“My lord,” she said, curtseying.
“My lady,” returned his chill whisper, and again his sight came to rest on her flaming auburn hair.
“Sieur, I be hight Liaze, Princess of the Autumnwood; what be your name, if I might ask?”
“Name?” Lord Fear seemed to ponder the question, as if it were altogether an unfamiliar concept. “Ah, names,” he whispered, his words like ice to the ear. “I am known by many names. To some I am Gwynn Ap Nunn, and to others Annwn, to still more I am at times called Odin, and to others still, I am Wotan. In some countries they think I am female and call me Perchta, and Holda, and the White Lady known as Gaude. These are a few of the names that have been attributed to me, yet they are all wrong-merely guesses-for I have only one name, my true name, which I will not reveal to any… not even to you, Princess Liaze. Nay, not even to one such as you.”
Liaze felt a chill run through her heart at these last words: Not even to one such as me? What does he think I am?
“Come, Princess. Dusk has fallen, and we must ride.”
“As you will, my lord.”
Together they strode to the stables, where the wraithlike riders stood waiting, the ghastly steeds saddled and ready, and the dreadful dark hounds excitedly leaping at the interior stone of the mountainside, the dogs keen to be loosed.
Lord Dread mounted his black steed, and all the ghostly men followed suit. And as Liaze clambered upon her shadowy horse she noted the dark-brew black goatskin depended from Lord Grim’s saddle, yet the bag was flaccid, empty, and she wondered what brew the riders would drink this eve. Lord Terror blew a mighty blast on his horn of fear, and the mountainside opened to the night beyond, and out the dogs raced, baying their appalling howls, Lord Grim and the Wild Hunt speeding after as up into the sky they flew, Princess Liaze among them.
Once again they chased the crescent moon past many twilight borders, and they came upon a woman and child crossing a field, and when those two heard the helldogs baying, they fled toward a nearby cottage. Lord Fear sounded a dreadful cry upon his terrible black horn, and down swooped the monstrous pack, and mere paces away from the doorstone they embroiled the woman and child in an ebon cloud of snarling hounds racing by. With hideous fangs bared and slashing, yet leaving no marks behind, the helldogs rent their souls to shreds. And when the dark cloud was done, nought but death-white corpses lay asprawl in the wake of the beasts.
Liaze wept to see such appalling carnage, yet she hid her tears from Lord Dread. And on they rode, up into the sky, and across more twilight bounds.
They slew a drunkard along a road, and three fishermen on the shores of a tarn, for all of these made the mistake of fleeing before the terrible hounds. But three other people stood fast in the whirl of the dark pack-two men and one woman-and survived Lord Death’s dreadful test, though he did not tarry to see if they would take passage upon his wraithlike steeds.
Several more victims fell to the horrid pack, but finally Lord Death blew on his ghastly horn, and once again they stopped at the magnificent inn, and lo! the skin was full. Liaze’s heart sank, and she wept inside- Oh, Mithras, they are drinking the souls of those who ran — for now she knew whence came the dark brew. Yet by no outward sign did she permit Lord Terror to know she had guessed the appalling truth, but instead she followed him into the great common room. Once more Lord Fear sat alone, and he and the shadowy riders drank ebon ale, while Liaze played her harp and sang.
But ere dawn Lord Dread stood, and away they flew to the mountain and within. And as they did so, Liaze despaired, for though they had passed o’er many realms of Faery, still she had seen neither Luc nor the black mountain of Skuld’s rede, and she was entrapped with a horrendous band, their leader most monstrous of all.
Even so, she drew upon the well of her courage and vowed to let nothing show her disgust, and at the banquet in Lord Grim’s hall, Liaze asked, “Why do you do these things unto innocent souls?”
“Innocent?” came his icy whisper. “None are innocent, Princess Liaze. There are only the brave and those who are not, and the brave deserve to live, and the others to die.”
“It is a grim philosophy you have, my lord,” said Liaze.
Lord Death did not reply.
When the banquet ended, once again he escorted her to her stark quarters, and within her chambers his obsidian eyes glittered at her, and he reached out and touched her auburn hair. It was all Liaze could do to keep from shrinking away.
Then Lord Terror turned on his heel and stalked from the room, and Liaze fell upon her bed and wept.
The next night they rode through the skies, and folk did they find abroad, and so they reaped more souls that darktide, but Liaze did not see ought of Luc or a black mountain. Again, they stopped at the inn and Liaze played her harp and sang while Lord Dread and his men drank of the black ale. As before, ere dawn they rode on to Lord Fear’s mountain, where they feasted as before.
During the banquet Lord Grim, cold as ever, whispered, “Princess, I would have you be my bride.”
Liaze suppressed a gasp, and she felt as if she had been struck a terrible blow in the stomach. Still, she managed to say, “My lord, there are better mates for you.”
“None so brave,” he whispered, his words as of shards of ice falling. “Others have cried out in protest at my nightly deeds, but you have not.”
“Even so, my lord, I yet say I am unworthy.”
“I would have you in my bed, Princess Liaze.”
Liaze inwardly shuddered and she remained mute, not trusting her voice to say ought.
“Think on it,” whispered Lord Fear.
Liaze canted her head in assent.
That night she lay curled in a ball on her black-satin sheets and she slept only fitfully.
Again they rode the Wild Hunt, and again they reaped souls, and again they stopped at the inn where the princess played the harp and sang. Once more they feasted in Lord Dread’s mountain hall, and this night in Liaze’s chambers the icy lord said, “I am impatient, Princess. What is your answer?”
“My lord, I yet say, I am unworthy.”
“Pha,” whispered the dark lord, and he reached out and touched her hair, and she did not blench nor draw away. “None has stirred my heart as have you.”
Can anyone stir a lump of ice?
Liaze merely smiled.
“Three nights from now, my lady,” Lord Fear coldly said, “I will take you to my bed, whether your answer be yea or nay.”
When he had gone, Liaze gave in to her tears, and she lay in bed and trembled, her knees drawn up to her chest, her arms wrapped ’round tightly.
Two more nights went past, and the Wild Hunt had ridden and had reaped souls, yet Liaze had seen nought of Luc nor of the black mountain. And each of these nights Lord Dread had pressed her for an answer, but had also coldly reminded her that, no matter, he would take her to his icy bed.
By this time Liaze had decided on a plan, and if that failed, then she would attempt to kill Lord Fear in spite of the legends that he was a deathless being. And she sharpened her long-knife and flexed her bow and examined her arrows and chose among them.
And on the third and last eve of his averral, when Lord Death came to her chambers to escort her to the ghastly horses to ride the Wild Hunt, Liaze said, “My lord, I have heard of two things I would see: one is a black mountain; the other is a blue chateau. Have you ridden o’er these in the past?”
Lord Grim looked at her, a glitter of curiosity hinted at in his jet-dark eyes. “Oui, I have,” he whispered.
“Could our course this eve take us o’er these places?”
Lord Death pondered a moment.