Once upon a Summer Day

9

“Mon seigneur, reveillez-vous! Reveillez-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 well-used sleeve.

“See it? O’course I seen it, what with her screaming about it and all.”

“Wull then, likely he’s the one who near bit it off.” That Redcap covered his own left bat-wing ear with a knobby hand and took another step back from Borel.

Borel growled low in his throat.

The Goblins backed even farther away, then glanced at one another and turned and fled. As they reached the stairs, one of them screeched, “You won’t last long when th’ big’ns get back ’n’ come t’fetch you for the spit.”

“Yar, ’n’ I’ll have y’r boots, too,” shouted the other. Then they started up the steps, arguing over which one of them would indeed get Borel’s boots. They slammed shut the door at the top, and Borel heard a bar thud into place, or so it sounded. Dim light seeped through a small grille in the door and down.

Borel took up the fallen candle, its guttering flame nearly out. Upright, it caught and began burning steadily again, a thin tendril of smoke rising to the ceiling.

He held the stub high and examined the enshadowed chamber. As much as he could see by the light of the single flame, some fifteen or twenty paces wide and perhaps the same in length it was, with a ceiling mayhap twenty feet above, supported by four evenly spaced stone pillars set in a square. The floor and walls were of cut stone and the ceiling was of hewn timber. Along the wall at his back he could see several more pairs of shackles. Borel frowned. Perhaps this once was a wine cellar, but now it’s a prison of sorts. Near one of the pillars sat a rather tall and wide three-legged stool, yet the rest of the chamber as far as he could tell held nothing else.

Borel then examined his shackles. They were bronze and thick and clamped tightly about his wrists and required a large key to open. The massive chains themselves were some eight feet long and bronze as well, and they were linked to heavy bronze eyelets set low and deeply embedded in the stone.

Borel carefully placed the candle down and, wrapping the slack about his arms, he sat facing the wall and braced his feet against rock and pulled. Nothing yielded. After several tries, Borel gave up; the cuffs, chains, eyelets, and stone were simply too strong.

Borel then took stock of himself. He yet wore his leathers and boots, but his long-knife was gone. Of his bow and quiver of arrows, there was no sign. And my rucksack? It yet sits in Hradian’s cottage, stuffed with scrolls and Hradian’s journal — The journal! It spoke of the curse and the turret and the full moon of her majority. The moon! How long have I been here? How long unconscious? The phase of the moon, where stands it? I’ve got to get free! Chelle is That’s her name! I read it: Chelle. It was in the journal: Roulan’s daughter Chelle. It has to be Chelle who is at hazard in my dreams.

— My dreams. She cried out that peril came down the steps. I knew it! I knew it! We are in truth linked, for she knew the Redcaps were coming.

Wait! Think! Cease this mental grasshoppering. Chelle is Lord Roulan’s daughter. I remember her-a scrawny golden-haired child. Followed me about like a lost puppy, or mayhap the cub of a Wolf. Yet that was a time back, and now it seems she is a lovely mademoiselle.

And Roulan: I know his estates. I must reach them and defend her, take her away to safety ere Hradian’s sister’s bane falls due. And for that I must escape, and soon; the Redcaps said that when the big’ns get back I won’t last long, and if they are what I think they are, then I must be away ere they return. But how?

Again Borel took stock of his situation. Locked in shackles and chained to the wall with no weapons and nothing with which to Wait! My leathers. The buckles.

Quickly, Borel undid the lowest buckle of his leather vest armor. He inserted the tang into the shackle keyhole and probed here and there, but the shank merely slid about. Borel removed the shank and held the candle close and looked into the opening and carefully examined the works. Once again he inserted the tang into the gap, and this time he felt it catch. Even so, he could not turn the lock.

I need oil, but where can I-Ah, it’s worth a try.

Borel dripped hot wax into the lock, and then again inserted the buckle shank into the keyhole and… and… and just as he thought the tang would snap- clack! — the mechanism released.

The shackle fell free.

Moments later, Borel was loose.

But the candle guttered and went out. Even so, the dim light seeping down from the grille in the door was enough to make out shapes.

Weapon. What can I use as a weapon? Can I pry one out, a loose stone might do, and-Ah, the stool.

Feeling his way through the darkness, Borel located the seat.

Hmm, quite broad, but worn with age. I can break off a leg, but no, instead I’ll use the entire thing until something better comes along.

Now to get through that door.

Stool in hand, to the stairs went Borel and up. The steps were wide and the risers high; they were built for a large stride, and Borel took this, along with the size of the stool and the height of the ceiling, to confirm his suspicions concerning the big’ns. Quickly he came to a landing before the door, bronze-bound and heavy-planked and quite tall, twelve feet or so, and four wide. The small grille was inset some eight feet above the floor. Cautiously, he set down the stool and mounted up and peered through the opening…

Daylight shone through a narrow slit along a stone corridor beyond. The corridor itself was empty.

Daylight. It means I have been here overnight at the least. Perhaps even longer. How many days? Where stands the moon? I’ve got to get out.

