Blue Moon Rising

by Simon R. Green

  The Champion hefted his war axe, his eyes cold and distant.

  “He was a traitor, Sire. A traitor, a coward and a drunk.”

  Rupert stumbled doggedly on through the freezing slush, head down to keep the sleet out of his eyes. The wind howled around him, tugging at his hood and cloak and buffeting him from every side. Rupert growled and cursed and hung on tightly to the unicorn’s reins. Every third step he looked at his right hand to make sure the reins were still there. The cold had taken all the feeling from his fingers, despite his thick gloves, and he didn’t want to get separated from the unicorn. Rupert slowly raised his head and peered slit-eyed into the rising storm. There was still no sign of the Dark Tower.

  And last month it was still summer, he thought disgustedly. What the hell’s happened to the weather?

  He staggered and almost fell as the raging wind changed direction yet again, and the unicorn moved in close to try to shield him from the worst of the storm. Rupert patted the unicorn’s neck gratefully, and glared into the swirling snow. He was worried about the unicorn. The animal was moving more and more slowly as the cold seeped into his bones, and even wrapping him in blankets hadn’t helped much. Icy crystals glistened in his mane and tail, and his harsh breathing was becoming as unsteady as his footing. Rupert knew that if they didn’t find shelter soon, cold and exhaustion would take their toll, and the unicorn would just lie down in the snow and die.

  The storm had fallen on Rupert and his company only a few minutes after they’d left the Darkwood behind them. Dark clouds had gathered as they watched, and the chill evening air grew bitter cold. Rain fell in torrents, quickly turning to sleet as the company pressed on into the rising storm. The wind rose, howling and raging, and still Rupert led his men on. He hadn’t come this far just to be beaten by the weather.

  He stamped his feet down hard with every step, trying to drive a little warmth into them. The snow fell thickly, filling the air. It was cold, and getting colder. Every now and again Rupert caught a brief glimpse of the blood-red sun, hanging low on the sky, and tried to force himself to move faster. Once the sun had dipped below the horizon, the demons would be loose in the Land. He looked back over his shoulder. His guards were trudging steadily after him, huddling together to share their body warmth. The Champion walked by himself, as always. Hoarfrost had covered his armour in silver flurries, but of all the company the cold seemed to affect him the least. His back was straight, his head erect, and his massive legs carried him tirelessly on through the deepening snowdrifts. Rupert frowned. He ought to have found the sight inspiring, but somehow he didn’t. There was something almost inhuman about the Champion’s calm refusal to bend to the wind. Rupert looked away, and stared back the way they’d come. The wind dropped suddenly, and the snow parted, taunting him with a brief glimpse of the Darkwood, covering the horizon like a monstrous shadow. Rupert scowled, and turned his back on it.

  And then the storm stopped. Rupert staggered on a few paces, before stumbling to a halt. He slowly raised his head and looked around him, the sudden silence ringing in his ears. The grass at his feet was summer green, untouched by sleet or snow. The sky was the deep blue of a summer evening, and the air was still and calm. He was standing at the edge of a wide clearing, bounded on all sides by a solid wall of flying snow. And one by one, as Rupert watched, his guardsmen stumbled out of the snow and into the summer, leaving the cold behind them. Rupert sank wearily down on to the soft grass, and stretched out his legs before him. Pins and needles savaged his hands and feet as the circulation slowly returned.

  “Sanctuary,” he said slowly. “We’ve found sanctuary, unicorn.”

  “I wouldn’t be so sure of that,” said the unicorn. “Look over there.”

  Rupert followed the unicorn’s gaze. In the centre of the clearing, atop a small hillock, stood a tower. Some forty feet tall, it was built entirely from a dark grey stone, battered and eroded by the passage of time. Ivy crawled across the stonework, and hung like curtains over the shuttered windows.

  “The Dark Tower,” said the Champion quietly. “I always imagined it would be taller.”

  Rupert looked up, startled, and then scrambled to his feet and glared at the Champion. “Will you stop sneaking up on me like that! My nerves are bad enough as it is.”

  “Sorry, Sire,” said the Champion calmly.

