Blue Moon Rising (Darkwood)

by Simon R. Green

  “It was already too late when we got here,” said Rupert. “There was nothing we could have done. Not much of a homecoming for you, was it?”

  The Champion watched the guards mill back and forth, his face as impassive as ever. “Forest Castle is my home, Sire, and always has been. What are your orders for the mine?”

  “Have the guards bring down the tunnel roof again, sir Champion; I want that entrance completely blocked. I doubt it’ll stop the creature getting out, but it should stop it enticing any more victims down into the mine.”

  The Champion nodded, and moved away to give the orders to the guards. Rupert watched him go, and let his hand rest on the pommel of the rainbow sword. Now the blade had proved itself worthless as a weapon against the dark, his mission to summon the High Warlock became more important than ever.

  The wind seemed suddenly colder. Rupert stared up at the new moon; already it seemed tinged with blue, like the first hint of leprosy.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Allies

  Princess Julia paced impatiently back and forth in the Court’s narrow antechamber, bored out of her mind. King John had sent for her half an hour ago, but despite all her shouting and kicking, the double doors leading to the Great Hall remained securely locked. Julia threw herself into a chair and scowled at the world, fed up to her back teeth. There was no one to talk to, nothing to do, and since they’d taken down all the portraits she couldn’t even while away the time with a little target practice. Julia sighed disgustedly, folded her arms, and cursed Rupert to hell and back for riding off and leaving her.

  He’d been gone almost three months, and Julia missed him more than she cared to admit. She’d done her best to settle into the Court and its Society, but like so many times before, her best hadn’t been nearly good enough. Her willingness to knock brickdust out of anybody dumb enough to insult her twice had earned her a certain grudging respect, but few friends. Those Ladies of Julia’s age and station had tried their utmost to make her feel welcome, but they didn’t really have much in common with the young Princess. Their main interests were gossip, fashion, and the best ways of catching a rich husband, while Julia didn’t give a damn about romantic or Court intrigue, threw away her fashionable shoes because they pinched her feet, and threatened to become violent if anyone even mentioned her forthcoming marriage to Prince Harald. She much preferred riding, hunting, and sword-drill, pastimes which scandalized her peers. It’s not feminine, they protested faintly. In reply, Julia said something extremely coarse, and all the young Ladies found sudden compelling reasons why they had to be somewhere else.

  After that, Julia found herself left pretty much alone.

  At first, she spent a lot of time exploring the Castle. She quickly discovered that the same door needn’t lead to the same room twice; that some doors were entrances, some were exits, but not all were both; and that some corridors actually folded back upon themselves when you weren’t looking. Julia found all this intensely interesting, but unfortunately she tended to get lost rather a lot, and after the fourth search party King John made her promise not to stray from the main corridors without a guide. And that, for all practical purposes, was that.

  Like their master the Seneschal, who governed the day-today running of the Castle, the guides shared a strange mystical sense that told them where they were in relation to everything else. This meant that not only could they not get lost, but they knew where any given room was at any given time. In a Castle where directions depended on which day of the week it was when you asked, such gifted people were invaluable, and therefore rather scarce on the ground when you needed them. Julia reluctantly gave up her explorations, and went back to challenging the guards at sword-drill.

  The King then provided her with a chaperone. Julia quickly discovered the easiest way to deal with that sweet gray-haired old Lady was to run her off her feet. After three days of running round the Castle at full tilt just to keep Julia in sight, this worthy Lady told the King flatly that the young Princess had no need of a chaperone, as there wasn’t a man in the Castle fleet enough of foot to catch up with her.

  Which was not to say that nobody tried. The main contender was of course Harald, who seemed to think that their arranged marriage already gave him certain rights to her person, if not her affections. A few jolting left hooks taught him to keep his distance, and sharpened up his reflexes wonderfully, but he seemed to regard it all as part of the game and wouldn’t be put off. Julia supposed she was meant to find this flattering, but she didn’t. Harald was charming enough when he wanted to be, but when he wasn’t flexing his muscles for her to admire, he was dropping heavy hints about his vast personal wealth, and how all the Forest Kingdom would be his one day. In return, Julia tried to drop little hints concerning how she felt about him; like hitting him, or trying to push him off the battlements. Unfortunately he still didn’t seem to get the message. Julia avoided him as much as possible, and for the most part they’d settled on an armed truce, with an unspoken agreement never to use the word marriage.

