“As a wedding present?” added Liaze, reaching out and taking the dreadful being’s hand, gritting her teeth as she did so.
The dark lord looked down at his hand in hers and nodded, and on toward the horses they went.
If this does not work, Liaze, you will kill Lord Fear this night.. or die in the attempt.
They mounted their wraithlike steeds, and Lord Grim blew the dreadful call on his dark horn. The mountainside opened; out flew the hounds; dark riders on dark steeds flying out after, black fire and shadows streaming in their wake. And in the lead rode Lord Death, Princess Liaze at his side.
Up they flew and away, up and into the night, a gibbous moon nearly full lighting the course among the ragged clouds.
O’er realms they sailed, Lord Terror passing over fleeing victims, ne’er sounding his demonhorn to signal the dogs to attack. For Lord Grim had a destination in mind, two destinations, in fact, and through shadowlight borders did he ride on his way to please his promised bride.
And over a blue manor in the center of a lake they flew, roses growing all ’round the shoreline. On the ramparts sentries stood, and knowing the fate of cowards they fled not as ’round the ramparts rode the Wild Hunt, hounds baying, shadows streaming, dark fire flying from hammering hooves.
Yet Liaze could see no sign of Luc, though he might well have been chained in the dungeons below.
Lord Death glanced at Princess Liaze and nodded, for he had delivered the first of the bridal gifts to her, and then he blew his horn and turned the Hunt onto another tack.
Through more shadowlight borders they ran, and still no victims did they take, for Lord Fear had other goals in mind this night.
And at last, in the distance ahead, Liaze could see a lone black mountain jutting up from a bleak plain, and the mountainsides glittered darkly in the moonlight, as if coated in obsidian. And the air above was cold, frigid, as if winter gripped the land, or as if the mountain itself was made of black ice.
And as they circled ’round the crest and ’round the crest once more, Liaze gasped and nearly cried out, for at the top, at the very top, under an open-sided pavilion, lay Luc, the knight asleep or deeply enchanted on a bed of black ice.
Lord Dread looked at Liaze and nodded, for the full of his bridal gift had been given.
“Straight to the inn, my lord,” cried Liaze, “for I would celebrate this night.”
Lord Death smiled a grim smile, and now he turned the Hunt, and away they flew.
As the dark horses ran through the air, Liaze took sight on guiding stars, for she planned on using them to follow on her return. And she fumbled into the rucksack at her side, and she withdrew the red scarf, her grip tight so as not to lose it. And she tied it ’round her neck, and it flew out behind in the wind of her passage. And she prayed to Mithras that Gwyd was in place and waiting, and that he would see the scarf, and that the plan he had hatched would work. Oh, Mithras, please let it work.
As they came to a twilight border, Liaze tried to espy a landmark at the point of their crossing, but on this side she saw nought to guide her; yet, as they passed out of the far side, she noted a twisted tree, its arms pointing toward the shadowlight they had just flown through.
On sped the Wild Hunt, and again they came to a crossing, and she noted a jumble of boulders on this side, and a wide pool on the other.
On they flew and Lord Fear sounded his dreadful horn, and there ahead lay the magnificent inn. Down swirled the dogs, down spun the horses, down went Lord Dread and Liaze. And nowhere did Liaze see any sign of Gwyd nearby; she could only pray that the Brownie was nigh and had seen the scarf and was ready.
Her wraithlike horse came to a stop, and when Lord Grim had given her his leave, Liaze dismounted and entered the inn at his side.
The ghastly spirits of the shadowy riders gathered at the bar, but they took up no mugs of dark brew, for they had taken no souls that nighttide. Lord Death then raised his empty mug in salute to Liaze and icily whispered, “This night to my bride.”
The riders all hoisted their own empty glasses, and from many voices a ghostly echo wailed, whether in grief or joy Liaze could not determine, yet she smiled and took up her harp.
And once again she sang of life and living, and, as before, all the riders crowded ’round closely, trying to recapture the essence of that which they had once held dear.
And Liaze sang of children, and once more the shades of the riders groaned as would a chill wind swirl among icy crags.
And Liaze sang of love, and spectral riders wept ghostly wails at what they had lost.
And still Lord Fear sat unmoved and unmoving in his corner alone.
And Liaze sang of life and women and the joy of ordinary living: of fishing and hunting and the reaping of grain, of boats on a river and of sails on the sea, of farming and herding and planting trees, and of horses and cattle and going to market, and of things such as these and things more.
Her songs were filled with joy, and filled with tears, and filled with love. She sang ballads and ditties and long lyric poems, and the riders laughed ghostly laughs or wept spectral shades of tears.
And just as Lord Dread pushed away from his table, Liaze called out, “The Wild Hunt.”
She struck a chord and began a chant, and Lord Grim settled back to hear:
The sky was dark,
The storm clouds blew,
A chill was on the land,
Yet, Molly dear,
The message read,
I need your healing hand.
Across the moor
She started out
To reach her father dear.
For he was ill,
And she would aid,
Yet Lord Death she did fear…
Liaze sang as she had never sung, her words telling of the Wild Hunt and of its reaping of cowardly souls, as well as the doom of heroes. And she sang that these fatalities and dooms mattered not to Lord Dread, Lord Fear, Lord Grim, Lord Terror, Lord Death, for the leader of the Hunt was cold and forbidding. And as Liaze sang she moved among the shades, and they sobbed as would a frail wind, and still Liaze sang and sang, verse after verse pouring golden words from her throat. And the silver harp seemed enchanted, the notes pure and clear, the concordant strings voicing precious harmony.
Yet at last she saw through the narrow gap in the drapery a tiny glimmer; ’twas the sign she and Gwyd had said would signal either her rescue or her ruin, and in that moment the song, the very song, came to an end.
And as Liaze’s voice and the silver strings finally fell silent, a quietness settled over all… only to be broken by a nearby cock’s crow.
Liaze threw back a drape, allowing in light from the rising rim of the sun just now broaching the edge of the world.
And ghostly wails went up from the shadowy riders, and they shrieked and screamed, and as if something had reached up from the ground below, they were jerked down through the floor, down into the earth, down out of sight.
In the shadows yet mustered ’round his corner, Lord Terror stood and glared at Liaze, his face distorted with insurmountable rage; palm up, he reached out toward her, and slowly his fingers curled into a clawlike clench, as if he were trying to crush her heart; but nothing whatsoever happened, for the cock’s crow and the light of the sun had rent his power from him.
And Liaze said, “Lord Death, though you aided me to find that which I seek, still, for the terror you bring to others and for rending from them their very essence, you deserve to be cast out of Faery. Hence, I call you by what I think Mithras Himself would say is your true name: Voleur d’Ame — Soul Thief.”
On hearing this last, Lord Fear’s gaze flew wide with fright of his own. He reached out to Liaze in a pleading gesture, but she said, “Voleur d’Ame, I banish you, I banish you, I banish you.”
His eyes wide with dread, his face twisted in horror, Lord Terror hoarsely cried out “No! No!” but shrilling and screaming he, too, was jerked down and down, down into the darkness below.