Once upon a dreadful time

March

Under the flare of lightning and the judder of thunder raging in the black skies above, from the ridge Emile and the others watched as the miasmic cloud spread out over the battlefield.

They could see little within the bilious depths, yet now and again they glimpsed shadowy movement therein, which showed that Goblins and Bogles and Trolls yet lived. And then the yellow-green vapor began to withdraw back into the swamp, and when the field was finally clear of its dreadful presence, the ground was bare of all plant and animal life, and no corpses of horses or men or even foe remained, nor did any of the surviving throng.

All bodies were gone, though some weaponry yet remained.

“They’ve dragged our dead away,” spat Laurent.

“For what purpose?” asked Blaise.

Leon sighed and shook his head. “Goblins and such savor human flesh, and Trolls love the meat of horses.”

“You mean they’ve taken them for food?”

Laurent spat an oath, and Leon nodded but said, “Either that, or the terrible cloud has destroyed all.”

“It is the Sickness,” said Peti.

“Sickness?” asked Emile.

“Oui. . the dreadful contamination that lies in the under-bottom of each and every swamp. Somehow Orbane has raised it up.”

“The Goblins and Bogles and Trolls seemed unaffected by it,” said Luc, “but it nearly did us in. It is a great pollution-a dreadful weapon.”

At these words, a murmur of agreement muttered among the men, but for Michelle it triggered an elusive thought along the margins of her mind. Of a sudden she snared it and said, “I think Orbane does not intend it as a battlefield weapon.” Emile turned to her. “Non?”

“Non.”

“Then what other use could he possibly have for such a dreadful thing?”

Michelle glanced from Luc to Emile to his sons, finally settling on Laurent. “Recall what I said that Camille had told me about the River of Time.”

Laurent nodded. “That if Orbane ever got free, he would pollute it.” Michelle said, “And Luc has rightly named the cloud just that: a pollution.”

“How does Camille know this thing?” asked Emile.

Laurent looked at Michelle, and she said, “The Fates are the ones who told her.”

“Just what is this River of Time Orbane would despoil?” asked Blaise.

Michelle said, “As Camille tells it, it seems that somewhere in Faery, time flows in a silvery river, and along this flow is where the Three Sisters fashion the Tapestry of Time: Skuld weaving what she sees of the future; Verdandi fixing present events into the weft and warp of the fabric; Urd binding all forever into the past. Camille speculates the river flows out of Faery to spread over the mortal world, for time itself does not seem to touch Faery, though some say it originates herein.”

“And just what would polluting the River of Time do to Faery?” asked Emile, “-or to the mortal world, for that matter?”

Michelle shrugged. “That I do not know, Sieur, yet if Time itself is despoiled in some manner, the result cannot be pleasant. Too, it seems to me that the greater harm, whatever it is, will occur to the mortal world.”

“Why is that?” asked Blaise.

“Because, if Camille is right, Time spreads over the mortal world, while in Faery it is confined.”

Roel slammed a fist into palm. “Confined or not, I say it is enough that Skuld, Verdandi, and Urd each tell that dreadful calamity will befall Faery, too.”

“I agree with Roel,” said Luc, “for we here cannot know what effect the contamination of that arcane river will bring-

it is beyond our ken. Yet if Orbane is to use the Sickness to pollute Time’s flow, he will have to move it from this swamp to wherever the river is.”

Sieur Emile pursed his lips and then asked, “But where along the river would he go to do this deed?”

Luc frowned. “I do not think he would go somewhere along the course, Sieur Emile, but to the headwaters instead, for from there he could foul the river its entire length.”

“Mais oui,” said Emile, nodding. He turned to Michelle.

“Just where is this river?”

Michelle turned up her hands.

“We know,” said Peti.

“The Sprites know?”

“Oui. It is a place we avoid, for we would not suffer the ravages of Time.”

“Ravages or no, Sieur Emile,” said Leon, “we must needs somehow foil Orbane’s plan.”

“But our forces are devastated,” said Bailen.

“Nevertheless,” said Leon.

“First,” said Luc, “we need to know if indeed the Sickness is at Orbane’s beck. Then we need to know whether he will march or not. If he does march and the pollution goes with him, then we need to know if this river is indeed his goal. Lastly, we need to know whether or no we have the wherewithal to stop him.”

“What is the count of our able-bodied?” asked Emile.

“The armsmasters are taking the tally now,” said Leon.

Emile nodded then said, “Peti, the Sprites need fly above the swamp and keep track of the foe.”

“Oh, my,” said Peti, alarmed.

But Trit took her hand and said, “We will just have to fly at height, well above the corruption.”

Peti nodded, then looked at Emile, and he said, “When and if they begin to move, we must know which route they take, and if it is toward this River of Time then we need to get ahead of them and plan an ambush or trap, or find some other means of thwarting Orbane.”

“What about the dreadful miasma?” asked Bailen. “I mean, if Orbane does move the contamination, how do we counter that?”

