Blood and Honor (Forest Kingdom Novels)

by Simon R. Green

  “Sounds a pleasant chap,” said Jordan. “What does he do for a hobby, poison wells?”

  “Don’t underestimate his support,” said Roderik sharply. “He’s quite popular among the guards and men-at-arms, due to his undoubted martial prowess. They tend not to hear the rumors about his other exploits. And as the eldest son, and your father’s acknowledged favorite, he’s always commanded quite a large following at Court.”

  “Could he have killed King Malcolm?” said Jordan, frowning.

  “It’s possible, I suppose. If your father had threatened to disinherit him because of his behavior, I can see Lewis striking back at him in a rage. But poison … no, that’s not Lewis’s style. Now then, your younger brother is Prince Dominic. He inherited water magic by his Blood, but he’s never made much use of it in public. He’s the quiet, thoughtful one of the family, and has an unhealthy interest in sorcery. He’s had many teachers, and is rumored to be something of an adept, though again he’s shown little sign of this in public. Dominic has always been a very private person. He is also somewhat … strange.”

  Sir Gawaine laughed shortly. “That’s one way of putting it.”

  “How would you put it?” said Jordan.

  “He’s barking mad,” said Gawaine flatly. “And dangerous with it.”

  “Like his brother Lewis, Dominic also has a following at Court,” said Roderik, continuing calmly on as though Gawaine hadn’t spoken. “Dominic is married to the Lady Elizabeth, a very ambitious woman. She helped to build Dominic’s following through a series of well-thought-out political deals. Many of us believe Dominic and Elizabeth to be the prime suspects in your father’s murder, though it must be said that so far no proof has been found to lay against their door.”

  “How do I feel about my brothers?” said Jordan thoughtfully. “Are we close?”

  “Hardly. In Redhart, inheritance of the throne is rather a complicated matter. In most countries the crown goes to the eldest son, and any other sons get nothing. But here the king chooses which of his sons he considers to be most fit, and that son inherits the crown. This is a throwback to the days of inbreeding, when many eldest sons simply weren’t … suitable. The dangers of that time are mostly past now, but the law and custom remain. However, if your father had made a choice, it remains unknown. The will has vanished without a trace. Since Lewis is no longer the favored son, all three of you now have an equally valid claim to the throne.

  “Neither you nor Dominic care much for Lewis. He is arrogant and brash, and has always used his position as favorite to lord it over both of you. He in turn despises Dominic as a weakling, for spending most of his time as a scholar rather than a warrior, and considers you a fool for letting your emotions get the better of you. You detest Dominic, not least because of his choice of wife. The Lady Elizabeth was once … close to you, until Dominic won her away.”

  “Tricky,” said Jordan. “Do I have any friends at Court?”

  “Not really,” said Roderik. “Most of your followers were sent with you into internal exile, and for the most part they’ve chosen to remain there until the succession is decided. But Dominic and Lewis are also finding themselves more isolated than usual, for the same reason. No one wants to be remembered as having backed the losing side …”

  Jordan rode for a while in silence, sorting out the new information as best he could. It was fine, as far as it went, but it wasn’t what he needed. If he was going to pass off this impersonation successfully, he was going to have to know not just the facts of Prince Viktor’s background, but also the secrets and motivations that underlay those facts. And interesting though Viktor’s family background was, there was still a great deal he wasn’t being told.

  “Viktor’s been in internal exile for four years,” he said finally. “What exactly did he do that warranted such extreme punishment? I mean, you’ve already told me that Lewis once strangled a young woman of the nobility and got away with it.”

  Argent and Roderik looked at each other. Sir Gawaine stared at the road ahead. Finally Roderik sighed and looked at Jordan.

