He sighed resignedly. Tired or no, it was time he was on his way.
“Unicorn! Where are you?”
“Here,” said a polite voice from the deepest of the shadows.
“Are you coming out, or do I come in there after you?” growled the Prince. There was a slight pause, and then the unicorn stepped diffidently out onto the trail. Rupert glared at the animal, who wouldn’t meet his gaze.
“And where were you, while I was risking my neck fighting that demon?”
“Hiding,” said the unicorn. “It seemed the logical thing to do.”
“Why didn’t you help?”
“Well,” said the unicorn reasonably, “If you couldn’t handle the demon with a sword and a full set of armor, I didn’t see what help I could offer.”
Rupert sighed. One of these days he’d learn not to argue with the unicorn.
“How do I look?”
“Terrible.”
“Thanks a lot.”
“You’ll probably have scars,” said the unicorn helpfully.
“Great. That’s all I need.”
“I thought scars on the face were supposed to be heroic?”
“Whoever thought that one up should have his head examined. Bloody minstrels … Help me up, unicorn.”
The unicorn moved quickly in beside him. Rupert reached out, took a firm hold of the stirrup, and slowly pulled himself up out of the mud. The unicorn stood patiently as Rupert leaned wearily against his side, waiting for his bone-deep aches to subside long enough for him to make a try at getting up into the saddle.
The unicorn studied him worriedly. Prince Rupert was a tall, handsome man in his mid-twenties, but blood and pain and fatigue had added twenty years to his face. His skin was gray and beaded with sweat, and his eyes were feverish. He was obviously in no condition to ride, but the unicorn knew that Rupert’s pride would force him to try.
“Rupert …” said the unicorn.
“Yeah?”
“Why don’t you just … walk me for a while? You know how unsteady I am in this mud.”
“Yeah,” said Rupert. “That’s a good idea. I’ll do that.”
He reached out and took hold of the bridle, his head hanging wearily down. Slowly, carefully, the unicorn led him past the motionless cocoon and on down the trail, heading deeper into the Tanglewood.
Two days later, Rupert was back in the saddle and fast approaching the boundary between Tanglewood and Darkwood. His aches had mostly died away, thanks to a pouch of herbs the Court Astrologer had forced on him before he left, and though more than once he found himself wishing for a mirror, the wounds on his face seemed to be scabbing nicely. All in all, Rupert was feeling a little more cheerful, or at least only mildly depressed.
He was supposed to kill a dragon, but truth to tell nobody had seen one in ages, and they’d pretty much passed into legend. Rupert had become somewhat disenchanted with legends; they seemed to dwell on the honor and the glory and leave out the important parts, like how you killed whatever it was without getting killed yourself. “Because your heart is pure” isn’t a lot of help when you’re up against a dragon. I bet mine breathes fire, thought Rupert dismally. He was working hard on a great new rationalization that would let him turn back almost honorably, when his bladder loudly called itself to his attention. Rupert sighed and steered the unicorn over to the side of the trail. That was another thing minstrels never mentioned.
He quickly dismounted, and set about undoing the complicated series of flaps that protected his groin. He only just made it in time, and whistled nonchalantly as he emptied his bladder against a tree trunk. If his diet didn’t improve soon, he’d be the only hero going into battle with his fly undone …
That thought decided him, and as soon as he’d finished what he was doing, Rupert set about discarding his armor. He’d only worn the damn stuff because he’d been assured it was traditional for anyone setting out on a quest. Stuff tradition, thought Rupert happily, his spirits soaring as piece by piece the battered armor dropped into the trail’s mud. After a little thought, he decided to hang onto the steel-studded boots; he might want to kick someone. Clad finally in leather jerkin and trousers and his best cloak, Rupert felt comfortable for the first time in weeks. Admittedly, he also felt decidedly vulnerable, but the way his luck had been going recently, he’d only have rusted up solid, anyway.
“I hate grass,” said the unicorn moodily.
“Then why are you eating it?” asked Rupert, buckling on his sword belt.
