“Remember, Princess,” said Gwyd from the back of the mare, “ye canna dismount wi’out Lord Fear’s leave, else he’ll strike ye dead; and durin the ridin stay tight in the saddle, f’r if ye fall off, ye’ll die. And should ye die or be struck dead, ye’ll be in his shadowy band f’r e’er. And when you see Luc you hae t’don the red scarf, and that way I’ll ken ye’ve had success. Then, singin and playin ma harp, ye hae t’delay Lord Fear in the inn long enough f’r me t’do ma part. And though I think we hae but one chance and one chance only t’win ye free o’ the Wild Hunt, if need be ye must wear the red scarf ev’ry niht thereafter, till I succeed doin what I must.”
“I know,” said Liaze, glancing at the rucksack, now containing just the harp and the scarf along with a sevenday of food and a small skin holding a day’s worth of water. “We’ve gone over it time and again. Now off with you, and I’ll see you at the inn after I’ve located Luc and you and I have bested Lord Fear.”
“Oh, lass,” said Gwyd, his voice choking, a tear sliding down his cheek. “Ye hae put this trust in me, and I dinna ken whether-”
“Go, Gwyd, go, else we’ll both be weeping.”
Wiping his nose across a sleeve, Gwyd turned Pied Agile and rode out onto the open moor, Nightshade and the geldings in tow. On he went and on, on into the mist, and slowly he faded into the gray swirl until he could no longer be seen.
Liaze took a deep breath and wiped away her own tears, and she took up a small trowel and stepped onto the heath and began digging peat for a fire.
That eve, wrapped in her cloak and with her bow across her back and the quiver at her hip and her long-knife strapped to her thigh and the rucksack over her shoulder, she stood out on the open moor and waited in the driven mist. It was the dark of the moon, and in but twenty-nine more darktides a heart would cease to beat if Liaze failed in her quest. And so she waited and prayed to Mithras, but Lord Fear did not come that night.
She stood on the moor on the next night and the next as well, and her heart fell with each passing mark, for time seeped by, and she felt as if her chances were vanishing.
On the following day, the moor cleared of its mist, and the sun fell down through a bright sky, the waxing crescent moon lagging behind and chasing the golden orb downward. But then in the sunup direction, wisps of tattered clouds came o’er the horizon, as if presaging a storm. And the sun set and dusk followed with dark night on its heels, and the moon, its horns pointing upward, sank toward the horizon as well.
And Liaze again stood in the open moor, her weaponry slung and the rucksack, with its harp and scarf and rations of water and food, hanging from a strap o’er her shoulder.
Again she fretted- Will he come this night? — and she wondered for the thousandth time if instead she should be at the Blue Chateau. Have we completely missed the true meaning of Lady Wyrd’s rede?
A candlemark passed and then another, and the arc of the moon kissed the far earth. It was then that Liaze caught a distant baying sound, and she turned and looked behind.
At a shallow angle in the sky and among the ragged clouds they came running through the air, a vast boiling pack of ghostly dogs baying, two hundred, three hundred, four hundred or more, trailing long tendrils of shadow behind.
And beyond the pack came galloping horses, coils of darkness flying in their wake, black sparks showering from hard-driven hooves, though there was no stone for metal shoes to strike, high in the air as they were. And on the backs of the ghastly steeds were tenuous riders, twisting shadows streaming in their wake as well.
And in the fore rode the fell leader, his ebon cloak flying out after; and he lifted a black horn and pealed a long and dreadful call.
Lord Fear had come at last.
30
As on the helldogs came, Liaze sucked in air through clenched teeth, and her heart hammered in her breast, and, in spite of the chill of the moor, perspiration coated her palms and her forehead and sweat ran down her face. She wiped her eyes on her sleeve and made certain her bow and quiver were well set across her back and her long-knife was secured in its scabbard.
Now spying their quarry, down came the hounds, baying their ghastly yawls, deadly jet fire gleaming in their eyes. And they rushed toward the standing maiden-five hundred savage, raven-dark hounds slavering blackness-Liaze remaining fast, though her heart cried out Run!
On came the hounds, leaping o’er one another to be the first to the kill, the vast pack a boiling inky mass, mad with the lust to rend the quarry asunder.
Yet Liaze did not move, and the howling swarm came on.
And the crescent moon looked across the moor in silence, indifferent to those in its light.
Dark fangs gleaming, onward they hurtled, tendrils of black trailing away. And galloping after came the riders, streaming shadows vanishing behind.
But Liaze did not run.
One hundred, seventy, fifty-thirty-twenty feet vanished the gap and hurtled the hounds, black fire in their obsidian eyes…
And then they hurled themselves at the lone femme…
… she to be lost in the boiling pack…
… the hounds…
… the dogs…
… the frightful dogs…
… brushing by, rushing past, their fangs bared but not striking.
And then the pack was away and gone…
… but now came the riders.
Galloping, galloping toward the slip of a maiden, wraiths upon steeds streaming black.
All but the leader, who seemed substantial enough, ghastly though he was.
And he reined his steed to a halt at her side, the other riders stopping as well.
And from nowhere, somewhere, everywhere, there sounded groans of a thousand faint voices, like the wailing of the wind, yet the air itself did not stir a single reflection in the standing pools of the moor.
Dressed in ebon and wearing a dark crown, the leader on his huge black horse gazed down at the princess with his grim and cold eyes of jet.
And his voice came as an icy whisper, freezing the very marrow of bones. “Ye are brave,” he hissed, “and I would have ye ride with me.”
“Gladly, my lord,” replied Liaze.
The rider turned and gestured hindward, and a wraithlike figure ahorse led a riderless mount to the fore, and it was gaunt and shadowy, as if it belonged to another realm altogether.
“My lord,” said Liaze, “have you one healthier?”
“This is your mount,” came the bitter whisper.
“As thou wilt, my lord,” replied Liaze. And she set her foot in the spectral stirrup and swung astride the ghastly steed.
Adjusting the bow on her back, she settled in for the ride, and then the dark lord raised his terrible horn to his lips and belled its dreadful call, and Liaze’s heart quailed in fear at the sound of it, but she did not flinch, and all the horses sprang forward in pursuit of the forerunning hounds.
Liaze leaned into the saddle, urging her mount to haste as the wraithsteeds rose into the sky, writhing shadowstuff streaming behind and boiling off and away. And Liaze gasped in wonder and fright as the ground below receded, for she was up in the sky, in the sky, and if she fell, if she fell…
Durin the ridin stay tight in the saddle, echoed Gwyd’s words, f’r if ye fall off, ye’ll die. And should ye die or be struck dead, ye’ll be in his shadowy band f’r e’er.
Liaze reached down and, first on one side and then on the other, she adjusted the stirrup straps to a length to her liking, setting herself more secure on the shadowy steed.
With ghastly riders all about and all of their cloaks flying out behind, the ghostly horses plunged through shredded clouds across a moonlit sky, while far ahead dark hounds bayed.
“My lord,” called out Liaze, “what is it we do?”