Once Upon a Winter's Night by Dennis L. McKiernan Page A

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.
    Oh, my guardian, where are you when I do need you so?
    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