the Great Darkness to set the prisoners free. Hradian has the amulet, and we deem she is marching at Orbane’s side.”

“This is ill news, and mayhap there is more,” said Auberon,

“but it will have to wait. I must needs cast a great spell, and then deploy my archers.”

. .

As they rode back down to the midst of the army, Regar glanced across at Luc and Roel, Blaise and Laurent. “My mother once told me of an old legend about four deadly horsemen: the fable tells that the rider on the white horse was Plague himself, while the one on red was War; the one on black-or was it grey? Ah, never mind-was Famine, while the one on grey was Death.” Blaise laughed and said, “Well, then, I must be War, for I ride a red horse. Whereas, Laurent on white is Plague. That leaves Luc on black to be Famine or Death and Roel to be vice versa, whichever it is the legend says. But as for me, I would pick Roel to be Death.”

“And why is that, other than simple family pride.”

“Because he has a special sword-Coeur d’Acier.”

“Heart of Steel?” Regar frowned and declared, “But iron and steel are forbidden in Faery.”

Blaise smiled. “Oui, I know, though I’ve been told there are a few exceptions-the arms and armor of the Dwarves of the ship Nordavind being one, and the weapons of King Arle and his riders being another, now that they’ve broken their curse, though they’ll not take iron or steel into the Halls of the Fairy Lord ever again. Yet did I not say Roel’s sword is special? The steel, you see, is bound by arcane runes flashed in silver, hence I am told it does not twist the aethyr, whatever that might be.

It was given to Roel by Sage Geron, who got it from a source he will not or perhaps cannot name. Regardless, with the sword Roel cut through the Changeling Lord’s magical protection and took off his head, and thereby set Laurent and me free from an enchantment.”

“It overcame a spell of protection?”

“Oui,” said Blaise. “I think it’s the steel that did it, or perhaps the runes.”

“Mayhap both together,” said Regar. “ ’Tis a powerful weapon indeed.”

“Then can we name Roel ‘Death’?”

Regar laughed and said, “As you will, Blaise, as you will.

But regardless of what you call one another, I hope that when you four go after Orbane, you are just as deadly as are your namesakes.”

“So do I,” replied Blaise, as Roel and Luc merely shook their heads and Laurent snorted and spurred forward to come alongside Auberon.

“A splendid high-stepper of a mount you have, my lord,” said Laurent. “Are all Fairy horses such as he?”

“To a lesser degree,” replied Auberon. He patted the white animal’s neck. “Asphodel is quite special.”

“Asphodel? Ah, then that’s where Duran gets the name for his toy hor-” Of a sudden, Laurent’s words jerked to a halt, and he frowned in puzzlement and then his face lit up in revelation.

“My lord, I do not know what all of this means, but Lady Wyrd gave me a rede.”

“Skuld?”

“Oui, my lord, and I think it has to do with Asphodel.”

“Asphodel? Say on, Laurent. Say on.”

“The rede goes like this.” Laurent paused in recollection and then intoned:

“Swift are the get of his namesake,