“Enough, my king,” the chevalier cried out in agony. “Debate is useless; all is hopeless.” And he swung his leg over his saddlebow and leapt from his horse. And the moment his feet touched the ground his flesh withered and fell away, as did that of his horse, and their bones clattered down, but then turned to dust.
Men cried out, as did Borel, and some began to weep, and a whirl of air spun among the ashes, as if something were seeking some essence within.
And now Borel stepped in among the mounted riders, and he knelt at the side of the wind-stirred mound, where all that was left behind were ash and dust and aged and cracked tack and tatters and shreds of cloth, along with rust and timeworn splinters where arms and armor once had been, but for the hilt of a sword jutting out from the desiccated heap.
“Mithras, receive him,” said Borel, and he passed his hand over the ashes in a sign of blessing.
Borel stood and turned to the others and said, “Now I understand why they call you the Riders Who Cannot Dismount.”
Mastering his grief, the man with the dog upon his saddlebow asked, “And you are…?”
“I am Prince Borel of the Winterwood in Faery,” replied Borel, bowing.
“And I am King Arle of the mortal realm,” replied the man, canting his head in acknowledgement. “And these are my men, what remains of them.”
Borel glanced from man to man, and each had nought but desolation in his eyes. Then Borel looked at the ashes. “I take it he was not the first.”
“The fifth,” said Arle.
“Here is a story to be told,” said Borel. “Perhaps I can help, for Lady Wyrd, Lady Skuld, She Who Sees Through Time’s Mist, she sent me to aid others, and perhaps receive aid in return.”
“Skuld sent you?” said the king, as if mulling over what he had just heard, and his men shifted about in their saddles and looked at one another, a bit of hope in their eyes.
“Indeed, my lord.”
“And she said we might help you in turn?”
“Oui, my lord.”
“And what is it you want?” asked Arle.
“To find the King Under the Hill,” replied Borel.
At this, all the men gasped and made warding signs and cried out in a great clamor that he must not seek the King Under the Hill.
Arle held up his hands for silence, and when it fell he said, “Prince Borel, you must stay away from the King Under the Hill, for it was he, the High Lord of the Fey Folk himself, who cursed us to be the Riders Who Cannot Dismount.”
“That I understand, my lord, for such did the Pooka say.”
“Pooka? That dark creature?”
“Oui. He was the one who told me to seek you out to find the King Under the Hill.”
“I think they be in league,” called one of the riders, “the Pooka and the King Under the Hill. Both are black of heart.”
“Nevertheless,” said Borel, “I must find the High Lord, for my truelove’s life depends upon it.”
King Arle sighed. “Ah, me, if that be the case…” He frowned and said, “But first I would tell you our tale, and then you will see whether or no you still wish to seek out that king.” He looked at Borel for consent.
“I will listen,” said Borel, “yet I am determined.”
King Arle nodded and said, “This then is the way of it:
“I am monarch of a mortal realm bordering on Faery-or perhaps I should say, I was monarch there. Regardless, one day I decided to go on a hunt, and twelve of my chevaliers were eager to accompany me.”
“Dix et trois,” said one of the riders. “Unlucky thirteen.”
Arle sighed and ruefully nodded. “Unlucky thirteen indeed we were.”
The king remained silent for moments, and Borel thought he might not continue. But then Arle said, “We had no intention of riding into the realms of Faery, but up jumped a white stag. We sounded the horns in glee and gave keen pursuit. Yet into the twilight border he ran, and for such a magnificent creature we would ride into the very Realms of Perdition, were he to run that way-or so we told ourselves.
“And thus into Faery we raced, hot on the trail of the White Hart, though one of us, d’Strait, I believe, said such creatures were enchanted and to beware.
“Yet I would not easily yield such a trophy, and after him I galloped, all twelve of my chevaliers following, for they would not abandon me in dread Faery.
“Over hill and dale we ran, and through many of the looming twilight borders, the White Hart just out of range of bow shot, and just a bit faster than our steeds, though every time it stopped to rest, again we caught up.
“And just ere dusk, it fled into a large opening ’neath a dolmen sitting atop a hillside, light pouring out from below, and we pursued, and found ourselves not only in Faery but also in the very Hollow Hills of the Highborn Ones, a gala in full swing.
“But when we came riding into their midst, they fled before us, and down corridors and passages and ways unknown. As to the White Hart, he was nowhere to be seen.
“But then the King Under the Hill stepped from a side hall and welcomed us, though there was a pained look upon his countenance. Yet we did not understand why… until it was entirely too late.
“But as I say, the High Lord welcomed us, and offered us food and drink and quarters overnight, for darkness was even then descending.
“We gladly accepted his hospitality. And though we were mostly shunned, still, women of surpassing-even ethereal-beauty served us food and drink, though they did not linger in spite of our entreaties.”
Borel said, “You ate their food and drank their wine?”
“Yes,” replied Arle, glumly, “for ten days running.”
“Ah, then, that does not bode well, my lord.”
“Indeed, it did not, for when we mounted up and made ready to depart, the High Lord came and said, ‘For ten days herein you have eaten our food and drunk our wine and so when you return to your own world you will find a thousand mortal years have passed.’
“We were aghast at hearing such a dreadful thing, for all those we had known and all things we had owned were now crumbled unto dust. Yet that was not the last of our torment, for the King Under the Hill said: ‘Hear me, you did pursue me, for I was the White Hart who fled, and this by itself is enough to bring woe upon you. Further, you brought the Agony of Iron into our midst, and for that alone you are cursed. Take this dog, ’tis a gift the like of which I have given to many,’ he said, ‘to the peril of those receiving.’ And he placed it on my saddlebow, where you see it now. And he further said, ‘And unless and until it leaps down of its own will, you must not dismount, else it shall be to your doom, for in the moment you set foot to ground, you will become wholly mortal, and, even though you might yet be in Faery, all of your years will catch up with you.’
“ ‘How can this be, my lord?’ I asked, and then he told me that as time is reckoned in the mortal world, for every day we stayed within his hill and ate his food and drank his wine, one hundred mortal years had passed, hence, for the ten days we had been within his hall a thousand years had elapsed all told. And he said that when we return to the outside world, all will have changed, and we will no longer know anyone nor will anyone therein know us. And my realm would now be ruled by strangers, if it yet existed at all.
“We were devastated, and we rode out from under that dolmen and have been riding throughout the realms of Faery ever since… riding for years untold.” Arle held up a ghostly hand and said, “And each day we fade a bit more, and we are shunned by those in towns, for they fear us, given our ghastly state. And so we avoid them altogether, and have no companionship but our own. Ah, zut! There will come a day when we and our mounts will be gone altogether, be nought but empty armor riding upon unseen steeds.”
Arle sighed and gestured at the pile of ashes. “And so, you see, if we dismount, then of a sudden we are a millennium old, and fall into complete ruin.