“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 in 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 Armoury.”
“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 round 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 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 Armoury. 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 Armoury 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 Armoury 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 Armoury. 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 Armoury 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 Armoury’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 wave as he slowly made his way to the rear of the hall. The Forest Kingdom was a great deal older than most people realised, or cared to remember.
Many of the weapon racks 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 racks for the day they would once again be drawn in defence of the Forest Land. Some blades Rupert recognised 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 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 Armoury. The swords stank of blood. As quickly as he recognised the smell, it was gone, leaving Rupert to wonder if perhaps he’d only imagined it. The blades stood before him, cold and majestic, apparently no more dangerous than any other word. But still Rupert felt a deep-rooted sense of foreboding, 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 to 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 Internal Devices wouldn’t have been left unguarded. “I take it there is a counter-spell?”
“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, watchi
ng closely from behind his mask of indifference. The King stood awhile 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 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 near by, 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 humour in it.
“Flarebright,” said Harald softly, reading the ancient sigils 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 voice 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 any more. 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 Armoury and into the corridor, and Lord Darius was waiting for him.
Rupert glimpsed a brief flash of light from Darius’ dagger as it sliced through the air towards him, and he threw himself desperately to one side. Darius’s blade cut through Rupert’s chain-mail as he fell, but somehow just missed his ribs. Rupert hit the floor rolling and was quickly on his feet again sword in hand as Darius came towards him, snarling and muttering to himself.
The tiny discoloured knife swept back and forth in quick, vicious arcs as Darius pressed forward, and Rupert backed away. He knew poison on a blade when he saw it, and he wasn’t about to take any chances. The extra reach of his sword should be enough to keep Darius at bay until the others answered his call.
Harald and King John appeared at the Armoury doors, and Darius snarled at them. Black dripping balefire flew from his pointing hand. Harald drew Flarebright from its scabbard and was on guard in one swift motion, and the balefire soaked into the great gleaming length of steel and was gone. Darius turned on the King, but he’d already drawn Rockbreaker. Darius stepped back from Rupert, and raised his hands in the stance of summoning. A long jagged crack appeared in the stone floor before him. A dirty blood-red mist boiled up out of the widening crack, followed by a rush of clawed and taloned devils with murder in their glowing eyes. The air was full of the stench of brimstone. Both Harald and the King froze for a moment as deep-buried atavistic terrors ran through them, and then the moment passed, and they leaped forward, roaring their war cries. Flarebright and Rockbreaker gleamed ruddy in the crimson hall light. The devils screamed and mewled as the Infernal Devices cut them down, but ever and always they rose to the attack again, their wounds healed and gone in the blinking of an eye. Harald and the King stood back to back, and fought on.
Darius turned on Rupert again, and backed him up against a wall, shifting eagerly from foot to foot as he searched for an opening in Rupert’s defence. He wanted to kill Rupert with his dagger, if he could. Feel the blade turning in the Prince’s flesh. It would be so much more satisfying. Rupert swayed back and forth to match Darius’s movements, and searched frantically for some way out of the mess he’d got himself into. There was nowhere left to retreat to, and from the look of things, Harald and the King needed his help desperately. The poisoned dagger cut at him again and again, and Rupert could feel the sweat running down his sides as he struggled to parry every blow. Darius was leaving himself wide open, but Rupert didn’t dare relax his guard long enough to make an attack. Even a scratch from that blade might be enough to kill him. On the other hand, he didn’t need the growing ache in his arms to tell him he couldn’t keep this up for long. Despite the High Warlock’s spells, he was a long way from being fully recovered from his wounds, while Darius’s strength and fury seemed never-ending. Rupert scowled. He had to do something, while he still had the energy to bring it off.
Rupert parried yet another blow, and then swung his sword in a flat, vicious arc at Darius’s eyes. Darius fell back instinctively, and Rupert threw himself at Darius’s waist, groping for Darius’s knife hand. They fell to the ground in a tangled heap, and the devils and the crack in the floor vanished in the blinking of an eye, with no trace remaining to show that they had ever been there.
Rupert and Darius scrambled to their feet. Darius laughed breathlessly, and threw himself at Rupert’s throat. Harald cut him out of mid-air with one sweep of Flarebright’s massive blade. Blood flew in a wide arc as the impact o
f the blow threw Darius crashing back against the corridor wall. The huge sword had almost cut him in two, and yet still somehow Darius tried to turn and run. Harald stepped forward, and ran him through from behind. Darius snarled once, and then slid slowly down the wall, leaving a wide smear of blood on the ancient panelwork.
Harald tried to pull the blade out of Darius’s back, but the sword wouldn’t move. A slow red flush crept up the long steel blade as Flarebright nuzzled deeper into the wound it had made. Harald tugged at the sword with both hands and finally, reluctantly, it jerked free. The whole length of the blade had acquired a grim, crimson sheen.
“Well,” said the Seneschal quietly from the Armoury doors. “If nothing else, the Infernal Devices do seem to be living up to their reputations. Barely drawn a few minutes, and already christened in blood.”
“Yes,” said Harald. “They like blood. And they love to kill.” He stared thoughtfully at Flarebright’s red-tinged steel, and then slipped the sword back into its scabbard. His face quickly regained its usual calm, but his eyes remained vague and uncertain, as though he was only just beginning to realise what he’d let himself in for. He suddenly noticed that his hands were spotted with blood, and wiped them clean on his jerkin with quick, compulsive movements.
“Anyway,” he said quietly, “the important thing is that finally we’ve caught our traitor. Darius must have let the demons into the South Wing through the air-vent tunnels he knew so well, and he must have used his new-found magic to interfere with the High Warlock’s teleport spell.” He looked down at Darius, lying broken on the ground. “Luckily, he’s no great loss. No one’s going to miss him.”
Blue Moon Rising Page 43
