They kissed once, lingeringly, and then Julia turned and walked out of the stables, back to her waiting women. Rupert watched her go, and for the first time in a long time, he felt at peace with himself. He reached inside his chain-mail vest, and from under his jerkin he brought out a crumpled, battered handkerchief spotted with faded bloodstains. “My Lady’s favour,” he said softly. He touched the cloth to his lips, and then tucked it carefully back into place, over his heart.
“Lancers; mount up! Gate keepers; stand ready!”
The Champion’s voice came roaring across the courtyard, and for a moment the voice of the crowd fell silent, before rising again in a bedlam of shouted orders and whinnying horses. Rupert breathed deeply, straightened his shoulders, and led the unicorn out of the stables and into the courtyard.
The Champion sat astride a massive, evil-eyed charger, the torchlight gleaming ruddy on his freshly-polished armour. Impressive and invincible, he towered above the milling crowd, a hero out of legend. He gestured impatiently with his war axe, and a hundred lancers urged their horses forward to take up their position behind him. The couched lances stabbed proudly up at the starless night sky, their gleaming shafts bedecked with brightly coloured ribbons and ladies’ favours, like so many brilliant banners. The guards and men-at-arms moved in behind the lancers, laughing and joking and passing round flasks of wine. They stamped their feet against the cold, and glanced at the closed gates with eager anticipation, glad that the waiting was almost over. And behind them, bringing up the rear, came the courtiers and farmers and traders, uncomfortable in their ill-fitting armour, but quietly determined not to be found wanting when the time came. Men and women stood side by side, carrying swords and pikes and hand-axes, and no one thought it strange. Women wore fighting for the same reason as men—because they were needed, because there was no one else.
Rupert mounted his unicorn, and slowly made his way through the crowd to take his place at the head of the army. A handful of guardsmen appeared out of nowhere and formed themselves into an honour guard around him. Rupert bowed his head to them, and the the guards he’d brought back from the Darkwood saluted him with their swords.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing here?” demanded Rupert. “You should be taking it easy in your barracks, you’re walking wounded.”
“If we can walk, we’re not wounded,” said Rob Hawke. “That’s the orders. Besides, why should you have all the fun? We were just getting the hang of killing demons when you dragged us back into the Castle.”
“You know the odds are stacked against us,” Rupert began, and then had to break off as the guards laughed derisively.
“When haven’t the odds been stacked against us?” grinned Hawke. “We’re getting used to that.”
“Doomed!” moaned another guard. “We’re all doomed!”
Several of the guards started wailing a funeral dirge, but quickly grew bored and changed it to an upbeat tempo. People around them stared at the guards, and then looked hastily away. Rupert couldn’t speak for laughing. By the time the small party reached the Castle gates, he was leading his men in a bawdy marching song in which the word doomed appeared at regular intervals.
King John was kneeling beside his horse in the shadows of the inner north wall, struggling with a stubborn girth strap. His tousled grey hair was held in place by a simple leather headband, and his chain-mail bore the scars and repairs from a hundred old campaigns. Rockbreaker clung to his back as though it was a part of him, but he still wore his old, familiar sword on his left hip. The Astrologer stood beside him, watching patiently. Finally he reached down and deftly pulled the girth strap into place.
“Thanks,” said the King gruffly, getting to his feet. “Never was much good with horses.”
“You’re welcome, John.”
“I’m glad you’re here, Thomas. It seems there’s nobody else in this Castle who gives a damn whether I live or die.”
“There’s always your family.”
“Family,” said King John. “I haven’t had a family since my Eleanor died. My sons and I … aren’t what you’d call close. No reason why we should be. Harald is a brave enough fighter, and a better statesman, but his heart is as empty as a pauper’s purse. I don’t think he’d know an honest emotion if it bit him.”
“And Rupert?”
For a moment Thomas Grey thought John was going to tell him to mind his own business, and then John’s shoulders suddenly slumped, and the King looked somehow older.
