Once upon a dreadful time

Clash

During the flashes in the night the allied warders discerned movement against the black wall of swamp lying some two leagues away, yet what this stirring might portend, they could not clearly see. They notified Sieur Emile, and he in turn sounded the alert and called the brigade commanders to him. And as the army stood armed and armored and ready, they met to consider what to do. And none did note when Michelle and the Wolves slipped away from the encampment, not even the sentries on duty, so stealthy were she and the pack. Nor did they note when Michelle and the Wolves returned, slipping unseen through the line. They made their way to the war council and reported what they had seen, and the commanders, after a moment of disconcertment that she had done such a foolhardy thing, then did pay close heed.

“I drew nigh enough to see by the lightning that Goblins and Bogles and Trolls and Serpentines are gathering on the edge of the mire. Thousands upon thousands of them; I did not get an accurate count.”

“Did it seem they were preparing to mount an attack in the dark?” asked Bailen.

“I think not,” said Michelle, “for many lay down to rest or to sleep.”

“Nevertheless,” said Emile, “we must make ready should they come.”

“I and my Wolves will take a forward station,” said Michelle,

“and should the foe-”

An uproar drowned out her words.

“Non, I forbid it!” snapped Emile. “Going as you did was foolish enough, but I’ll not-”

“My lord, who else?” asked Michelle. “Who else has the skills to slip unheard and unseen through the darkness but me?

And who other than the members of my pack can scent danger as it comes?”

Laurent shook his head and spat a low oath, but Luc said,

“Send the Wolves, Princess, but you stay nigh the top of the ridge, and should the foe begin movement this way have the pack bring word, and we will meet them on the downside of the slope and attack from the high ground.” Michelle’s eyes narrowed, but she then gave thought, and finally she said, “Well and good.”

. .

After a sleepless night, dawn came late under the dark roiling sky with its lightning and thunder and churn. But when the glimmer of dim day finally made its overdue appearance, arrayed in a long arc out on the plain before the way into the swamp stood Orbane’s throng.

“My lord,” said Armsmaster Vardon, “it appears we are outnumbered five or six to one.”

“Oui,” replied Emile, though at the moment the count of the enemy did not overly concern him. Instead, he surveyed their deployment, noting the disposition of the foe, and strategy and tactics tumbled through his mind.

Finally, he said, “I need an accurate estimate of the numbers and kinds of the foe. And call for the brigade commanders to join me, for I would confer with them.”

. .

Orbane swallowed a vial of the potion Hradian had made at his instructions. It was an elixir of protection she had concocted once long ago for her and her sisters and Orbane. It was the time they had, as a test, denuded a small realm of all plant and animal life, much to the dismay of an impervious rocklike creature high on a mountainside.

Hradian, too, drank a vial of the elixir, for this was the day when Orbane would raise the putrescence.

Under the dark and raging skies they stood on the flet of Hradian’s cote, and Orbane peered into the turgid murk below.

“Lend me your power, Acolyte,” he demanded.

“Oui, my lord,” said Hradian, even as she in turn added Crapaud’s power to her own.

And Orbane began to whisper and gesture down at the slime-laden waters, and a thin tendril of bilious vapor rose up through the ooze and the water and began to blossom, spreading outward, gaining in volume, the tendril becoming a cord and then a rope and then more, and the swamp water whirled and gurgled, turbulent eddies spinning away. Faster and faster spewed the yellow-green gaseous upsurge, vomiting forth from the swamp under-bottom. And it began spreading wide as it bellowed out.

And the leaves on nearby trees drooped, and hummocky grasses sagged. And Orbane continued his sibilant whispering, as from a churning vortex the putrescence erupted.

. .

“Why do they not attack?” asked Laurent.

“I deem they wait for us to make the first move,” replied Luc. “Likely they plan a trap.”

Standing beside Luc, Emile nodded and said, “Note how they are arrayed: Goblins with Goblins, Bogles with Bogles, Trolls with Trolls, and mounted Serpentines on the right flank.”

“ ’Tis their cavalry, Sieur Emile, these Serpentines,” said Leon.

“Mithras,” said Blaise, “but there must be two hundred Trolls there in the center of the line.”

The commanders stood on the ridge and surveyed the enemy standing two leagues away. They were joined this day by Michelle, for as Emile had said, “I will not have you running off willy-nilly without my express command.” And so, disgruntled, she sat to one side listening, with Slate and the others flopped down nearby.

