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 Demon 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.
50
“Flint,” 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.”
“Neither awake nor in a dark dream are perilous blades just as they seem,” said Chelle. “Isn’t that what Lady Wyrd told you?”
“Oui,” said Borel.
“Hmm…” said Flic, looking at his epee, “it seems a silver blade isn’t always proof against creatures of darkness. Perhaps Argent isn’t quite as perilous as I thought.”
“Nevertheless, Flic, it slew the Shadows, and were I you I don’t believe I’d throw it away,” said Borel. Then he looked at the slain Demon. “By the bye, I think you should call Buzzer off. The thing is dead, you know.”
Flic glanced at the bee, yet circling above the Demon just in case it was feigning death.
Chelle looked, too, and then all three broke into laughter, and it went on and on, and they could not seem to stop themselves, for after all they had just cheated death… they were yet alive.
But from behind came a grunt, and they turned to see Borel’s horse, and abruptly the laughter stopped. Borel sighed and retrieved his long-knife and sword. The sword he sheathed, but the long-knife he kept in his hand, and he went to the steed and knelt and said, “Sorry, my friend.”
And Chelle looked away as Borel put his horse beyond the reach of pain.
Borel then stepped to the Demon’s side and took up the black sword, and he looked about and then walked to a large split boulder and jammed the blade into the crevice and, with a grunt, snapped the sword in two. The moment the blade broke, the shards of the weapon burst into violent flames, and Borel sprang back and flung the blazing hilt from him.
Chelle cried out, and Borel whirled to see the Demon aflame as well, with Buzzer and Flic fleeing the fire and toward Chelle. The Sprite and the bee landed on her shoulders, and all watched as both the Fiend’s corpse and its weapon furiously and swiftly burned to ashes.
“My lord,” said Flic, “I think next time you should be wary of breaking a Demon’s sword, for, as Lady Wyrd said, neither awake nor in a dark dream are perilous blades just as they seem.”
Borel saddled the packhorse and distributed the supplies between the two steeds, and Borel said, “Flic, we need find a town and get another horse.”
“And me a bow with arrows to suit,” said Chelle. And when Borel looked at her, she added, “I nearly didn’t get yours strung, my love, and your arrows are much too long.”
Flic nodded and said, “I will talk to Buzzer. Perhaps there’s a ville nearby with a garden she remembers.”
A quarter candlemark later, they rode down from the pass and out onto a plain, and there did Buzzer turn and take a new heading. And late in the day they came unto Arens, a modest ville with several inns and a number of stables.
They took a room in Le Taureau Noir, and luxuriated in hot baths and ate delicious hot meals and downed copious glasses of hearty red wine. And Chelle and Borel slept in a real bed, and they made love.
They stayed in Arens that night and two more, resting, relaxing, eating, acquiring another horse and replenishing their supplies, and obtaining a bow and arrows for Chelle.
But when the next day dawned, they rode away from the Black Bull inn, and through the town and to a nearby hillock, and there Buzzer took a bearing, and off the bee shot on a line for the demesne along the sunward marge of the Winterwood.
Through twilight borders they fared, and across lands of Faery, but midmorn of the fifth day they emerged from an umbrous bound and came unto the realm where grew yellow daffodils and blue morning glories and sweet red clover. They had entered the stream-laden demesne adjacent to the Winterwood.
On they rode, splashing through rills and runs and streams, and nigh the noontide of the second day within this land they arrived at another twilight wall.
As Borel and Chelle dismounted, Flic and Buzzer flew through the marge and quickly back, and the Sprite came shivering. “Snow, ice, barren trees: what a dreadful realm you have, my lord, for surely it is the Winterwood.”
Borel, fetching winter gear from the packhorse, grinned and shook his head. “Dreadful you say? Non. Marvelous say I, for it is both savage and peaceful, with times when the wind howls like fury come alive, flinging snow and ice in its rage, and other times of preternatural stillness, when one can hear a snowflake fall across the width of a vale. Non, my friend, ’tis a breathtaking realm for all days are different, yet somehow all the same.”
“Well, you can have it, my lord, for neither Buzzer nor I can deal with the cold: she would fall dormant, and me?”-Flic grinned-“I do believe I would fall dead. Besides, now that Buzzer and I have delivered you securely to your realm, you will be safe as soon as you pass through this twilight wall.”
Chelle’s face fell and she said, “Surely you two are not leaving us, are you, Flic?”
Flic sketched a bow in the air and said, “I must, my lady, for, truly, neither Buzzer nor I can withstand such cold as is in the Winterwood. Ah, me… I am but a warm-weather friend, oui?”
“Non, my friend,” said Borel, shaking out cold-weather gear. “Most certainly not.”
“But where will you go?” asked Chelle, taking a winter cloak and gloves and warm stockings from Borel. “I would see you again, my friend. Besides, there’s my pere and mere and their guests to set free, and I would have your epee at my side.”
“My lady, I will of certain be one of your chevaliers, though how I will cope with King Arle’s iron, that I cannot say. But first, and most immediately, I will seek out my Fleurette, for she is waiting, and I love her as much as Borel loves you. But then-”
“But then,” said Borel, pulling on his socks and then his boots, “you will come to the Summerwood, for I would have you and Buzzer attend my brother Alain’s wedding.”
Chelle clapped her hands even as Flic said, “Summerwood?”
“White camellias,” said Borel, looking at Buzzer, the bee hovering at Flic’s side. “Red, red roses, and yellow ones as well. And lilacs.-Oh, and something called hydrangea. But do not ask me more, for that is the extent of my knowledge.”
“I will see if she knows,” said Flic. And he and Buzzer landed on a patch of ground. After a moment of silent converse, Buzzer did a waggle dance. Then she paused and did an entirely different dance of waggles. Flic laughed and looked up and said, “She knows the Summerwood, and so we will be there. She also said that for someone as slow as you are, my lord, you seem to get about a lot.” Flic broke into giggles, as did Chelle, and Borel’s guffaws joined them.
Borel and Chelle pulled on gloves and fastened cloaks about their shoulders, then mounted.
Buzzer and Flic took to wing and hovered, and Flic drew Argent and saluted both the lord and his lady.
“Au revoir, my wee friend,” said Borel.
“Till we meet again,” said Chelle.
“See you in the Summerwood,” said Flic, and then Buzzer circled ’round and took a bearing, and both bee and Sprite shot away.
When they were beyond seeing, Chelle and Borel turned their horses and rode into the Winterwood.
