and out into the long shadows cast by the nearly set sun. Alighting in the snow some fifty paces away, Hradian dismounted from her besom, the crone dressed in black, with black lace frills and trim and danglers streaming from her like tattered gloom.
Borel’s Wolves stood with fangs bared and hackles raised and growls deep in their chests.
And even as Hradian turned and looked at the cote, Borel took quick aim and loosed his shaft, the arrow to fly straight and true.
Yet even as it flashed through the air, with her index and little fingers of her right hand hooked like horns and pointing at the arrow, and her middle fingers pointed down and her thumb pointed leftwards, “Avert!” cried Hradian at the last instant, and the arrow veered to her left and ripped through her ear as it flew past. Hradian screamed in agony, even as Borel nocked another shaft.
Slate howled, and the Wolves charged.
But Hradian snatched up a talisman on a thong ’round her neck and cried a word and broke the amulet in two, and in a roaring black wind Borel was hurled up and away, his last sight that of the Wolves hurtling at the witch, yet she had mounted the haft of her twiggy besom, and then Borel lost consciousness and saw no more as the black wind bore him away.
9
Prisoner
“M on seigneur, réveillez-vous! Réveillez-vous!”
Once more Borel stood in the stone chamber, the golden-haired demoiselle opposite, her eyes covered by a dark shadow, her hands held out to him in a plea.
“My lord, wake up! Wake up!” she again cried out in the Old Tongue, adding, “Peril comes down the steps!”
Reaching for his long-knife, Borel looked about, but there were no stairs leading downward from above—only rafters overhead with a conical ceiling beyond. The only steps from this chamber led to someplace below, though what that place might be, Borel did not know.
“My lady,” asked Borel, also in the Old Tongue, “peril comes whence?”
“Down the stairs it comes, my lord. Down the stairs. Oh, please, you must wake up!”
Yet confused but gripping his knife tightly, Borel looked about, and still he could see no stairs leading downward from above . . . and yet he could hear footsteps descending. And he—
—opened his eyes to find himself lying on his side at the base of a wall on a cold floor of a shadowy chamber. Across the darkened room, from a door high above, faint light shone along a set of steps angling down the far wall.
And bearing a candle and descending tramped two Redcap Goblins, the ilk so named because they dyed their hats in human blood. Some five feet tall they were and dressed in coarse-woven cloth and animal hides. And one behind the other, they stuck close to the wall, for there was no protective railing.
Feigning unconsciousness, Borel tightened his grip on his long-kni— My blade! —only to realize that unlike in his dream there was no haft in his grip. Instead he was empty-handed, and ’round his wrists—he chanced a quick glance—he discovered locked shackles. He was cuffed to chains embedded in stone behind.
Borel shifted slightly and set a foot against the wall and then closed his eyes and waited.
The Goblins reached the floor and neared, their bare feet plapping against stone.
They stopped at his side.
Borel felt a finger poke his ribs.
“Well?” snarled one.
“He’s lean,” replied the other. “Not much fat on these bones. There’ll not be much drippin’s, and—”
Borel lunged for the Goblins.
“Waugh!” they shrieked and leapt backwards, the tallow candle tumbling to the floor. “He’s awake!”
Borel now on his feet— Chank! —the chains brought him up short, the Redcaps scuttling just beyond his reach.
From the safety of their distance, one of the viper-eyed Goblins said, “Her Nibs di’n’t say nothing about this here one being a savage.”
“Huah! Di’n’t y’ see her ear?” said the other, wiping a dangling, gelid string of snot from his overlarge nose onto a
Borel’s Wolves stood with fangs bared and hackles raised and growls deep in their chests.
And even as Hradian turned and looked at the cote, Borel took quick aim and loosed his shaft, the arrow to fly straight and true.
Yet even as it flashed through the air, with her index and little fingers of her right hand hooked like horns and pointing at the arrow, and her middle fingers pointed down and her thumb pointed leftwards, “Avert!” cried Hradian at the last instant, and the arrow veered to her left and ripped through her ear as it flew past. Hradian screamed in agony, even as Borel nocked another shaft.
Slate howled, and the Wolves charged.
But Hradian snatched up a talisman on a thong ’round her neck and cried a word and broke the amulet in two, and in a roaring black wind Borel was hurled up and away, his last sight that of the Wolves hurtling at the witch, yet she had mounted the haft of her twiggy besom, and then Borel lost consciousness and saw no more as the black wind bore him away.
9
Prisoner
“M on seigneur, réveillez-vous! Réveillez-vous!”
Once more Borel stood in the stone chamber, the golden-haired demoiselle opposite, her eyes covered by a dark shadow, her hands held out to him in a plea.
“My lord, wake up! Wake up!” she again cried out in the Old Tongue, adding, “Peril comes down the steps!”
Reaching for his long-knife, Borel looked about, but there were no stairs leading downward from above—only rafters overhead with a conical ceiling beyond. The only steps from this chamber led to someplace below, though what that place might be, Borel did not know.
“My lady,” asked Borel, also in the Old Tongue, “peril comes whence?”
“Down the stairs it comes, my lord. Down the stairs. Oh, please, you must wake up!”
Yet confused but gripping his knife tightly, Borel looked about, and still he could see no stairs leading downward from above . . . and yet he could hear footsteps descending. And he—
—opened his eyes to find himself lying on his side at the base of a wall on a cold floor of a shadowy chamber. Across the darkened room, from a door high above, faint light shone along a set of steps angling down the far wall.
And bearing a candle and descending tramped two Redcap Goblins, the ilk so named because they dyed their hats in human blood. Some five feet tall they were and dressed in coarse-woven cloth and animal hides. And one behind the other, they stuck close to the wall, for there was no protective railing.
Feigning unconsciousness, Borel tightened his grip on his long-kni— My blade! —only to realize that unlike in his dream there was no haft in his grip. Instead he was empty-handed, and ’round his wrists—he chanced a quick glance—he discovered locked shackles. He was cuffed to chains embedded in stone behind.
Borel shifted slightly and set a foot against the wall and then closed his eyes and waited.
The Goblins reached the floor and neared, their bare feet plapping against stone.
They stopped at his side.
Borel felt a finger poke his ribs.
“Well?” snarled one.
“He’s lean,” replied the other. “Not much fat on these bones. There’ll not be much drippin’s, and—”
Borel lunged for the Goblins.
“Waugh!” they shrieked and leapt backwards, the tallow candle tumbling to the floor. “He’s awake!”
Borel now on his feet— Chank! —the chains brought him up short, the Redcaps scuttling just beyond his reach.
From the safety of their distance, one of the viper-eyed Goblins said, “Her Nibs di’n’t say nothing about this here one being a savage.”
“Huah! Di’n’t y’ see her ear?” said the other, wiping a dangling, gelid string of snot from his overlarge nose onto a
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