Once Upon a Winter's Night (7 page)

 

Camille was wrenched from sleep by screams of dying and yawls of terror and howls of combat, and a great snarling and roaring. And just as she jerked awake in fear, a dark being crashed to the frozen ground beside her, his face torn off, his abdomen gutted. Shrieking, she scuttled back and away from this hideous dead thing, and looked up in the slanting light of a low gibbous moon to see a great battle raging, her Bear standing on his hind legs, ringed ’round by creatures with spears stabbing. And then she knew from her papa’s stories—
Oh, sweet Mithras, they’re Goblins!
And the Bear laid about with massive blows, his great claws ripping and rending, and blood flew wide and bones crunched, and Goblins fell ’round him slain. Yet the Bear was bleeding as well, his white fur stained with a scarlet gone black in the night.

Scrambling up, Camille looked for something to—

She was jerked from her feet and hauled into the air and clasped against a huge body, and a large hand slapped down on the top of her head, huge fingers grasping, curved talons clamping against her face. And a voice bellowed out above the Bear’s own roars, “Stop now, or I’ll snap the girl’s neck like a twig!”

A
t the shout from the huge being clasping Camille, the Bear swung his great head ’round, his ashen eyes mad with rage, and for a moment it seemed he would charge. But instead he took one last swipe at the beringing Goblins, scattering them, and then he dropped down to all fours and stood, his fighting done. At another command, the Goblins again surrounded the Bear, their spears ready to stab.

And when the Bear was encircled, the creature grasping Camille shifted his clutch to her shoulders and turned her about and held her out at arm’s length, and she gasped in dread and clenched her teeth to keep from screaming, for ’twas a huge, ugly Troll had her in his claw-fingered grip.

Hideous, he was, and massive, some nine foot tall or so. And in spite of the blustering wind, all about him was a terrible miasma, a stench like that of a rotting animal burst open after lying dead afield for a full sevenday in the glare of the hot summer sun. He was dressed in greasy animal hides. He gazed at her with yellow eyes, his green-scummed tusks revealed as he leered. “Ah, but what a beauty you are,” he declared, and the foulness of his foetid breath caused Camille to gag and retch. “I am Olot, King of the Goblins and Trolls, and I have come for you, my girl, for I have been watching you, and although I have a queen, I will keep you as my mistress and—”

At this last the Bear roared in rage and reared upward, his great claws brandished. Goblins shrieked, and scuttled back, yet their spears were held at the ready. And Olot the Troll snatched Camille again to his breast, pressing her into his foul reek. But the Bear remained standing upright, fully as tall as the Troll. And in spite of all, Camille could feel the Troll tremble in fright.

And the light of the moon fled away, as riven clouds scudded across the sky, a pall of darkness falling. Yet within but a moment through a gap above, the argent light returned.

Still standing, the Bear roared and growled and swept his claws and bared his teeth and irately postured, but he did not attack. And it seemed the Troll knew what the Bear was saying, though it was no ordinary tongue. The Troll nodded and looked at Camille, and his yellow eyes narrowed in cunning and he turned Camille to face the Bear. “Hear me, then, Bear: you spurned my daughter, and you refuse to yield this tasty morsel to me.” Olot clutched a dull amulet at his neck. “I have you in my power, just as did my child, and as did she, so will I do.” The Troll grinned a tusky grin, and added, “If for nothing else than in retribution for the ten of my best you murdered.”

In spite of her fear, Camille cried out, “But the Goblins were attacking the Bear. He was merely defending himself.”

“Shut your clack, woman!” bellowed the Troll, shaking Camille like a rag poppet, momentarily dazing her.

The Bear roared at this handling of Camille, and took a stride toward the Troll.

Olot backed hindward a step and cried out, “Stay away, Bear, or else . . .”

The Bear stopped.

“What I plan for you, Bear”—here the Troll glanced at Camille and laughed—“is not for her to know. Go. I will follow. But hear me, my remaining Goblins will watch over her, and should aught happen to me, she will suffer a dreadful fate.”

At a gesture from the Troll, the Bear dropped down to all fours and moved into the tangle nigh, and so, too, did Olot the Troll King go, leaving Camille surrounded by a dozen or so bandy-legged, yellow-eyed, snaggletoothed, spear-bearing Goblins.

