Once Upon an Autumn Eve (27 page)

“My lord,” said Liaze, “have you one healthier?”

“This is your mount,” came the bitter whisper.

“As thou wilt, my lord,” replied Liaze. And she set her foot in the spectral stirrup and swung astride the ghastly steed.

Adjusting the bow on her back, she settled in for the ride, and then the dark lord raised his terrible horn to his lips and belled its dreadful call, and Liaze’s heart quailed in fear at the sound of it, but she did not flinch, and all the horses sprang forward in pursuit of the forerunning hounds.

Liaze leaned into the saddle, urging her mount to haste as the wraithsteeds rose into the sky, writhing shadowstuff streaming behind and boiling off and away. And Liaze gasped in wonder and fright as the ground below receded, for she was up in the sky, in the sky, and if she fell, if she fell . . .

Durin the ridin stay tight in the saddle,
echoed Gwyd’s words,
f’r if ye fall off, ye’ll die. And should ye die or be struck dead, ye’ll be in his shadowy band f’r e’er.

Liaze reached down and, first on one side and then on the other, she adjusted the stirrup straps to a length to her liking, setting herself more secure on the shadowy steed.

With ghastly riders all about and all of their cloaks flying out behind, the ghostly horses plunged through shredded clouds across a moonlit sky, while far ahead dark hounds bayed.

“My lord,” called out Liaze, “what is it we do?”

“We chase the moon,” came the icy answer, as they hammered onward, black sparks flying from strangely shod hooves. “That and we hunt cowards; not one such as you.”

“And what of the cowards, my lord? What do you when we come across one or more?”

“Those I set my hounds upon, and they tear their craven souls apart. It is all they deserve.”

Liaze gasped and looked at the other riders in Lord Dread’s band—at the wraiths, the ghosts, the apparitions. “And these riders about us, Lord Fear: who are they?”

“The brave, my lady,” whispered the answer. “They are those who did not run, but stood fast instead.”

Liaze shuddered.
Will I become one such as they? Oh, Mithras, but I do not wish to be a ghostly figure riding forever through the night, hunting down any innocents who flee from this ghastly band, ripping their spirits to shreds.

And on they rode, chasing the moon, Lord Terror, Lord Fear, Lord Dread, Lord Grim riding at the fore, a ghastly band behind streaming bits of shadow swirling in their wake.

And across the sky they plunged, trailing tendrils of black, dark sparks flying from under hoof. And twilight border after twilight border they crossed, as over the realms they rode, while Liaze scanned about for sign of Luc . . . or the black mountain, finding neither.

And of a sudden, the black horn sounded, and Liaze’s heart jumped in fear, and, following the hounds, the horses spiraled down like ebon leaves on the wind. With her shadowy steed turning under her, Liaze remained secure. And down and down swirled the spectral horses, the dark hounds ahead and baying. And out before the hounds and across a plowed field ran a shrieking man, and then the pack caught him, and as each of the helldogs flashed by, one by one they slashed at the fleeing Human and then raced on beyond, black fangs not drawing blood but another essence instead.

One by one they slashed at him . . .

... and the man fell down, and still the dogs slashed and ran on . . .

... as one by one they tore at his soul . . .

... five hundred one-by-ones.

And now the horses thundered by, if a shade can be said to thunder, and Liaze wept to see the slain man, his pale face white and staring, his dead eyes filled with fright.

And on through the night sky the Wild Hunt ran, ghastly hounds baying, ghostly horses racing, spectral riders astride . . . all but two: a Princess of the Autumnwood, and the Lord of the Hunt in the lead.

Though the horses ran swiftly after the crescent moon, it was swifter yet, and finally it set; but still horse and hound ran on, flying through a cloud-shredded sky.

But at last the dreadful horn sounded once again— Liaze’s heart leaping in response—and down and down through the midnight sky swirled the deadly band, spiraling down as would black raven feathers fall. And they came to ground before a splendid inn, four storeys high in all, with peaked roof and weathercocks above, though it seemed quite dark.

And the lord of the Wild Hunt, a full goatskin in hand, came striding back to where Liaze yet sat ahorse.

“My lord,” she said, bowing her head.