“Rupert. Not once in his life has that boy done what I expected of him. He shouldn’t even be here now, by rights. When I sent him off on his quest, I never expected to see him again. Certainly, he was never supposed actually to track down and fight a dragon. He was supposed to do the sensible thing, and just keep on going into exile, as I intended. But no, he had to be different. He had to do his duty. Ah well, he’s not a bad lad, in his way.”
“Then why isn’t he here, with you?”
“No reason why he should be. Since the day he was born, he’s known nothing but loneliness and despair, and all because of me. I didn’t need or want a second son, and the Court is very quick to pick up on things like that. They made his life a misery, and I let them do it. I could have protected him, advised him … loved him. But I never did, because I always knew that one day I might have to order his death, to secure the throne for Harald. It had to be that way. The Land couldn’t survive a civil war, not so soon after the Border War with Hillsdown. And now, after all these years … I can’t help thinking the Land would be safer in Rupert’s hands than Harald’s. At least Rupert has a heart.”
John turned back to his horse, gave the stirrup a quick tug to make sure it was secure, and pulled himself up into the saddle. The horse tossed its head impatiently, eager to be off. John settled himself comfortably, refusing to be hurried, and then smiled at Thomas Grey.
“We’ll be off soon. Wish me luck.”
“Good luck, John. And watch your back.”
King John urged his horse forward, and slowly made his way through the packed ranks of the waiting army to join his sons before the Castle gates.
Rupert’s hands closed tightly on the unicorn’s reins as he watched his father moving slowly and purposefully towards him. His back muscles tensed painfully as he struggled to appear calm and unconcerned. What do you want now? he thought bitterly. There’s nothing more you can do to me, nothing left you can take from me. The guards surrounding him grew silent and watchful as the King carefully manoeuvred his horse into position, midway between Rupert and Harald. The two Princes bowed briefly to their King.
“You got here just in time, father,” said Harald smoothly. “We were becoming concerned about you.”
“Thank you, Harald,” said the King. “Now, if you’ll excuse us for a moment, I want to speak to Rupert in private.”
Harald stiffened slightly, and shot a quick searching glance at Rupert before bowing coldly, and moving his horse several yards away. He sat rigidly in the saddle, studying the huge oaken doors before him, and his face revealed nothing, nothing at all. King John Ignored him, and looked meaningfully at Rupert’s honour guard. The guardsmen stared calmly back. Several of them ostentatiously rested their hands on their swordhilts. The King smiled grimly.
“Call off your dogs, Rupert. Before I decide to have them muzzled.”
The guards looked at Rupert, who nodded reluctantly. The guardsmen bowed to him, stared coldly at the King, and then withdrew into the crowd, though not very far. Rupert studied the King thoughtfully.
“Whatever you want, father, the answer’s no.”
“You always were a cautious one, Rupert.”
“I’ve been given enough cause.”
The King looked away, unable to meet Rupert’s steady gaze. His horse fidgeted uneasily as the King’s hands played aimlessly with the reins.
“Rupert …”
“Father.”
“How long now, before we go out?”
�
��A few minutes, at most.”
“Do you hate me, son?”
The sudden question caught Rupert off guard, and he stumbled over his reply. “Sometimes, I suppose. You’ve given me damn all reason to love you, but … you’re the King, and the Land must come first. I’ve always known that.”
“Politics,” sighed the King. “It all seems so petty now, set against the long night waiting outside our walls. I’ve always done my best for the Land, done what I believed was right, even when it cost me the things I treasured most, but none of the things I fought for seem to matter much any more. Rupert, you’re my son, my blood and kin, and I want you to know that I’m proud of you. Despite … many things, you have always been true to the Land, and your duty.”
“Why wait till now to tell me?” said Rupert. “Why not tell me when it mattered, just once, in front of the Court!”
“And make you even more of a target for the Court intrigues?” said the King softly. “I kept you isolated from the throne and the Barons so that Harald’s supporters wouldn’t see you as a threat. Was I really so wrong, to want you alive rather than hanged as a pretender to the throne?”
“That isn’t why you did it,” said Rupert flatly. “You did it for Harald’s sake, not mine.”