  But she was still bored, and even a little lonely. The Ladies-in-Waiting weren’t talking to her, the courtiers had disowned her, and the guards wouldn’t duel with her any more because it made them look bad when they lost. So, when King John summoned her to Court, she went. It was something to do.

  Julia glowered at the closed Court doors, and her hand dropped to her side, where her swordhilt used to be. Her scowl deepened as her hand clutched aimlessly at nothing. Even after all this time she still felt naked without a sword on her hip, but the King had been adamant about her not wearing a sword in the Castle, and she’d grown tired of arguing. And so the sword Rupert had given her in the Darkwood now lay locked away in her bedchamber, unused except for sword-drill. Julia sighed moodily. It wasn’t as if she needed the sword, anyway. And she still had her dagger, tucked securely into the top of her boot.

  Julia slouched in her chair, and stared gloomily round the antechamber. She was tempted to just get up and leave, but her curiosity wouldn’t let her. King John had to have some good reason for suddenly requiring her presence at Court, and Julia had an uneasy feeling that when she found out what it was, she wasn’t going to like it. So she gritted her teeth, and stayed put. She smiled slightly as her roving gaze fell upon the locked double doors again. The carpenters had done their best, but though the sturdy oaken doors had been carefully rehung, nothing short of total replacement would ever hide the deep scars and gouges left by the dragon’s claws.

  Julia frowned as the steady murmur of raised voices continued to seep past the closed doors. The courtiers had been shouting at each other when she first arrived, and it seemed they were still going strong. The sound was just loud enough to be intriguing without being understandable, and Julia decided she’d had enough. She leapt to her feet, glared round the sparsely furnished antechamber, and then grinned evilly as an idea struck her. Keep her waiting, would they? She studied the hanging tapestries for a moment, pulled down the ugliest, and stuffed it into the narrow gap between the doors and the floor. She then removed one of the flaring torches from its holder, knelt down, and carefully set light to the tapestry.

  It burned well, giving off thick streamers of smoke, and Julia replaced the torch in its holder, and waited impatiently for the Court to notice. For a time the flames leapt and crackled to no effect, and Julia had just started to wonder if a little lamp oil might not help things along, when the Court fell suddenly silent. There was the briefest of pauses, and then the silence was broken by piercing shrieks and yells of “Fire!” Julia smiled complacently as through the doors wafted the unmistakable sounds of panic; swearing, shouting, and running in circles. The doors flew open to reveal Harald, who nodded to Julia and then emptied a pitcher of table wine over the burning cloth, dousing the flames instantly.

  “Hello, Julia,” he said casually. “We’ve been expecting you.”

  She pushed past him. He grinned and goosed her, and then ducked quickly to avoid the dagger that nea

rly took his ear off.

  “That one wasn’t even close,” he chided her, staying carefully just out of reach as he led her through the flustered courtiers. “Does that mean you’re mellowing toward me?”

  “No,” said Julia. “It means I need to practice more.”

  Harald laughed, and brought her before the throne. King John glared at her tiredly.

  “Princess Julia; why can’t you knock, like everyone else?”

  “I’ve been kept waiting for almost an hour!” snapped Julia.

  “I do have other business to attend to, apart from you.”

  “Fine; I’ll come back when you’ve finished.”

  She turned to leave, and found the way blocked by half a dozen heavily armed guards.

  “Princess Julia,” said the King evenly, “Your attitude leaves much to be desired.”

  “Tough,” said Julia. She glared at the guards, and then turned reluctantly back to the throne. “All right; what do you want?”

  “For the moment, just wait quietly while I finish my other business. Harald can keep you company.”