“How many heavy crossbows have we altogether?” asked Bailen, adding, “I have in my brigade twenty.” Emile frowned and said, “I have a total of twenty-five.” Petain glanced at Georges and said, “Between us, we have ten.”

“That adds up to fifty-five heavy crossbows,” said Roel, “not enough to slay two hundred Trolls in one volley. Of course, can they get off four shots apiece, and if each is a kill then it is more than enough. Yet that is an unlikely scenario, given the time it takes to cock and reload and loose, and the Trolls will not be standing still.”

Leon glanced at Luc and said, “Then, after the first barrage, I think it’s up to my knights to deal with the Trolls, even as the heavy crossbows are made ready for a second volley.”

“Whoa, now,” said Blaise, “that means your fifty knights will be outnumbered by the Trolls at a minimum some three to one, at least until more are brought down by the crossbows.”

“I realize that,” said Leon grimly.

“But what of the Serpentines?” asked Georges. “Aren’t the knights more useful in bringing them down?”

“Oui,” said Sieur Emile, “they would be, yet I think our own cavalry can deal with the Serpentines.”

“You have a plan?” asked Georges.

Emile gestured at the plain. “The reason the Serpentines are on their right flank is because the starwise land on their left is steep and not given to a charge. Hence, they are stationed where they are to attack from the flat.”

Georges nodded.

“Too,” continued Emile, now squatting in the dirt and draw shy;ing with his dagger, “I ween the Serpentines think to round our left flank and come at us from the rear, trapping us between themselves the Trolls and Goblins and the Bogles, much like catching us between their hammer and the army’s anvil.” Emile looked up and smiled. “But two can play at that game.”

“How so?” asked Bailen.

“Heed,” said Emile, “they are arrayed in a cupping arc, like so”-he drew a long curve-“in the hope of surrounding us when we attack the center, for well do they know we will try to deal with the Trolls first. But if we march out in a long, diagonal line, a phalanx, like so”-Emile drew a slanting line in the soil-“and if we more or less conceal our cavalry behind the end farthest away from them”-now he drew a slash at the near end of the line-“then the Serpentines will have to ride down the phalanx to round our flank, thusly, and then-”

“And then we hit the Serpentines in their own flank with our concealed cavalry,” blurted Blaise.

“Brilliant,” murmured Luc.

“Indeed,” said Leon. “For by taking their cavalry in the flank with ours head on, they cannot easily bring their lances to bear upon our charge.”

“Ah, but how do we manage to conceal our own cavalry?” asked Petain. “I mean, we are coming downslope in full view.

Will they not see this ruse?”

“Three things,” said Emile, raising a hand, three fingers upraised. “Un”-he ticked down one finger-“it is dark under these dismal skies, and vision is hampered not only by the murk but also by bright flashes of lightning.” Emile ticked down a second finger. “Deux: our knights and heavy crossbowmen will be on the lead, the phalanx to follow, and while the attention is on them.” Emile ticked down the last finger. “Trois: our cavalry will have ridden on this side of the ridge to the gap on the left, where they will dismount and walk their horses through and conceal themselves behind yon nearby hill”-all eyes swung to the left of the plain, where stood the hilly land-“and when the final phalanx marches past, again they will walk the horses, and, by this ruse, to seem to be but more foot soldiers as they slip in behind.”

“Ah,” said Bailen. “And who will lead the cavalry?” Emile looked at Laurent, and then said, “Luc.” Laurent started to protest, but it died on his lips ere spoken, for Bailen then asked, “And who will lead the chevaliers ’gainst the Trolls?”

“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.

And from somewhere within the phalanx, a horn sounded, and the riders facing the Trolls parted, and concealed behind them had been the heavy crossbowmen, and they released a deadly volley into the massed enemy, bringing down some fifty of the hulking brutes, Bolok out front being the first one slain.

And then with a shout from Laurent, he and Blaise and Roel and fifty others lowered their lances and charged.

And at the horn cry as well, the shields of the phalanx warriors were unlocked, and through the now-opened lines stepped the archers, Michelle among them, and they loosed a great flight of arrows, the shafts to arc down among the foe, slaying Goblin and Bogle alike.

Yet the enemy answered in kind, their arrows sissing through the air in return, but the archers had stepped back behind the first row of the phalanx and once again the shields overlapped.

And Michelle stood directly behind Galion, his shield to cover them both.