“I’m hungry,” said the unicorn, chewing disgustedly. “And since we ran out of civilized fodder weeks ago …”
“What’s wrong with grass?” Rupert inquired mildly. “Horses eat it all the time.”
“I am not a horse!”
“Never said you were …”
“I’m a unicorn, a thoroughbred, and I’m entitled to proper care and attention. Like oats and barley and …”
“In the Tanglewood?”
“Hate grass,” muttered the unicorn. “Makes me feel all bloated.”
“Try a few thistles,” suggested Rupert.
The unicorn gave him a hard look. “Do I even faintly resemble a donkey?” he inquired menacingly.
Rupert looked away to hide a grin, and discovered a dozen goblins had moved silently out of the shadows to block the trail. Ranging from three to four feet in height, scarecrow thin and pointed-eared, they were armed with short, rusty swords and jagged-edged meat cleavers. Their ill-fitting bronze and silver armor had obviously been looted from human travellers, and their unpleasant grins suggested only too clearly what had happened to the armor’s previous occupants. Furious at being caught so easily off-guard, Rupert drew his sword and glared at them all impartially. The goblins hefted their weapons, and then looked at each other uneasily. For a long moment, nobody moved.
“Well don’t just stand there,” growled a deep voice from the shadows. “Get him!”
The goblins shifted unhappily from foot to foot.
“Have you seen the size of that sword?” said the smallest goblin.
“And look at those scars on his face, and all that dried blood on his armor,” whispered another goblin respectfully. “He must have slaughtered a dozen people to get in that much of a mess.”
“Probably chopped them into chutney,” elaborated the smallest goblin mournfully.
Rupert swung his sword casually back and forth before him, light flashing the length of the blade. The goblins brandished their weapons in a half-hearted way and huddled together for comfort.
“At least get his horse,” suggested the voice from the shadows.
“Horse?” The unicorn threw up his head, rage blazing from his blood-red eyes. “Horse? What do you think this is on my brow? An ornament? I’m a unicorn, you moron!”
“Horse, unicorn; what’s the difference?”
The unicorn pawed the ground, and lowered his head so that light glistened on his wickedly pointed horn.
“Right. That does it. One at a time or all at once; you’re all getting it!”
“Nice one, leader,” muttered the smallest goblin.
Rupert shot an amused glance at the unicorn. “I thought you were a sensible, logical coward?”
“I’m too busy being angry,” growled the unicorn. “I’ll be afraid later, when there’s time. Line these creeps up for me, and I’ll skewer the lot. I’ll show them a shish kebab they won’t forget in a hurry.”
The goblins began surreptitiously backing away down the trail.
“Will you stop messing about and kill that bloody traveller!” roared the voice from the shadows.
“You want him dead so badly, you kill him!” snapped the smallest goblin, looking busily around for the nearest escape route. “This is all your fault anyway. We should have ambushed him while he was distracted, like we usually do.”
“You needed the combat experience.”
“Stuff combat experience! We should stick to what we’re good at; sneak attacks with ove
There was a deep sigh, and then the goblin leader stepped majestically out of the shadows. Broad-shouldered, impressively muscled, and very nearly five feet tall, he was the biggest goblin Rupert had ever seen. The goblin leader stubbed out a vile-looking cigar on his verdigrised bronze chestplate, and glared at the tightly packed goblins huddled together in the middle of the trail. He sighed again, and shook his head disgustedly.
“Look at you. How am I supposed to make fighters out of you if you won’t fight? I mean, what’s the problem? He’s only one man!”
“And a unicorn,” pointed out the smallest goblin.
“All right, one man and a unicorn. So what? We’re foot-pads now, remember? It’s our job to waylay defenseless travellers and take their valuables.”
“He doesn’t look defenseless to me,” muttered the smallest goblin. “Look at that dirty big sword he’s carrying.”
The goblins stared at it in morbid fascination as Rupert tried a few practice cuts and lunges. The unicorn trotted back and forth behind him, sighting his horn at various goblins, which did absolutely nothing to improve their confidence.
“Come on, lads,” said the goblin leader desperately. “How can you be frightened of someone who rides a unicorn?”
