Free Once Upon a Summer Day by Dennis L. McKiernan Page B

his bow, finding it fit—neither horn nor ironwood nor silken string were any worse for the wear—though most of his arrows were broken or missing; only three survived intact, yet he retained all six of the ruined ones for their heads and fletching. His long-knife as well had come through unscathed, though the scabbard was now freshly scarred. As for Borel himself, he was thoroughly battered, and blood seeped from a handful of scrapes, but his leathers had protected him from the worst of his tumble among the rocks, and, but for one knot, the cocked hat had saved his head. Even so, amid all the other hurts, he knew he would have a great long bruise running from his crotch up across his chest and over his shoulder and down his back where the entangled line had been jerked taut by the runaway grapnel.
    Borel made his way down the last few feet of the slope, dragging the rope after. And then coiling it as he went, he made his way to the hook, where he untied the last of the line. A few yards ahead lay reeds, growing in the muddy shallows of the river, its far bank perhaps a quarter mile away.
    The Sprite came flying back. “I did not find your rucksack, my lord; I’m afraid it’s buried under the slide, though there is a rock-laden cloth of some sort lying nigh.”
    “Where?”
    “I’ll show you, my lord.”
    Following the Sprite, Borel painfully made his way up the slope of rubble, where he found the cloak he had packed in the rucksack, but no sign of ought else. He unslung his bow and quiver and took up the garment and slipped it on, and found a brooch hidden in the collar to fasten it with. The Sprite flying well above called out, “Boats, my lord. I see some boats. Perhaps you can use one to escape the oncoming Trolls.”
    “Whence the Trolls?” asked Borel.
    The Sprite pointed, and Borel saw two Trolls tramping along a sloping way wending across the nearly plumb face of the cliff, a handful of Goblins trailing.
    “No doubt they want their meal,” growled Borel, slinging his bow and the quiver. “Which way the boats?”
    “Yonder, my lord,” said the Sprite, again pointing.
    Borel groaned. “Toward the place where the Trolls are heading.”
    “Yes, my lord,” said the Sprite.
    “Then let us go,” said Borel, and he haltingly made his way to the bottom of the scree and took up the coil of line and began hobbling in the direction indicated, following the flow of the river.
    And the Trolls continued on downward.
    And the Sprite and the bumblebee flew ahead of the prince and headed for the cache of boats.
    In the distance the Goblins began yelling and pointing. They had spotted Borel making his way downstream along the riverbank.
    The Trolls hastened. . . .
    “Hurry, my lord,” urged the Sprite.
    Grunting against the pain, Borel limped faster.
    “This way,” said the Sprite, his bee buzzing ahead.
    More swiftly went the Trolls, and more swiftly went Borel.
    Now prince and bee and Sprite came to a bend in the river, and the reeds grew thickly there.
    “Into the water, my lord; all are hidden within.”
    Borel splashed in among the reeds, and he came to a half-sunken boat, its bottom stove in.
    Another boat and another he found, all broken.
    “Is this as they all are?” he asked.
    “Oh, my lord, I am sorry,” said the Sprite, darting from craft to craft, “but they all seem smashed.”
    “Is there nought afloat?”
    The Sprite flew higher, even as Borel could hear shouts and thudding footsteps nearing.
    “A raft, my lord, here is a raft!” cried the Sprite, flying back to lead the way. “Oh, hurry, please hurry.”
    Now flitting down among the reeds so as not to be seen, the Sprite led Borel to a large log float with steering sweeps fore and aft and rafting poles adeck, a reed-free channel to the river lying ahead. Throwing his coil of recovered rope onto the raft and untying the float’s mooring line from a post deeply driven into the bottom, Borel pushed. The craft did not move, for it was mired