The unicorn struggled on, step by step. Rupert’s sword arm rose and fell in steady butchery. The Castle drew gradually closer… and still the demons came. Forty yards. Thirty. Twenty-five. We might just make it after all, thought Rupert. We might just make it! Eerie, distorted faces loomed out of the darkness around him, and he cut at them automatically with his sword. A slow, heavy thudding began somewhere far behind him, a deep muffled sound, like the beating of a giant heart. At first Rupert thought it was thunder, and it wasn’t until the ground itself began to shake in time to the deep bass rhythm that he realised he was listening to the sound of something indescribably huge and heavy moving slowly through the Darkwood after him. Rupert risked a quick glance back over his shoulder, but the impenetrable darkness turned aside his gaze with contemptuous ease. And then the hair on the back of his neck rose as a vile, choking roar sounded on the long night, a deafening bellow of unthinking malevolent rage. The ground shook violently as the creature drew nearer, and Rupert realised that something different was coming out of the darkness, something huge and old and unspeakably powerful. He remembered the great white worm he’d fought in the Coppertown pit, and urged the unicorn on.
Light blazed suddenly in the long night, throwing back the dark, as the High Warlock finally unleashed his power. Trees were uprooted and thrown aside, and demons died howling silently as a vast invisible force slammed them to the ground and crushed the life from them. The earth rose and fell like a great slow wave as the Warlock’s magic moved across it, and deep in the darkness something huge howled in pain and fear. Rupert shuddered as he felt the Warlock’s power pulsing on the fetid air, coursing through the darkness, wild and unstoppable. There was something primal and savage in the magic the High Warlock had set loose in the world, something held at bay only by the Warlock’s will. It seethed and crackled on the air, destroying everything outside of Rupert’s party, and yet somehow, deep in his soul, Rupert knew that it was only the High Warlock who kept this awful power from flying free to attack the Castle and the Forest and all that was, in one vast orgy of destruction. The demons fled back into the darkness, and the power followed them. Rupert slowly lowered his sword, and the unicorn broke into a ragged trot as he realised the way to the Castle was clear again. The Warlock flew after them, slowly twisting and turning in mid-air, as though in response to a wind only he could feel.
Rupert swayed in the saddle as the Castle Keep loomed up before him, and he knew the last of his strength was finally running out. He clenched his fingers round his swordhilt, desperate not to drop it, and something squat and hairy and many-legged came flying out of the darkness and dropped on to the unicorn’s neck. The unicorn staggered, and almost fell. The demon clung tenaciously, its weight almost forcing the unicorn to a halt. Thin runnels of blood trickled down the unicorn’s neck as the demon’s barbed legs tightened their grip. The unicorn reared up and shook his head fiercely, neighing shrilly as the demon clawed for his eyes.
Rupert struggled to stay in the saddle, and cut viciously at the demon with his sword. The blade sliced clean through the clinging creature, but it didn’t die. No blood ran from the wide cut, and even as Rupert watched, the edges of the wound knitted together and were gone. Rupert drew back his sword for another blow, and the demon’s squat body writhed and flowed from one loathsome shape to another as it slithered along the unicorn’s neck towards him. It left a trail of tiny blood wounds on the unicorn’s pale white skin, as though its belly concealed hundreds of little sucking mouths. Somehow the unicorn still staggered on, shrieking and neighing piteously, half out of his mind with shock and pain. Rupert cut at the demon again and again, aiming his blows carefully to avoid harming the unicorn, but still the creature wouldn’t die. Mismatched arms and legs sprouted continuously from its hairy body, and were as quickly reabsorbed. Rupert ran the demon through from end to end, and it surged forward along the blade to seize his sword arm with half a dozen bony hands. Its touch burned like acid. Two sickly yellow eyes peered at him over a wide slavering mouth filled with hundreds of sliding, grating teeth. Rupert swore grimly, and struck at the creature with his numb left arm. The fingers of his left hand sank deep into the demon’s flesh, just above its eyes, and then slowly started to close. The demon struggled to break free, but Rupert somehow ignored the mounting pain that seared through his arm and shoulder again, and concentrated on forcing his hand deeper and deeper into the demon’s flesh. His fingers suddenly came alive, screaming agony with every movement, but past the pain he could feel something soft and yielding pulsing frantically in his hand—the demon’s heart. The creature released his sword arm and launched itself at his throat, its slavering mouth stretched impossibly wide. Rupert laughed, and with the last of his strength, threw the demon to the ground. The unicorn trampled it under his hooves again and again, neighing hysterically. The demon finally stopped moving, and the unicorn rushed blindly for the Castle.
