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

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