Blue Moon Rising

by Simon R. Green

  But she was still bored, and even a little lonely. The Ladies-in-Waiting weren’t talking to her, the courtiers had disowned her, and the guards wouldn’t duel with her any more because it made them look bad when they lost. So, when King John summoned her to Court, she went. It was something to do.

  Julia glowered at the closed Court doors, and her hand dropped to her side, where her swordhilt used to be. Her scowl deepened as her hand clutched aimlessly at nothing. Even after all this time she still felt naked without a sword on her hip, but the King had been adamant about her not wearing a sword in the Castle, and she’d grown tired of arguing. And so the sword Rupert had given her in the Darkwood now lay locked away in her bedchamber, unused except for sword drill. Julia sighed moodily. It wasn’t as if she needed the sword anyway. And she still had her dagger, tucked securely into the top of her boot.

  Julia slouched in her chair, and stared gloomily round the antechamber. She was tempted just to get up and leave, but her curiosity wouldn’t let her. King John had to have some good reason for suddenly requiring her presence at Court, and Julia had an uneasy feeling that when she found out what it was, she wasn’t going to like it. So she gritted her teeth, and stayed put. She smiled slightly as her roving gaze fell upon the locked double doors again. The carpenters had done their best, but though the sturdy oaken doors had been carefully re-hung, nothing short of total replacement would ever hide the deep scars and gouges left by the dragon’s claws.

  Julia frowned as the steady murmur of raised voices continued to seep past the closed doors. The courtiers had been shouting at each other when she first arrived, and it seemed they were still going strong. The sound was just loud enough to be intriguing without being understandable, and Julia decided she’d had enough. She leapt to her feet, glared round the sparsely furnished antechamber, and then grinned evilly as an idea struck her. Keep her waiting, would they? She studied the hanging tapestries for a moment, pulled down the ugliest, and stuffed it into the narrow gap between the doors and the floor. She then removed one of the flaring torches from its holder, knelt down, and carefully set light to the tapestry.

  It burned well, giving off thick streamers of smoke, and Julia replaced the torch in its holder and waited impatiently for the Court to notice. For a time the flames leapt and crackled to no effect, and Julia had just started to wonder if a little lamp oil might not help things along, when the Court fell silent. There was the briefest of pauses, and then the silence was broken by piercing shrieks and yells of ‘Fire!’ Julia smiled complacently as through the doors wafted the unmistakable sounds of panic: swearing, shouting and running in circles. The doors flew open to reveal Harald, who nodded to Julia and then emptied a pitcher of table wine over the burning cloth, dousing the flames instantly.

  “Hello, Julia,” he said casually. “We’ve been expecting you.”

  She pushed past him. He grinned and goosed her, and then ducked quickly to avoid the dagger that nearly took his ear off.

  “That one wasn’t even close,” he chided her, staying carefully just out of reach as he led her through the flustered courtiers. “Does that mean you’re mellowing towards me?”

  “No,” said Julia. “It means I need to practise more.”

  Harald laughed, and brought her before the throne. King John glared at her tiredly.

  “Princess Julia, why can’t you knock, like everyone else?”

  “I’ve been kept waiting for almost an hour!” snapped Julia.

  “I do have other business to attend to, apart from you.”

  “Fine, I’ll come back when you’ve finished.”

  She turned to leave, and found her way blocked by half a dozen heavily armed guards.

  “Princess Julia,” said the King evenly, “your attitude leaves much to be desired.”

  “Tough,” said Julia. She glared at the guards, and then turned reluctantly back to the throne. “All right, what do you want?”

  “For the moment, just wait quietly while I finish my other business. Harald can keep you company.”

  Julia sniffed disdainfully, hitched up her ankle-long dress, and sat down at the bottom of the steps leading up to the throne. The marble step was cold, even through the thick carpeting, but Julia was damned if she was going to stand around until the King was ready to talk to her. It was a matter of principle. Harald came and sat down beside her, still keeping just out of arm’s reach. Julia smiled slightly, drew her dagger from her boot, and cut tick-tack-toe lines into the carpet between them. Harald grinned, drew a dagger from his boot, and carved a cross in the centre square. King John decided not to notice.

