Once Upon a Summer Day (46 page)

 

Nine more days and nights they stayed in the chalet in Níone, and every day they celebrated their betrothal, and in the nights as well.

The evening they told King Arle, he made a public proclamation, and the entire town celebrated. And Arle toasted their good health and said, “Well, now, my friends, you have notified a king. Hence all you must do is post the banns, and, after the waiting time is over, find you a hierophant.”

“In my own demesne will we post the banns,” said Borel, “and in Duke Roulan’s demesne as well, once we get him free, for I would have the wedding be one wherein he gives away the bride.”

“Pah!” snorted Flic, but he was smiling. “You humans with your rituals.”

 

On the fourteenth day in Níone, Borel and Chelle and Flic and Buzzer made ready to depart, and Arle came unto them and he presented Borel with a bronze sword, its edge keen, its hilt capped with a white chalcedony gemstone, and a grey leather belt and scabbard with it. He then presented Chelle with a moonstone pendant. And to both he said, “These two stones are governed by the moon, and they will remind you of the perilous times and of your lasting love.”

Borel embraced the king, and Chelle hugged Arle and kissed him, and murmured her thanks.

Arle turned to Flic and held up a jar of honey and said, “This is for you and Buzzer. I am told it comes from the white moonflower and is honey rare indeed.”

Flic bowed and said, “Thank you, my lord, and I thank you on behalf of Buzzer as well. She and I will both be pleased with such a gift.”

On Flic’s behalf, Borel took the jar and slipped it into one of the packhorse bags with the food.

Then King Arle presented Flic with a wee tiny pendant as well and said, “This stone is known as a moondrop; it is said to be moonlight itself made manifest; well do you deserve it, my little friend, whose heart is perhaps the biggest of all. Wear it to remind you of the perils you faced and the victories won.”

Flic drew his silver épée and saluted the king. “Thank you, my lord. I will wear it with pride. Yet I remind you, the adventure is not finished until we free Roulan and all those entrapped by Rhensibé.”

Arle looked at Flic and then Borel and finally Chelle and said, “Oh, I have not forgotten that quest, my friends. As soon as you return with the magicien or sorcière to deal with that foul witch, I and my men will ride with you.”

“We thank you, my lord,” said Borel, and again he and the king embraced, and again Chelle hugged and kissed Arle, and then they mounted up and watched as Buzzer flew ’round and took a sighting on the sun and then shot off toward the demesne on the generally sunward bound of the Winterwood, an adjacent realm where grew yellow daffodils and blue morning glories and red clover, all three of which Flic and Chelle identified after Borel had described them.

And so, with a packhorse in tow, out from Níone they rode, and some townsfolk stood along the street to wave them good-bye. Up the far hill they fared—Borel and Chelle ahorse, Flic on the tricorn—all of them following a beeline for a distant border. And as they topped the rise, behind them there sounded a long and resonant horn cry: it was King Arle’s
au revoir
.

Borel and Chelle turned and waved good-bye, Flic waving as well, and Chelle cried out, “Au revoir, King Arle, for we will meet again.”

And then they turned and rode over the hill and down the far side and away.

O
ut from Níone they rode, over hills and through forests for the entire day, Borel and Chelle talking and Flic achatter, Buzzer flying somewhat ahead, though the bee often returned to make certain they were following her line. Now and again they came to a river they had to ford, and at these flows Flic would fly upstream or down- to scout out a suitable crossing. Flic also flew whenever they came to a drop or a rise the horses could not traverse, and the Sprite would find a fitting place for the steeds to make their way onward.

And the sun rose into the sky and across and down, and when evening came, they camped in a woodland green.

 

The next day they crossed a twilight border, and came into a lowland of reeds and many lakes. And though Buzzer could fly a straight line over water and vegetation alike, it took the riders three days altogether to wend a passage through. And as they finally emerged from a twilight border and into a land of rock and grass and thickets, Borel looked back and said, “All it would take is one good long rain to submerge that entire realm.”

“That might be so, my lord,” said Flic, “nevertheless ’tis the way Buzzer knows.”

Chelle laughed and said, “Let us hope she doesn’t come to a place of bottomless mud, a place she could easily fly over but we could not cross at all.”

“If it comes to that,” said Flic, “we will simply go into a different realm and see if she can find her way from there.”

“How many demesnes of Faery has she been in?” asked Chelle.

“I think ’tis a number beyond count,” said Flic. “But each realm must have flowers, else it simply isn’t within her ken.”

“Like the Endless Sands,” said Borel.

“Yes,” said Flic, “like the Endless Sands.”

“I saw no flowers in the place we just came from,” said Chelle.

“The reeds, my lady,” said Flic, “they flower in their season.”

“Ah,” said Chelle, and on they rode.

 

A twoday later, early morn found them wending their way up through a high mountain pass, and ahead at the crest of the col stood a man, as if waiting. And he held a great black sword unsheathed.

“A toll-taker, do you think?” said Chelle.

“Perhaps,” said Borel. Even so, he loosened the keepers on his long-knife and sword and spurred forward to ride ahead of Chelle.

On toward the man they went, and now they could see that he was lean and tall and hairless, and he wore only a dhoti, and there was a ghastly white pallor to his skin. His fingers were long and bony, as were his legs and arms, and yet he sported a small rounded belly, as if it were swollen from lack of food.

