The Warlock stripped the last of the meat from the chicken leg and then, as John watched, casually broke the bone in two and sucked at the marrow like a child with a stick of candy. When he’d finished, he threw the bone into the fire and wiped his greasy fingers on the front of his robe. King John looked away. The High Warlock he remembered would rather have died than behave in so uncivilized a manner. The Warlock he remembered had been gracious and courtly, and even something of a dandy. Always the height of fashion, and never a lock of hair out of place. Right to the very end, his poise had never faltered; the tavern-keepers said he was the most dignified drunk they’d ever known. John smiled slightly in spite of himself, and then the smile vanished as he remembered other things. He closed his eyes, and after a while the awful memories subsided, though some of the pain remained to haunt him, as always. He looked again at the High Warlock, who was staring absently into the fire. The Warlock’s face was calm and impassive, and John had no idea what the man was thinking.
“I wondered how I’d feel when I saw you again,” said King John slowly. “Whether I’d hate you, or fear you. It’s been a long time, hasn’t it?”
“Yes,” said the High Warlock. “It has.”
“You look pretty much as I remember you. You haven’t aged at all.”
“Transformational magic; I can be whatever age I wish. Of course, the younger I choose to be, the faster I burn up what remains of my life. I’m an old man now, John; older than you and your father put together. You know, I miss Eduard, sometimes. I could talk to him. You and I, we never really had much in common.”
“No,” said the King. “But your advice was always good.”
“Then you should have listened to it more.”
“Perhaps.”
They both fell silent, and for a long while neither of them said anything. The fire stirred uneasily in the fireplace, and the sound of the crackling flames was eerily distinct on the quiet.
“There was no need to banish me, John,” said the Warlock finally. “I’d already banished myself.”
The King shrugged. “I had to do something. Eleanor was dead, and I needed to do something.”
“I did everything I could for her, John.”
The King stared into the fire, and said nothing.
“What do you think of young Rupert’s plan?” asked the Warlock.
“It might work. We’ve tried everything else. Who knows?”
“I like Rupert. He seems an intelligent lad. Brave, too.”
“Yes,” said John slowly. “I suppose he is.”
They looked at each other awkwardly. Too many years of pain and rage and hoarded bitterness lay between them, and they both knew it. They had nothing to say to each other; it had all been said before. The High Warlock got to his feet.
“I suppose I’d better have a word with Thomas Grey. His powers appear to have grown somewhat in my absence; perhaps he can be a help to me, after all. Good night, John. I’ll see you again, before we go out to battle.”
“Good night, sir Warlock.”
The King stared into the fire, and didn’t relax until he’d heard the door open and close. Even after all the years, the memories wouldn’t let him be. He closed his eyes, and once again he and the Warlock were standing together beside Eleanor’s bed. The bedclothes had been drawn up over her face.
She’s dead, John. I’m so sorry.
Bring her back.
I can’t do that, John.
You’re the High Warlock! Save her, damn you!
I can’t.
You haven’t even tried.
John …
You let her die because she didn’t love you!
The King buried his face in his hands, but no tears came. He’d shed them all long ago, and there was no room in him for tears anymore. The door opened behind him, and he quickly sat up straight again, composing his features into their usual harsh mask. Rupert and Harald moved forward to bow respectfully before him. They stood shoulder-to-shoulder, but still there was a coldness between them. King John smiled tiredly. The day there was anything but coldness between those two, he’d eat his boots, buckles and all. Rupert and Harald waited patiently, staring calmly at a point somewhere over the King’s head. John braced himself. Neither Rupert nor Harald was going to like what he had to say to them, but he had to have their support.
“Sit down,” he growled finally. “You make the place look untidy.”
Harald sank quickly into the chair the Warlock had just vacated, leaving Rupert to go in search of another chair. John tried not to wince, as the sound of bumped furniture and falling objects told him exactly where Rupert was at any given time. Rupert finally returned, dragging a chair behind him. Harald had a coughing fit behind a raised hand, until the King glared at him. John didn’t turn around to see how much damage had been done to his room; he didn’t think his patience would stand it.
