Once upon a dreadful time

Crucible

Beneath the black skies in the uncertain dawn, from a distant knoll on the valley floor Sieur Emile and his commanders watched by lightning flash the stirrings of the distant throng.

It was the morning after the foe had hammered the allies out from the pass to come down into the wide valley, shortly after followed by the dreadful Sickness. Night had then fallen, and each of the combatants had stopped to rest. But now it was morning, and once again Emile and his leadership assessed what was to be done.

Emile sighed and turned to Auberon and asked, “Where lies this River of Time?”

The Fey Lord pointed to the far side of the vale. “Beyond yon crest, out from this dale and into the next, there’s where the river flows.”

Emile frowned. “But you have turned us starwise. . along the course of this valley. Should we not instead ride up and over?”

Auberon shook his head. “Non, for we cannot find the river that way, and even if we could, we would then intercept the course downstream of the headwaters.”

Laurent, his bandaged arm in a makeshift sling, said, “But where is the problem, my lord? Can we not simply turn upstream and follow the river back to the source?”

Auberon shook his head. “Non, Sieur Laurent, for only the Fates and mayhap ghosts can go against the flow of time, whereas we can only move with it. Try otherwise and the river itself will vanish, and we’ll not reach the wellspring. Instead, we must go some four leagues or so up this valley ere crossing over, and then turn sunwise to come upon the beginning. It is in fact the only way to reach the River of Time, for it can only be found by coming upon the source. Oh, perhaps there is another way, but, if so, I know it not.” Luc said, “If that is how one must reach the river, by starting at the fount, then that’s why you turned us starwise, and I take it that Orbane has to do the same.”

Auberon nodded and said, “Oui, for there is no other way.”

“Four leagues from here to there? That’s all?” asked Roel.

“Then Orbane is nigh upon realizing his goal.” Blaise turned to his father and said, “Sire, let us send for the Firsts, for surely this is the last gasp.” Emile looked to Auberon, and the Fey Lord sighed and said,

“I agree. And though they will not arrive here soon, it is time they came.”

Luc said, “Though we are sore beset and few, if we continue to fiercely battle with Orbane’s throng, mayhap we can delay him until the Firsts get here.”

Roel on the far side of Sieur Emile nodded in agreement and said, “Let us make Orbane fight for every inch of the way and hope the Firsts come ere we are fordone.”

“We can do so,” said Auberon, “yet I think not even with their aid shall we long stem Orbane’s march.”

“Then I will call for the Sprites to tell the Firsts to come,” said Emile.

Auberon shook his head and reached for the silver clarion at his side. “By the time the Sprites can fetch them, they will most certainly be too late. Instead, I will summon them with my horn.”

But as the Fey Lord started to raise the trump to his lips, there came a horn cry echoing down the valley, and the riders turned, and starwise up the dale there came marching an army of men.

“Who can that be?” asked Laurent.

Regar and a rider, accoutered in a blue tabard marked with a silver sunburst, came galloping up the slope of the knoll to skid to a halt next to Emile. “Sieur,” said the sunburst-marked rider,

“Duke Roulan sends his compliments. He says to tell you he brings four thousand men, of which sixty-five are knights.”

“Roulan? Michelle’s father?” asked Laurent.

“Oui,” replied the rider. “She is with him now.”

“Four thousand men; sixty-five chevaliers,” said Luc. “I deem this betters our chance of delaying Orbane until the Firsts arrive.”

Auberon nodded, and again raised his horn to his lips, and this time he sounded a call, though none there heard ought but a breath of air expelled.

“Now they will come,” said the Fey Lord.

. .

Away from the Black Wall of the World ran the seven Fairy steeds, silver bells sounding the way, a single rider upon each but for the one who bore a mother and child and a sparrow. Above flew Raseri the Drake, and astraddle the base of the Dragon’s neck rode Rondalo, the Elven lord carrying his bow and lance.

O’er the hills and tors ran the mounts, the slopes and crags themselves no barriers to these chargers, and then straight into the woodlands they sped, slowing down not one whit, for the Fairy horses careened like swift zephyrs weaving among the boles of the trees.

Of a sudden, Raseri and Rondalo each cocked their heads attentively. “The Fairy Lord summons us,” said the Elf.

“Indeed,” replied Raseri, for both he and Rondalo were counted among the Firsts.

Above rivers and streams the Dragon flew, while below silver-shod hooves left nought but ripples ringing outward in their wake.

They came to a twilight border and plunged straight through, and Raseri groaned, for directly below were nought but the waves of a great wide sea. Yet, lo! the Fairy horses ran atop the water itself. And both Drake and Elf could hear the ringing laughter of little Duran below, as across the billows the steeds galloped without pause.

. .

Armed with fresh arrows brought by Duke Roulan and quarrels for their large crossbows, the allies watched as the throng came boiling onward, and behind the foe flowed the Sickness, a vast cloud spread across the entire width of the valley, and it left nought but sterile and barren soil in its wake as it poured across the plant and animal life. Somewhere in the midst of this contamination marched Orbane, with Hradian at his side.

And as the men and Fey looked on they saw that the ranks of the enemy had swollen, for in the night more Goblins and Serpentines had come, as well as Bogles and Trolls. And once again the allies were sorely outnumbered-seven to one at best; ten to one at worst.

Regar sighed and asked, “Is there no limit to the numbers of these foul creatures?”

“Were we in the mortal world,” said Lord Roulan, “then I would say yea; yet here in Faery, I think the answer might be nay.”

“What I don’t understand,” said Blaise, “is why doesn’t Orbane simply use that terrible cloud to drive us away? I mean, why fight battles? Why have a throng at all?”

“Because he is wary,” said Auberon. “For we might have some weapon or potion or device that would permit us to breach the miasma. He uses the throng to protect him on his march; to him they are nought but chaff. Even so, it swells his pride to have command over such beings.”

The warriors stood waiting, while knights sat their horses, as did the cavalry. Once again the chevaliers were assigned the task of dealing with the Trolls, while the cavalry would take on the Serpentines.

Howling wordless yawls, the front ranks of the throng charged, yet the archers and crossbowmen stood ready, but they flew no shafts.

On came the Goblins and Bogles and Trolls, and the Serpentines swept wide, for it was their intent to attack the allies from the rear, and this time Luc’s cavalry would not take them by surprise.

At last the Fey Lord cried, “Loose!” and arrows siss ed through the air arching up and over and down, bringing death on keen points.

The skies flared, thunder boomed, and, sounding his horn, Luc started his cavalry at a walk; and with another horn cry he moved to a trot; another call, and they changed to a canter; and, with one final cry, they galloped full tilt, lances lowered, and charged toward the Serpentines, whose own cruelly barbed spears were lowered as they hurtled toward the men. And with horses belling, and Serpentine steeds hissing, and men yelling and Serpentines shrieking, as lightning detonated the very air they smashed into one another; and spears thuck ed into flesh and lances punched through scales; and the air was filled with the