“We’re all that’s left of the old order, Thomas. On the day I was crowned, a hundred and fifty knights bent their knees and made the oath of fealty to me. Where are they now? Dead and gone, all of them, lost in one stupid little war or another. All my brave knights … Now chivalry is no longer fashionable, and honor is a thing of the past. Times change, and I’ve lost the ability to change with them.
“It’s been so long since I could rest, Thomas. So long since I could sleep at night without my troubles invading my dreams. So long since my poor Eleanor died …”
Grey leaned back against the King’s leg, and they sat quietly together a while; two old friends, remembering happier days.
Shadows filled the Court as night slowly fell. King John stared out across the vast, empty hall with its wood-panelled walls and soaring rafters, and ghosts came to stand before him in their shining armor, swords held aloft as they silently roared their loyalty to the throne. All the heroes of his Realm, the questors and champions, the stalkers and avengers of evil, dead and gone down the many years. King John sat staring at an empty Court, and one by one the ghosts left him, until all that remained was his throne, and his Kingdom.
“You know,” said King John finally, “it’s not so much making bad decisions that bothers me; it’s just that I spend days on end weighing up the pros and cons, and I still make the wrong decision!”
The Astrologer chuckled quietly. “That’s why you keep me around, John. I may not be the High Warlock, but my small magics do come in handy now and again.”
“Indeed they do, Thomas.” The King ruffled the Astrologer’s hair affectionately. “What would I do without you?”
They sat together in companiable silence, the King’s brooding eyes fixed on yesterday.
“Fifty-five isn’t old,” he said suddenly. “I’m not as young as I was, but I don’t feel old.”
“Time catches up with all of us eventually,” said the Astrologer.
“You seem to be putting up a good fight,” said the King tartly. “Look at you; your back’s as straight and your hair as dark as it was forty years ago.”
“I dye my hair.”
“And you wear a corset.”
“Only sometimes.”
“Only when you’re chasing a new wench.” The King chuckled evilly. “Man your age should have more dignity.”
“Every man should have a hobby,” said the Astrologer complacently.
The King laughed, but his habitual frown soon returned. “What is the matter with the Barons anyway? They’ve never been this bad before.”
“It’s the Darkwood, John. Our wealth comes from mines run by the Barons; it’s their gold and silver and copper that keeps our economy afloat. But since the Darkwood has spread its boundaries, more and more of the mines lie beneath ground fallen to the long night. Demons are crawling up out of the pits and spilling into the main workings. Miners are afraid to go down into the dark. Some mines have had to be sealed, for fear of what might emerge from the deepest shafts.”
The King scowled thoughtfully. “I hadn’t realized things had got so out of hand.”
“You can’t be expected to keep track of everything, John.”
“Perhaps if I sent the Barons more guards …”
“No, John; we can’t afford to lose any more men. We’re thinly enough spread as it is. We can’t really spare that troop of guards you’re sending with the Champion and young Rupert.”
“I know,” said the King, “But if we didn’t let Rupert have them, I really think he wouldn’t go.”
“Yes,” the Astrologer said smiling. “He’s finally learning …”
They shared a smile, and then the King frowned again, and looked away.
“They’d better bring back the High Warlock,” he said softly. “After the mess we’ve made of things, he’s our only hope.”
CHAPTER THREE
Duels
Thin trailers of mist curled lazily on the chill morning air as Rupert saddled his unicorn in the courtyard. The dawn sun had barely crept above the horizon, and the sky was still splashed with blood. Not the best of omens for the journey ahead. Rupert grinned tiredly, and then leaned briefly against the patiently waiting unicorn as a yawn stretched his jaw to its limit. According to his water clock, he’d had almost six hours’ sleep, but it seemed he’d barely laid his head on the pillow before a servant was shaking him awake.