  One of these days… thought Rupert, and then shook his head resignedly. “All right, sir Champion, get the men settled and check we haven’t lost anyone to the storm. I’ll tell the High Warlock we’re here.”

  The Champion bowed slightly, and moved away to take charge of the small knot of guardsmen, who were warily studying the Dark Tower with their swords in their hands. Rupert smiled grimly, he knew exactly how they felt. He pushed back his hood, and beat the snow from his cloak. He eased his sword in its scabbard, and sighed softly. He was just putting off the moment when he’d have to face the High Warlock, and he knew it. He also knew he daren’t put it off any longer. The evening was still pleasantly warm in the clearing, but the light was fading fast. While there was obviously some kind of magic holding back the storm, there was no guarantee it was strong enough to keep the demons out once night fell. He had to get his men safely under cover, and there was only one way to do that. Rupert sighed again, pushed back his cloak so that it wouldn’t get in the way of his sword hand, and started slowly up the slight incline that led to the Dark Tower.

  “Watch your back,” called the unicorn quietly, and then lowered his head to crop tiredly at the thick grass.

  Rupert circled the tower twice, but although he counted no less than seventeen of the shuttered windows, there was no sign of any door. The windows themselves varied from less than a foot in width to over a yard, the lowest of them set into the brickwork a good five or six feet from the base of the tower. Rupert stopped in front of one of the lower-set windows, and frowned thoughtfully. The High Warlock had always been somewhat … eccentric.

  Not to mention drunken and bad-tempered. During his many years at the Forest Castle, the High Warlock’s excesses had been almost as legendary as his magic. His main interests had always been wine and women, not necessarily in that order, and an uncomfortable regard for the truth, none of which had endeared him to Castle Society. When King John finally exiled the High Warlock, everyone for miles around breathed a heartfelt sigh of relief and stopped locking up their daughters and their wine cellars. Rupert bit his lip, scowling. For as long as he could remember, no one had ever talked openly about why the High Warlock had been exiled. He’d been a resident at Court since Eduard’s time, and had been a tutor to King John; apart from Thomas Grey, the Warlock had always been the King’s most honoured adviser. And then Queen Eleanor died.

  Within the hour, the High Warlock had gathered his few possessions and ridden off into the Forest. As soon as he heard, King John summoned his Court and read the Edict of Banishment upon the Warlock. Tears of anger and despair streamed down the King’s face as he formally denied the High Warlock food or water, friendship or lodging, within the boundaries of the Forest Land. It wasn’t long before travellers brought the news that the High Warlock had settled in an old border tower, on the far side of the Forest. Rupert could still remember the look on his father’s face when the Champion had finally confirmed the news. At the time he’d been too young to understand the emotion he’d seen so clearly, but looking back, he now recognised it as helpless rage. The Warlock had defied the Edict, and there was nothing the King could do about it. He did try, for his pride’s sake.

  He summoned magicians to him from the Sorcerers’ Academy, but all their spells and curses came to nothing against the High Warlock’s power. He sent a troop of guards to tear down the Warlock’s tower. They never came back. And so, finally, the King turned to other matters, and the Warlock was left to himself. Time passed, and dark tales grew about the Dark Tower, and the magics the High Warlock practised there. But though there were many tales, there were few facts, and as the long years pas
sed and the Warlock never left his tower, he gradually faded out of history and into legend, becoming just another bogeyman that harried mothers could use to frighten their children into obedience.

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

  Soft footsteps sounded behind him, and he dropped his hand to his swordhilt as he looked quickly round. The Champion stared past Rupert at the tower, and smiled coldly.

  “Snakes have their holes, rats have their nests, and the Warlock is still in his tower. He never did care much for the light of day. Have you found the door, Sire?”

  “There doesn’t seem to be one, sir Champion.”

  The Champion raised an eyebrow, and then reached up and knocked loudly on the shutters of the nearest window. For a long moment nothing happened, and then the shutters flew open to reveal a grey-haired old man dressed in sorcerer’s black. He glared impartially at Rupert and the Champion, yelled “Go away!” and slammed the shutters in their faces. Rupert and the Champion exchanged glances.