The ice-covered moat lay straight ahead, and within moments the unicorn’s hooves were drumming loudly on the ancient sturdy wood of the drawbridge. Rupert shook his aching head to clear it. He hadn’t seen the drawbridge being lowered. The Champion had already entered the Keep, and was standing before the closed inner doors, hammering on them with his mailed fist. The doors swung slowly open before him. Rupert entered the Keep, and then reined in his unicorn, and waited impatiently for the doors to open wide enough to admit him. He heard a movement behind him, and looked back over his shoulder. Ten guardsmen were slowly approaching the drawbridge, exhaustion showing in their every movement. What remained of their armour was soaked in blood, but every one of them still carried his sword. The High Warlock floated slowly after them, power surging from him in great shimmering waves that bowed the huge trees like a mighty gale. Demons lay writhing on the ground as his magic moved over them, their bodies melting and running away into the gore-spattered earth. The Champion yelled that the doors were finally open, and the unicorn lurched forward. Rupert brandished his sword defiantly at the darkness, and rode through the gatehouse into the safety of the Castle courtyard. The doors started to close behind him.
“No!” yelled Rupert, his voice almost inhumanly harsh from pain and fatigue. “Leave the doors! My men are still out there!”
“To hell with your men!” screamed back a furious man-at-arms. “There are demons out there! Close the doors!”
He broke off suddenly as Rupert reined the unicorn in beside him, and then leaned forward and set the point of his sword at the man-at-arms’ throat. Their eyes met, and the man-at-arms’ objections died away to nothing. He stared up at the torn and bloodied figure leaning over him and knew, beyond any doubt, that this man was more dangerous than any creature from the Darkwood.
“Those doors are staying open till all my men are in,” said Rupert. “Now give the order, or I swear I’ll cut you down where you stand.”
“Hold the doors!” yelled the man-at-arms. “And stand by to repel demons, we’ve got men coming in!”
Rupert lowered his sword and turned away to stare out into the darkness, the man-at-arms already forgotten. His men were finally coming home, and tired and battered and bloodied as he was, a grim pride welled up in him as his ten remaining guardsmen helped each other across the drawbridge and into the courtyard, waving away all offers of help from the Castle men-at-arms. Even after all they’d been through, after all the Darkwood had thrown at them, they were still determined to finish their journey on their own two feet. The High Warlock’s light suddenly flickered and went out, and he flew down to stand in the middle of the drawbridge, glaring out into the darkness. The High Magic he’d unleashed no longer beat upon the air, but some trace of its ancient power still remained, lending his short frame a dark and brooding dignity. Demons gathered on the edge of the Castle’s pool of light, but made no move to approach the Warlock. He turned his back on them, and stalked through the Keep and into the courtyard. The demons surged forward.
Men-at-arms howled orders to the gatehouse, and the
two huge double doors swung slowly together. Rupert just had time to glimpse the drawbridge rising into the air, already overrun with clinging demons, and then the great oaken doors slammed shut, and men rushed forward to slide the heavy steel bolts into position. Rupert finally sheathed his sword, and slumped exhausted in the saddle. Thousands of demons pounded frustratedly on the outer walls of the Castle, the deafening sound rising and falling like a never-ending roll of thunder. And far away, deep in the rotten heart of the darkness, something awful and inhuman howled its cheated rage.
Rupert swung down unsteadily from his saddle, managed a few uncertain steps, and then sat down suddenly with his back to the inner wall. Even through twenty feet of solid stone, he could still feel a faint vibration from the demons hammering on the outer wall. He cradled his left arm in his lap, and for the first time in too many months, allowed himself to relax. His head was swimming madly, he was starting to shake with delayed shock and reaction, and only the jagged pain in his left shoulder kept him from passing out on the spot, hut he didn’t give a damn. He was back in the Forest Castle, and that was all that mattered. For good or bad, whatever the consequences, he’d come home.
