Once upon a dreadful time

the run. She had begun training each day, for, in spite of Steward Arnot’s protestations, she was determined to go on the campaign against Orbane should war come to Faery.

“But, Princess, war is no place for a lady.”

“Nonsense, Arnot. Ever have there been women warriors.

Besides, what better scouts to have than a pack of Wolves?”

“Sprites, my lady. Sprites.”

“Sprites cannot withstand the chill.”

“Ice Sprites can.”

“Oui, but the campaign mayhap will go from summer to winter to spring to fall, depending upon which borders we cross. Neither the Ice Sprites nor the winged ones can follow in places, but the Wolves and I suffer not those limitations.”

The debate had gone on, yet Michelle had been adamant, and finally Arnot yielded. And so she had practiced with her bow, and had run with the Wolves, and every day had become more fluent in their speech.

Laurent could see the worth of having Wolves to reconnoiter, for he knew the value of good scouts. Even so, he would not have Michelle endangering herself. But she pointed out that no one else could speak their tongue; she also maintained she could remain somewhat at a distance while the Wolves did the work of reconnaissance. In the end Laurent threw up his hands and gave way as well.

And so she ran with the grey hunters in daylight and moonlight as well as the twilight of dusk and dawn. And she told them what she planned.

They agreed, for they would have Borel back at the side of his cub-smart two-legs bitch.

It was at the end of one of these runs, when Michelle heard the sound of a clarion. Wolves pricked up their ears and gazed sunwise.

Slate: Two-legs call. Tall four-legs run.

Michelle: How many four-legs?

Slate: Two.

Michelle had learned that the Wolves had their own numbering method, six levels in all: one, two, four, more, small herd, big herd.

Michelle: We run.

And she and the pack began trotting toward the manor.

. .

After she had read the message, Michelle turned to Arnot and Laurent and Jules and said, “Well then, it seems there will be a war after all.”

The men nodded solemnly, including the courier from Chevell.

“Let us get the word to all the men throughout the Winter shy;

wood. Too, we need alert the Sprites in other realms to be on the watch for Orbane’s army on the march, for we will need to intercept his force, wherever it is bound. Also, we need to make certain that our allies in other realms know of this, and to rally under Valeray’s flag when we choose a place to rendezvous.”

“That will be difficult, my lady,” said Armsmaster Jules.

“How so?”

“The twilight borders of Faery are tricky, to say the least.

And wherever it is that it seems Orbane has decided to march, he can simply change his crossing point a minor amount and be headed somewhere else entirely.”

“Then the Sprites must be at their best to keep us informed,” said Michelle.

She glanced at Laurent, and he said, “This fighting in Faery is not like anything I have e’er done before, and so I depend upon you to get me and the army to the battle, for ’tis in combat that I know how and what to do.” Michelle nodded and said, “Arnot, Laurent, Jules, here is what I propose: have all armsmasters meet with Luc, for he is of Faery, while Sieur Emile and his sons are not. Hence, Luc should be more familiar with the ‘trickiness’ of the twilight borders as well as to the shifts in direction Orbane might employ. He and the armsmasters must come up with a plan not only for organizing the Sprites and finding our way, but also for tracking Orbane and his army so that we might intercept them. And when we do, it must be at a place to take advantage of the terrain, whether it be the high ground or an ambush or by meeting them in a narrow lieu, or anywhere we have the edge.” Michelle paused a moment in thought. “Too, Arnot, see that my sire gets Chevell’s message as well.”

Even as Arnot said “Oui,” the courier said, “My lady, Prince Roel was to inform Sieur Emile.”

“Indeed,” replied Michelle, “yet if that courier is delayed or worse. .” Michelle paused, then turned to Arnot. “In fact, send falcons with Chevell’s words to all manors as well as the castle, for who knows what Orbane might have done?”

“As you will, my lady,” said Arnot, and then he and the men withdrew.

She sighed and peered into the flames of the hearthfire, yet she did not attend to ought there. Instead her mind turned toward the future and wondered what it would bring.

. .

That night, in between snatches of restless sleep, Michelle tossed and turned and tried to get comfortable, yet it seemed she could not. Finally, she arose from her bed and padded to a window and threw wide the shutters. In the cold bracing wind, she peered out on the bright ’scape, the full moon above shining down. And running through her sleepless mind was the question she’d been gnawing upon all eve: Who knows what Orbane might have done?

And where are Raseri and Rondalo? Why haven’t they-

Oh, Mithras, what if Orbane caused a dread wind to carry the Drake and Elf away? Mayhap that’s why we’ve not heard from them, and surely we should have by now. Are they, too, trapped in the Great Darkness beyond the Black Wall of the World?

Michelle did not sleep again that night.

Throngs

Under dark, brooding skies sped Hradian, to come in among snow-laden mountains, their grim jagged crags and rearing massifs looming all ’round. The peaks marched away beyond seeing toward starwise and dawnwise and duskwise bounds, and seldom did outside folk come this way, and then only if they were desperate, for this was the Chaine Malefique, and herein did dreadful Trolls live. Yet Hradian felt no fear of these monsters, for, along with other dire folk, they were her allies.

Besides, Orbane was with her, and he could easily keep them at bay.

Deeper into the bleak mountains she flew, until at last she espied her goal. Then down she spiralled and down, down toward a large gape of a cavern below, the opening yawning wide.

She came to ground at the entrance, where she and Orbane dismounted. And standing just inside the mouth hulked an enormous being. Hideous, he was, and massive, some nine foot tall or so. And all about him was a terrible miasma, a rotting stench, like a burst-open animal lying days dead in a hot summer sun.

He was dressed in greasy hides, and he had yellow eyes and green-scummed tusks that showed as he bared his teeth at the appearance of this twain.

As Hradian and Orbane started for the entrance, “Stanna!” demanded the Troll in a guttural growl.

Orbane paid him no heed and strode on. “Stoppa!” roared the huge creature.

Still Orbane trod forward, and the Troll stepped in front of the wizard.

Orbane muttered a word and made a gesture, and the monster stood rooted in place.

“Acolyte, I lend you a meager portion of my might; you may destroy this creature for trying to bar my way.”

“My lord, is that-?” Hradian’s words chopped short as she realized she was about to ask him if it were “wise.” Instead, she pushed an upturned clawlike hand out toward the chest of the Troll and, with nearly orgasmic power pulsing through her, as if she were squeezing something, she slowly closed her fingers.

The Troll groaned but once, its face turning gray, and then it crashed down at her feet, dead ere it hit the