  “We’re going to be polite,” said Rupert determinedly. “We can’t afford to be left stranded out here when night falls. Try again.”

  The Champion nodded, and knocked on the shutters. “Please come out, sir Warlock, we need to talk to you.”

  “No!” came the muffled reply.

  “If you don’t come out, we’ll come in and get you,” said the Champion calmly.

  “You and what army?”

  “Us and this army.”

  The shutters flew open again and the High Warlock looked past Rupert and the Champion at the twenty-five guards gathered together at the foot of the tower’s hillock. Rupert glanced back at his men, trying to see them as the Warlock would. Their armour was battered and bloodied, but they hefted their swords with a grim competence. They looked tired, disreputable, and extremely menacing; more like bandits than guardsmen. The Warlock sniffed, and fixed the Champion with his gaze.

  “This your army?”

  “Yes.”

  “Get them off my lawns or they’re all frogs.”

  The Warlock slammed the shutters again. Rupert turned to the Champion.

  “Now what do we do?”

  “Well,” said the Champion, thoughtfully, “first, we get the army off his lawns.”

  Rupert glared at the Champion’s departing back. There were times when he wondered just whose side the Champion was on. He sighed, turned reluctantly back to the closed shutters, and reached up to tap on them politely.

  “Sir Warlock? Are you still there?”

  There was no answer, and the shutters remained firmly closed. Oh great, thought Rupert disgustedly, we’ve upset him now. He looked back at his men. Under the Champion’s orders they’d sheathed their swords and moved away from the tower. They were now standing at parade rest and trying hard to look harmless. They weren’t being noticeably successful. Rupert glanced up at the darkening sky, and his frown deepened into a scowl. Night was almost upon them. Already the air was growing colder, and it seemed to Rupert that the swirling wall of snow was just a little closer to the Dark Tower than it had been. He hammered on the shutters with his fist, but still there was no reply. Rupert swore harshly. He was damned if he’d let his men face the dark again while there was shelter at hand. He studied the closed shutters thoughtfully. They didn’t look all that strong. He grinned suddenly, and carefully inserted his sword between the two shutters. It was a tight fit at first, but Rupert leaned on the sword and it slid gradually in until the crosshilt stopped it. He waited a moment, listening, but there was no reaction from the Warlock. Probably stomped off in a huff, thought Rupert hopefully. He always did have a rotten temper. Rupert hesitated, remembering the transformed messenger who now guarded the Castle moat, and then shook his head fiercely. His men needed shelter.

  He grasped the swordhilt firmly with both hands, and slowly leaned his weight against it. He knew he daren’t put too much pressure on the blade in case it snapped, but try as he might, the shutter wouldn’t give. Rupert glanced up at the evening sky. The last of the light was fading away. He glared disgustedly at the shutters, and threw his full weight against the swordhilt. The right-hand shutter flew open, and Rupert fell flat on his face. He lay still on the thick grass, his heart beating frantically, but long moments passed and there was no reaction from inside the tower. He scrambled to his feet, hanging grimly on to his sword, and looked cautiously through the open window.

  The room was a mess. Crude wooden tables and benches lined the walls, all but buried under assorted alchemical equipment. Glass retorts and earthenware beakers covered every available surface, including the bare earth floor. Half the room was taken up by a battery of stacked animal cages, each filled to bursting with noisy occupants. There were birds and monkeys, rats and salamanders, and even a few piglets. The smell was appalling. A large wrought-iron brazier squatted commandingly in the middle of the room, its coals glowing redly. And everywhere, scattered throughout the room, a forest of interconnected glass tubing that sprawled across the wooden tables, crawled along the walls, and spread its roots and tendrils wherever it could force a space.