  “Forgive me, Jordan, of course you need to know. It’s just not something we normally talk about. In fact, we seem to have spent most of the last four years using every bit of influence we had to keep the truth of what really happened from ever coming out. Prince Viktor … has always been one for the ladies. However, unlike Lewis, Viktor was normally sensible enough to limit his wandering eye to the servant classes. Such assignations may be deplorable, but they’re of no real importance. But, as I said earlier, Prince Viktor somehow became involved with the Lady Elizabeth, at a time when she was officially betrothed to Prince Dominic. How they kept it a secret for so long in a Court noted for its love of gossip is beyond me, but of course it couldn’t last, and eventually Dominic found out. And that was when the tempers really began to fly. The Lady Elizabeth is a charming, beautiful young woman from an impeccable family background. Unfortunately, she is also a cold, calculating bitch. She delighted in playing the two brothers off against each other, possibly to determine which would make the better husband, but more likely just because she enjoyed it. Viktor and Dominic were on the point of a formal duel when the king finally discovered what was going on, and stepped in to put an end to it. He called all the parties before him in a private session, and apparently demanded that the Lady Elizabeth make her choice there and then. She chose Dominic.

  “For a time, nothing happened. Viktor shut himself in his quarters and refused to speak to anyone, even Gawaine. We were all very worried about him. Viktor had never been one for brooding: when he was angry he spoke his mind, and let the sparks fall where they would. His continued silence was … disturbing. Meanwhile, Dominic and Elizabeth made the preparations for their marriage. The invitations went out, presents began to arrive, everything seemed perfectly normal. What happened next isn’t entirely clear. The full facts were only ever discussed with the king, behind closed doors, and Viktor still won’t talk about it. What is clear is that Viktor tried to murder Dominic. He almost succeeded. From all accounts, the king was frantic when he found out. A formal duel was one thing; that at least was honorable, if not strictly proper. But murder … to attempt to strike down one’s own brother by stealth and treachery, to steal his fiancée …

  “King Malcolm couldn’t put Viktor on trial. If he had, the whole story would inevitably have come out, and the royal family would have been brought into disrepute. Malcolm was always very conscious of the family honor. But if he couldn’t try Viktor, he couldn’t let him go unpunished either. And he certainly couldn’t have Dominic and Viktor living under the same roof any longer. Indefinite internal exile was the compromise he came up with, and it worked well enough.”

  “I was right the first time,” said Jordan. “I am playing the villain.”

  “Viktor was betrayed by a woman who said she loved him,” said Sir Gawaine. “And save your sympathy for Dominic until you’ve met him. There were demons in the Darkwood that had more humanity in them than Prince Dominic.”

  Jordan shook his head tiredly. Just when he thought he was getting the hang of the characters of his new role, they kept changing.

  “All right,” he said slowly. “That’s his family, and his ex-love. Anyone else I need to know about?”

  “The Lady Heather Tawney,” said Gawaine. “Viktor’s present love.”

  “What’s she like?”

  “A very forceful lady,” said Roderik, quickly.

  “Forceful,” said Gawaine. “That’s one way of putting it, I suppose.”

  “Viktor met her in Kahalimar,” said Roderik. “She comes from an old, though fairly minor, noble family, and she’s linked her star very firmly to Viktor’s. She was one of the very few people who followed Viktor back to Court. The two of them are practically inseparable, and there’s no doubt Viktor sees her as his main support in these troubled times.”

  “In other words,” said Gawaine, “don’t upset her. If she were to turn against us, Viktor
would throw us to the wolves without a second thought. Heather’s agreed to the impersonation; we couldn’t do it without her cooperation. But watch your arse, Jordan. Her loyalties are strictly to Viktor himself.”

  “Great,” said Jordan. “Just great. Isn’t there anybody in this conspiracy I can trust?”

  Sir Gawaine chuckled loudly. “Not a damned one, Jordan. Now you’re starting to think like a prince.”

  Jordan decided not to ask any more questions for a while. The answers were getting too depressing. The four men rode in silence in the gathering darkness, each lost in his own thoughts. The stars came out, and the bent moon cast its light over the open moors. Jordan huddled inside his cloak, and looked gloomily about him. The moors were starting to get on his nerves. The hoofbeats of the four horses seemed eerily loud, echoing on and on in the quiet. Jordan scowled uneasily, and wondered what the hell he’d ever seen in the moors. They were a desolate place when all was said and done. Only the desperate and the outlawed lived there, and never for long. There were hidden bogs and marshes, and no place to shelter from the bitter cold nights. More than anywhere else in Redhart, the moors were untouched by man and his civilization. They looked just as they had before man came to Redhart, and would still be there after man had gone. The moors had no need of man, nor any love for him.

