“Sir Seneschal; why is this Wing still empty, when the rest of the Castle is packed with refugees? Can’t we billet some of them here?”
“Nobody will live here,” said the Seneschal quietly. “Thirty-two years ago, something happened in this Wing; something so terrible that the echoes still remain. It’s in the floor and in the walls, and even in the air itself; a sense of something evil, that happened here long ago and is still happening, even after all these years. The Stones remember. You feel it too, don’t you, Rupert? Everybody does, after a while. The first people we settled here came running out after only a few hours. The others we tried didn’t even last that long. Eventually, we gave up, and left the South Wing to itself. Whatever’s in here, hiding in the dark, it doesn’t want company.”
Rupert swallowed with a suddenly dry throat. “So this Wing’s completely empty?”
“Apart from your disgusting friends,” said Harald.
“Ah yes,” said the Seneschal. “I’d forgotten about them. The goblins live here, Sire. They seem quite happy and unaffected. Either they’re simply not superstitious, or they’re all completely insensitive.”
Rupert smiled. “That sounds like them.”
“Got it in one,” growled a deep bass voice from the shadows. “Welcome back, Prince Rupert.”
Rupert’s party came to a sudden halt as the goblin leader stepped forward into the dim light, followed by half a hundred other goblins from the surrounding shadows. They all wore some kind of armor, and knives and short swords and axes gleamed in every hand. For a long moment nobody moved, and then, as one, the goblins knelt and bowed to Rupert. Even the goblin leader tucked his head quickly in and back, in what might just have been a bow. Rupert looked around him, a delighted grin spreading slowly across his face. Regular food and better living conditions had put meat on the goblins’ bones, and removed some of the gauntness from their faces. More important, most of them now handled their weapons with the quiet competence of the seasoned fighter. Altogether, the goblins looked a great deal more impressive than when Rupert had first met them, back in the Tanglewood. He almost felt that he should be kneeling to them.
“On your feet,” he said finally, not even trying to hide the warmth in his voice. “You’re warriors, now.”
“Well; they try,” growled the goblin leader, glaring disgustedly around him as the goblins scrambled awkwardly to their feet. “It’s good to see you again, Sire. They told us you were dead, but we didn’t believe them. Not one of us.”
“Thank you,” said Rupert. “It’s good to be back among friends.”
Harald chuckled mockingly. “Trust you to make friends out of goblins, Rupert. But then, anyone else wouldn’t need to associate with such creatures, would they?”
The goblin leader made a casual gesture, and the nearest half-dozen goblins took a firm hold of Harald and unceremoniously turned him upside down. Harald sputtered with outrage and reached for his sword, only to stop short as the smallest goblin stepped forward and pressed a jagged-edged knife against his throat.
“Just say the word,” said the smallest goblin cheerfully, “And we’ll skin him for you, Prince Rupert. Or just nod, if you like; we’re not fussy. Dead informal, that’s us. Or maybe you’d like him fricasseed? We can do some very nasty things with a banked fire.”
“I wouldn’t doubt it for a moment,” said Rupert. “Unfortunately, we need Harald alive, for the time being. You can let him loose now; I’m sure he’ll mind his manners in the future.”
“Can’t we at least bounce him off the walls a little first?” pleaded the smallest goblin.
“Maybe later,” said Rupert.
The goblins dropped Harald in a heap on the floor and moved reluctantly away, muttering disappointedly. Harald sat up and glared about him. He made a tentative move toward drawing his sword, but stopped as he realized half a hundred well-armed goblins were glaring back at him. Harald decided to ignore them. He scrambled to his feet, and set about rebuilding his injured dignity.