“Sorry,” said Rupert, as he carefully placed his chair midway between Harald and the King.
“Not at all,” said John politely. “It is a little cluttered in here.”
He waited patiently while Rupert settled himself in his chair, and then tugged thoughtfully at his beard as he wondered how best to start. The silence lengthened, and still he hesitated. He knew what he planned to do was both right and necessary, but that didn’t make it any easier.
“You wished to see us, Father,” said Harald, eventually. “Is it about the wedding?”
“No,” said the King, not missing the way Rupert’s hand rested casually on his swordhilt. “Though the wedding will have to be postponed again, I’m afraid.”
“Oh dear,” said Rupert. “What a pity.”
“Yes,” said Harald. “Isn’t it.”
“So why are we here?” demanded Rupert. “Is it something to do with my plan to fight the demons?”
“I’d hardly call it a plan,” said Harald. “Mass suicide would be closer to the mark.”
“If you’ve got a better idea, I’d love to hear it!” snapped Rupert. “What would you rather do; hide behind these walls until the demons come looking for us? Believe me, Harald, it’s better to die fighting.”
“It’s better not to die at all,” said Harald. “There has to be another way. Perhaps the High Warlock …”
“No,” said the King flatly. “Even at his peak, he was never that powerful. But you’re right, Harald; there has to be a better way. And I think I might just have found it. If nothing else, it should improve our chances against the demons.”
“I don’t understand,” said Rupert, frowning. “If there is another way, why didn’t you mention it at Court?”
The King met his gaze squarely. “Because the Court wouldn’t have approved.”
“It’s something to do with the Curtana, isn’t it?” said Harald suddenly.
“In a way,” said the King. “I had planned to use the Curtana against the demons, but that sword is lost to us now. There are, however, other swords just as powerful, if not more so.”
Rupert and Harald looked at each other, and John found a small amusement in their equally shocked faces, as they realized what he was talking about. If nothing else, it seemed he’d finally found something they could agree on.
“You’re talking about the Infernal Devices,” said Rupert, incredulously. “You can’t be serious, Father!”
“Why not?” said the King.
“The Infernal Devices are forbidden to us,” said Harald, but King John didn’t miss the cold calculation that had entered Harald’s eyes.
“We can’t use them,” said Rupert. “The Curtana was bad enough, but those blades … I’m not sure which scares me most; the demons, or those cursed swords.”
“Understandable,” said Harald, “But then, you’re scared of lots of things, aren’t you?”
Rupert looked at him, and Harald stirred uncomfortably in his chair. “Keep talking, Harald,” said Rupert calmly. “It’s all you’re good for.”
“That’s enough!” snapped the King. �
“But we don’t even know what the swords do,” protested Rupert. “It’s been so long since anyone dared draw the blades that even the legends have grown vague. Rockbreaker. Flarebright. Wolfsbane. Those names could mean anything! For all we know, we could be waking an evil greater than the one we already face.”
“Even an evil sword can be put to good use,” said Harald. “Providing it’s kept under careful control.”
Rupert shook his head stubbornly. “I don’t trust magic swords.”
“What choice do we have?” said John quietly. “You said it yourself, Rupert; the Darkwood’s strength is based in magic, and it must be fought with magic. According to the legends, the Infernal Devices were the most powerful weapons ever created by Man.”
“And the last time they were drawn,” said Rupert, “they laid waste to half the world before they could be sheathed again. According to the legends.”
“This time, they could save the world!”
“Or damn it, for all time.”
“What difference does it make?” said Harald. “Outside these walls, there’s nothing left but darkness now. The Land has fallen. The Infernal Devices may be our last chance, our last hope … or they might destroy us all. It doesn’t really matter. We’re damned if we do, and damned if we don’t. Personally, I think I’ll settle for a chance to take our enemies down with us.”