  “Don’t look around,” said Sir Gawaine quietly, “but we’re no longer alone.”

  Jordan sat stiffly in his saddle, jolted out of his melancholy. The other three glanced casually about them, barely moving their heads.

  “Bandits?” said Argent.

  “Unlikely,” said Roderik. “I had my people check this whole area out before we came in. There are a few footpads and liers in wait, but no armed gangs. There aren’t enough steady pickings here to support them.”

  “They could be agents working for the other princes,” said Argent.

  “It’s possible, I suppose,” said Roderik. “But what would they be doing in a backwater place like this? No one but us knew about Jordan. How many are there out there, Gawaine?”

  “Five, maybe six,” said the knight calmly. “They’re laying low in the heather up ahead. They’re pretty good. I almost missed them.”

  “What are we going to do?” said Jordan hoarsely.

  Gawaine chuckled quietly, and let his hand fall to the ax at his side.

  “No one knew we were coming here,” said Roderik. “I’d stake my life on it.”

  “You did,” said Gawaine. “Now it looks like someone’s planning on calling in the bet. One of our people must be a traitor.”

  “That’s not possible,” said Argent. “Everyone was carefully chosen …”

  “Don’t be naive,” said Gawaine. “There’s always someone who can be bought, or broken. We’d better look into it when we get back to Castle Midnight.”

  “Assuming we ever get there,” said Jordan. “Whoever those people are out there in the heather, they outnumber us six to four, remember?”

  “They may have the numbers,” said Roderik, “but we have Sir Gawaine.”

  Gawaine smiled nastily. Jordan tried hard to feel reassured.

  They rode on down the beaten path. The heather stirred ominously as the wind moaned briefly. Jordan searched the surrounding shadows as best he could without being too obvious about it, but couldn’t see anything. He wondered if he could take advantage of an ambush to turn his horse around and race back to town. If by some chance Roderik’s people survived, he could always emerge later when all the fighting was over, and swear blind his horse had run away with him. It only took him a moment’s thought to see the plan wouldn’t work. Firstly, the others would never believe it, and secondly, Smokey was too damned lazy to run anywhere. Jordan swallowed hard, and loosened his sword in its scabbard. When it came to violence, Jordan always believed in seeing the other person’s point of view. If that failed, he tended to favor kicking the other guy in the nuts and running away quickly. It wasn’t so much that he was afraid of violence, though he was, it was just that Jordan had too good an imagination. He found it far too easy to visualize all the terrible things that could go wrong, and just what it would feel like to have your head ripped clean off your shoulders. He swallowed hard and wished he was somewhere else. Anywhere else. He eased his boots out of his stirrups so that he could jump free of his horse if he had to, and flexed his arms surreptitiously to check that the flare pellets and smoke bombs in his sleeves were within easy reach if he needed them.

  A dark figure suddenly leapt out of the heather before Gawaine’s horse, and grabbed for his bridle. The horse reared up on its hind legs, and Gawaine tumbled backward out of the saddle. He landed on the packed earth of the trail with a heavy thud, and rolled away into the heather. The dark figure went rushing after him. Moonlight shone brightly on his upraised sword. Jordan and the others reined their horses to a sudden halt as more dark figures rose up out of the heather on either side of the trail.

  Jordan glared wildly about him. He counted six figures, including the one that had gone after Gawaine, and they all looked to be armed. In the dark, they looked more like demons than men. Jordan reached into the hidden pocket in his left sleeve, and pulled out one of the small wax pellets. He nicked the wax coating with his thumbnail, and threw the pellet onto the ground between him and the nearest of the advancing figures. The pellet split open on impact, and the liquid within burst into flames as it was exposed to the air. Flames roared up in the middle of the trail, lighting the scene in vivid shades of crimson and gold. For a moment, the ambushers stopped dead in their tracks, stunned by the unexpected heat and light. The dancing flames reflected brightly from their chain mail and blank shields. Mercenaries, thought Jordan sickly. We’re up against professional bloody killers. He groped frantically for another flare pellet.