King John studied Rupert as the Prince spoke quietly with the goblin leader. At first, the King had been rather amused by the goblins’ awe of his son, but he was slowly coming to see that, underneath the ridiculous adoration, there was a very real respect and reverence. In all the time they’d been at Court, the goblins had never once bowed to their King. If anyone had ever suggested it, the revolting little creatures would probably have split their sides laughing. But they bowed their heads to Rupert. So did the guards who’d come back with him out of the long night. To hear the stories they’d been telling in their barracks, you’d think Rupert was one of the great heroes of legend. Even the Champion’s report had been full of praise for Rupert’s valor and skill in battle. Even the Champion … King John scowled, and tugged at his beard. He was going to have to think about this. Rupert was finally showing signs of becoming a warrior and a hero, and that … was dangerous.
“I’ve got to go now,” said Rupert to the goblin leader. “We’re rather pushed for time. You do know we’re going out against the demons in a few hours from now?”
“Of course,” said the goblin leader gruffly. “Some of us will be there with you. We still remember what the demons did to our homes, our families. They came at night, and there was no moon in the sky. They killed our children first, and then our women, and only those of us who turned and ran survived to tell the story. We knew nothing then, of fighting or hate or revenge. We have learned much in a short time. They say humans know how to forget, Prince Rupert. Perhaps one day, you will teach us this. There are so many things we need to forget, but we don’t know how. For us, the blood and death lies forever before our eyes, and our ears still hear the screams.
“All we’ve learned so far is how to kill demons. For the moment, that’s enough. If we can’t have peace of mind, we’ll settle for revenge. Perhaps we can learn to be brave too, now we’ve no choice.”
Rupert put out his hand, and the goblin leader clasped it firmly with his own gnarly hand.
“We’ll make you proud of us yet, Prince Rupert.”
“I already am,” said Rupert. “I already am.”
The goblin leader nodded quickly, and then turned and stalked back into the shadows, and was gone. Within seconds, the rest of the goblins had also disappeared from the corridor, sliding back into the darkness as silently as they had arrived. Rupert found his eyes were a little too moist, and blinked rapidly until the feeling went away, and only then did he turn back to face the rest of his party. The King looked at him strangely, but said nothing. Harald was doing his best to pretend that nothing had happened, while still trying to get the wrinkles out of his clothes. The Seneschal was leaning against the far wall, staring at the ceiling, and tapping his foot impatiently.
“Can we get on now?” he asked coldly, apparently of the ceiling. “All this conversation may be very interesting, but it’s not getting us any closer to the Armory.”
“A moment, sir Seneschal,” said the King. “You have found us a route that avoids the missing Tower?”
“Amateurs,” said the Seneschal. “I’m dealing with amateurs. Of course I’ve found us a way around it! That’s my job, remember? That’s why I was dragged out of a nice warm bed to lead you through this damn warren. Now follow me, if you please, and stay close; I’ve got more than enough to worry about, without having to waste valuable time searching for strays.”
“Of course, sir Seneschal,” said the King soothingly.
The Seneschal growled something under his breath and hobbled off down the corridor, and after a moment the others followed him. Rupert once again brought up the rear, scowling thoughtfully as he considered the Seneschal’s words. What the hell was this missing Tower, and why was it so important they avoid it? Come to that, how had the demons the Seneschal mentioned got into the South Wing in the first place? Rupert shook his head grimly. There were a lot of things he wasn’t being told; as usual. Obviously a great deal had happened during Julia’s rediscovery of the South Wing,
but then, knowing Julia, it was only to be expected that anything she was involved in would be far from easy or straightforward. Rupert smiled slightly at the thought, and then deliberately thought of something else. Thinking about Julia still hurt too much.
Lights grew few and far between as the party moved deeper into the South Wing. Corridors gave way to galleries, which gave way to halls, rotundas, and apparently endless stairways, until finally they came to the Armory. The Seneschal unlocked the great double doors and then stepped back for the King to lead the way in, but for a long moment nobody moved. Rupert stared at the Armory doors, and felt his flesh creep with something that was neither fear nor awe, but some strange mixing of the two. For almost fourteen generations, the Armory had been the weapon house of the Forest Kings. Somewhere beyond those doors lay all the mighty blades of history and legend; of heroes and villains and defeated enemies of the Realm. And somewhere, in the darkness beyond the doors, lay the Infernal Devices: Rockbreaker, Flarebright, and Wolfsbane.