A lukewarm bath and a cold breakfast hadn’t improved his temper, and being studiously ignored by his own troop of guards was the last straw. Rupert cursed under his breath as the bitter cold numbed his fingers, making them clumsy on the harness. A buckle slipped from his grasp, and he grabbed awkwardly for it. Although his back was to the guards, he could hear some of them laughing. He flushed hotly as he tightened the cinch, sure he was the butt of their humor. One joke, he thought angrily, just one and I’ll feed the man his chain mail, link by link! Rupert smiled sourly, and shook his head. Not yet out of the Castle gates, and already he was thinking of attacking one of his own guards. He closed his eyes a moment and breathed deeply, searching for some kind of calm. There was a long journey ahead of him, with plenty of time for him and his guards to test each other’s measure.
Assuming they survived long enough.
Rupert brushed the thought aside, quickly fastened the last few straps, and then turned and stared casually about him. Half a hundred guardsmen and their mounts milled back and forth in the courtyard, interspersed with hurrying servants and grooms. Flagons of mead and cheap sweetmeats were being warmed over flaring braziers by gaudily clothed hawkers, and here and there small knots of men spoke quietly with hooded priests. A dozen guards were fighting mock duels under the Champion’s watchful eye, and the towering stone walls echoed to the ring of steel on steel. Other guards stood and watched, polished their swords with oiled rags, and practiced looking evil. Rupert found their obvious competence both intimidating and comforting. He pulled his cloak about him, and stamped his feet to keep warm. His breath steamed on the still morning air. Rupert frowned; it shouldn’t be this cold so early in the autumn. The Darkwood must be closer than anyone thought … he let his hand drop to the pommel of his sword. The sooner he got this journey started, the better.
And yet he hesitated, watching the duelling guardsmen thrust and parry, their swords flashing brightly in the gloomy courtyard. Sweat glistened in the guards’ faces, and their breathing grew harsh as they drove themselves ever harder, searching for the elusive first blood the would decide the duel. Rupert remembered all too clearly the many times he’d fought in this courtyard, in the early morning chill. Bitter memories surfaced, of standing awkwardly under his tutor’s disdainful gaze, wrapped in ill-fitting chain mail and carrying a sword that seemed far too heavy for his skinny arms. His duelling partner had been a lean muscular guardsman, almost twenty years his senior and many times his better. Between them, the tutor and the guard slowly turned the young Prince into a swordsman. He paid for the knowledge with blood and humiliation. Rupert scowled thoughtfully; he might never be the expert his brother was, but he’d learned tricks in his hard school that were often overlooked in Harald’s more standard lessons.
Rupert had never given in to the temptation to show off his skill with a sword. Now and again the two brothers would engage in a formal duel, under the Champion’s critical eye, and Rupert always lost. It was safer that way. As a merely competent fighter, he was no threat to Harald’s position, so he suffered the scars and the jeers silently. But he never forgot them. Rupert’s mind drifted back from yesterday, and he studied again the straining, grunting guardsmen as they practiced with sword and buckler. He was surprised to find them not nearly as impressive as he’d first thought. They were strong and cunning, but their tactics were limited and their stamina negligable. They were good, but a sudden excitement surged through Rupert as he realized that, just possibly, he was better.
Rupert frowned suddenly as he recognized one of the guards, a tall wiry man with dark, saturnine
features. Rob Hawke was a Bladesmaster, a swordsman trained to such a point of expertise that he was unbeatable with a sword in his hand. He was also stubborn, crafty, and so insubordinate that only his extremely rare skill with a blade kept him from being expelled from the Royal Guard. Rupert scowled thoughtfully, and wondered how many other bad apples the King had landed him with.
A sharp voice suddenly cut across his thoughts, and he looked round to see Harald standing beside the Champion. Rupert studied his brother warily as he realized Harald was wearing full chain mail, and carrying a steel-bossed buckler. He was also smiling.
“Rupert, dear fellow; thought you might fancy a little sword practice before you go, just to warm your blood a trifle. Well, brother, what do you say?”
It’s a set-up, thought Rupert disgustedly. He’s well-armored and rested. I don’t even have a shield.
