Blue Moon Rising (Darkwood)

by Green, Simon R.

  “All right; let’s go.”

  The Champion glanced at Rupert’s gory attire, and his mouth twitched. “Well, that should get their attention, Sire, if nothing else.”

  “Good,” said Rupert, and strode out the door.

  Prince Rupert and the Champion paused in the Court antechamber, and shared a sardonic smile. Even with the great double doors securely closed, the roar of raised voices within the Court came clearly to them. Rupert shook his head, stepped forward, and threw the doors open. A solid wave of sound came rushing over him as he stood in the doorway, staring about him…a vast animal roar of naked fear and fury. The courtiers had finally seen the darkness of the long night, and that sight had sent them to the edge of madness. The Lords and Ladies of the Court milled back and forth with shrill voices and wild eyes, moving from one faction to another in the same muddled, apparently aimless way that bees move from flower to flower. Other courtiers huddled together in sullen, frightened knots, and would listen only to their own comforting lies. Every man in the Court wore a sword at his hip, even those who had obviously never drawn a sword in anger in their lives. And everywhere there were raised voices and shaking fists, and faces made ugly by rage and fear and open hysteria. The Darkwood had come to Forest Castle.

  At the far end of the Court, King John sat stiff-backed on his throne, with two guardsmen to either side of him. How long has he needed the protection of armed guards in his own Court? wondered Rupert, frowning. The King leaned forward on his throne and glared coldly at the High Warlock standing proudly before him, and Rupert didn’t need to know what they were saying to know they were arguing. His frown deepened as he studied their faces. Anger was written plainly there for all to see, and so was fear, but beyond the obvious and the expected lay something else; something that might have been betrayal, on both sides.

  He was a traitor. A traitor, a coward, and a drunk.

  Rupert looked away. Standing at the King’s right hand was Harald, swathed in gleaming chain mail, every inch the Prince. His muscles rippled impressively as he casually changed from one heroic pose to another. Rupert smiled grimly; Harald had always looked the part much more than he did. And then he saw Julia, hanging on Harald’s arm, and his smile was suddenly gone, leaving only the grimness behind. Rupert watched silently as Julia smiled gaily and patted Harald’s arm with an easy familiarity. Harald smiled at her, and said something that made her laugh. And then some hidden instinct called to both of them, and they looked out into the Court and saw Rupert watching them. Julia flinched away from his steady gaze, and then stared coldly back, daring him to say anything. Harald smiled and bowed politely. Rupert looked away. Suddenly he felt tired. So very tired. For a moment, he wanted nothing more than to just turn and walk out of the Court and back to his room, there to sleep and sleep and sleep, until everything went away and stopped making demands on him. The moment passed, but the weariness remained. Rupert sighed, quietly. No rest for the wicked.

  “Look at them,” said the Champion disgustedly, nodding at the courtiers. “The long night has finally fallen, and all the Court can do is squabble and catcall like children in a playground. They’ll be pulling each other’s hair next.”

  Rupert smiled in spite of himself. “You know, sir Champion; there was a time I actually believed the High Warlock might solve some of our problems … I should have known better.”

  The Champion glared coldly about him. “I did warn you, Sire. I trust the High Warlock about as far as I could throw a wet camel.”

  “Then why did you risk your life riding with me, on a journey whose whole purpose was to try and persuade the Warlock to come back with us?”

  “Because my King ordered me to,” said the Champion. “No other reason.”

  “Ah, hell,” said Rupert. “I suppose I’d better go and break this shouting match up, or we’ll never get anything done. At this rate, somebody is bound to upset the Warlock once too often, and we’ll end up with a Court full of bemused-looking toads.”

  “He wouldn’t dare use his magic here,” said the Champion.

  “Don’t bet on it,” said Rupert. “The High Warlock has all the practicality and self-preservation instincts of a depressed lemming.”