  There was a horrid scream from out in the heather, and then Sir Gawaine stood up, his ax dripping blood. There was no sign of his attacker. “Well-done, Prince Viktor,” he called loudly. “But we won’t need any more of your fire magic. My friends and I will take care of this trash.”

  He laughed unpleasantly, and Jordan shivered. There was something harsh and awful in that laugh: an open delight in murder and human butchery. Sir Gawaine hefted his great ax once, and started forward. The mercenaries snapped out of their daze, and two of them went to meet him. The others moved cautiously forward, giving the flames in the middle of the path plenty of room as they passed. Roderik drew his sword and dismounted, all in a single supple movement, and Argent swung quickly down to join him. They moved confidently forward to meet the mercenaries. The fighting had already begun by the time Jordan got down from his horse.

  Gawaine stood his ground, grinning nastily, as the two mercenaries closed in on him. They had to wade through the tall heather to reach him, and he didn’t miss the way it slowed them down. He chose his moment carefully, and then launched himself forward, his ax a silver blur in the moonlight as it swept out to punch deep into the first mercenary’s ribs. The heavy steel blade buried itself in his side with a harsh, chunking sound, and the impact threw the mercenary to the ground. Sir Gawaine yanked the ax free, and blood and splintered bone flew on the air. The second mercenary’s sword swept out in a long arc, reaching for Gawaine’s throat. The knight ducked under the blow at the last moment, and his ax whistled through the air toward his attacker’s legs. The mercenary jumped backward, and the ax just missed. Gawaine recovered his balance and moved forward, swinging his ax lazily before him. The mercenary backed away, peering warily at him over his shield. Gawaine feinted to the left and then threw himself forward as the mercenary hesitated, undecided. The ax rose and fell, sweeping past the shield to smash through the mercenary’s collarbone and bury itself in his chest. The two men fell to the ground in a heap, but only Gawaine got to his feet again. Blood soaked his chain mail, none of it his.

  There was a weak thrashing sound behind him, and Gawaine spun around as the first mercenary lurched to his feet, favoring his smashed ribs but s
till clinging to his sword. Blood ran from his mouth and nose, and he showed his teeth in a bloody grin. Gawaine watched him warily. When a man knows he’s dying, he becomes a much more dangerous opponent. He’ll try anything, take any risk. He knows he’s got nothing to lose. The mercenary rushed forward, and his sword cut viciously at Gawaine’s belly. The knight met the blow with the flat of his ax, and the shock ripped the sword from the mercenary’s weakened grasp. He watched his sword fly through the air, and Gawaine’s ax leapt up to sink into his throat. He fell limply to the ground, and lay still. Gawaine pulled his ax free with a sickening tearing sound.

  Count Roderik cut down the first mercenary to reach him with practiced ease, his sword a shining blur in the uneven light. He turned quickly to meet the second mercenary, his face a cold and calculating mask. He moved confidently forward, and steel clashed on steel as the mercenary parried his attack without flinching. He took most of the blows on his blank shield, content to let Roderik tire himself, and then launched his own attack. The two men stamped back and forth on the narrow trail, sparks flying in the gloom when their swords met.

  Roderik gritted his teeth against a growing ache in his sword arm. It had been too many years since he’d used a sword for anything but sport or exercise. That was the trouble with a good reputation as a swordsman: after a while it became practically impossible to find anyone foolish enough to duel with you, even just to first blood. Roderik pressed his opponent hard, and the mercenary backed cautiously away, leaving no opening. Roderik scowled. It was taking too long. Old instincts and skills were slowly returning to him, but already his breath was coming fast and hurried, while the mercenary wasn’t even breathing hard. Roderik felt an almost forgotten chill run through him as he realized the man before him might just be a better swordsman than he.