Bit by bit the demons stopped their assault on the Castle wall, and die great roar of sound slowly died away to an unbroken silence that was somehow even more ominous. Rupert closed his eyes and just let himself drift for a moment. He’d done everything he’d been asked to do, and now he was entitled to a rest. Just for a while. A quiet, tired whickering close at hand jerked his eyes open again, and he looked up to see the unicorn standing beside him, his great bony head hanging wearily down, his hooded crimson eyes staring at nothing. Rupert smiled fondly at the animal.
“Good run, unicorn,” he said hoarsely.
The unicorn snorted, and fixed him with a sardonic eye. “You’ll never see better, that’s for sure. I’ve never run that fast in my life. It’s amazing what you can do when you have to. How are you feeling?”
“Awful, bordering on lousy. I think I’d kill for a drink of water. Assuming I could find the energy.”
“Never mind the malingering, where’s that barley you promised me.”
Rupert managed a kind of laugh, and for the first time found the strength to raise his head and look about him. The courtyard was packed with people from wall to wall, farm folk, villagers and townspeople who must have fled to the Castle for protection when the demons overran their homes. Refugees from the long night, they huddled together in small family groups, their few remaining possessions scattered around them in pathetic little heaps. Open fires burned fitfully throughout the courtyard, fighting off the dark winter with a little heat and light. But still the courtyard remained bitter cold, and dark shadows gathered between the fires. There were a few ragged tents and lean-tos, providing an illusion of privacy, but little actual shelter. Animals wandered freely from fire to fire, grubbing quietly for what scraps of food they could find. With so many people and animals packed together the smell was appalling, but nobody seemed to notice. They were too used to it.
The worst part was the silence. People huddled together for warmth and comfort, but said nothing. They just stared lethargically into their fires, with eyes that had seen too much horror and too little hope, and waited for the darkness to come and take them. Rupert smiled sourly. Even the Castle walls, and the magic they contained, weren’t enough to keep out all of the Darkwood’s influence. Fear and uncertainty and despair hung upon the air like a thick choking fog, reflected clearly in the helpless terror that showed in every refugee’s face. Darkness had entered their souls, and laid its mark upon them. Rupert looked away. After all his travels, and despite everything he’d faced and accomplished, he’d still failed in his mission. He’d got back too late. The Blue Moon had risen, and the Forest had fallen to the endless night. And out of the fifty men who’d followed him on his quest to the Dark Tower, only ten had returned.
I tried, thought Rupert dejectedly. At least I tried.
He fought off a wave of self-pity that would have drowned him if he’d let it. He’d feel sorry for himself later, when he had the time. He hadn’t reported to the King yet, and he ought to take a look at his men and make sure they were all right. They’d had a rough time of it, at the end. Rupert looked around for the Champion, but he was nowhere in sight. No doubt he’d gone straight to the King, to inform him of the High Warlock’s return. Rupert frowned. As leader of the party, it was his place to report on the mission, not the Champion’s. At the very least, the Champion should have checked with him first. Rupert smiled grimly as the answer came to him. The Champion had sworn to obey his orders only until the mission was over. Now they were back at the Castle, Rupert was once again nothing more than a second son, and what little control he’d had over the Champion was at an end. In fact, he’d do well to start watching his back again. Boots scuffed on the cobblestones close at hand, and Rupert looked up to find the man-at-arms from the gates glaring down at him. Tall, broad-shouldered and muscular, he would have been an impressive sight even without the anger that darkened his scarred face. He was carrying a rusty-headed pike in two huge hands, and behind him stood several more men-at-arms, all of them cold-eyed and menacing. Rupert stared at them calmly.
“You want something?”
“My name’s Chane,” said the man-at-arms from the gates. “Remember me? Thought you might. You could have got us all killed, you stupid bastard, just for a few damn guards! I don’t know what the hell you were doing out there, or how you got the gates open, but by the time we’re finished with you, you’re going to wish the demons had got to you first.”
Great, thought Rupert. I fight my way through half the demons in the Darkwood, just to get beaten up by my own men-at-arms. Typical.
He rose unsteadily to his feet, his left arm hanging limp and useless at his side. The unicorn moved in beside him to protect him. Chane hefted his pike, grinning unpleasantly. And then ten dirty, bloodstained guards burst out from the surrounding refugees to stand between Rupert and the unicorn and their attackers. Chane and his friends took one look at the grim figures confronting them, and started to back away. There was a sudden echoing rasp of steel on leather as the guards drew their swords, and the men-at-arms backed away even faster.