  He strode forward into the Court, and the milling crowd closed around him. The noise was appalling, and the people were packed so tightly together that Rupert quickly found himself hard put to make any headway. He saw a gap in the crowd and made for it, but a courtier got there first. Rupert tried to get past him, but the courtier just shot him a spiteful glance and deliberately moved to block his way. Rupert took the courtier by the shoulder, turned him around, punched him out, and walked over him. The nearest Lords and Ladies turned angrily on the Prince, and then took one look at his face and backed hastily away. Rupert strode on toward the throne, and the constant babble of voices died gradually away, as one by one the courtiers became aware of the grim, bloodstained figure in their midst. They fell away to either side of him and watched silently as he passed.

  Rupert finally came to a halt before the throne. The King and the Warlock went on arguing, too wrapped up in each other to notice either Rupert’s presence or the sudden hush that had fallen across the Court. Rupert stared past the King, and caught Harald’s eye. His brother stirred uneasily, and a slight frown marred his placid features. Rupert’s time in the Darkwood had changed him, and for the first time Harald felt a faint prickling of fear run down his spine. The blood-spattered, cold-eyed stranger before him had nothing in common with the quiet, indecisive brother he’d dominated for so many years. Harald looked away, unable to meet Rupert’s gaze any longer. Without really knowing why, Harald was suddenly frightened. Death seemed to hang about Rupert like a shroud, as though he had brought something of the endless night with him into the brightly lit Court. Or perhaps it was simply that his eyes held more pain and horror than any man should ever have had to face. Harald started to shiver, and found he couldn’t stop. He tried to concentrate on what the King and the Warlock were arguing about, and ignored the cold sweat beading on his forehead.

  “We can’t hide behind these walls forever!” shouted the King. “If we don’t take the battle to the demons, it won’t be long before they come looking for us!”

  “You’re either mad, or blind,” growled the High Warlock. “You’re talking as though the Forest was still under siege from the Darkwood. Get used to the idea, John; the Forest is gone. There’s nothing left but the night. Outside these walls there’s no light, no life; nothing but the dark, and the demons that live in it. And there are an awful lot of demons in the dark. The creatures of the night outnumber any force you could hope to put together by more than a thousand to one. Anyone who leaves this Castle isn’t coming back. Ever.”

  “So what are we supposed to do?” demanded the King tightly. “Hide in our little bolt hole while the dark grows even stronger? Wait until the Demon Prince himself comes to fetch us? I don’t have enough men to guard the Castle walls as it is. It’s only a matter of time before the demons come swarming over the walls and slaughter us all!”

  “I need time,” said the Warlock. “There are spells I can use, spells that should drive the demons back, but they take time to put together. Surely you can hold off the dark just a little longer?”

  “What with?” howled the King, his face mottled with angry patches of red. “My men are dying. I’m running out of food, water, firewood … if the demons were to storm us right now, I couldn’t be sure we’d throw them back. You’ve got to do something, damn you! You’re the High Warlock! Do something, or we’re all dead!”

  “It’s always me, isn’t it? It always comes down to me, and my magic. You ever stop to think that just possibly I get bloody tired of having to clean up your messes for you? Just once, why don’t you try taking responsibility for your own foul-ups? You know, you haven’t changed a bit, John; you sit on your damn throne and mumble and dither until things get really out of hand, and then I’m supposed to step in and put everything
right again, just like that! Never mind I’ve got my own life to lead. Never mind how much I have to risk my life in the process. Well, this time we’re going to do things my way. I’m not putting my neck on the chopping block just because you’re too impatient to wait!”

  “I’m your King! I order you…”

  “You can take your order and …”

  “SHUT UP!” Rupert’s sudden roar cut across their voices, bringing them both up short. Silence fell across the Court. A courtier standing beside Rupert opened his mouth to say something, and found himself staring with horrified fascination at the sword point pressing lightly against his belly.

  “One more word from anybody,” said Rupert quietly, “And I’ll gut them.”

  Everybody looked at his determined face, and the blood-smeared sword in his hand, and quickly decided he might just mean it. Rupert stared about him at the silent, watchful Court, and grinned tightly.