  There was no sign of the High Warlock. Rupert sheathed his sword and pulled himself up on to the narrow window sill. He glared down at the crowded table-top below him, and carefully lowered himself into the largest gap he could find. He winced as glass cracked and shattered under his boots, and jumped hastily down on to the floor. The room seemed much bigger from the inside. It was easily thirty feet in diameter, and brightly lit by a single glowing sphere hanging unsupported on the air, just below the high raftered ceiling. Rupert frowned. From the size of the room, it had to be the entire first floor of the tower, but there didn’t seem to be any way of reaching the other floors. There was a trapdoor in the ceiling, but no obvious way of getting to it. He shrugged, and moved cautiously round the room, fascinated by the various magical paraphernalia. The caged animals studied him curiously as he passed, and one sad-eyed monkey reached out to him past the bars of its cage, as though mutely beseeching Rupert’s help. He smiled guiltily at the monkey, and moved on. A clear liquid pulsed continuously through the glass tubing, occasionally emptying out into carefully positioned beakers. Rupert leaned forward to sniff at one, and then stopped as his foot kicked against something on the floor. He stooped and picked it up. It was a human skull, with the lower jaw missing. Rupert put it down on the nearest bench, and dropped his hand to his swordhilt.

  “I don’t recall inviting you in,” said a mild voice above him, and Rupert’s heart jumped as he looked up at the ceiling. A sturdy rope ladder hung down from the open trapdoor and, as Rupert watched open-mouthed, the High Warlock climbed agilely down it to join him. Seen close up, the Warlock wasn’t particularly impressive. He was a short man, his head barely coming up to Rupert’s chest, and his black sorcerer’s garb only accentuated his bony, slender frame. Deep lines etched his narrow face, and his eyes were vague. “What are you doing here?” he asked Rupert pleasantly. “And why are all those soldiers cluttering up my view?”

  “We need your help,” said Rupert cautiously. The Warlock seemed to have entirely forgotten his previous bad temper, and Rupert didn’t want to upset him again. “The Darkwood …”

  “Terrible place,” said the Warlock. “It’s so dark.” A glass of white wine appeared in his hand from nowhere. “Care for a drop?”

  “Not right now, thank you,” said Rupert politely.

  “It’s good stuff,” insisted the Warlock. “I brew it myself.” He waved his free hand at the glass tubing, and then leaned forward confidentially. “I put a dead rat in every new barrel, to give it a little body.”

  Rupert decided not to think about that. “We can talk about the wine later, sir Warlock, right now I need your help.”

  The Warlock smiled crookedly. “Do you know who I am, young man?”

  “You’re the High Warlock,” said Rupert. “The last hope of the Forest Land.”

  The Warlock looked at Rupert sharply, all
the vagueness gone from his eyes. “Don’t you people ever learn? I don’t give a damn about the Forest Land. Your whole stinking little Kingdom can rot in hell for all I care! Now get out of here! Get out of my home and leave me in peace, damn you.”

  “That’s no way to speak to your Prince,” said a cold voice from behind Rupert. He looked quickly round, and was relieved to find the massive figure of the Champion filling the open window. The Warlock glared at the Champion, and then all the strength seemed to run out of him. He lifted his wine glass to his lips, but it was empty. His mouth worked, and he threw the glass away.

  “Why can’t you leave me alone?” he whispered. “Just go away and leave me alone.”

  “If it was up to me,” said the Champion, climbing carefully down from the window sill, “I’d leave you to hide in your hole until hell froze over. Unfortunately, the King needs you.”

  “I’m not going back,” said the High Warlock flatly. “And there’s not a damn thing you can say that will change my mind. There’s nothing to call me back to the Forest. Nothing at all.” He stopped suddenly, and for the first time looked closely at Rupert. “The Champion said you were a Prince. Are you really one of John’s boys?”

  “I’m Rupert. The younger son.”

  “Of course, Rupert. I thought you looked familiar.” The Warlock’s face softened. “You look a lot like your mother.”

  “I have twenty-five men outside,” said Rupert. “Will you give them shelter from the night?”

  “They’re safe enough out there,” said the Warlock. “No demons can pass my wards. Your men can camp outside tonight, and leave in the morning. Of course, you’re welcome to stay here, Rupert. It’s been a long time since I last saw you.”

  “Twenty-one years,” said the Champion. “Twenty-one years since you turned traitor.”