“My lord,” hissed Flic. “There is something about this creature, or so my Fey vision tells me. I think he is not a man at all, but a thing of a different sort. Just what, I cannot say.”

Grimly Borel rode on, and he reined to a stop some paces short of the being.

“I have been waiting for you,” said the man—the thing—his voice hollow, his words strangely accented, and he smiled a wicked smile, and his teeth were nought but fangs.

“Waiting for us?” said Borel. “How so?”

“Not you, O Man,” said the creature. “You may ride on past, for it is the woman I am here to slay.” Then the being looked past Borel to Chelle. “Rhensibé summoned me; she wanted you to know she had done so. And she told me to say unto you that the moment you are slain, so shall die all those enspelled in your father’s manse. Know this as well, Woman: you cannot escape me, for I am of
Enfer
itself, and I am bound to Rhensibé until you are dead.”

He looked back at Borel and said, “Ride on, O Man, ride on.” And he stepped forward, his great black sword raised, his gaze fixed on Chelle.

Flic took to wing, Argent in hand.

“Yahh!” cried Borel, and he drew his sword and spurred his horse forward to deal the
thing
a death blow, but the creature cut the horse’s legs out from under Borel, and the steed screamed and tumbled to the ground.

Yet Borel had leapt free, and with his long-knife now in his left hand and his sword in his right, he ran at the creature and swung and slashed a great deep cut across the thing’s swollen abdomen.

But no blood flew. No ichor. And the being laughed, and even as he did so, the great gaping wound vanished.

Shang!
Down came the creature’s own blow, and Borel barely deflected it, ebon shocking into bronze with numbing force. With a backhanded sweep Borel lashed his long-knife up and at the creature’s throat. But with a warding bash of its bony arm, the thing fended Borel’s blade and took another deep cut, this one on its arm, but the gash healed nearly instantly.

Chelle leapt from her mount and ran to Borel’s downed steed; and even as the horse thrashed about—unable to rise, for its forelegs were shorn in two—Chelle grabbed Borel’s bow from its saddle scabbard and snatched up an arrow.

At one and the same time, crying “Die, Démon, die!” Flic dove down and stabbed and stabbed with Argent at the creature’s head and neck and back, yet the Sprite was no more bothersome than would be a gnat.

And Borel lashed his sword upward in a slashing cut, only to find the creature’s dark weapon blocking the way. Borel sprang leftward, to come at the thing’s flank, but with its own backhanded blow the monster swung its black blade, and Borel barely managed to fend.

Chelle struggled with all her might to string Borel’s bow, yet she could not quite slip the loop over the upper arm and into the groove.

Now Borel struck left and right with both of his blades, half of which the creature fended, yet the other half found their marks . . . to no avail, for as quickly as a cut was made, just as quickly did it heal.

And still Flic stabbed and stabbed with Argent, yet each puncture closed instantly.

Borel sprang back from the creature, his breath now coming in harsh gasps.

“Fool of a man,” cried the thing, “do you not know I am a Démon, a Fiend, a
Diable,
and nothing smelted, cast, carven, or forged can hurt me?”

And then it attacked, and black rang on bronze, the Fiend driving the prince back and back, and Borel parried and riposted, blocked and counterstruck, but the Démon was mighty, and it drove Borel hindward, and now it was all Borel could do to fend the creature off.

Of a sudden—
ching!
—Borel’s long-knife went flying. And moments later—
clang!
—he lost his sword. And the Diable smashed him down with a blow of its fist.

Chelle screamed, and the Fiend turned toward her. But Borel kicked out, smashing the Démon in the leg. The creature grunted, and swung back toward Borel, and raised its great black blade up for a death-dealing blow.

And as she saw the dark sword swing up, with strength born of desperation, Chelle strung the bow.

And in that same moment the Diable screamed in agony, for Buzzer had returned, and she found Flic striking and striking at a monster; without any hesitation whatsoever, Buzzer hurled herself at the creature and ran out her stinger and stabbed the Fiend in the neck.

And even as the Démon howled in anguish and slapped at the bee, Chelle set the arrow to string and cried out, “Flic, away!” and as the Sprite flew up from the Fiend, Chelle summoned strength she knew not she had and drew Borel’s bow to the full of her pull and loosed the flint-tipped shaft at the Démon . . . and it struck the creature dead center in the back.

“Ygah!”
cried the Fiend, and it dropped the black blade and staggered and vainly clutched at the deeply embedded arrow jutting out, black blood seeping.

And snarling a Wolflike growl of rage, Borel leapt to his feet and jerked the flint knife from his belt and stabbed the blade into the Diable’s heart, and a dark ichor gushed forth.

The Démon looked with disbelief into the icy eyes of this puny man who had somehow just slain it, and Borel twisted the flint and jammed it deeper and gritted, “All perilous blades are not what they seem.”

And then the Fiend collapsed, the creature dead even as it struck the ground.

“F
lint,” said Borel, embracing Chelle, she yet trembling in the aftermath. “Your flint arrow and my flint knife were neither smelted, cast, carven, nor forged, and when I kicked him, I knew he could be hurt. And then Buzzer stung him, saving my life. And then you shot him with a flint-headed arrow, and I stabbed him in the heart with a flint knife . . . and both the arrowhead and the knife were knapped from stone.”