And when the Troll and Bear were gone from sight, one of the Goblins leered and stepped toward Camille, and he reached out a skinny arm to paw at her with his talon-fingered hand, while the other Goblins sneered and laughed, though some glanced nervously in the direction the Troll and Bear had gone, as if to make certain that they themselves would suffer no interruption.

In the fluctuating light of the cloud-obscured moon, Camille gasped and shrank away as other Goblins crowded ’round, reeking and foul and filthy. Dressed in coarse-woven cloth and partly cured hides and standing some five feet tall, hideous they were up close, with their viperlike eyes and bat-wing ears and their overlarge noses with long gelid strings of snot dripping down. And they all wore black caps, and—

Flinching, Camille backed away, to come up against the jagged bole of a gnarled, dead tree, where she could go no farther. And the Goblin at the fore became bold, and with one hand began to pluck at her clothes as if to undress her, while with the other he fumbled at the cord of his breeks.

Lashing out, she shoved him into the ones behind, and then turned and scrambled up the twisted branches, seeking escape, while Redcaps japed and hooted and danced about the dead tree and made crude, suggestive gestures.

Reaching a high branch and clinging to the trunk, her breath coming in fear-driven huffs, Camille looked down at the cavorting Goblins below, as once again the moon broke through the clouds. And she peered across the twisted ’scape, desperately seeking the Bear.

And then, on a stony ridge and momentarily silhouetted against the gibbous moon, Camille saw what looked to be the great, hulking Troll shaking a fist at a man. But what would a man be doing out here in this dreadful place? And whence had he come? The moon fled behind another cloud, and she saw no more. In that short glimpse, she had not espied the Bear, though a large dark shape off to the left might have been him, yet it could just as well have been a boulder instead. Too, he could have been just this side or that of the ridge where Olot stood and hence would not have been seen.

And midst the jeers coming from the darkness below, and in the blustery wind, now and again from the direction of the ridge Camille could hear snatches of voices arguing:

“. . . slew ten of my . . .”

“. . . attacking ...”

“. . . daughter ...”

“. . . never will I . . .”

“. . . She will fail, and then the geas . . .”

The tree trembled as if—

Camille looked down in the dimness, and just then the moon broke clear.

Jeered on by his mates, the Redcap who had pawed at her came clambering up the bole. Camille gritted her teeth and turned so that she could kick at him. In counter, he scuttled around the twisted trunk so as to avoid her strikes. Camille then moved to another gnarled branch to meet his maneuver, but again he scuttled counter and scrambled higher and, leering around the trunk, reached for her. And just as his long-fingered hand grasped her wrist—
thuck!
—a feathered shaft sprang full-blown from his left eye, the arrow point punching up and out through the crown of his skull.

Even as he fell away from Camille and crashed down through crooked branches, fury exploded below, wild Wolves slamming into and through and over shrieking Redcaps, tearing out throats, snapping necks, hauling down running Goblins from behind.

In a trice it was over, all Redcaps slaughtered and silence fallen within the wood, but for the bluster of the wind and a growl or two from Wolves making certain that every Goblin was slain.

“Ho, Lad,” came a cry, “are you all right?”

In the moonlight a man with a bow strode under the tree and stood amid the Wolves.

Camille, her voice shaking with the residue of fright as well as in relief, called down, “I am well, O Sir. And I thank you for coming to my aid.”

“Well, then, climb on down, Lad, and let’s have a look at you.”

Glancing again at the ridge, Camille saw neither Troll, nor man, nor Bear; they were gone from the light of the gibbous moon.

“Come, come, Lad,” said the man, gesturing to the Wolves. “My companions are quite civilized.”

As Camille turned about to clamber down the tree, her golden hair swung ’round as well, and the man below huffed in revelation and said, “I see I should have called you mademoiselle instead, my lady.”

