Once Upon an Autumn Eve (26 page)

“Then, Gwyd, you had better tell me what my part in this plan is, for I will not forgo a chance to ride Nightshade with the Wild Hunt.”

“Oh, m’lady, a normal horse canna run wi’ the Hunt. Nae, ye must ride one o’ Lord Fear’s own steeds.”

“If that’s the way it must be, Gwyd, then our horses will be in your charge.”

Gwyd sighed. “I’ll hae t’lead them t’the Pixies, and fra there t’the woodland near the inn, where I’ll wait f’r you t’gi’ me the signal.”

“The signal? What signal?”

“Aye, the signal that ye ken where y’r Luc be.”

Liaze said, “Gwyd, you must tell me of this plan, for I must know what you have in mind if I am to do my part while you do yours. Heed me: whether or no it is deemed worthy by the Pixies, we must take the gamble, for I must ride with Lord Fear.”

Gwyd groaned again and said, “Aye, Princess, ye be right.”

Liaze mounted Nightshade and said, “You can tell me on the way, and we’ll think of what might go wrong and what to do in case it does.” And she heeled Nightshade in the flanks and down the slope they rode.

They turned on an angle between the sunwise bound and that of the sundown marge, and Liaze felt as if she were somehow betraying Luc by veering away from the path that would lead to the Lake of the Rose. Yet she knew she had to ride with Lord Fear, for to do otherwise would mean Luc’s death, or so she now believed. And the only way to find Lord Fear was to be at a place he rode by, and the only one Gwyd or she knew of was on a distant bleak moor.

Down through farmland they rode, and they passed into forested country, and onward they came to more farms. Villages they rode through, and they spent two nights in inns, where they took warm baths and supped on roast beef and tubers and gravy sopped up with good bread, and they drank some of their “weel-aged wine.” It was while Gwyd was deep in his cups that he began calling the princess “lass,” and she smiled at the term, for it gave her pleasure.

In the mornings at the inns, eggs they had and buttered toast and jams and jellies.

And all was paid for with good copper coins taken from the Troll hoard, a hoard no doubt stolen from others.

At the end of the second day, Gwyd announced that his ribs were fully mended, and Liaze marveled at his recovery, due either to the medicinal he had taken or to a Brownie’s natural healing.

And they rode onward.

And all along the way, they discussed and probed and examined every aspect they could think of concerning Gwyd’s plan. Liaze practiced on the silver harp, a travelling bard’s instrument, small and compact and more of a lyre than a full-fledged harp. And she sang love ballades and humorous ditties and songs of epic adventures, all to the delight of Gwyd, not only because of the content, but also because all of those things were part of his ploy for the princess to win free of Lord Fear. “Remember, lass, if we best him, he’ll ne’er bother ye nor me ag’in, nor any o’ those we treasure. And if ye ken what be his true name, ye can banish him altogether.”

On the evening of the third day of travel they crossed a twilight marge to come into a mountainous realm, and it was land that Gwyd had trekked through on his way to Lord Duncan’s.

The going was slow and tedious through this demesne, and they followed notches and deep vales and crossed several cols.

’Round the midday mark some four days after entering the mountains they reached another looming wall of twilight, and they crossed that bound to come to a bleak highland moor, the land damp and chill, with scrub and peat and soggy bogs lying along the way. And a dank wind blew, and wraithlike mist fled across the scape.

“Ah, Gwyd, ’tis a terrible place, this moor.”

“Indeed, m’lady. But it is here Lord Fear rode when I last came by. Up ahead we’ll find a narrow stand of trees, the place I hid when he and his band passed nigh.”

On they pressed, and soon they came to the strip of woods Gwyd mentioned. In they went among the trees, and, just ere emerging from the far side, they halted as planned.

Liaze set up camp and took a fortnight of supplies altogether, half of which she stowed in her rucksack, for as Gwyd had warned, “Take nae food nor wine nor any other drink fra Lord Fear, other than water that be, else ye’ll be in his train f’r e’er.”

Then Gwyd made ready to leave, and he hopped on a log and mounted Pied Agile, for during their time of travel—nine days all told—the Brownie, though only three feet tall, had learned how to care for the horses, and to guide Pied Agile. To deal with the animals, he needed a mounting block—not only to clamber upon the mare, but to manage the supplies and the saddles and the currying and other such tasks in the care and feeding of them. “You can use stumps and logs and rocks and boulders and slopes to give you the height you need,” had said Liaze, and Gwyd had learned to do so. It was not as if Gwyd had had no experience with horses, for under Laird Duncan’s tutelage, he had learned to deal with horse hooves, the cleaning and shoeing and other such; and during the journey to this place, one of the geldings had thrown a shoe, and, using the file and some nails and the hammer and one of the spare shoes in Liaze’s gear, Gwyd had replaced it. “I be a fair hand at smithing as well, lass, though by no means an expert. Still and all, this fixin be good enough t’last till we can get t’a proper farrier.”

But there in the woods on the moor, as Gwyd mounted, Liaze’s heart beat rapidly now that it had come to this parting of the ways.

“Remember, Princess,” said Gwyd from the back of the mare, “ye canna dismount wi’out Lord Fear’s leave, else he’ll strike ye dead; and durin the ridin stay tight in the saddle, f’r if ye fall off, ye’ll die. And should ye die or be struck dead, ye’ll be in his shadowy band f’r e’er. And when you see Luc you hae t’don the red scarf, and that way I’ll ken ye’ve had success. Then, singin and playin ma harp, ye hae t’delay Lord Fear in the inn long enough f’r me t’do ma part. And though I think we hae but one chance and one chance only t’win ye free o’ the Wild Hunt, if need be ye must wear the red scarf ev’ry niht thereafter, till I succeed doin what I must.”