Rupert scowled, and slowly shook his head. “There has to be another way.”
“No,” said John simply. “We’ve run out of choices, Rupert. The Infernal Devices are all that’s left.”
“Then God have mercy on all our souls,” said Rupert.
John, Harald, and Rupert sat in silence a while, staring into the fire rather than face each other. They knew that shortly they would have to make their way to the South Wing, there to draw the forbidden swords from their ancient scabbards, but not yet. Not quite yet. They stared at the sinking flames of the guttering fire with quiet desperation, each lost in his own thoughts. Rupert found himself remembering the Coppertown pit, and the worm he found there, but most of all he remembered the magic sword that had failed him.
Rockbreaker. Flarebright. Wolfsbane.
Rupert started to shiver, and found he couldn’t stop.
In the silent, deserted hall that marked the boundary of the South Wing, the Castle grew a little darker. There were blazing torches, and oil and foxfire lamps, but none of them made much impression on the gloom that filled the air like a dirty fog. Rupert stood in the hall’s North doorway, staring dubiously at the closed double doors on the opposite side of the vast, echoing chamber. Somewhere beyond those doors lay the Armory and the Infernal Devices; perhaps the only hope left for the Forest Land. Rupert frowned, and shifted uncomfortably from foot to foot. The hall was the beginning of the South Wing, and he didn’t like it at all; it reminded him too much of the Darkwood.
Rupert had made a point of arriving before the others; partly because he needed some time to himself, but mainly because he’d wanted a damn good look at the newly discovered Wing before he ventured into it. A great many rumors had accumulated about the South Wing in the thirty-two years it had been missing, and all of them were bad. Over a hundred parties had sought to plumb the secrets of the lost Wing at one time or another, but the only ones that came back had been those who’d failed to find a way in. And now Julia and the Seneschal had found a way in, and returned to tell of it. Rupert looked about him, and shook his head slowly. From what he’d seen of it so far, the South Wing should have stayed lost.
One of the lamps suddenly guttered and went out, and the shadows grew that much darker. Rupert stirred uneasily. Rather than give in to his nerves, he strode determinedly into the hall and took the lamp from its niche. A quick shake revealed that the lamp had run out of oil. Rupert smiled dourly, and relaxed a little. The hall didn’t seem quite as large and forbidding now that he was actually inside it, but there was still something disquieting in the silence, and the utter stillness of the air. Rupert was suddenly aware of soft dragging footsteps behind him, and he spun round sword in hand to discover the Seneschal glaring acidly at him from the North door. Rupert smiled apologetically, and sheathed his sword again.
“Sorry, sir Seneschal.”
“Oh, don’t mind me,” said the Seneschal, leaning heavily on his stout walking stick as he limped into the hall. “I’m just a servant, after all. No one else pays me any mind, so why should you be any different? I mean; I’m only the man who singlehandedly discovered and destroyed the barrier that kept people out of the South Wing. But does anybody listen to me? Stay out of the South Wing, I tell them. It’s not safe in there, I tell them. But does anybody listen? Do they hell as like. I’d have a nervous collapse, if I could only find the time.”
“Has somebody upset you, sir Seneschal?” asked Rupert diffidently.
“Ha!” said the Seneschal, bitterly. “Upset! What is there to be upset about? I’ve only been dragged from my bed and escorted to the Great Hall by half the Royal Guard! When I finally got there, a neanderthal with dragging knuckles and the lowest forehead I’ve ever seen curtly informed me that I had been granted the signal honor of leading the Royal family back into the South Wing, starting Now. No Please, or Would you mind?” The Seneschal slumped his shoulders, and looked tired and defeated and put upon. He was very good at that; he’d had a lot of practice recently. “Never mind I haven’t had a free moment to myself since the refugees arrived. Never mind I’ve been run ragged chasing up and down the corridors looking for somewhere to put them all, because the King keeps changing his mind. Now he wants me to lead him to the Armory, at an hour in the morning when any man with half a brain in his head is fast asleep! The old man’s getting senile, if you ask me. He’ll be needing help to find his own privy next.”