  He closed his eyes briefly, and then turned his attention to the three men waiting before his throne with varying degrees of patience. He’d had dealings with Sir Blays before, but the two other Landsgraves were new to him. All three had arrived together, which implied the Barons had finally agreed on a common course of action, but judging from the way the three Landsgraves watched each other all the time it was an uneasy alliance at best. King John smiled slowly, and settled back in his throne. Divide and conquer, that was the way. Get them arguing among themselves, and their own vested interests would tear them apart.

  He studied the three Landsgraves carefully, taking his time. It wouldn’t do to have them thinking they could rattle him. Sir Blays took the centre position, a short, stocky man with close-cropped grey hair and deep, piercing eyes. Calm, sober and soft-spoken, he cultivated an air of polite consideration, which fooled only those who didn’t know him. King John had known him for almost twenty years.

  The impressively muscled figure waiting impatiently to the right of Sir Blays had to be Sir Bedivere. Rumour had it he’d killed a dozen men in duels. There were whispers that he’d provoked the duels deliberately, for the sport of it, but no one had said that to the man’s face. He was young and darkly handsome, in a self-indulgent way, and the King didn’t miss the weakness that showed in Sir Bedivere’s puffy eyes and pouting lower lip. Some day he’d be a possible replacement for the Champion; if he lived that long.

  The quiet, timid figure to the left of Sir Blays was Sir Guillam, a man so ordinary in appearance as to be practically invisible. Tall rather than short, and perhaps a little on the skinny side, his round, open face had no more character in it than a baby’s. His thinning hair was a mousy brown, neatly parted in the centre. His pale grey eyes blinked nervously as he shifted uncomfortably under the King’s gaze, and King John hid a smile behind his hand. Sir Guillam was a familiar type: he’d obey whatever instructions he’d been given to the letter, mainly because he wasn’t bright enough to do anything else. Such emissaries were easy to confuse, and even easier to manipulate. And then Sir Bedivere suddenly stepped forward, and bowed deeply to the throne.

  “Your majesty, if I might beg a moment of your time …”

  “Of course, Sir Bedivere,” said the King graciously. “You are the new Landsgrave of Deepwater Brook demesne?”

  “Aye, Sire; I speak for the Copper Barons.”

  “And what do they wish of me this time?”

  “Only what they’ve always wished, Sire—justice.”

  A ripple of laughter ran through the courtiers, dying quickly away as the Landsgrave stared coldly about him. Easily six foot six tall, his broad shoulders and massive frame might even have given the Champion himself pause. Sir Bedivere swept the packed Court with a challenging gaze, and then dismissed them all with a contemptuous toss of his head, as not worthy of his attention.

  “Justice …” said the King mildly. “Could you be more specific?”

  “The Copper Barons must have more men, Sire. Demons are overrunning the mining towns, destroying everything in their path. Refugees line the roads, more every day. We can’t even feed them all, let alone give them shelter when the night falls. Already, there have been riots in the towns. Most of our guards are dead, killed trying to hold back the demons. What few men we have left can’t hope to maintain law and order. The Copper Barons respectfully dem
and that you send a substantial part of your Royal Guard to help drive back the darkness that threatens us.”

  The King stared at the Landsgrave. “So far, I have sent your masters almost five hundred guardsmen. Are you telling me they’re all dead?”

  “Yes,” said Sir Bedivere. A shocked murmur rustled through the courtiers.

  “They died fighting demons?”

  “Aye, Sire.”

  “How many of the Barons’ own men rode out against the dark?”

  Sir Bedivere frowned. “I don’t quite see …”

  “How many?”

  “I really couldn’t say,” said the Landsgrave shortly. “A great many guards had to stay behind to protect the town and maintain order …”

  “I see,” said the King. “My men died, while the Barons’ guards stayed safe behind stout town walls.”

  “This is all quite irrelevant,” said Sir Bedivere calmly. “My masters require more men from you; how many troops will you send?”