He glanced round as silence fell quickly over the crowded courtyard. The other duels had been stopped, and the guardsmen were watching interestedly to see what his answer would be. It was obvious that everyone expected him to make some excuse and back out of it. That was the sensible thing to do. Harald intended Rupert to pay in blood for insulting him in front of the entire Court, whilst simultaneously undermining what little respect the guards had for their new leader. It was a good scheme; any other time it might even have worked. But not this time. For once in his life, Rupert intended to win. He chuckled suddenly at his own eagerness, and for the first time Harald seemed uncertain. Beside him, the Champion remained impassive.
“Thank you, brother,” said Rupert loudly, his voice echoing clearly from the massive stone walls. “I could use the exercise.”
He turned his back on his brother, removed his cloak, and dropped it over the unicorn’s saddle.
“Are you sure this is a good idea?” muttered the unicorn.
“No,” said Rupert cheerfully. “And I don’t give a damn.”
“Some times I don’t understand you at all.”
“That makes two of us.”
The unicorn sniffed audibly. “Watch your back, Rupert.”
Rupert nodded, and then strode confidently over to where Harald stood waiting, sword in hand. Rupert’s sword whispered from its scabbard as the guardsmen moved to form a circle round the two Princes.
“I seem to have caught you without a shield,” said Harald.
“That’s all right,” said Rupert. “I don’t need one.”
Harald took in Rupert’s relaxed stance and steady gaze, and glanced quickly at the Champion, who shook his head slightly.
“You must have a shield,” Harald insisted. “It must be a fair combat.”
“It will be,” said Rupert. “Now do you want to talk, or fight?”
An amused murmur ran through the watching guards, and Harald flushed hotly. He sank into his fighting stance with the naturalness of long practice and moved cautiously forward, studying Rupert narrowly over the rim of his buckler. Rupert came to meet him, his trained eyes searching out weaknesses in Harald’s stance, potential awkwardnesses that could be exploited. Harald was clearly more used to the stylized techniques of the mock duel than the cut and thrust of a blood fight; he’d grown soft, whilst Rupert’s experiences in the Darkwood had honed his skill to a razor’s edge. Rupert grinned broadly as all the old bitterness of having to lose to Harald surged through him. This time, Harald was in for a fight he’d remember for the rest of his life. Rupert’s grin widened as he moved lightly forward, his sword licking out to test for holes in Harald’s defense.
For a while the only sounds in the courtyard were the stamp and scuff of booted feet on the bare stone, and the occasional rasp of blade on blade. Breath steamed on the chill air as the two brothers circled each other warily, and then Harald lunged forward, his sword flashing in a bright arc for Rupert’s unshielded ribs. Rupert parried the cut easily, stepped inside the blow and kicked Harald in the knee. Harald lurched to one side as his leg betrayed him, and Rupert slammed a knee into his gut. Harald bent forward over his pain, almost as though bowing to Rupert. Air whistled in his throat as he fought for breath. Rupert darted back out of range and allowed his brother time to recover; he’d waited a long time for this victory, and he saw no reason to rush it. The guards had responded to the brief exchange with interested murmurs, and out of the corners of his eyes Rupert could see money changing hands. He grinned tightly, and then his brother came to meet him again. Harald’s sword and shield were steady, but he favored his left leg. Rupert felt a grim laughter stir within him. Harald was already beaten, even if he didn’t know it yet. Cold-bloodedly, Rupert set out to prove it.
His sword sang through the air as he swung the blade double-handed, and blow by blow, cut by cut, he drove Harald backwards round the circle. Splinters flew from Harald’s buckler as Rupert pressed home his attack, his sword flashing past the shield’s rim to draw blood from a dozen minor cuts. Harald bobbed and weaved and cut viciously at Rupert’s unprotected head and body, but always he was thrown back with fresh blood seeping into his chain mail, as Rupert showed him every skill and dirty trick he knew. Rupert was the better fighter, and now he and everybody else knew it. The guardsmen applauded and cheered every move, and Rupert laughed aloud as he drove his brother back. A sudden impatience took him, and slamming aside Harald’s buckler, Rupert smashed the sword from his brother’s hand, kicked his feet from under him, and then set the point of his blade at Harald’s throat as he lay helpless on the blood-splashed cobbles.
“Yield,” said Rupert hoarsely.
“I yield,” said Harald quietly, bitterly.