King John nodded quietly. “I did my best for you,” he said finally. “What happened to your chain-mail? Why aren’t you wearing it?”
“It got in the way. I do better without armour.”
The King looked unconvinced, but let the matter drop rather than risk breaking the tentative bond between them. “Watch yourself out there, son. I want you coming back in one piece.”
“I’ll do my best to oblige you,” said Rupert solemnly, and they both chuckled briefly.
There was a pause, as they looked for something else to say, and found they’d said it all. They never did have much in common, and Rupert knew that he and his father were already beginning to drift apart again.
“I don’t know what everyone’s so worried about,” he said finally. “How can we lose, with the Champion leading us?” He gestured at the Champion, sitting impassively astride his armoured war charger like an ancient heroic statue come to life.
King John glanced briefly at his Champion, and frowned. “The Champion isn’t necessarily a touchstone for success, Rupert. He’s not been defeated in battle since he became my Champion, over twenty years ago, and that makes him dangerous. To us, and to himself.”
“Dangerous? How?”
“He’s over-confident. By the time he realises he’s not invulnerable after all, it might be too late to do him or whoever he’s fighting beside any good.”
Rupert nodded soberly. “I’ll keep an eye on him.”
“It might be wise.” King John took up his reins and turned his horse away from Rupert. “And now, I’d better have a word with your brother, while there’s still time.”
“Father,” said Rupert suddenly. “If you’d thought it necessary, you would have ordered my death, wouldn’t you?”
The King glanced back over his shoulder. “Damn right I would have,” he said calmly, and then urged his horse on into the packed crowd, heading for where Harald was waiting on his charger. Rupert shook his head slowly, and looked away.
“So, here we go again, Breeze. Out to face the darkness one more time.”
“Good,” said the unicorn. “I’m fed up with all this waiting. Anything would be better than this. Well, almost anything.”
“Yeah. I’m scared, Breeze.”
“So am I, Rupert.”
“My guts are churning like you wouldn’t believe.”
“Take it easy. The gates will be opening any minute, and once the fighting starts you won’t have time to be scared.”
“Yeah. Sure. Oh hell, I need to take a leak again.”
“No you don’t.”
“Look, whose bladder is it?”
“Stand ready, the gatehouse!” called the Champion, and a sudden hush fell across the army for a moment as everyone realised that the gates were finally about to open. Half a dozen men-at-arms moved into position before the doors, ready to draw back the great steel bolts at the King’s command. Rupert slipped his left arm through the straps of his buckler, and tightened them securely. The heavy weight of the shield on his arm was deeply reassuring. He took a firm hold of both reins with his left hand, and then drew his sword. The familiar feel of the swordhilt was a comfort to him.
His guardsmen jostled their way back through the crowd, and took up their positions around him again. They shifted restlessly from foot to foot, hefting their swords impatiently, their eyes fixed on the great oak doors. Rupert felt a strange calm seeping through him, now that the moment had finally come. One way or another, this could well be the last time he’d have to face the darkness. Julia called out to him, and he looked back to see her slowly manoeuvring her horse through the crowd towards him. Her troop of fighting women formed a guard of honour around her. They looked hard and competent, and ready for battle. Rupert wondered wistfully if he appeared anything like as intimidating to them. He bowed politely to the women, and exchanged a grin with Julia as she steered her horse in beside him.
“Looks like we’re finally off,” said Julia.
“Looks like it,” said Rupert.
“Ready for the fray?”
“Ready as I’ll ever be. How’s the Warlock?”
“Doing his best to appear confident, but it’s an uphill struggle. The Astrologer’s rounded up half a hundred minor sorcerers and witches, but none of them are worth much. The Warlock’s got them working together to support his spells, but there’s no telling how successful that’ll be.”
“Julia, do you think my plan’s going to work?”
She laughed. “Not a chance. But we’ve got to do something, haven’t we?”
Rupert sighed. “It would be nice if somebody believed in my plan.”
“Would you rather we lied to you?”
“Frankly, yes.”