  “I have no men to spare,” said the King flatly.

  “Is that your final answer?”

  “It is. My men are needed here. The Barons must defend themselves, as must I.”

  “They don’t have a Castle to hide in,” said Sir Bedivere loudly.

  Silence fell across the Court, the courtiers struck dumb by the open insult. Such a remark from a Landsgrave was almost a declaration of treason. Everyone looked to King John for his reaction, and it took all his years of experience and diplomacy to keep his visage calm and unmoved. A quick glance at Blays and Guillam had shown the King that he would find no support there. Their faces and their silence said more plainly than words that Bedivere spoke for all of them. The King had always known that sooner or later the Barons were bound to take advantage of the situation and turn against him, but he hadn’t thought it would be this soon. Whatever happened here today, whatever decision he made, the Copper Barons couldn’t lose. If he sent them men he couldn’t spare, that would be a clear sign of weakness, and they’d just return with even more outrageous demands. If he refused to help, the Barons would use that as an excuse to topple him from his throne, and replace him with someone more to their liking. Someone they could control. Sir Bedivere had been sent for just one purpose; to insult and humiliate King John before his Court, and make it plain to one and all that the real power in the Forest Land now resided with the Barons.

  “It’s easy to be brave behind high stone walls,” said Sir Bedivere, an unpleasant smile twisting his mouth. “My masters have only town walls and barricades to protect them from the demons. We demand you supply us with more men!”

  “Go to hell,” said the King.

  Sir Bedivere stiffened, and for a moment a red glare showed in his eyes, as though a furnace door had suddenly opened and closed. In that swift crimson gleam the King saw rage and hunger and a madness barely held in check, and he shivered, as though a cold wind had blown over him.

  “Brave words, from an old fool,” said Sir Bedivere, his voice harsh and strained. “My masters will not accept such an answer. Try again.”

  “You have my answer,” said the King. “Now leave my Court.”

  “Your Court?” said the Landsgrave. He glanced round at the hushed courtiers and grim-faced guards and men-at-arms, and then laughed, a dark, contemptuous sound. “Enjoy it while you can, old man. Sooner or later, my masters will send me back to take it away from you.”

  “Treason,” said the King mildly. “I could have your head for that, Landsgrave.”

  “Your Champion might,” smiled Sir Bedivere. “Unfortunately, he’s not here.”

  “But I am,” said Prince Harald, rising to his feet, sword in hand. The courtiers murmured in approval as Harald moved forward to stand between his father and the Landsgrave. Julia, smiled, and surreptitiously transferred her dagger to her throwing hand, just in case one of the other Landsgraves tried to interfere. Sir Bedivere studied Harald a moment, and then laughed quietly. The red glare came and went in his eyes, and he reached for his sword.

  “No!” said the King sharply. “Harald, please put away your sword. I appreciate the gesture, but he would quite certainly kill you. Please, sit down, and let me handle this.”

  Harald nodded stiffly, slammed his sword back into its scabbard, and sat down beside Julia again. She gave him a quick nod of approval, and he smiled sourly. The King leaned forward in his throne, and studied Sir Bedivere narrowly.

  “Landsgrave, you have much to learn. Did you really think you could threaten me in my own Court and get away with it? You’re a fool, Sir Bedivere, and I do not suffer fools gladly. You now have a simple choice: bow your head to me, or lose it.”

  The Landsgrave laughed, and Thomas Grey stepped forward to face him. The Astrologer raised one slender hand, and Sir Bedivere’s laugh became a scream as a sudden agony burned in his muscles. He tried to reach for his sword but the searing pain paralysed him where he stood.

  “Kneel,” said the Astrologer, and Sir Bedivere fell forward on all fours, tears of agony and helpless rage streaming down his face. The two other Landsgraves watched horrified as the giant warrior cried like a child.

  “And now, bow to your King,” said the Astrologer, and Sir Bedivere bowed. King John looked down at the sobbing, trembling Landsgrave, and found no pleasure in the sight. Instead, he felt tired and soiled and just a little sick.