Hefting the skin, he coldly whispered, “Come inside and sip the dark ale.”

Now having his permission, Liaze dismounted, her weaponry and the knapsack yet in her possession.

Across the sward and up the broad shallow steps paced Lord Fear, where the door swung open of its own volition, and they entered a great common room, and lanterns within sprang to light.

And Liaze and all of the riders followed.

The chamber itself held dark mahogany tables and chairs and a great long ashwood bar, and splendid tapestries decorated the walls—hunters ahorse with dogs—and scarlet velvet drapes hung with gold piping matched the scarlet and gold of the chairs.

From the black goatskin, Lord Fear poured himself a mug of frothy ale, a strange and darkling brew, and he offered Liaze some. She shook her head and partook not, but instead unslung the rucksack and sipped from her own waterskin.

Lord Dread then tossed the skin of brew to his shadowy riders, and they poured mugs of their own. They sipped the ebon ale, and somehow they seemed to grow a bit more substantial, though they remained wraithlike still.

Liaze withdrew the harp from the rucksack, and she set to a silvery tune and began to sing.

And she sang of life and living, and all the riders crowded ’round closely, as if by hearing the very words sung they could recapture the dear essence of that which they had lost.

All crowded ’round but Lord Terror, that is; he sat in a corner alone.

Now Liaze sang of children, and the shades of the riders groaned, sounding as would a cold winter wind swirling among bleak stones.

And Liaze sang of love, and spectral riders hid their faces in their hands.

And still Lord Fear sat unmoved and unmoving in his corner alone.

And Liaze sang of women and joy and of ships sailing on the sea, and of rivers and trees and of farming the land, and of buying horses and going to market, and of things and things more.

Her songs were happy and sad and short and long, ballads and ditties and lyric poems, and the riders wept dark shades of tears.

And then Lord Grim pushed away his mug and stood and whispered, “ ’Tis time.”

Liaze put the harp in the rucksack and shouldered the strap, and out they strode in the predawn night, where they mounted up and rode away.

Across the dark vault they hammered, black sparks flying, the hellpack baying out in the lead, while behind them the sky began to lighten. But ere the dawn came, toward a looming mountain they sped, and lo! a massive wall of gray stone split wide, and into the gap and darkness raced the Hunt—black hounds, spectral horses, wraith riders, Lord Fear, and the Princess Liaze—the mountain to boom shut behind.

Light bloomed in the stone cavern, and the horses trotted to a stable of sorts, and the hounds took to the kennels.

Lord Fear came and offered Liaze his arm, and he led her and the riders to a large banquet hall, where the table was laden with viands and roasts and goblets of black wine.

“My lady,” whispered Lord Death, pulling out a chair on the right hand of his throne.

Liaze sat, and Lord Grim poured her a goblet of the black.

Yet Liaze neither ate nor drank, but merely asked for water instead.

The other riders dug in with gusto, though they remained wraithlike in aspect. How they could eat, Liaze did not know, yet eat and drink they did.
Perhaps the food is spectral, even though it looks very real.

Liaze tried to engage Lord Grim in converse, mayhap in the hope he had seen Luc and would tell her where he was. But Lord Death only listened and did not speak, and he seemed fascinated by her vitality and by her auburn hair, so in contrast to the stark grays and blacks and whites of his halls within the cold depths of his mountain.

Finally the banquet came to an end, and once more Lord Fear offered his arm. He led Liaze to sumptuous quarters, though no colors graced the chambers other than black and white and gray.

He bowed to her and Liaze curtseyed in return, and then Lord Terror withdrew. And when he was gone, Liaze shuddered, and she sat on the edge of the black-curtained bed and wept.
Have I made a dreadful mistake? Oh, Luc, my Luc, mayhap I have lost you forever.

Finally she dried her tears, and she opened the rucksack and took of biscuits and honey and drank water to wash it down, all the while thinking,
Mayhap morrow night I will see my Luc, or perhaps the black mountain of Lady Wyrd’s rede.

She found a bathing chamber, and there she undressed and saw to her needs. And then she took to her bed, and, exhausted, slept between black satin sheets.

