“While the Castle itself stands virtually unprotected,” said Sir Blays sardonically.
King John smiled sardonically. “There’s always the goblins, my dear Landsgrave. I’m told they’re very good with boiling oil.”
Sir Blays stiffened angrily, and Sir Guillam laid a restraining hand on his arm. The two Landsgraves stared at each other; Sir Guillam shook his head slightly, and Sir Blays subsided.
Now that is interesting, thought the King. I always knew there was more to Guillam than met the eye. He glanced quickly at Sir Bedivere, who was staring off into the distance as though nothing that had been said was of any interest to him. Probably it isn’t, thought the King sourly. He’s just a killing machine, waiting for his next set of orders. But who gives those orders; Blays or Guillam? He stared at the timid little man standing passively before him, and tugged pensively at his beard. Why had the Barons sent Sir Guillam? He wasn’t a diplomat, like Sir Blays, and he certainly hadn’t the makings of an assassin. He claimed to be an accountant, but so far he’d made no attempt to inspect the Castle’s finances. Not that the King would have let him, of course …
King John frowned uncertainly. If the Landsgraves hadn’t come to complain about the goblins, what the hell were they here for? And why were they so interested in his guards? The King sighed quietly. Now that the Astrologer was no longer on hand to advise him, it seemed he’d have to keep digging for answers the hard way.
“Well, Sir Guillam,” he said heavily, “Perhaps you’d care to tell me why you’ve chosen to interrupt this private audience. Sir Blays doesn’t seem too sure.”
Sir Guillam smiled politely. “There are … questions … which need to be answered, Sire.”
“Such as?”
“Such as what’s happened to the High Warlock.” Sir Guillam smiled diffidently. “He does seem to be rather overdue. Months overdue, in fact.”
“He’ll be here.”
“When?”
“How the hell should I know?”
“You don’t seem too unhappy about his tardiness,” said Sir Blays. “Anyone would think you didn’t want him to come.”
“Sir Blays,” said the King slowly, “I don’t care to be interrogated in this manner. You know very well how I feel about the High Warlock; you were here the night I read the Edict of Banishment upon him. Now, my noble Landsgraves; it’s been a long day, and I still have much to do. What exactly do you want from me?”
“We want action!” snapped Sir Blays. “Fine words and promises won’t stop the Darkwood. I know I speak for my fellow Landsgraves when I say the Barons will not stand idly by and watch the Forest Land fall into ruin while you dither and prevaricate and do nothing!”
“I’m doing all I can!”
“It isn’t enough,” said Sir Bedivere. He stepped forward a pace, and the two guardsmen drew their swords. The huge Landsgrave ignored them, his eyes fixed on the King. “If you won’t do what’s necessary, there are others who will.”
“That sounded like a threat,” said the King evenly. “Perhaps you’ve forgotten what happened the last time you dared threaten me?”
“Ah yes.” Sir Guillam smiled. “Where is Thomas Grey these days? Still hunting for the … lost … Curtana?”
“It won’t find itself!” snapped the King. “The Astrologer’s worked day and night, trying to discover who stole the Curtana from my Armory.”
“Assuming it was stolen.” Sir Blays stared mockingly at the King. “You slipped up there, your majesty. It was just a little too convenient that the Sword of Compulsion should vanish into thin air the moment the Armory was rediscovered, thus putting the Curtana beyond the reach, and control, of the Court.”
“You tread dangerous ground, my noble Landsgrave.”
Sir Blays and Sir Guillam smiled, and Sir Bedivere chuckled openly.
“When you took the Sword of Compulsion for yourself,” said Sir Blays, “you lost all claim to our loyalty.”
“We cannot accept such a threat to the Barons,” said Sir Guillam diffidently. “We therefore demand, in their name, that you hand the Curtana over to us, for … safekeeping.”
“You demand?” King John rose to his feet, shaking with anger. “You demand nothing in my Court! Now get out, or I’ll have you whipped from my sight! Get out!”
Sir Bedivere laughed softly, and King John shuddered at the barely restrained madness in that laughter.