  “Enough,” he muttered, and the Astrologer lowered his hand and stepped back beside the throne. Sir Bedivere collapsed, and lay shuddering on the rich carpeting as the pain slowly left him.

  King John looked slowly round his Court, but the courtiers for the most part avoided his gaze. Those few who didn’t look away showed a profound horror and disgust at what the Astrologer had done in his name. King John sighed, and glanced at the black-clad figure standing patiently beside his throne. The dark, saturnine features were calm and relaxed, with only the faintest of smiles playing around his mouth. Thomas, old friend, thought the King, what’s happening to us? We once swore we’d die rather than use such magics as these. The thought disturbed him, and he shook his head querulously, as though annoyed by a buzzing insect. His gaze fell upon Sir Bedivere, struggling to raise himself on one knee. The King gestured to two nearby men-at-arms.

  “Help the Landsgrave to his feet.”

  “No!” gasped Sir Bedivere. “I don’t need your help!”

  Slowly, painfully, he got his feet under him. He rested there a moment, breathing harshly, and then rose clumsily to stand swaying before the throne. His legs trembled uncontrollably but somehow he still held himself proudly erect. Dried tears showed clearly against the pallor of his face, but his steadfast refusal to be beaten by his own weakness lent him a kind of dignity. And then the red glare filled his eyes, and he threw himself at the King. He just made it to the steps when the Astrologer raised his hand and a bolt of lightning slammed into the Landsgrave, hurling him back from the throne. The blinding flash dazzled everyone for a moment, and when they looked again, Sir Bedivere was lying in a crumpled heap some twenty feet from the dais. Where the lightning had struck him in the chest, the intense heat had melted away his chain-mail and seared through the jerkin beneath. Thin wisps of smoke rose from the scorched leather. Sir Blays knelt beside the fallen warrior and checked his pulse and breathing.

  “He’s alive,” he said finally. “His armour protected him.”

  The King gestured to the two men-at-arms. “Get the Landsgrave out of here. Have my surgeon attend him.”

  The men-at-arms hurried forward, picked up Sir Bedivere between them, and carried him out of the Court. King John shook his head wearily, leaned back in his throne, and eyed the two remaining Landsgraves dourly.

  Sir Guillam blinked unhappily at the King and smiled tentatively, obviously out of his depth. A faint sheen of perspiration glistened on his brow, and he constantly shifted his weight from one foot to the other, like a small child too shy to ask his way to the Jakes. King John frowned, and studied Sir Guillam more care
fully. The man couldn’t be entirely useless, or the Barons wouldn’t have sent him. The King’s frown deepened as he considered the various possibilities. Sir Bedivere had already tried to kill him, so Sir Guillam could be a back-up assassin, versed in spells or poisons or curses. He could be a spy, sent to contact any disloyal elements within the Court. He might even be a highly skilled diplomat, behind the timid façade. King John smiled tightly; there was only one way to find out …

  “Sir Guillam.”

  “Aye, Sire?” The Landsgrave started violently, and peered shortsightedly at the King.

  “You are new to my Court.”

  “Aye, Sire. I’m the new Landsgrave for the Birchwood demesne. I speak for the Silver Barons.”

  “And what do they wish of me?”

  Sir Guillam glanced furtively at the sternly brooding Astrologer, and swallowed dryly. He smiled nervously at the King, and ran a finger round the inside of his collar, as though it had suddenly grown too tight.

  “The Silver Barons also … require … assistance, Sire. They need, uh …”

  What little confidence he had left seemed to desert him entirely, and he fumbled quickly for a parchment scroll tucked into his belt. He unrolled it, found he’d got it upside-down, grinned foolishly, turned the scroll the right way up, and read from it aloud.

  “My masters instruct me to inform you that they are in dire need of the following: seven troops of guardsmen from your own Royal Guard; four troops of conscript militia; weapons, mounts and supplies for these troops …”

  “That’s enough,” said the King.

  “There’s a great deal more yet,” protested Sir Guillam.