Rupert glanced at the King, who had still made no move to enter the Armory. His face was tight and drawn, and beads of sweat showed clearly on his forehead beneath the crown. Rupert looked quickly at Harald, but his brother’s placid mask was firmly in place, showing nothing but a polite, patient interest. And perhaps it was only Rupert’s imagination that made him see an extra, hungry gleam in Harald’s eyes. Rupert looked back at the unlocked, inviting doors, and then stepped forward and pushed open the left-hand door. It swung smoothly back under his hand, the ancient counterweights barely whispering despite their long years of neglect. The Seneschal was quickly at his shoulder with a flaring torch as Prince Rupert entered the Armory of the Forest Kings.
The great hall stretched away before him, its boundaries lost in the gloom beyond the torch’s light. To his left and to his right and straight ahead stood blades he’d heard of all his life, but never expected to see. Rupert moved slowly forward down the narrow central aisle. Swords and axes and maces filled the weapon racks and hung proudly on the walls, their richly worked metal and leather scabbards still perfectly preserved by the Armory’s spells. Hanging beneath a simple brass plaque bearing its name was the great broadsword Lawgiver, wielded by seven Forest Kings in succession, until the blade finally became too battered and nicked to take an edge. Not far away stood the slender silver blade named Traitor, wielded by the infamous Starlight Duke during his short-lived usurpation of the throne. And more, and more … A sudden, overwhelming sense of history and ages past rushed over Rupert like an endless tide as he slowly made his way to the rear of the hall. The Forest Kingdom was a great deal older than most people realized, or cared to remember.
Many of the weapon stands lay empty and abandoned, their blades gone to arm those who presently defended the Castle against the demons. Other swords had been left behind, having seen too much wear and tear to be useful as anything more than objects of ceremony and history. But still there were thousands upon thousands of weapons, waiting patiently in their ranks for the day they would once again be drawn in defence of the Forest Land. Some blades Rupert recognized by name or reputation, while others had passed out of history completely. More than once Rupert found himself staring at some nameless sword, and wondering what tale of triumph or tragedy lay locked within the enigmatic blade. But even though he’d never seen them before, he still knew the Infernal Devices when he came to them.
They stood together in their own little alcove; three huge longswords in chased silver scabbards. Their foot-long hilts were bound with dark, stained leather, and from the size of the scabbards the blades had to be at least seven feet long, and six inches wide at the crosspiece. Rupert stood before them and knew why his skin had begun to crawl outside the Armory. The swords stank of blood. As quickly as he recognized the smell, it was gone, leaving Rupert to wonder if perhaps he’d only imagined it. The blades stood before him, cold and majestic, and apparently no more dangerous than any other sword. But still Rupert felt a deep-rooted sense of forboding, as though close at hand some ancient and awful creature was stirring uneasily in its sleep. He shook his head angrily to clear it, and reached for the nearest blade. The Seneschal quickly grabbed him by the arm and pulled him back.
“I wouldn’t, Sire; the swords are Protected. Try and touch one before the spell is removed, and we’ll be carrying what’s left of you out of here in a bucket.”
“Of course, sir Seneschal,” said Rupert. “I didn’t think.” He could feel his face burning, and silently damned himself for a fool. It should have been obvious, even to him, that blades as powerful as the Infernal Devices wouldn’t have been left unguarded. “I take it there is a counterspell?”
“There is,” said the King. “I learned it from my father, as he learned it from his. I never thought I’d have to use it.”
Rupert and the Seneschal moved aside to let King John approach the Infernal Devices. Harald held back a way, watching closely from behind his mask of indifference. The King stood a while before the three great swords, and then, finally, he said three words in a harsh, guttural language unlike anything Rupert had ever heard before. The King’s words seemed to hang on the air, echoing and re-echoing. And then the swords answered him.