“That’s our leader you’re threatening,” said one of the guards quietly. Rupert recognised him as Rob Hawke, the Bladesmaster. “He brought us back from the dark. If he hadn’t stopped you, you’d have slammed those gates in our faces and left us to die out there. So, you can either lower those pikes, or you can eat them. Got it?”
“Who the hell are you people?” blustered Chane, his eyes darting nervously from one grim-faced guard to another.
“How long have you been a man-at-arms in this Castle?” asked a cold, familiar voice, and Rupert looked round to find the Champion at his side, his war axe in his hands.
Chane’s jaw dropped, and all the colour drained from his face in a second. “Sir Champion…” he whispered faintly. “They told us you were dead! But… if you’re alive, then he must be …”
He stared wide-eyed at Rupert, who smiled sardonically back. And then, to Rupert’s utter amazement, Chane lowered his pike, knelt hefore him, and bowed his head. The other men-at-arms did the same.
“Forgive me, Sire,” said Chane, his voice breaking with emotion. “Forgive me for not recognising you, but it’s been so long … we’d given up all hope … everyone said you were dead! Everyone!”
“Well I’m not,” said Rupert shortly. “Or if I am, I’m a bloody thirsty ghost.”
Rob Hawke immediately offered Rupert his canteen. Rupert nodded gratefully to the guard, and sheathed his sword. He took the canteen, pulled out the stopper with his teeth, and sucked greedily at the lukewarm water. He’d never known water to taste so good. His thirst finally died away, and he reluctantly handed the canteen back. Chane and the other men-at-arms were still kneeling before him, and he gestured uncomfortably for them to get up. Their continued devotion was becom
ing embarrassing.
“Welcome back, Sire,” said Chane, rising quickly to his feet, his eyes shining with something that might almost have been religious awe. “Welcome home, Prince Rupert.”
His words echoed loudly on the stillness, and then a murmur ran quickly through the crowded refugees. Heads turned to stare in Rupert’s direction, and here and there people stood up to get a better look. The murmur ran swiftly back and forth, growing louder all the time, building to a roar. Within seconds everyone in the courtyard was on their feet and advancing on Rupert, laughing and cheering and chanting his name over and over again. Rupert’s guards moved forward instinctively to protect him, and Chane and his men-at-arms were quick to join them, forming a human barrier between Rupert and the heaving, cheering throng. Rupert shrank back against the Castle wall, staring about him in bewilderment as the crowd pressed forward against his line of guards. Everywhere he looked there were shouting, cheering faces, many streaked with tears. Some of the refugees were actually jumping up and down with joy. Rupert looked to the Champion.
“What the hell is going on here?”
The Champion smiled. “Apparently we were all given up for dead long ago, and with your mission to the Dark Tower a failure, what hope was there for the Forest Kingdom? But now here you are, back from the long night at the last possible moment, bringing with you the legendary High Warlock, who will of course put everything to rights again with one wave of his hand. You’re the answer to all their prayers, Sire.”
Rupert snorted. “Are you going to tell them the bad news, sir Champion, or shall I?”
The Champion smiled dourly. The refugees were pressing forward again, paying no attention to the guards’ warnings, or their drawn swords. The crowd’s voice was slowly changing, becoming desperate and angry. Rupert wasn’t just a returned hero, he was also their Prince; they wanted to know where he’d been, what had happened to him, why the journey had taken so long, why he hadn’t returned in time to save them from the darkness. They didn’t see the blood and tiredness on him, they saw only the hero and saviour they wanted to see, the miracle-worker who would throw back the demons, defeat the long night, and make everything the way it used to be. Their voices became querulous and demanding, and they pushed and shoved at one another, jostling the guards and reaching out to try to touch Rupert himself, to compel his attention. The crowd’s voice changed yet again, becoming harsh and ugly as the refugees slowly realised Rupert wasn’t making them the promises they wanted to hear. Different factions tried to outshout each other, some pleading for more food or water for their families or their livestock, others demanding living quarters inside the Castle, away from the dark. Their voices rose and rose as they demanded hope and comfort and answers Rupert didn’t have. He tried to talk to them, to explain, but they were too busy shouting to listen. Rupert couldn’t really blame them; he was so tired and confused that his explanations didn’t make much sense even to him. The refugees surged angrily back and forth, their cheering excitement of only a few moment before gone, as though it had never been. The guards looked to Rupert for orders as the crowd pressed forward yet again.
Blue Moon Rising Page 36