“I know,” said Liaze, glancing at the rucksack, now containing just the harp and the scarf along with a sevenday of food and a small skin holding a day’s worth of water. “We’ve gone over it time and again. Now off with you, and I’ll see you at the inn after I’ve located Luc and you and I have bested Lord Fear.”

“Oh, lass,” said Gwyd, his voice choking, a tear sliding down his cheek. “Ye hae put this trust in me, and I dinna ken whether—”

“Go, Gwyd, go, else we’ll both be weeping.”

Wiping his nose across a sleeve, Gwyd turned Pied Agile and rode out onto the open moor, Nightshade and the geldings in tow. On he went and on, on into the mist, and slowly he faded into the gray swirl until he could no longer be seen.

Liaze took a deep breath and wiped away her own tears, and she took up a small trowel and stepped onto the heath and began digging peat for a fire.

 

That eve, wrapped in her cloak and with her bow across her back and the quiver at her hip and her long-knife strapped to her thigh and the rucksack over her shoulder, she stood out on the open moor and waited in the driven mist. It was the dark of the moon, and in but twenty-nine more darktides a heart would cease to beat if Liaze failed in her quest. And so she waited and prayed to Mithras, but Lord Fear did not come that night.

She stood on the moor on the next night and the next as well, and her heart fell with each passing mark, for time seeped by, and she felt as if her chances were vanishing.

On the following day, the moor cleared of its mist, and the sun fell down through a bright sky, the waxing crescent moon lagging behind and chasing the golden orb downward. But then in the sunup direction, wisps of tattered clouds came o’er the horizon, as if presaging a storm. And the sun set and dusk followed with dark night on its heels, and the moon, its horns pointing upward, sank toward the horizon as well.

And Liaze again stood in the open moor, her weaponry slung and the rucksack, with its harp and scarf and rations of water and food, hanging from a strap o’er her shoulder.

Again she fretted—
Will he come this night?
—and she wondered for the thousandth time if instead she should be at the Blue Château.
Have we completely missed the true meaning of Lady Wyrd’s rede?

A candlemark passed and then another, and the arc of the moon kissed the far earth. It was then that Liaze caught a distant baying sound, and she turned and looked behind.

At a shallow angle in the sky and among the ragged clouds they came running through the air, a vast boiling pack of ghostly dogs baying, two hundred, three hundred, four hundred or more, trailing long tendrils of shadow behind.

And beyond the pack came galloping horses, coils of darkness flying in their wake, black sparks showering from hard-driven hooves, though there was no stone for metal shoes to strike, high in the air as they were. And on the backs of the ghastly steeds were tenuous riders, twisting shadows streaming in their wake as well.

And in the fore rode the fell leader, his ebon cloak flying out after; and he lifted a black horn and pealed a long and dreadful call.

Lord Fear had come at last.

30

A
s on the helldogs came, Liaze sucked in air through clenched teeth, and her heart hammered in her breast, and, in spite of the chill of the moor, perspiration coated her palms and her forehead and sweat ran down her face. She wiped her eyes on her sleeve and made certain her bow and quiver were well set across her back and her long-knife was secured in its scabbard.

Now spying their quarry, down came the hounds, baying their ghastly yawls, deadly jet fire gleaming in their eyes. And they rushed toward the standing maiden—five hundred savage, raven-dark hounds slavering blackness—Liaze remaining fast, though her heart cried out
Run!

On came the hounds, leaping o’er one another to be the first to the kill, the vast pack a boiling inky mass, mad with the lust to rend the quarry asunder.

Yet Liaze did not move, and the howling swarm came on.

And the crescent moon looked across the moor in silence, indifferent to those in its light.

Dark fangs gleaming, onward they hurtled, tendrils of black trailing away. And galloping after came the riders, streaming shadows vanishing behind.

But Liaze did not run.

One hundred, seventy, fifty-thirty-twenty feet vanished the gap and hurtled the hounds, black fire in their obsidian eyes. . . .

And then they hurled themselves at the lone femme . . .

... she to be lost in the boiling pack . . .

... the hounds . . .

... the dogs . . .

... the frightful dogs . . .

... brushing by, rushing past, their fangs bared but not striking.

And then the pack was away and gone. . . .

... but now came the riders.

Galloping, galloping toward the slip of a maiden, wraiths upon steeds streaming black.

All but the leader, who seemed substantial enough, ghastly though he was.

And he reined his steed to a halt at her side, the other riders stopping as well.

And from nowhere, somewhere, everywhere, there sounded groans of a thousand faint voices, like the wailing of the wind, yet the air itself did not stir a single reflection in the standing pools of the moor.

Dressed in ebon and wearing a dark crown, the leader on his huge black horse gazed down at the princess with his grim and cold eyes of jet.

And his voice came as an icy whisper, freezing the very marrow of bones. “Ye are brave,” he hissed, “and I would have ye ride with me.”

“Gladly, my lord,” replied Liaze.

The rider turned and gestured hindward, and a wraithlike figure ahorse led a riderless mount to the fore, and it was gaunt and shadowy, as if it belonged to another realm altogether.