Rupert’s hackles rose as the soft, eerie voices came to him from everywhere and nowhere, rising and falling and blending into strange and unnatural harmonies that seemed to hint at meaning without ever achieving it. The result was complex, liquid, and altogether inhuman. The King spoke occasionally in reply, his voice harsh and strained in comparison to the gentle, almost seductive speech of the swords. And then the blades fell suddenly silent. The King’s voice took on a strange, unpleasant rhythm, and then fell to an almost inaudible whisper. The hall grew steadily colder, and Rupert watched his breath steam on the air before him. The old runes etched into the silver scabbards seemed to writhe and curl like living things, and Rupert felt a sudden sense of pressure nearby, as though something was fighting to break out … or in. The air stank of freshly spilled blood. Something moved in the shadows beyond the torch’s uncertain light. And then the King forced out three last words, and the Infernal Devices laughed softly; a greedy, eager sound. Rupert shuddered sickly, as though just hearing the sound had somehow dirtied him. The last of the echoes died quickly away, and all was still and quiet again. The torchlight flared and flickered, but the shadows were only shadows. The air grew warmer, and the overwhelming stench of blood was nothing more than an unquiet memory. King John stared impassively at the Infernal Devices, and when he finally spoke, his voice was once again calm and even.
“Three swords,” he said quietly. “One for each of the Royal line, to wield against the endless night. I choose … Rockbreaker.”
“And may God deliver us from evil,” whispered the Seneschal.
King John reached out and took the left-hand sword from the stand. The giant blade appeared almost weightless in his hand, but he made no move to draw it from its scabbard. He simply stared at it for a moment, and then slung it over his left shoulder and strapped it firmly in place. The blade hung down his back, the tip a bare inch above the floor, its long hilt standing up behind the King’s head. He hitched his shoulder once, to settle the weight more comfortably, and then stepped back and gestured for Harald to make his choice.
Harald approached the two remaining swords cautiously. His eyes flickered from one blade to the other, undecided, but finally his gaze came to rest on the right-hand sword. His mask of unconcern suddenly fell away, revealing a harshly lined face with dark, determined eyes, and a grim smile that had nothing at all of humor in it. “Flarebright,” said Harald softly, reading the ancient runes graven into the sword’s crosspiece. “I choose Flarebright.” He took the sword from the stand and slung it quickly over his left shoulder, fumbling at the buckles in his eagerness until the Seneschal had to help him.
King John gestured for Rupert to approach the weapon stand. Rupert looked at the one remaining sword, but stayed where he was. Go ahead, whispered a vo
ice deep inside him. It’s only a sword. The silver scabbard gleamed enticingly in the torch’s unsteady glow. Wolfsbane. A sword of power.
And Rupert stood again in the Coppertown pit, holding up his sword, calling and calling for a help that never came.
“No,” he said finally, and turned away. “I don’t trust magic swords anymore. Let someone else have it.”
“Take the sword,” said King John. “You are of the Royal line; the sword is yours by right and duty. The people need symbols to follow into battle.”
“No,” said Rupert. “There are some things I won’t do, father; not even for duty.”
“Take the sword!” snapped the King. “That’s an order!”
“Go to hell,” said Rupert, and walked away. His footsteps echoed dully on the silence as he made his way back down the central aisle. All around him, the swords of countless heroes watched reproachfully as he turned his back on them. Rupert walked on, his head held high. He’d done enough, more than enough; no one had a right to ask anything more of him. He’d face the demons again because he had to, but he’d do it with honest steel in his hand, not the foul and terrible evil he’d sensed in the Infernal Devices. A wave of bone-deep weariness surged slowly through him, and Rupert wondered if he had time for just one more hour’s sleep before dawn. He was so damn tired … He shook his head and smiled wryly. There’d be plenty of time for rest after the battle, one way or another. All the time in the world. He walked out of the Armory and into the corridor, and Lord Darius was waiting for him.
Blue Moon Rising (Darkwood) Page 43