“What’s that got to do with anything?” asked the smallest goblin. The leader murmured something of which only the word “virgin” was clearly audible. All the goblins peered at Rupert, and a few sniggered meaningfully.
“It’s not easy being a Prince,” said Rupert, blushing fiercely despite himself. “You want to make something of it?”
He took a firm grip on his sword and sheared clean through an overhanging branch. The severed end hit the ground with an ominous-sounding thud.
“Great,” muttered the smallest goblin. “Now we’ve really got him angry.”
“Will you shut up!” snarled the goblin leader. “Look; there’s thirteen of us and only one of him. If we all rush him at once, we’re bound to get him.”
“Want to bet?” said an anonymous voice from the back.
“Shut up! When I give the word, charge. Charge!”
He started forward, brandishing his sword, and the other goblins reluctantly followed him. Rupert stepped forward, took careful aim, and punched the goblin leader out. The other goblins skidded to a halt, took one look at their fallen leader, and promptly threw down their weapons. Rupert herded the goblins together, backed them off a way, well out of range of their discarded weapons, and then leaned against a convenient tree while he tried to figure out what to do next. They were such incompetent villains he really didn’t have the heart to kill them. The goblin leader sat up, shook his aching head to clear it, and then clearly wished he hadn’t. He glared up at Rupert, and tried to look defiant. He wasn’t particularly successful.
“I told you thirteen was unlucky,” said the smallest goblin.
“All right,” said Rupert. “Everyone pay attention, and I’ll tell you what I’ll do. You agree to get the hell out of here and stop bothering me, and I’ll agree not to turn you over to the unicorn in small, meaty chunks. How does that sound?”
“Fair,” said the smallest goblin quickly. “Very fair.”
There was a lot of nodding from the other goblins.
“Do we get our weapons back first?” asked the goblin leader.
Rupert smiled. “Do I look crazy?”
The goblin leader shrugged. “Worth a try. All right, sir hero; you got yourself a deal.”
“And you won’t try to follow me?”
The goblin leader gave him a hard stare. “Do I look crazy? It’s going to take me weeks to turn this lot back into a fighting force, after what you’ve done to them. Personally, sir hero, I for one will be extremely content if I never see you again.”
He got to his feet and led the goblins back into the trees, and within seconds they had vanished completely. Rupert grinned and sheathed his sword. He was finally getting the hang of this quest business.
An hour later, the light faded quickly away as Rupert left the Tanglewood and crossed into the Darkwood. Far above him, rotting trees leaned together, their leafless interlocking branches blocking out the sun, and in the space of a few moments Rupert passed from mid-afternoon to darkest night. He reined the unicorn to a halt and looked back over his shoulder, but daylight couldn’t follow him into the Darkwood. Rupert turned back, patted the unicorn’s neck comfortingly, and waited for his eyes to adjust to the gloom.
A faint silver glow of phosphorescent fungi limned the decaying tree trunks, and far off in the distance he thought he saw a brief flash of light, as though someone had opened a door and then quickly closed it, for fear light would attract unwelcome attention. Rupert glanced about him nervously, ears straining for the slightest sound, but the darkness seemed silent as the tomb. The air was thick with the sickly sweet stench of death and corruption.
His eyes finally adjusted enough to show him the narrow trail that led into the heart of the Darkwood, and he signalled the unicorn to move on. The slow, steady hoofbeats sounded dangerously loud on the quiet. There was only one trail through the endless night; a single straight path that crossed the darkness from one boundary to the other, cut so long ago that no one now remembered who had done it, or why. The Darkwood was very old, and kept its secrets to itself. Rupert peered constantly about him, one hand resting on the pommel of his sword. He remembered the demon he’d fought in the Tanglewood, and shuddered suddenly. Entering the Darkwood was a calculated risk, but if anyone knew where to find a dragon, it was the Night Witch.