Rupert stared down at him for a long moment, and then stepped back. He’d beaten his brother, just as he’d dreamed for so many years, but somehow it didn’t quite feel real yet. The applauding guards fell silent as Harald rose painfully to his feet, his shield arm hanging limply at his side. His immaculate chain mail was scarred and bloodied, and he left his battered sword where it lay. Blood trickled unnoticed down his face as he smiled coldly.
“I should have had you killed years ago, Rupert. If by some miracle you survive the journey to the Dark Tower, don’t come back. I won’t make the mistake of fighting fair again.”
He turned his back on Rupert and limped away, slapping aside the helping hands guards offered him. Rupert watched him go. After all the years, all the insults, all the pain, he’d finally beaten his brother. It didn’t feel as good as he’d thought it would. He shrugged, and grinned round at his guards. They seemed strangely subdued, almost as though they were waiting for something … A sudden suspicion flared in Rupert’s mind, and he’d just started to turn when a mailed fist slammed into the small of his back, sending him sprawling to the ground. He made it to one knee, and then a steel-clad boot buried itself in his gut. He writhed on the cold ground, sobbing with pain.
“Never drop your guard, Rupert,” said the Champion calmly. “You know better than that.”
His boot lashed out again, catching Rupert on the hip and sending him rolling into the feet of the silently watching guards. He lurched to one knee and reached for his sword. The Champion’s boot slammed down again, but this time Rupert was ready for him. Instead of snatching back his fingers he continued the movement, caught the Champion’s ankle in both hands, and twisted him off-balance. The Champion fell heavily, and by the time he regained his feet Rupert was waiting for him, sword in hand.
“Now that’s more like it,” said the Champion approvingly. His sword licked out to open a shallow cut on Rupert’s left cheek, and then the Champion had to jump back out of range as Rupert’s blade sheared through the chain mail over his ribs. The Champion glanced down, and saw blood seeping through his armor.
“Getting old, Champion,” said Rupert thickly. “There was a time you wouldn’t have given me a chance to recover.”
The Champion smiled. “I’m still good enough for you, boy. Come on; let’s see what you can do.”
Rupert moved cautiously forward, his sword sweeping back and forth befor
e him. The two fighters circled each other warily, and then came together in a flurry of steel too fast for the eye to follow. They sprang apart and circled each other again, their steel-clad boots striking sparks from the bare stone. Blood rilled down from a wide cut on Rupert’s forehead, filling his eyes with crimson. The Champion had another bloody rent in his chain mail. Rupert wiped blood from his eyes with the back of his hand, and couldn’t parry the Champion’s attack in time. Fresh blood trickled down Rupert’s sword arm, making his grasp slippery. And so the fight went on. Rupert used every trick he knew, all his strength and skill coming together in an exhibition of swordsmanship that had the guardsmen crying aloud in appreciation. Again and again he threw himself at the Champion, his sword a bright blur on the still morning air as it rose and fell, rose and fell. Rupert gave everything he had, and it wasn’t enough.
He never stood a chance.
The Champion parried his every blow, allowed Rupert to tire himself out, and then moved in with a flurry of hammering blows that left Rupert lying battered and helpless facedown on the blood-smeared cobblestones. He was dimly aware of the Champion crouching before him, and then tears started from his eyes as a strong hand grabbed a handful of hair and lifted his head up.
“Sorry, Sire,” said the Champion quietly. “But you should have know better than to beat Harald in public. Next time, you will know better.” The hand released Rupert’s hair, and the cobblestones jumped up to meet his face. The Champion’s voice seemed to come from far away. “We ride in half an hour, Sire; I expect you to be in your saddle and ready to leave. If you’re not, I’ll have you strapped to the unicorn.”
He walked unhurriedly away, and one by one the guards followed him, leaving Rupert curled around his pain. The courtyard chatter slowly resumed. For a long while Rupert just lay there, and then there was the sound of running feet, and two gentle hands were holding his shoulders. He cried out wordlessly, and shrank away from the hands, afraid of more pain.
Blue Moon Rising (Darkwood) Page 11