“You really shouldn’t have done that,” said the huge, smiling Landsgrave. “I’ll have your heart’s blood for this insult.”
“You dare …”
“There’s no Astrologer to protect you now, King John. All that stands between you and me are those two guards. And that isn’t going to be enough. Give me your sword, Blays.”
Sir Blays glanced at Sir Guillam, who hesitated, and then nodded quickly.
“You’d better get out of here, Sire,” murmured one of the guardsmen. “We’ll hold him as long as we can.”
King John stared numbly at Sir Blays as he slowly drew his sword. “Why are you doing this, Blays? We’ve known each other more than thirty years …”
“Will you please get the hell out of here!” hissed the guardsman. “You must raise the alarm!”
“That won’t be necessary,” said a quiet voice. “The King has nothing to fear as long as we are with him.”
There was the faint whisper of flexing wood, and the King and the three Landsgraves turned to stare dumbly at the farmers as they deftly fitted arrows to their longbows and held them at the ready.
“How dare you?” whispered Sir Guillam. “How dare you defy the Barons! I’ll have your farms burned for this!”
The twelve farmers stared steadily back, their arrows strung and ready.
Sir Bedivere studied them impassively, and then held out his hand to Sir Blays. “Give me your sword. They’re just peasants.”
Sir Blays glanced at the farmers, taking in the cold implacability of their faces, and shook his head slowly.
“Give me your sword!”
“No,” said Sir Blays, and he sheathed his sword. “There’s no need for this.”
For a moment King John thought Sir Bedivere would attack the farmers empty-handed, but Sir Guillam and Sir Blays held his arms and talked quietly and urgently to him, until the killing glare had faded from his eyes. He finally threw off their arms, glared once at the King, and then turned and left the Court. Sir Blays and Sir Guillam followed him out. At the doors, Sir Blays hesitated and looked back.
“You brought this on yourself, John,” he said quietly, and then he was gone.
King John sank back into his throne, his heart still racing. There was a general relaxing of breath from the guards and the farmers as they sheathed their swords and put away their arrows, and they glanced at each other respectfully. The King smiled on them all, and inclined his head slightly.
“Thank you for your support, my friends. I shall not forget this.”
He settled back in his throne, and rubbed slowly at his aching forehead, not really hearing the farmers’ muttered replies. King John shook his head slowly. By losing his temper with the Landsgraves, he’d played right into their hands. The only reason for their visit had been to insult and humiliate him before the farmers; to make it clear to them who wielded the real power in the Forest Land these days. The King frowned worriedly. The Landsgraves had moved beyond treason and into open rebellion, secure in the belief that he wouldn’t dare have them arrested for fear of starting a civil war. They might just be right, at that. He couldn’t fight the invading demons without the Barons’ support, and they knew it. The King swore silently to himself. There must have been some way he could have avoided all this, but without the Astrologer at his side to advise him …
He shook his head wearily. These days, the Astrologer was his only link with his widespread forces. His guards and militia were scattered all over the Land, fighting to hold back the dark. By using his magic, the Astrologer could get messages to the various troops muc
h faster than any horseman or carrier pigeon. Unfortunately, there was so much communications work for the Astrologer that he had little time for anything else. Including searching for the Curtana.
In the meantime, events in the Land went from bad to worse. Until he had to cope by himself, King John hadn’t realized how much he’d come to depend on his old friend. There were taxes to be set, tithes to be gathered; all the endless paperwork of running a Kingdom, that never stopped even when the Land was under seige. It had been bad enough when he’d just had to sign the damn stuff …
He’d managed to unload some of the more routine matters onto his Seneschal, but with the Darkwood pressing ever farther into the Forest, each new day brought more news of refugees on the march, fleeing the approaching darkness with whatever possessions they could carry on their backs. Horses were in short supply, and the guards had commandeered all carts to carry what little of the harvest had been gathered in. The long strung-out trails of homeless people were sitting targets for looters, outlaws, and demons. Guardsmen protected the main roads as best they could, but there just weren’t enough men to go around.