 

A sonorous gong ringing somberly awakened Liaze from her rest. And she went about her toilet, and refilled her small waterskin. She dressed and took up her bow and arrows, her long-knife, and her rucksack. And when she turned to step to the door, she gasped, for Lord Dread silently stood in her chamber and gazed at her with his cold, black eyes.

“My lord,” she said, curtseying.

“My lady,” returned his chill whisper, and again his sight came to rest on her flaming auburn hair.

“Sieur, I be hight Liaze, Princess of the Autumnwood; what be your name, if I might ask?”

“Name?” Lord Fear seemed to ponder the question, as if it were altogether an unfamiliar concept. “Ah, names,” he whispered, his words like ice to the ear. “I am known by many names. To some I am Gwynn Ap Nunn, and to others Annwn, to still more I am at times called Odin, and to others still, I am Wotan. In some countries they think I am female and call me Perchta, and Holda, and the White Lady known as Gaude. These are a few of the names that have been attributed to me, yet they are all wrong—merely guesses—for I have only one name, my true name, which I will not reveal to any . . . not even to you, Princess Liaze. Nay, not even to one such as you.”

Liaze felt a chill run through her heart at these last words:
Not even to one such as me? What does he think I am?

“Come, Princess. Dusk has fallen, and we must ride.”

“As you will, my lord.”

Together they strode to the stables, where the wraithlike riders stood waiting, the ghastly steeds saddled and ready, and the dreadful dark hounds excitedly leaping at the interior stone of the mountainside, the dogs keen to be loosed.

Lord Dread mounted his black steed, and all the ghostly men followed suit. And as Liaze clambered upon her shadowy horse she noted the dark-brew black goatskin depended from Lord Grim’s saddle, yet the bag was flaccid, empty, and she wondered what brew the riders would drink this eve. Lord Terror blew a mighty blast on his horn of fear, and the mountainside opened to the night beyond, and out the dogs raced, baying their appalling howls, Lord Grim and the Wild Hunt speeding after as up into the sky they flew, Princess Liaze among them.

Once again they chased the crescent moon past many twilight borders, and they came upon a woman and child crossing a field, and when those two heard the helldogs baying, they fled toward a nearby cottage. Lord Fear sounded a dreadful cry upon his terrible black horn, and down swooped the monstrous pack, and mere paces away from the doorstone they embroiled the woman and child in an ebon cloud of snarling hounds racing by. With hideous fangs bared and slashing, yet leaving no marks behind, the helldogs rent their souls to shreds. And when the dark cloud was done, nought but death-white corpses lay asprawl in the wake of the beasts.

Liaze wept to see such appalling carnage, yet she hid her tears from Lord Dread. And on they rode, up into the sky, and across more twilight bounds.

They slew a drunkard along a road, and three fishermen on the shores of a tarn, for all of these made the mistake of fleeing before the terrible hounds. But three other people stood fast in the whirl of the dark pack—two men and one woman—and survived Lord Death’s dreadful test, though he did not tarry to see if they would take passage upon his wraithlike steeds.

Several more victims fell to the horrid pack, but finally Lord Death blew on his ghastly horn, and once again they stopped at the magnificent inn, and lo! the skin was full. Liaze’s heart sank, and she wept inside—
Oh, Mithras, they are drinking the souls of those who ran
—for now she knew whence came the dark brew. Yet by no outward sign did she permit Lord Terror to know she had guessed the appalling truth, but instead she followed him into the great common room. Once more Lord Fear sat alone, and he and the shadowy riders drank ebon ale, while Liaze played her harp and sang.

But ere dawn Lord Dread stood, and away they flew to the mountain and within. And as they did so, Liaze despaired, for though they had passed o’er many realms of Faery, still she had seen neither Luc nor the black mountain of Skuld’s rede, and she was entrapped with a horrendous band, their leader most monstrous of all.

Even so, she drew upon the well of her courage and vowed to let nothing show her disgust, and at the banquet in Lord Grim’s hall, Liaze asked, “Why do you do these things unto innocent souls?”

“Innocent?” came his icy whisper. “None are innocent, Princess Liaze. There are only the brave and those who are not, and the brave deserve to live, and the others to die.”