Rupert grinned happily as he listened to the Seneschal rant and rave. It was nice to know some things didn’t change.
“Now then, sir Seneschal,” said Rupert finally, when the Seneschal had slowed down enough for him to be able to get a word in edgeways, “Aren’t you going to tell me what happened to your leg?”
“My leg?” The Seneschal stared at him blankly, and then glanced down at the thick oaken staff he was leaning on. “Oh, that. Julia and I found some demons hiding in the South Wing. Not to worry, though; they’re all gone now.”
He didn’t volunteer any details, and after a moment Rupert decided not to ask. He didn’t think he really wanted to know.
“I haven’t even had time to say hello to my own grandfather,” grumbled the Seneschal. “Not that we’ve ever had much to say to each other, but still …”
“Your grandfather?” said Rupert.
“The High Warlock,” said the Seneschal. “Must be twenty years since I last saw him.”
Rupert heard footsteps behind him, and turned around just in time to see Harald and the King entering the hall. The Seneschal sniffed angrily, and pointedly turned his back on them all. Rupert and the King shared a knowing look.
“Has somebody upset you, sir Seneschal?” asked the King, politely.
“Ha!” said the Seneschal.
“Rupert,” said the King, “Why is the Seneschal sulking?”
“I am not sulking!”
“Then what’s keeping us?” said Harald. “The South Wing is waiting.”
“Just a minute,” said Rupert. “Is this all of us? No guards, no escort? According to what the Seneschal’s been telling me, the South Wing is still pretty dangerous.”
“You can always stay behind,” said Harald, “If you’re worried …”
“I was thinking of the King’s safety,” said Rupert.
“Of course you were,” said Harald.
“That’s enough!” said the King sharply. “We aren’t taking any guards, Rupert, because if the Court were to even suspect what we plan to do in the Armory, they’d probably try and stop us. And we haven’t got time to put down another rebellion.”
“What happens when we come back with the swords?” said Rupert. “The Court isn’t going to take kindly to being kept in the dark on this.”
“You can say that again,” muttered the Seneschal.
“We’ve been through this already, sir Seneschal,” said the King firmly. “You have agreed to help.”
“Besides,” said Harald, “Once we’ve got the swords, what the Court thinks won’t matter any more.”
“There’ll be time for discussion later,” said the King. “The dawn is drawing steadily closer, and we haven’t even got to the Armory yet. Sir Seneschal, if you please …”
“Oh, very well,” said the Seneschal grudgingly. “We might as well make a start, I suppose, since I’m here. It’s my own fault; I’m just too easygoing, that’s my trouble. I let people take advantage of my good nature.”
The Seneschal continued to mutter and grumble under his breath as he led the way out of the hall, and into the South Wing. Harald and the King followed close behind him, and Rupert brought up the rear, his hand resting lightly on the pommel of his sword. He stared covertly about him as the small party moved briskly through the dim, foxfire-lit corridors and passageways, and at first he was almost disappointed that everything seemed so … ordinary. After all the songs and legends he’d heard on the missing Wing, he’d been expecting something more intimidating. Rupert smiled sourly; he of all people should have known that songs and legends were wrong more often than they were right. And yet there was something about the South Wing … something disturbing. Rupert had felt it first in the hall at the boundary, but as he made his way deeper into the heart of the rediscovered Wing, it seemed to him more and more that there was an unfinished air to the empty, echoing corridors; as though something was about to happen, or was already happening; something that had no end … A cold breeze stirred the hackles on the back of Rupert’s neck, and he shook his head quickly. This was no time to be letting his paranoia get the better of him. And then a new thought came to him, and he increased his step so that he could walk alongside the Seneschal.
-->