  Julia sniffed disdainfully, hitched up her ankle-long dress, and sat down at the bottom of the steps leading up to the throne. The marble step was cold, even through the thick carpeting, but Julia was damned if she was going to stand around until the King was ready to talk to her. It was a matter of principle. Harald came and sat down beside her, still keeping just out of arm’s reach. Julia smiled slightly, drew her dagger from the boot, and cut tic-tac-toe lines into the carpet between them. Harald grinned, drew a dagger from his boot, and carved a cross in the center square. King John decided not to notice.

  He closed his eyes briefly, and then turned his attention to the three men waiting before his throne with varying degrees of patience. He’d had dealings with Sir Blays before, but the two other Landsgraves were new to him. All three had arrived together, which implied the Barons had finally agreed on a common course of action, but judging from the way the three Landsgraves watched each other all the time, it was an uneasy alliance at best. King John smiled slowly, and settled back in his throne. Divide and conquer, that was the way. Get them arguing among themselves, and their own vested interests would tear them apart.

  He studied the three Landsgraves carefully, taking his time. It wouldn’t do to have them thinking they could rattle him. Sir Blays took the center position; a short, stocky man with close-cropped gray hair and deep, piercing eyes. Calm, sober, and soft-spoken, he cultivated an air of polite consideration, which fooled only those who didn’t know him. King John had known him for almost twenty years.

  The impressively muscled figure waiting impatiently to the right of Sir Blays had to be Sir Bedivere. Rumor had it he’d killed a dozen men in duels. There were whispers he’d provoked the duels deliberately, for the sport of it, but no one had ever said that to the man’s face. He was young and darkly handsome, in a self-indulgent way, and the King didn’t miss the weakness that showed in Sir Bedivere’s puffy eyes and pouting lower lip. Some day he’d be a possible replacement for the Champion; if he lived that long.

  The quiet, timid figure to the left of Sir Blays was Sir Guillam, a man so ordinary in appearance as to be practically invisible. Tall rather than short, and perhaps a little on the skinny side, his round open face had no more character in it than a baby’s. His thinning hair was a mousey brown, neatly parted in the center. His pale gray eyes blinked nervously as he shifted uncomfortably under the King’s gaze, and King John hid a smile behind his hand. Sir Guillam was a familiar type; he’d obey whatever instructions he’d been given to the letter, mainly because he wasn’t bright enough to do anything else. Such emissaries were easy to confuse, and even easier to manipulate. And then Sir Bedivere stepped suddenly forward, and bowed deeply to the throne.

  “Your majesty; if I might beg a moment of your time …”

  “Of course, Sir Bedivere,” said the King graciously. “You are the new Landsgrave of Deepwater Brook demesne?”

  “Aye, Sire; I speak for the Copper Barons.”

  “And what do they wish of me this time?”

  “Only what they’ve always wished, Sire; justice.”

  A ripple of laughter ran through the courtiers, dying quickly away as the Landsgrave stared coldly about him. Easily six foot six in height, his broad shoulders and massive frame might even have given the Champion himself pause. Sir Bedivere swept the packed Court with a challenging gaze, and then dismissed them all with a contemptuous toss of his head, as not worthy of his attention.

  “Justice …” said the King mildly. “Could you be more specific?”

  “The Copper Barons must have more men, Sire. Demons are overrunning the mining towns, destroying everything in their path. Refugees line the roads, more, every day. We can’t even feed them all, let alone give them shelter when the night falls. Already, there have been riots in the towns. Most of our guards are dead, killed trying to hold back the demons. What few men we have left can’t hope to maintain law and order. The Copper Barons respectfully demand that you send a substantial part of your Royal Guard to help drive back the darkness that threatens us.”

  The King stared at the Landsgrave. “So far, I have sent your masters almost five hundred guardsmen. Are you telling me they’re all dead?”

  “Yes,” said Sir Bedivere. A shocked murmur rustled through the courtiers.

  “They died fighting demons?”

  “Aye, Sire.”

  “How many of the Barons’ own men rode out against the dark?”