Assuming she was still alive, after all these years. Before Rupert set out on his journey, the Court Astrologer had helped him delve into the Castle Archives in search of any map that might lead to a dragon’s lair. They didn’t find one, which pleased Rupert no end, but they did stumble across the official record of Grandfather Eduard’s encounter with the Night Witch. The surprisingly brief tale (surprising in that the most recent song on the subject lasted for an interminable hundred and thirty-seven verses), included a passing reference to a dragon, and a suggestion that the exiled Witch might still be found at her cottage in the Darkwood, not far from the Tanglewood boundary.
“Even assuming that I am daft enough to go looking for a woman whose main interest in life is forcibly separating people from their blood,” said Rupert, dubiously, “give me one good reason why she should agree to help me.”
“Apparently,” said the Astrologer, cryptically, “She was rather fond of your grandfather.”
Rupert studied the Astrologer suspiciously and pressed him for more details, but he refused to be drawn. Rupert trusted the Astrologer about as far as he could spit into the wind, but since he hadn’t a clue of how else to find a dragon …
Gnarled, misshapen trees loomed menacingly out of the gloom as Rupert rode deeper into the endless night. The only sound was the steady rhythm of the unicorn’s hooves, and even that seemed somehow muffled by the unrelenting dark. More than once Rupert reined the unicorn to a sudden halt and stared about him, eyes straining against the darkness, convinced that something awful lurked just beyond the range of his vision. But always there was only the dark, and the silence. He had no lantern, and when he broke a bough from one of the dead trees to make a torch, the rotten wood crumbled in his hand. With no light to guide him, he lost all track of time, but eventually the closely packed trees fell suddenly away on either side, and Rupert signalled to the unicorn to stop. Ahead of them lay a small clearing, its boundaries marked by the glowing fungi. In the middle of the clearing stood a single dark shape that had to be the Witch’s cottage. Rupert glanced up at the night sky, but there was no moon or stars to give him light, only an empty darkness that seemed to go on forever.
“Are you sure this is a good idea?” whispered the unicorn.
“No,” said Rupert. “But it’s our best chance to find a dragon.”
“Frankly, that doesn’t strike me as such a hot idea either,” muttered the unicorn.
Rupert grinned, and swung down out of the saddle. “You stay here, while I check out the cottage.”
“You’re not leaving me here on my own,” said the unicorn determinedly.
“Would you rather meet the Night Witch?” asked Rupert.
The unicorn moved quickly off the trail and hid behind the nearest tree.
“I’ll be back as soon as I can,” Rupert promised. “Don’t go wandering off.”
“That has to be the most redundant piece of advice I’ve ever been offered,” said the unicorn.
Rupert drew his sword, took a deep breath, and moved cautiously out into the clearing. His soft footsteps seemed horribly loud on the quiet and he broke into a run, his back crawling in anticipation of the attack he’d probably never feel, anyway. The Witch’s cottage crouched before him like a sleeping predator, a dull crimson glow outlining the door and shuttered windows. Rupert skidded to a halt at the cottage and set his back against the rough wooden wall, his eyes darting wildly round as he checked to see if he had been followed. Nothing moved in the ebon gloom, and the only sound in the endless night was his own harsh breathing. He swallowed dryly, stood quietly a moment to get his breath back, and then moved over to knock, very politely, at the cottage’s door. A bright crimson glare filled his eyes as the door swung suddenly open, and a huge bony hand with long curving fingernails shot out and grasped him by the throat. Rupert kicked and struggled helplessly as he was hauled into the Witch’s cottage.
The bent old woman kicked the door shut behind her, and dropped Rupert unceremoniously onto the filthy carpet. He sat up and massaged his sore throat as the Night Witch cackled fiendishly, rubbing her gnarled hands together.
“Sorry about that,” she said and grinned. “All part of the image, you know. I have to do something fairly nasty every now and again, or they’ll think I’ve gone soft. What are you doing here, anyway?”
“Thought you might be able to help me,” husked the Prince.
“Help?” said the Night Witch, raising a crooked eyebrow. “Are you sure you’ve come to the right cottage?” The black cat crouched on her shoulder hissed angrily, and rubbed its shoulder against the Witch’s long gray hair. She reached up and patted the animal absentmindedly.
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