Descending, Camille said, “You may call me my lady if you wish, but only if I must call you my lord.” As the man laughed, Camille climbed down the last few feet, then paused and looked at him. Tall and slender, he was, with pale, pale eyes—ice-blue perhaps, though Camille could not be certain in the glancing light of the moon. He was dressed in varied greys—cloak, leathers, boots, vest, jerkin—their colors much like those of the Wolves at hand. Around his head and across his brow, a silver-runed, grey leather headband held his silver-grey, shoulder-length hair in place.

Yet smiling, the man reached out a hand to aid her to step to the ground. As she took it, he said, “I am Borel. And you are . . . ?”

“Camille, Good Sir. Yet names can wait, for urgency presses, and I ask you and yours to aid my Bear.” She looked at the grinning Wolves, with their lanky frames and long, lean legs, the pack standing and waiting as if for a command, a few facing outward on guard.

Once more clouds slid across the moon, and in the dimness Borel said, “Bear?”

“The one who is taking me to Lord Alain, Prince of the Summerwood.”

“Ah. That Bear. And just why is he taking you to the Summerwood?”

The light brightened and Camille said, “I am to be Alain’s wife.”

“Ah, then, you are the one,” Borel said, and he frankly eyed her face and form, appraising. And at last he said, “Now I can see why he was so smitten.”

“How know you this?”

“He is my brother,” replied Borel, “for I am the Prince of the Winterwood.”

“Brother and prince you may be, Good Sir, yet again I ask, will you give aid to my Bear?”

Borel looked about. “Where—?”

“He is with a monstrous Troll—”

“The one we’ve been tracking,” gritted Borel. He gestured at the slain Goblins and added, “Along with his Redcap band.” Borel glanced up at the riven sky. “A storm is coming, yet we may have a chance. Where is this Troll now?”

“He was on a ridge yon,” said Camille, pointing through the dead trees toward the cloud-covered moon. “He has my Bear, and I fear—”

But even as she spoke, there came a crashing from the direction of the ridge. Hackles raised, all the Wolves turned to face this menace, and Borel nocked arrow and stepped between Camille and the oncoming threat and drew the weapon to the full, aiming toward the sound of shattering wood. And then the Bear burst forth from the tangle, a thunderous roar bellowing. But upon seeing the Wolves and the man, he skidded to a stop, the roar dying in mid-bellow. Grunting, he sat down.

The Wolves relaxed, their hackles falling, and one or two of the animals set their tails to wagging. “Ah,” said Borel, “you are safe.” And he eased his bowstring even as Camille rushed ’round and forward.

Camille flung her arms about the Bear’s neck. “Oh, Bear, I thought you imperilled.”

The Bear merely grunted in reply.

Releasing him, Camille said, “Bear, I would have you meet Prince Borel, brother to Prince Alain.”

“We’ve met,” said Borel, slipping the arrow back into his quiver. “For as I said, Alain is my brother, and—”

The Bear growled low, as if in warning.

Borel pushed a palm out to allay the Bear and murmured, “As you wish.”

Stepping to the arrow-slain Goblin and leaning his bow against the tree, Borel said, “Now about that Troll, has he any more Redcaps in his train?”

“I think not,” replied Camille, looking about at the slaughter and shuddering. “My Bear slew ten of them, and you and your Wolves killed the rest. As far as I know, the Troll is now alone, but perhaps for some unknown man I saw standing with him on the ridge.”

The Bear huffed.

Borel grunted as he jerked the arrow free from the skull of the dead Redcap, then began scouring it with snow to scrub away the dark grume. “I would be rid of this Troll who has invaded my demesne.”

Camille looked about at the tangle. “My lord, ’tis a drear and dread realm you rule.”

Borel glanced up from where he knelt. “The Winterwood is not all like this cursed sector, my lady, for herein not even the Ice Sprites dwell. Elsewhere, my principality is the most beautiful of the four.”

“Four?”

“Aye. Spring, Summer, Autumn, and Winter: four seasons and four forests, ruled by four siblings: Celeste, Alain, Liaze, and me.”

“You four rule all of Faery?”

“Oh, no, Camille,” said Borel, rising, sliding the now clean arrow in among the others. “There is much more to Faery than just the Forests of the Seasons.”

Taking up his bow, Borel turned to the Bear. “Just as did you come running this way at the sound of my Wolves slaying the Redcaps, this Troll, he ran the other way when he heard?”