Stepping down, he tried the latch and pushed; though it gave slightly, the door did not open, and from the feel of it, indeed it had been barred.

But I was shackled. Why would they bar the door? Ah, perhaps Her Nibs’ arrow-ripped ear truly convinced them I am a savage, which means Hradian escaped my Wolves and came personally to see me in chains. Yet that is neither here nor there. Instead, I must get past this door. I wonder: can I somehow reach through and remove the bar if first I remove the grille?

But the lattice was heavy bronze and well-anchored on the outside and defied Borel’s attempts at prying with a leg of the stool, for he could get no leverage, and the leg itself was too large to wedge into the grillework to give him better purchase.

He was about to start hammering upon the lattice when he heard a door slam. Quickly he stood upon the stool and peered down the corridor beyond.

A Redcap came bearing a bowl and grumbling to himself.

Borel stepped down and took up the stool and stood back against the wall.

A strained grunt and gritted curses, followed by a ponderous scrape of wood on wood, signalled that the bar was being lifted. A loud thunk followed, and a dragging. And then the latch rattled and the massive door swung wide, and, stooping over and picking up a bowl of gruel and muttering-“… them that wants to fatten up the prisoner ought to fatten him up themselves, ’n’ I says we doesn’t wait for the big’ns, but spits him ourselves, ’n’…”-the Redcap moved through the doorway and onto the Borel stepped out from the shadows and, with a two-handed swing, slammed the Goblin with the stool, the force of the blow shattering the seat as the Redcap smashed into the wall, to rebound and pitch over the edge and plummet to the stone floor below and land with a sodden thud.

And all was silent but for the wooden bowl clattering down the steps, gruel flying, and finally that stopped as well.

Borel listened…

There seemed to be no alarm.

Stepping into the hallway, he examined the remains of the stool. Tearing off a leg for a cudgel, he placed the rest back on the staircase landing, then closed the door and took up the heavy wooden beam- Too unwieldy for a weapon — and dropped it into the brackets. Perhaps they’ll think that all is well with the door shut and barred.

Club in hand, Borel slipped down the corridor, pausing momentarily at the stone slit. A short way below lay a narrow ledge, the edge of a cliff, a long sheer drop down a rock face, a river wending past at the bottom, reeds thick along the banks. Perhaps he could free-climb down could he get through, but the slit was too strait for him to do so.

On went Borel, and he passed a door to the right. Perhaps the very door that the Redcap had come through. But Borel went on, looking forAh, a corridor leading away from the precipice. Surely the entrance into this holt lies opposite that fall.

Along this new corridor he went, passing more doors, some closed, others open, leading into chambers with overlarge tables and chairs and other such. The big’ns, no doubt. He passed stairwells leading up and down, and these he ignored, for it was the main entrance he sought, a way out, and from the sight he’d glimpsed through the stone slit, he reasoned he was on the ground floor.

From ahead he heard voices squabbling, and cautiously he crept forward to come to what looked to be a step or two leading down into a broad hall.

In the chamber, three Goblins squatted Knucklebones! They’re playing knucklebones.

— their attention completely on the game. All were armed: one with a saber, another with a wicked dirk, and the third with My long-knife. That one has my long-knife.

Great double doors stood just beyond where the Redcaps bickered.

The way out, I deem, for this can be nought but an entry hall.

Of a sudden as two Goblins cursed, the third jumped up and danced about and shouted in glee. “I gets th’ boots, th’ boots. They’re mine, they’re mi-” His words chopped shut, for he was looking directly at Borel, and for just a moment none moved, but then the prince charged, club raised.

“Waugh!” shrieked the Redcap and turned to flee even as the others looked up and ’round and screamed and leapt to their feet, the one with the long-knife scrabbling at the haft to draw it. But before he could even get a grip, Borel, roaring, smashed the cudgel into that Goblin’s skull. Blood and bone and gray matter sprayed wide as the Redcap flew sideways to crash down dead. In spite of being armed, the other two took to their heels, but Borel did not follow. Instead he retrieved his long-knife and scabbard from the dead Goblin.

Quickly he strapped on the weapon, and, long-knife in hand, stepped to the great double doors. He opened the rightmost one, only to see three monstrous Trolls striding up the steps to the building from a walled courtyard beyond.

The big’ns!

He slammed the door to, and looked about for a bar. A huge one for these main doors lay nearby, entirely too heavy for him to handle in the time given.

Back across the entry chamber he sped and up the two steps to the hallway he knew, and just as the front doors opened, he ducked into a stairway leading up.

Perhaps I can let them pass, and then get out the d Goblins shrilled- The Redcaps! The ones who fled — and the massive, ten-foot-tall Trolls grunted in response.

Without hearing more, Borel turned and ran up the steps.

One flight and ’round a sharp turn, then two flights, three flights-he lost count.

But he came to a large door at the top. He pressed his ear to the panel to hear- Nothing. Cautiously he turned the handle. The door was unlocked. Quietly, he opened it. Beyond lay a cluttered chamber. On the far wall was another door like the one he had just entered. Quickly he stepped inside and eased the door shut behind. Yet there was neither a bar to barricade it nor a way to lock it. He turned and looked about. The chamber seemed to be a storeroom of sorts, where the Trolls and Goblins stashed plunder taken from victims.