  Sir Bedivere frowned. “I don’t quite see …”

  “How many!”

  “I really couldn’t say,” said the Landsgrave shortly. “A great many guards had to stay behind to protect the town and maintain order …”

  “I see,” said the King. “My men died, while the Barons’ guards stayed safe behind stout town walls.”

  “This is all quite irrelevant,” said Sir Bedivere calmly. “My masters require more men from you; how many troops will you send?”

  “I have no men to spare,” said the King flatly.

  “Is that your final answer?”

  “It is. My men are needed here. The Barons must defend themselves, as must I.”

  “They don’t have a Castle to hide in,” said Sir Bedivere loudly.

  Silence fell across the Court, the courtiers struck dumb by the open insult. Such a remark from a Landsgrave was almost a declaration of treason. Everyone looked to King John for his reaction, and it took all his years of experience and diplomacy to keep his visage calm and unmoved. A quick glance at Blays and Guillam had shown the King that he would find no support there. Their faces and their silence said more plainly than words that Bedivere spoke for all of them. The King had always known that sooner or later the Barons were bound to take advantage of the situation and turn against him, but he hadn’t thought it would be this soon. Whatever happened here today, whatever decision he made, the Copper Barons couldn’t lose. If he sent them men he couldn’t spare, that would be a clear sign of weakness, and they’d just return with even more outrageous demands. If he refused to help, the Barons would use that as an excuse to topple him from his throne, and replace him with someone more to their liking. Someone they could control. Sir Bedivere had been sent for just one purpose; to insult and humiliate King John before his Court, and make it plain to one and all that the real power in the Forest Land now resided with the Barons.

  “It’s easy to be brave behind high stone walls,” said Sir Bedivere, an unpleasant smile twisting his mouth. “My masters have only town walls and barricades to protect them from the demons. We demand you supply us with more men!”

  “Go to hell,” said the King.

  Sir Bedivere stiffened, and for a moment a red glare showed in his eyes, as though a furnace door had suddenly opened and closed. In that swift crimson gleam the King saw rage and hunger and a madness barely held in check, and he shivered, as though a cold wind had blown over him.

  “Brave words, from an old fool,” said Sir Bedivere, his voice harsh and strained. “My masters will not accept such an answer. Try again.”

  “You have my answer,” said the King. “Now leave my Court.”

  “Your Court?” said the Landsgrave. He glanced round at the hushed courtiers and grim-faced guards and men-at-arms, and then laughed suddenly; a dark, contemptuous sound. “Enjoy it while you can, old man. Sooner or later, my masters will send me back to take it away from you.”

  “Treason,” said the King mildly. “I could have your head for that, Landsgrave.”

  “Your Champion might,” smiled Sir Bedivere. “Unfortunately, he’s not here.”

  “But I am,” said Prince Harald, rising suddenly to his feet, sword in hand. The courtiers murmured in approval as Harald moved forward to stand between his father and the Landsgrave. Julia smiled, and surreptitiously transferred her dagger to her throwing hand, just in case one of the other Landsgraves tried to interfere. Sir Bedivere studied Harald a moment, and then laughed quietly. The red glare came and went in his eyes, and he reached for his sword.

  “No!” said the King sharply. “Harald, please put away your sword. I appreciate the gesture, but he would quite certainly kill you. Please; sit down, and let me handle this.”

  Harald nodded stiffly, slammed his sword back into its scabbard, and sat down beside Julia again. She gave him a quick nod of approval, and he smiled sourly. The King leant forward in his throne, and studied Sir Bedivere narrowly.

  “Landsgrave; you have much to learn. Did you really think you could threaten me in my own Court and get away with it? You’re a fool, Sir Bedivere, and I do not suffer fools gladly. You now have a simple choice; bow your head to me, or lose it.”

  The Landsgrave laughed, and Thomas Grey stepped forward to face him. The Astrologer raised one slender hand, and Sir Bedivere’s laugh became a scream as a sudden agony burned in his muscles. He tried to reach for his sword, but the searing pain paralyzed him where he stood.

  -->