In the towns, prices soared as food grew scarce. Guards had to be diverted from the roads to put down riots. No matter where the King sent his men, it never seemed to help. They were always too few, and too late. Even with his Astrologer and his Champion to help, it would have been a logician’s nightmare, but without them, the King could only stand and watch as his Kingdom slowly tore itself apart.
He sighed, and gently massaged his aching temples. Some days his crown seemed heavier than others. How had he come to rely on the Astrologer so much? There was a time he’d had dozens of advisers and favorites to stand as a buffer between him and his Court, the Barons, and all the other troubles of his reign. But over the years all the ones he’d liked and trusted had either died, or fallen away, or been proven base and false, until now only his Astrologer and his Champion remained, to stand at his side and help him bear the weight of kingship. And neither of them were here now he needed them.
The sheer querulousness of that thought sobered him suddenly, and a cold rush of shame ran through him. The Astrologer was working himself into the ground keeping the communications moving, and the Champion had rode unhesitatingly into the Darkwood in search of the High Warlock. If they could do so much in defense of the Realm, how could he, as King, be expected to do any less? King John frowned, and beat gently on the arm of his throne with his fist. Rupert and the Champion were months overdue, and with every day that passed, the chances of their ever returning grew steadily less. As far as the Court was concerned, everyone on that ill-fated expedition was dead, and had been for some time. The King sighed quietly, and finally admitted to himself what he couldn’t admit in public; that Rupert and the Champion wouldn’t be coming back. The admission hurt him strangely. Deep down, he’d still some-how clung to the belief that the High Warlock would return from exile, and drive back the demons and the darkness with his sorcery, and all would be well again. It came hard to the King to realize he’d wasted so much hope on an empty dream.
“Your majesty?” said one of the guards uncertainly, and King John snapped out of his reverie to find the farmers’ deputation still standing patiently before him. The King stared at them blankly, shocked at how long he’d kept them waiting while his mind wandered.
“I’m sorry,” he said quickly. “The Castle migration began last week, and I have much on my mind. What exactly is it that you want from me?”
The farmers looked at each other, and finally one middle-aged man stepped forward from their midst to be their spokesman. He was plainly ill at ease in the grandeur of the Forest Court, and he didn’t seem to know what to do with his hands, which were large and awkward and tattoed with ground-in dirt from working the earth all his days. But when he finally began to speak, the King forgot all these things, and saw only the simple dignity of a man weighed down with pain, yet still unbroken and unbowed.
“I am Madoc Thorne, of Birchwater demesne,” said the farmer slowly. “I farm twelve acres, as my father did before me, and his father before him. The land is yet kind to my family, though we must work it hard and long to make our living, and still pay our taxes and our tithes. For nigh on seven generations my family has raised the corn and gathered it in, harvest after harvest. It was my intention to some day hand this on to my eldest son, as it was handed on to me, but I no longer have any sons. The plague has taken them from me.”
King John shuddered suddenly, as though a cold wind had blown over his grave. “The tales are true, then. Plague has come to Birchwater.”
“And passed beyond, Sire; spreading faster than a bushfire fanned by the wind. Through all the Birchwater demesne, there’s not a town nor a village nor a hamlet that hasn’t felt its touch. Four hundred dead, to my certain knowledge, and ten times that number lie trembling in their beds, wracked with pain as their fever slowly consumes them. Nothing helps; not prayer, nor medicines, nor magic. Men, women, and children are struck down without warning, and waste away to nothing as their families watch, helpless. Livestock fall in their byres, never to rise again. Corn stands rotting in the fields, blighted by the early Winter, because there is no one left to harvest it.
“I had four sons, your majesty; four fine sons who worked the land beside me. Good boys, all of them. So far, I’ve had to bury two of them, and their mother. The other two cannot leave their beds. By the time I return home, it seems likely I’ll have to dig another grave. That’s why we’ve come to you, Sire; because we couldn’t sit at home and do nothing while the plague takes our families, wasting the flesh from their bones and twisting their limbs till they cry out from the pain of it.
“We’re not young men, you and I, your majesty. We’ve seen hard times before, and know the hardest time passes eventually. But this time, if you cannot help us, I fear no one will be left to see its passing.”
