Redcaps ashore calling to one another, he shoved the raft out and away, pushing it along the channel. At last he won past the reeds and into the slow-moving current, and he clambered up over the end and grabbed a pole and thrust toward midstream.
“There he is,” shrilled a voice, and Borel turned to see a Goblin on the high bank and pointing.
And as the ten-foot-tall Trolls bellowed and splashed through the reeds in pursuit, Borel poled with all his might, the long, heavy shaft finding purchase against the bottom. Thrust, lift, set, thrust, lift, set, thrust… time and again, and all the while the Sprite screamed, “Oh, faster, my lord, faster, faster! Oh, my lord, my lord.”
The Trolls broke free of the reeds, and Goblins ashore shouted in glee and sprinted downstream.
And then the float reached swifter water, and yet the howling Trolls came on, now but a handful of yards away.
And still the Sprite shrieked in fear for Borel.
Realizing that unless the river got deeper, the Trolls would reach the raft, Borel dropped the pole adeck and strung his bow. And even as he nocked an arrow, one Troll grabbed the aft sweep.
Ssssthock! The shaft pierced the Troll through the eye.
The monstrous being screamed and pitched over backwards, slain, water closing over his massive body. The following Troll, waist-deep, roared in fury and pressed faster through the flow.
Borel nocked another arrow and drew the shaft to the full. Once more he loosed- Ssssthock! — and took the Troll in the throat.
Gggh! Choking, grabbing his gullet, the Troll fell sideways with a splash, to rise up and fall again and disappear into the current.
Borel nocked his last good arrow and aimed toward the Redcaps ashore pacing the raft, and they screamed in terror and turned and fled.
Exhausted, Borel slipped the arrow back into his quiver and slumped down on the logs.
“I thought you were a goner for certain,” said the Sprite, landing adeck, tears streaming down his face.
“So did I, tiny one,” said Borel, removing his quiver and setting it aside, then dragging the coil of rope over to use as a pillow. He reclined on his back and looked up at the high blue sky and sighed and said, “So did I.”
The bumblebee landed as well, alighting on Borel’s chest. Controlling his urge to slap, the prince looked at the wee dark insect and began to laugh as the flowing river bore them away downstream.
11
Of a sudden, “The moon!” cried Borel, and he lurched upright to a sitting position, upsetting the bee, who took to wing and buzzed away to land on the handle end of the fore steering sweep. “Where stands the moon?”
“My lord?”
“What is the phase of the moon?”
The Sprite frowned then said, “Tonight it will be two days past full, Sieur.”
“Ah, good,” said Borel, painfully groaning as he lay back down. “Then I haven’t lost a great deal of time.”
The Sprite flitted to land on Borel’s chest, there where the bee had once been. He plopped down and, elbows on knees and his face in his hands, he sat looking at the prince.
Borel smiled and said, “Have you a name, tiny one?”
“Yes, my lord. ’Tis Flic.” The Sprite stood and sketched a bow and then resumed his seat and said, “And you, Sieur?”
“I am Prince Borel of-”
“Of the Winterwood?”
“Yes, Flic. It is my demesne.”
“Oh, I’ve always wanted to see the Winterwood, but Buzzer would go dormant in the cold, and so might I.”
“Buzzer?”
“My companion,” replied Flic, pointing at the bee yet perched on the fore sweep.
“How came you to be in that cage, Flic?”
“The Goblins captured me in a fine net and took me prisoner.”
“To what end?”
“I am a Sprite of the fields, and the Trolls tried to force me into having my friends-the bees-make honey, every last drop of which the Trolls would take to baste their fare. I refused, of course, for I cannot think of a more heinous crime than making slaves of bees. Regardless, the Trolls said that when I got hungry enough, then I would obey. They tried to starve me into submission, but they hadn’t counted on Buzzer feeding me. I thought, though, that I would never get free, be a prisoner forever, yet you came along and, well…”
They drifted downriver in silence for a while, the unguided raft slowly turning in the current, and then Flic said, “And you, Prince Borel, how came you to my rescue?”
“I was escaping, Flic, for I was to be one of those whom they would baste with honey.”
A horrified look came over the Sprite’s face. “You mean they were going to eat you?”
Borel nodded. “Spitted, roasted, and consumed.”
“Oh, my, that might be a crime even worse than making slaves of bees.”
Borel grinned. “Perhaps.”
“Is that their customary fare? — Trolls and Goblins eating people, I mean.”
Borel nodded. “Whenever they can come by such, I ween.”
“Oh, my. Well, then I am glad that I didn’t have the bees give them honey.”
A frown came over Borel’s face, and he glanced back in the direction of the cliff. “Hmm… By the number of shackles in the prison where I was held and the count of the craft they’ve hidden in the reeds, I deem they waylay river travellers.”
“Oh,” said Flic. “That’s why all the boats were…” His voice trailed off, but Borel knew what he meant.
“Someday,” said Borel, “after I complete the task I am on, I’ll have to take a warband to that place and clean out the nest of its vipers.”
Again they drifted along without speaking, but then Flic said, “Yet tell me, Prince, how came you to be in their clutches in the first place, and what is this task you are on, and what does the moon have to do with ought?”
“ ’Tis quite a tale, Flic, not long in the telling, and it seems we do have time. You see, I’ve been having these dreams, and there is a witch named Hradian…”
“And so you always see this lady, this Demoiselle Chelle, in a stone chamber?” asked Flic.
“Yes. That is the way of it. We seem to be linked, and always I find myself there, and likewise she seems to know something of where I am, else she wouldn’t have warned me of the oncoming Goblins.”
Flic stroked his chin. “Next time you find yourself in that chamber, why don’t you take her somewhere else? Somewhere out of that chamber. Perhaps down those steps you spoke of.”
“Dreams are strange, Flic. It’s not as if I can control them.”
“Ah, but you can, Lord Borel, to some extent, that is.”
“How so?”
“A seer once told me that if in the midst of a dream I somehow discovered I was dreaming, then I could change the dream to an extent.”
“Hmm…” mused Borel. “And you think I can in some way use this knowledge?”
“Indeed, Prince Borel, for can you guide your dream, perhaps you can turn the conversation in a way that will aid you in your task.”
“Maybe so,” said Borel. “Yet tell me this: just how would I go about discovering I am dreaming?”
“Ah, there is the rub,” said Flic. “What is required is some sort of trip or trigger or stratagem that will let the