“Yahh!” cried Laurent as he smashed in among the Trolls, his lance stabbing one in the throat, to lodge in the creature’s spine, and the weapon wrenched from Laurent’s grasp as the slain Troll fell. To Laurent’s right, Roel’s spear was lost to another of the foe, but Roel hewed about with Coeur d’Acier, the silver-flashed rune-bound steel blade keen and devastating.

Blaise yet held his pike, and stabbed and stabbed as he hammered on through, but then a Troll smashed down the knight’s horse, and Blaise crashed to the soil, stunned.

The Troll loomed above him and raised his great club to crash it down upon Blaise, but then the monster jerked back, his arms falling to his side, and he looked down in astonishment at the point of the heavy crossbow bolt now jutting forth from his chest. And with a sigh he fell sideways, dead ere striking dirt. And Blaise scrambled to his feet and caught up a free-running mount and reentered the fray.

On the left flank of the phalanx, surviving Serpentines in full disarray fled from Luc’s cavalry, and the prince and his men now turned and spurred toward the enemy’s right flank. A few of the Goblins there spun ’round and bolted back into the mire, and others, seeing them flee, ran into the bog as well. Yet some stood their ground and loosed arrows at the oncoming men, some to fatally strike, others to wound, and still others to miss altogether.

In the main body of the allies, again the shields unlocked, and again archers loosed, and arrows flew and enemy fell, and arrows flew in return, some to bring down men, most to bounce harmlessly from the again-overlapping defense.

In the center, one of the Trolls bashed through the knights to reach Bolok’s corpse, and he took up the horn and blew a blast even as a crossbow bolt slew him. With ululating yells, the elements of the foe charged, and the phalanx closed ranks, the spearmen ready to meet the onrushing foe.

Luc’s cavalry rounded behind the masses of the throng, and they smashed into the unprotected rear of the enemy, and some Goblins threw down their weapons and fled, though most turned to give battle.

Luc fought his way toward the melee taking place among the Trolls and knights, even as the Bogles and the Long-Armed Wights and the throng’s greater numbers managed to smash open the phalanx. .

. . and the battlefield turned into chaos.

The Goblins rushed in among the men with dreadful effect: Skrikers shrieked out long, wordless death cries as they hacked with axes; Dunters clacked grinding noisemakers even as they laid about with clubs; Redcaps shrilled and stabbed with pikestaffs. And the Bogles and Long-Armed Wights smashed and slashed with their flails and scythes, and slew man after man.

But the men with their spears and swords and shields and greater discipline managed to form squares and deal devastating death in return.

Next to Galion, who watched for arrows and fended with his shield, Michelle stood on the battlefield, surrounded by seven Wolves, and she calmly nocked and drew and aimed and loosed, choosing Bogles and Wights as targets.

The foe veered away from Slate and the pack, all but the most foolhardy, and those that attacked paid with their lives, their throats torn away by fangs.

And still knights and Trolls and men with heavy crossbows fought in their own private battle, for should the Trolls come in among the army proper, then their effect would be overwhelming.

Elsewhere the battle raged on, and the cavalry swept through the enemy again and again, and, even though outnumbered, the humans slowly gained the upper hand, though at dreadful cost.

But then, oozing outward from the swamp came a bilious yellow-green vapor. And slowly it began to envelop the battle.

Slate lifted his muzzle and then postured before Michelle: Bad smell bad. Go!

Michelle frowned and looked at him: Go?

Slate: Go!

Of a sudden, Trit landed upon Michelle’s shoulder. “Princess! The Sickness-from the swamp it comes. You must flee.

Now!”

Michelle looked at the oncoming miasma. It did not seem to affect the throng, but men began retching, and horses nigh foundered, and Michelle gasped as a nauseating whiff filled her nostrils. Sprites flew thither and yon, crying out to the allies; and some of the wee beings fell to the ground, overcome by the dreadful vapor.

And from the slopes above the plain, there came a horn cry, as Emile sounded the retreat, for the Sprites had borne the alarm to him as well.

Hacking and wheezing, some vomiting, taking up their wounded and leaving their dead behind, the men began to withdraw, snatching up fallen Sprites as they fled. Yet the throng did not pursue, for they had had enough of battle.

And in the heart of the swamp under black, roiling skies riven by flares of lightning, Orbane released Hradian, and she fell to the flet beside Crapaud. And Orbane looked about at the lovely putrescence and laughed, for his spell was complete: he had raised the Sickness, the great contamination, and now nothing and no one could stand in his way, and he would be ruler of all.