Free Once Upon a Summer Day by Dennis L. McKiernan

quiver and arrows, and he looped the baldric over his head and one shoulder, and slung his bow by its carrying thong.
    If I escape—No, when I escape, I’ll need gear.
    He grabbed up one of the packs, and as he stuffed various goods within—tinderbox, flint, steel, bedroll, rope, a cloak—he saw a massive, bronze, three-pronged grappling hook lying on the floor, or perhaps it was an anchor; he could not tell which, it was so large. He glanced at the far door, the one he had not yet opened.
    If there is a window beyond—
    He grabbed a pair of gloves and slipped them on, then took up several ropes and the rucksack and hefted the hook.
    Quickly he glanced ’round.
    Nothing else to take? Borel smiled, for he espied a three-cornered hat. He tried it on. It seemed a good fit.
    Borel stepped to the far door and set his goods down and drew his long-knife. He then removed the tricorn and pressed his ear to the panel and listened. All seemed quiet, but for the faint sound of a buzzing insect. Slowly he opened the door and peered within.
    Beyond was a chamber with tall windows open to the outside air. The room itself was completely empty but for a table on which sat a golden cage—rather like a birdcage—and inside with his back to Borel sat a tiny, diaphanous-winged Field Sprite, its face in its hands, its sparrow-brown hair falling about its shoulders as it wept silently, while an agitated dark bumblebee darted about the aureate bars.
    Borel sheathed his weapon and replaced his hat and took up his goods and moved them within. Inside, there were wall brackets and a heavy beam to bar the door.
    Quickly he set the beam into place, then started across the chamber.
    As the prince moved inward, the Sprite sprang to its feet and backed away. Pulling itself up to its full, just-under-two-inch height—“Have you come to torture me?” cried the wee being. “I warn you, I am armed!” Yet from its complete lack of clothing it was clear the Sprite bore no weapons at all.
    Borel replied, “No, tiny one, I have come to set you free.” With a great smile on his face, he stepped toward the small prison.
    But the bumblebee darted at Borel, and as the prince took a swipe at it, the Sprite yelled, “No! Don’t hurt her! She is my friend and my guardian.”
    Borel backed away, and the bee returned to the cage, and the Sprite seemed to talk to it, though whatever sound, if any, the wee one made was beyond Borel’s hearing. In moments the bee lighted atop the small jail, and it turned to face Borel, its faceted eyes sharply gleaming.
    “It’s all right now,” said the Sprite, beckoning Borel forward.
    Borel stepped to the table, and now, close up, he could see that the Sprite was male. Moving slowly and with the bee watching, Borel drew his long-knife and easily pried open the tiny door.
    On his glittering dragonfly wings and laughing in glee the Sprite flew free and up and around the chamber, the bee following.
    Yet in that same moment, from beyond the barred door Borel heard muffled voices and heavy footsteps coming inward.
    The Trolls!
    “We must flee!” cried the Sprite.
    His heart pounding, quickly Borel stepped to a window and looked out . . . and down . . . and groaned. He was back at the rock face with its sheer drop down to a river, only now he was five storeys higher.
    The door behind rattled, and then there came booming shouts.
    With the Sprite and the bee buzzing about in distress, Borel knotted ropes together in haste, and, even as the door thudded under massive blows, he tied on the large, heavy hook and lugged it to the window. He set two prongs of the huge grapnel against the edge of the sill and gathered up the great armload of rope and tossed it over. Down it plunged and down, yet whether or not it reached the ground at the base of the bluff, the prince could not see.
    Boom! . . . Boom! . . .
    The door juddered beneath hammering jolts.
    Grabbing the pack and tossing it out the window as well, “Time to go,” he said