“Stand ready, the army!” roared the Champion, and a sudden quiet fell across the courtyard, broken only by the stamping and snorting of the impatient horses. Rupert eased his buckler into a more comfortable position, and gripped his sword firmly. All around him, the combined breathing of more than five hundred men and women seemed strangely loud and distinct in the hush, rising and falling like an endless tide. Swords and maces and lances gleamed blood-red in the flickering torchlight. The fear and the tension that had filled the courtyard was gone, replaced by a fierce determination that ran through all the army, binding them together like a single giant heartbeat. A simple determination; to make the demons pay dearly for what they’d done to the Forest Land. King John held up his sword.
“Open the gates!”
The heavy steel bolts slammed back into their sockets, the huge oak doors swung open, and the last army of the Forest Land surged forward to meet its destiny.
The horses’ pounding hooves echoed thunderously back from the Keep’s walls, and then they were out and charging across the lowered drawbridge. The torchlight fell away behind them, and the army plunged forward into the endless night. The leprous moon floated overhead, blue and full and malevolent. Demons rose in their thousands from the concealing shadows of the Darkwood, twisted and malformed and horribly eager. Not one monstrous shape was much like any other, but the same hunger filled their glowing eyes, and they moved in obedience to a single dark purpose. The mark of foulness was upon them all, the mark of the Demon Prince. Sickly blue moonlight gleamed dully on the fangs and claws of the creatures of the night as they walked and crawled and slithered up out of gaping cracks in the earth. And then the army slammed into the waiting demons, and the slaughter began.
Swords rose and fell against the seething darkness, and demon blood flew on the stinking air, but the first force of the charge was quickly soaked up by the sheer numbers of the demon horde. The lancers pressed stubbornly onward, followed by some of the guards, but the vast bulk of the army soon found itself
trapped only a few hundred yards from the ice-covered moat. Horses reared and screamed as the demons swarmed around them, and often it was only the press of bodies that saved the animals from hamstringing or worse. The army milled confusedly at the edge of the Darkwood, already broken apart into a dozen embattled groups, fighting desperately to hold their ground against the never-ending tide of demons that came pouring out of the darkness. The air was full of shouts and screams and war cries, and the harsh tearing sound of steel biting into flesh, but the demons attacked in silence, never making a sound, even when they died. In the unreal light of the Blue Moon, the demons seemed like monstrous ghosts, or nightmares come alive and solid. And bravely though the army fought, more than half of them were pulled down and butchered in the first few minutes, their screams mercifully short. There were just too many demons.
Light blazed suddenly against the night, a crackling white flame that burned unsupported in the air high above the battle. Jagged bolts of lightning stabbed down into the Darkwood, scattering the demons. Dozens of the creatures staggered blindly through the battle, howling silently as they burned like torches. Others clutched at their throats and fell choking to the ground as the air suddenly vanished from their lungs. Balefire blazed silver on the night, and the High Magic was everywhere. Demon turned on demon and they tore each other to pieces, the few survivors running amok through the demon horde until they too were brought down. Slowly the demons began to give ground, and the army pressed forward, cheering the High Warlock’s name as they eagerly pursued the retreating demons. And then the balefire was suddenly gone, and the High Magic no longer beat upon the air. Darkness returned to the Forest, and the only light was that of the Blue Moon.
Rupert leaned out of his saddle and cut through a leaping demon, and then had to duck sharply as a barbed tentacle lashed at him from an overhanging branch. He started to aim a blow at the tentacle, but the unicorn had already carried him out of reach. The battle had degenerated into an unholy mess. There was no pattern or structure to the demons’ attack; they came from every side at once, and for every creature that fell there were a hundred more to take its place. The army and the demons surged back and forth in a bloody confusion of swords and axes and fangs and claws, and the ground grew thick with unmoving bodies. Rupert glared about him, searching for some kind of cover. His guardsmen were gone, separated from him when the army fell apart. He swore harshly, and cut viciously at the demons that milled around the unicorn. With the High Warlock’s magic gone, the army had lost what little advantage it had seized, and already some of the smaller groups were falling back as the demons tore into them with renewed ferocity.
Blue Moon Rising Page 47