Emile looked from face to face, but none knew the answer.

. .

The tally of able-bodied came to just over four thousand. In addition, there were some six hundred wounded who had made it free of the battleground, and they were being attended by chirurgeons and healers. Some three thousand four hundred men had been lost in the battle-four of every ten men. Five Sprites had been felled by the bilious pall, half their total, though the men had managed to take up three of them during the retreat; even so, the loss of just two Sprites had been keenly felt by all. Of the fifty knights Leon had brought with him, thirty-five were yet hale. As to the enemy casualties, none knew the count.

. .

“Those fools, those bloody fools,” seethed Orbane. “More than half my Trolls and Bogles, and nearly all my Serpentines.”

“Half the Goblins as well,” said Hradian.

“Pah!” spat Orbane. “Who cares about the Goblins? They are just fodder. ’Tis the Trolls and Bogles and Serpentines I count on to protect me on the march.”

“Yet your throng gave good account of themselves, for they dragged nearly four thousand human corpses away from the battlefield to feast upon, and surely just as many men suffered wounds. I deem this ragtag army will flee the field, my master, and you will be free of these pests who would stand in your way. Compared to you, my puissant lord, they are less than fleas, than mites.”

Orbane rounded on Hradian and glared into her eyes, and she fell to her knees and trembled before him. Then he threw her on her back and parted her legs and slid in between, and she began screaming in pleasure.

. .

The following day the raging darkness above began moving, and shortly after, Dil, one of the Sprites, came winging into the encampment. “Sieur,” he said to Emile, “the throng marches, the Sickness moves, they are faring through the hills a point to dusk of sunwise.”

“Is that the way toward the River of Time?”

“Oui, Sieur, it is.”

Emile jumped to his feet and summoned his bugler. “Sound the alert, for we march.”

. .

As planned, they left their wounded behind, along with a chirurgeon and three healers, with instructions for the lesser of the hurt to aid with the greater. Too, one of the Sprites remained with them to guide the mule-drawn wains through the shadowlight bounds on their way to a goodly sized distant town.

All in the force that went sunwise were mounted on horses, with mules and asses in the train. And in haste they travelled the first day, and soon they were beyond the marching throng and the Sickness, and then the allies turned on the course pointed out by the Sprites.

That evening they came to the twilight border, and when they passed through, they emerged under clear skies, where the blackness and lightning and thunder had been left behind.

And here did they gain another six hundred men who were on their way to the mire, for that was where the rendezvous had been called. Yet they turned their march toward the goal set by Emile: the headwaters of the River of Time.

. .

As Orbane moved across the land, once the Sickness had cleared the morass, where it flowed it destroyed all plants as well as the animals-those that did not flee-leaving nought but wither and sere behind.

The following day, Orbane and his throng reached the sunwise border, and here it was that once again the wizard commanded the witch to lend him her power. And he cast a great spell, and then ordered the march to continue, and when they went through the twilight bound, so, too, did the thundering skies above as well as the pollution below.

Hradian had known that shadowlight borders are tricky, and usually a storm or blowing air and rivers and other such oft did not flow across as would a traveler go but appear somewhere else altogether. And although birds in the air passed through twilight marges much the same as did people, the air itself did not; instead it blew elsewhere. In contrast, fish and other aquatic creatures seemed to remain within the stream and flow through wherever the water went-though that was not the case with boats. And so, when Orbane had cast his spell and had caused the Sickness and the black skies to pass through as he had wished-first starting the darkness across, then his throng, followed by himself and Hradian and the corruption, with the remainder of the darkness following after-it had taken great magic indeed, and Hradian could but marvel at his power.

Just on the opposite side, a battalion of Goblins joined them-Dunters all, it seems.

. .

And so the army marched, as did the throng, and each took on new recruits as across the realms they went. But as to Orbane, nought but barren soil was left along the wide, wide track of the dreadful pall.

. .

Under the hollow hills, at last Auberon pronounced all was ready, and Regar was given a fine horse and glittering armor, as well as a new bronze sword and a long-knife and a long lance pointed on both ends. But he kept his own bow and quiver, though the Fey Lord filled it with arrows he said would not miss.

And the Fairy army-three thousand strong-rode up and out from the mounds, with arms and armor flashing in the sunlight of early morn and small silver bells ringing ajingle upon the caparisons of magnificent, prancing steeds.

And then did Flic and Fleurette and Buzzer join Regar, and Flic said, “Oh, my prince, we thought you trapped, thought that you had eaten food or taken drink and would be caught for a millennia or more.”

Regar looked at them in puzzlement. “Thought me trapped?

I was under the hill for but a mere day.”

“No, my lord,” said Fleurette, “you have been under the mound for nearly two moons altogether.”

“Two moons?”

“Just two days shy.”

Alarmed, Regar turned to Auberon. “We must ride, my lord, else we will be too late.”

Auberon lifted his silver horn and sounded a long cry. And the Fairy horses leapt forward, Auberon leading the way.