There was a long silence, as King John searched for something to say. The farmer had told his tale with a simple honesty that was almost brutal, sparing himself nothing to be sure the King understood what was happening in Birchwater. The King understood only too well. The plague had appeared out of nowhere less than a month ago, starting at the Darkwood’s boundaries and then spreading outwards with ferocious speed. At first it was thought that rats carried the disease, and then blame fell upon the refugees, but as more and more deaths were reported in all corners of the Land, it soon became clear that there was only one possible source for the contagion; the demons were carrying it out of the Dark wood.
And now the plague had come to Birchwater, less than a week’s travel from the Castle.
“I will send you priests and surgeons,” said the King finally. “As yet they have no cure to offer, but they can perhaps ease the pain of a victim’s passing. I can’t guarantee how many will reach you; I no longer have enough men to safeguard the highways. The demons …”
“The demons! It’s always the demons!” Madoc Thorne stared desperately at the King, tears of rage and despair starting to his eyes. “Without a cure, what use are priests and surgeons to us? Send us men, Sire; men who can fight, and will teach us to fight. If we can’t defend our homes from the plague, We can at least defend them from the demons that carry it. A bow can only do so much! I know the Barons have always forbidden us from training in the sword and the axe, but it’s our only chance to stop the plague and turn it back!”
King John looked at his hands, so that he wouldn’t have to look at the farmers. How could he tell them that all their long journey, all their sacrifices, had been for nothing? He sighed briefly, quietly, and lifted his great leonine head. He sought for some comforting words with which to cushion his answer, but as he met the farmers’ hopeful eyes, he knew he couldn’t lie to them.
“My friends; I cannot help you. I have no men to send you, either to guard your fields or train you in the arts of war. The Barons no longer heed me; what men they have, they will not relinquish. I’ve had to strip this
Castle of guards just to keep the main highways open. I have no shortage of weapons; you are welcome to as many as you can carry, but I cannot spare one man to go with you.”
The farmers stared at the King, and then at each other.
“Is that it?” said one of the youngest farmers, moving forward to stand beside Madoc Thorne. “We came all this way, fighting off outlaws and footpads and creatures of the dark, leaving our families and our farms unprotected, just to hear you say there’s nothing you can do?”
“I’m sorry,” said King John.
The young farmer started forward, his fists clenched, but Thorne grabbed him by the arm and held him back. “That’s enough! Leave the King be; he’s said his piece. He could have lied to us, told us everything’d be all right, but he didn’t. He told us the truth. We may not like it, but at least now we know where we stand.”
“Aye,” said the young farmer. “We know that.” And he turned away, so that no one could see he was crying.
Thorne let him go, and stared awkwardly at the King. “He meant no offense, Sire. He hasn’t been himself since he lost his wife and both his babies to the demons.”
“I’d help you if I could,” said the King.
“We know that,” said Madoc Thorne. “Sorry to have troubled you, your majesty; it’s clear enough you’ve worries other than ours. If you could have your men sort out a few weapons for us, we’ll head back to Birchwater come the morning.”
“Of course,” said the King. “I’ll detail some guards to escort you the first few miles.”
“No, thanks,” said the farmer politely. “Reckon we can manage on our own.”
He bowed his head briefly, and then he turned and left the Court. And one by one the farmers bowed to their King, and followed their spokesman out. King John sat on his throne and bowed to each farmer in turn, and the naked pity in their eyes as they looked on him hurt worse than anything they could have said. They had fought their way through the darkness to reach him, they had defended him against the Landsgraves, but when they turned to him for help, he had none to offer them. He had failed them, but they forgave him, because he was their King. And, troubled as they were, there was still room in their hearts for pity at what he had become; a tired old man who couldn’t cope. One by one, the farmers left the Court, and the King watched them go, knowing that with the morning’s first light they would be on their way back into the Forest, going home to die with their families. The last man closed the doors quietly behind him, but the sound echoed on the silent Court as though he’d slammed them.
Blue Moon Rising (Darkwood) Page 28
