And then the mist cloaked all, and still the cry of tortured metal rang along the gorge.
Forward, I must move forward. Yet what if I distract Roel? What will I-?
Of a sudden, silence reigned.
Oh, Mithras, is it-?
“Roel!” she called, her voice choked with fear.
Footsteps neared.
Celeste drew the shaft to the full and aimed into the white.
A fog-shrouded form appeared, yet she could not see just what or who it-
— and Roel stumbled out from the mist and fell to his knees, his dented shield clanging down beside him. His chest heaved and blood slid down his face.
Behind her the horses suddenly calmed.
Dropping her bow and arrow, with a cry of anguish Celeste sprang forward. “My love, are you-?” As she fell to her knees before him, he raised his head and looked at her and smiled. “Ah, Mithras, but he was mighty. Never have I fought so hard.”
“But you’re bleeding.”
“I am?”
“Oui. Your forehead.”
Roel reached up and touched his face and looked at the blood in surprise. Then he removed his helmet. “He struck my head a glancing blow. It must have happened then.”
Celeste examined the wound, more of a scuffing of skin than a cut. She embraced him and gave him a kiss and said, “ ’Twas your own helm did it, cheri. A bit of salve and a bandage should be enough.”
“If you don’t mind, I’ll wait here,” said Roel, yet panting.
Celeste stepped to the horses and rummaged through the gear. Then she returned with clean cloth and a small tin. In moments she had Roel’s scrape salved and swathed. He took some of the remaining cloth and started to clean Coeur d’Acier, but the blade gleamed like new-there was no blood whatsoever upon the silvered steel.
“What th-? But I struck him through.”
“Something mystic is afoot,” said Celeste. Then she gestured hindward and said, “The horses knew.” Roel frowned down at his blade and then looked at the princess. “Come, let us see.”
Groaning to his feet, Roel stepped to the now-placid horses and took up the reins of his steed, Celeste following. Walking, they moved upon the span, the white vapor swirling with their passage, and the horses calmly let themselves be led, no longer skittish and balking.
As they crossed, Roel carefully examined each and every knight’s head spitted on a pike, fearing the worst for Laurent and Blaise, but whether those of his brothers were among the skulls so mounted he could not say, for with flesh rotted or gone and dangling hair in disarray he could see no resemblance whatsoever. He spent no time examining the helms, for doing so would yield nought, for, like him, Laurent and Blaise had traded all armor for gear of bronze in the mortal city of Rulon ere ever entering Faery.
When they came to the mid of the bridge, Roel looked about and frowned and said, “Here should lie the corpse of my foe, yet nought do I see.” On they went, Roel yet looking at the spitted heads but recognizing nought, and when at last he and Celeste came to the end of the span, there on a pike was mounted the visored helm of the giant Red Knight of the bridge, yet it was empty.
Roel turned to Celeste. “This was on the head of the one I fought, the one I slew. How can it be?” But ere she could answer, Roel muttered, “I know: Faery. ’Tis Faery.”
Before them gaped a tunnel into the stone of the opposite cliff, and into this they strode.
The sound of shod hooves rang and reverberated within the rocky way, yet ere long they emerged from the passage to come out upon a narrow plateau.
Directly before them and rearing up into the sky loomed the twilight wall.
They had come unto the next bound.
28
Crossroads
Roel stepped back to a packhorse and took from it a length of rope and began tying it about his waist.
“This time I will go first.”
“But you are weary from your battle with the bridge knight,” said Celeste. “Besides, I am lighter and you are stronger; hence ’twill be easier for you to haul me back than for me to haul you, should such be called for.” Roel handed Celeste the line. “Then tie me to your horse and mount up, and if need be, pull me back.” He took his shield from his saddle and then drew Coeur d’Acier. “Ready?”
Sighing, Celeste tied the line to the forebow of her saddle. Then she tethered Roel’s animals to her packhorse. She mounted and said, “Ready.” Paying out the rope, she let Roel move ahead and then followed. Into the twilight they went, the other horses trailing after. Darker it got and darker, and Celeste stopped just short of the midmost wall of ebon.
Roel stepped through.
The line jerked taut.
“Roel!” cried Celeste, and she spun her mare about and rode swiftly away, the other horses in a confusion but following.
And she dragged Roel after. .
. . and he was shouting.
When she realized Roel was behind her, Celeste haled her mare to a halt.
Disentangling himself, Roel stood. . and dripped.
He was covered in yellow-green slime.
Concern and wilderment on her face, Celeste leapt from her mount and ran to him. “Are you injured?” And he looked at her and burst into laughter. “Were you going to drag me at a gallop through all of Faery?”
“I thought an Ogre or some such had you. The rope snapped tight. What happened?”
“Oh, love, I merely fell down. ’Tis a swamp on the other side.” He began wiping the odiferous sludge from his face.
Celeste wrinkled her nose and drew away.
Roel glanced at her and said, “Come to think of it, mayhap I should have let you go first.” And he burst into laughter again.
Celeste and Roel had to lead the animals afoot through the treacherous murky waters, where quags and quicksand and sinkholes might lie. The horses were slimed to the hocks, and Celeste, too, was covered in slime full to her waist and up her left side to her shoulder, for she had taken a fall, and only her grip on the reins had preserved the relative cleanliness of her right arm.
Slow was their progress as they passed through stands of saw grass and reeds and wove their way among hummocks. Dark willows wrenched up out of the muck, and gray tree moss dangled down from lichen-wattled limbs.
Things unseen plopped and slithered and gurgled, and oft great bubbles rose to the surface and slowly burst, releasing horrendous odors. Now and again they had to double back to find a safer route through the slime-laden, waterlogged mire. But occasionally they came to more solid ground, and the first time they did so, Celeste looked down at herself and cried, “Leeches!
Roel, leeches! Ghaa! I hate leeches!” And she whipped out her long-knife and began raking them from her leathers even as they oozed up her legs and sought entry to her flesh.
Roel, however, ignored those on his garb and began scraping the parasites from the legs of the horses.
When all of the animals were cleared of the bloodsuckers, Celeste and Roel mounted up and made good time until the solid ground gave way to mire again.
And that was the way of their travel through the morass: wading and leading the horses, scraping off leeches and riding, and then wading and leading again.
And gnats whined and flies bit and midges crawled into ears and nostrils and across eyes, and batting and slapping and raking, Celeste thought she would go entirely insane, though Roel seemed inured to it all.
Sunwise they fared, ever sunwise, as the day grew and peaked and waned, and just at dusk, they finally emerged from the swamp and onto solid ground, where rolling hills stretched out before them.
Exhausted and itching and well bitten, and filthy beyond their wildest imaginings, they made camp and built a fire and heaped pungent greenery upon the blaze and let the smoke drive all but the worst of the flying pests away.
They unladed and fed and watered the animals and groomed and treated them for their wounds, spreading a salve o’er the places where the parasites had sucked.