Rope. Rucksacks. Clothing.-My bow!

Sheathing his long-knife, quickly Borel took up the bow, and nearby lay his quiver and arrows, and he looped the baldric over his head and one shoulder, and slung his bow by its carrying thong.

If I escape-No, when I escape, I’ll need gear.

He grabbed up one of the packs, and as he stuffed various goods within-tinderbox, flint, steel, bedroll, rope, a cloak-he saw a massive, bronze, three-pronged grappling hook lying on the floor, or perhaps it was an anchor; he could not tell which, it was so large. He glanced at the far door, the one he had not yet opened.

If there is a window beyond He grabbed a pair of gloves and slipped them on, then took up several ropes and the rucksack and hefted the hook.

Quickly he glanced ’round.

Nothing else to take? Borel smiled, for he espied a three-cornered hat. He tried it on. It seemed a good fit.

Borel stepped to the far door and set his goods down and drew his long-knife. He then removed the tricorn and pressed his ear to the panel and listened. All seemed quiet, but for the faint sound of a buzzing insect. Slowly he opened the door and peered within.

Beyond was a chamber with tall windows open to the outside air. The room itself was completely empty but for a table on which sat a golden cage-rather like a birdcage-and inside with his back to Borel sat a tiny, diaphanous-winged Field Sprite, its face in its hands, its sparrow-brown hair falling about its shoulders as it wept silently, while an agitated dark bumblebee darted about the aureate bars.

Borel sheathed his weapon and replaced his hat and took up his goods and moved them within. Inside, there were wall brackets and a heavy beam to bar the door.

Quickly he set the beam into place, then started across the chamber.

As the prince moved inward, the Sprite sprang to its feet and backed away. Pulling itself up to its full, just-under-two-inch height-“Have you come to torture me?” cried the wee being. “I warn you, I am armed!” Yet from its complete lack of clothing it was clear the Sprite bore no weapons at all.

Borel replied, “No, tiny one, I have come to set you free.” With a great smile on his face, he stepped toward the small prison.

But the bumblebee darted at Borel, and as the prince took a swipe at it, the Sprite yelled, “No! Don’t hurt her! She is my friend and my guardian.”

Borel backed away, and the bee returned to the cage, and the Sprite seemed to talk to it, though whatever sound, if any, the wee one made was beyond Borel’s hearing. In moments the bee lighted atop the small jail, and it turned to face Borel, its faceted eyes sharply gleaming.

“It’s all right now,” said the Sprite, beckoning Borel forward.

Borel stepped to the table, and now, close up, he could see that the Sprite was male. Moving slowly and with the bee watching, Borel drew his long-knife and easily pried open the tiny door.

On his glittering dragonfly wings and laughing in glee the Sprite flew free and up and around the chamber, the bee following.

Yet in that same moment, from beyond the barred door Borel heard muffled voices and heavy footsteps coming inward.

The Trolls!

“We must flee!” cried the Sprite.

His heart pounding, quickly Borel stepped to a window and looked out… and down… and groaned. He was back at the rock face with its sheer drop down to a river, only now he was five storeys higher.

The door behind rattled, and then there came booming shouts.

With the Sprite and the bee buzzing about in distress, Borel knotted ropes together in haste, and, even as the door thudded under massive blows, he tied on the large, heavy hook and lugged it to the window. He set two prongs of the huge grapnel against the edge of the sill and gathered up the great armload of rope and tossed it over. Down it plunged and down, yet whether or not it reached the ground at the base of the bluff, the prince could not see.

Boom!.. Boom!..

The door juddered beneath hammering jolts.

Grabbing the pack and tossing it out the window as well, “Time to go,” he said to the Sprite, taking up the line.

Boom!.. Doom!..

Borel passed the rope between his legs and rightward ’round and up across his chest and over his left shoulder and down his back. Then he stepped to the sill and, making certain that the hook was well set, he turned about and backed over the edge. His last sight of the door was that of stone dust sifting down from one of the brackets. And then he began a swift rappel.

With his right hand at the base of his spine and gripping the rope and controlling his descent, and his left above, loosely holding the lead for balance, down he went, the line slipping through his gloved hands. Down he slid and down, pausing only to work his way past the knots.

“Oh, hurry, hurry,” cried the Sprite, darting about alongside, the bee trailing, “else something dreadful will hap, I just know it.”

From above there came a sharp crack and the banging of a door slammed wide.

“Faster!” cried the Sprite.

Still Borel slid downward, the rope slipping through his upper hand and ’round his leg and up across his chest and over the shoulder and down his back to his other hand, friction burning, so swift was his descent. As Borel neared the bottom, far above a huge face peered over the sill. Then the rope gave a jerk, and suddenly went entirely slack. And with the Sprite screaming, Borel fell, the massive, three-pronged grappling hook plummeting down behind, its now-deadly tines aglitter as it plunged toward its victim below.