  “Now that I’ve got your attention, perhaps we can discuss the situation calmly, instead of screaming and shouting and running around like a chicken that’s just had its head chopped off.”

  He sheathed his sword, and a quiet sigh of relief travelled around the Court, not least from the courtier Rupert had used to make his point.

  “You’re learning, Sire,” said the Champion approvingly.

  Rupert looked around and wasn’t particularly surprised to find the Champion standing just behind him. Rupert nodded politely to him, and turned away. He wasn’t altogether sure how much support he could depend on from the Champion, now that their mission was over, but for the moment at least it seemed he had an ally in his father’s Court. If only because they both disliked the courtiers so much … Rupert stepped forward a pace, and bowed curtly to his father. The King stared at him for a long moment, his face and cold steady gaze giving nothing away.

  “I thought you were dead,” he said finally. “After so many months, and no word of you from anyone, I was sure I’d never see you again.”

  “So I gathered,” said Rupert dryly. “In the courtyard, half of them acted like they’d seen a ghost. Hey, wait a minute; didn’t the goblins tell you I was still alive? They did get here all right, didn’t they?”

  “Yes,” said the King. “Unfortunately. But that was months ago. You were supposed to be back long before this.”

  There was a pause as they just looked at each other, their faces carefully impassive; each waiting for the other to say something.

  “You could at least say you’re glad to see me again,” said Rupert, finally. “Or wasn’t I supposed to come back from this quest, either?”

  “You haven’t changed,” said the King. “You haven’t changed at all, Rupert.”

  “Don’t bet on it,” said Rupert, and there was a sudden, unyielding harshness in his voice that startled the King, and drew another thoughtful frown from Harald. Rupert ignored them both, and turned to the High Warlock. “Now you’ve had time to think about it, sir Warlock, perhaps you’d care to tell me what the hell went wrong with your teleport spell. We should have arrived here long before the Blue Moon was full. You promised me your spell would get us here in time. I trusted you, High Warlock.”

  “It wasn’t my fault,” said the Warlock, almost defiantly. “Somebody in this Castle interfered with my spell, so that we arrived at the right place, but the wrong time.”

  “Somebody here?” said Rupert. “Are you sure?”

  “Of course I’m sure! I’m the High Warlock! Whoever it was, he isn’t very powerful; he couldn’t break or distort the spell, just deflect it. As far as I can make out, we were supposed to arrive even further in the future, after the Castle had fallen, but his magic wasn’t strong enough.”

  Rupert shook his head slowly, trying to follow the explanation. “How could anyone here have interfered with your spell? Nobody here knew we’d be coming back by teleport.”

  “The Demon Prince knew,” said the High Warlock.

  A quiet murmur rustled through the Court, and several courtiers looked nervously about them, as though just the mention of his name might somehow be enough to summon the Dark Prince in person. The King leant forward on his throne, scowling and tugging angrily at his beard.

  Rupert looked closely at the Warlock. “Are you saying the Demon Prince himself had something to do with your spell going wrong?”

  “Indirectly, yes. He has no power outside the Darkwood, but he can work through human agents. Somewhere in this Castle, there is a traitor who serves the dark.”

  “That much we already know, sir Warlock,” growled the King. “But can you name him?”

  “Not easily; he’s covered his tracks too well. Given time, perhaps …”

  “We don’t have the time,” snapped Rupert. “We can worry about unearthing traitors after we’ve done something about the demons outside our walls. Father; how many armed men can we put in the field at one time?”

  “Not many, Rupert; the plague hasn’t left us much in the way of manpower.”

  “Plague?” Rupert’s skin crawled suddenly, and a cold breeze seemed to caress the back of his neck. “What plague?”

  The King smiled sourly. “A great deal has happened since you left, Rupert. The plague has been with us for months; a sickness and a fever that weakens and finally kills. We’ve tried everything, but nothing works against it. It swept across the Forest like a flash fire, and entered the Castle a good week and more before the darkness finally fell.”

  “How many people have we lost?” asked Rupert quietly.

  “Hundreds,” said the King. “Possibly thousands. There’s no way of telling anymore.”

  “Damn!” The High Warlock screwed up his face, as though he’d just bitten into something sour, his eyes burning with sudden insight. “I knew it! As soon as Rupert told me about the unicorn losing his horn to the demons, I knew there had to be a reason!”

  “I don’t follow you,” said Rupert. “What has the unicorn’s horn got to do with the plague?”

  “Everything,” said the Warlock. “Two facts, Rupert. First; it is the Demon Prince’s nature to corrupt. Second; a unicorn’s horn has one special property, to detect and cure poisons. Put these two facts together, and the source of the plague becomes obvious; a debased unicorn’s horn that spreads poison instead of curing it. In the Demon Prince’s hands, that horn has produced a sorcerous plague, spread by his demons, incurable by any natural or unnatural means.”

  “If there is no cure,” said the King slowly, “Then we’ve no way of stopping it. Eventually, everybody in the Land will be dead, no matter what we do. I can’t accept that, sir Warlock; there must be something we can do!”

  “There is,” said the High Warlock. “Destroy the Demon Prince, and his plague will perish with him.”

  “This is all very interesting,” said Harald dryly, “But we do seem to be drifting away from the point. The Demon Prince and the plague are problems for the future, assuming we have one. In the meantime, in case everybody has forgotten, we are still under siege from the demons outside our walls. As I recall, Rupert, you claimed to have some kind of answer to that problem. That was, after all, why you halted our discussion of the matter so … abruptly.”

  “Discussion?” said Rupert derisively. “Far as I could tell from the babble, your discussion had done nothing but divide you into two trains of thought: Brute Force And Ignorance, and Close Our Eyes And Maybe It’ll All Go Away. Keep thinking like that, people, and we’re all going to end up dead.”

  “I take it you’ve got a better idea?” said Julia.

  Rupert looked at the Princess, who was clinging ostentatiously to Harald’s arm. “Yes,” he said finally. “I have. Father; where’s the Astrologer?”

  “In seclusion,” said the King. “He’s using his magic to try and discover who stole the Curtana, and where it’s hidden.”

  “The Curtana?” Rupert blinked confusedly. “How could anybody steal that? It’s still in the lost South Wing!”

  “Not anymore,” said Juli
a. “I helped discover a way into the South Wing. Unfortunately, when we finally got to the Old Armory, the Curtana was missing.”

  Rupert’s head whirled as he struggled to take all this in. A great deal has happened since you left, Rupert. He sighed, and firmly suppressed an urge to begin a series of questions he could tell would probably last for hours, with no guarantee he’d be any better off at the end.

  “You have been busy, haven’t you, Julia?” he said finally. “Still, we can talk about that later. In the meantime, Father, you’d better send for the Astrologer. If my plan’s to work, we’re going to need all the magic we can muster.”

  “What do you want the Astrologer for?” growled the Champion. “What’s he going to do; read the demons’ horoscopes and tell them it’s a bad time of the month for attacking Castles?”

  “He’s a sorcerer,” said Rupert. “And magic is the key to this whole mess.”

  “Sorcery is the Demon Prince’s way,” said the Champion, glaring at the silent High Warlock. “Fight fire with fire, and we’ll all get burned. This is a time for cold steel, Sire; for human strength and valor.”

  “We tried that in the Darkwood, remember?” snapped Rupert. “Cold steel isn’t enough anymore! Demons don’t care how many of their number they lose, as long as they bring us down. There are thousands of the damned creatures outside our walls, and God knows how many more waiting to replace them when they fall. No, sir Champion; the Darkwood is a thing of magic, and must be met with magic.”

  The King opened his mouth to say something, and then looked around, startled, as the Court’s double doors flew suddenly open, and the Astrologer entered the Court.

  “Sorry I’m late, Sire; while searching for the Curtana, I had something of a breakthrough. As far as I can tell, the Sword of Compulsion no longer exists. Whoever took it from the Armory must have destroyed it. I have to admit, I’m not sure whether that’s a bad thing or not.”