The fifth and last mercenary slipped past the struggling figures and made for his main target, the prince. The merchant could wait; he wasn’t going to be a problem. Prince Viktor, on the other hand, was looking more dangerous by the minute. He had to be taken care of quickly, before he could call up any more magical fire. Besides, there was a bonus for the man who killed the prince. The mercenary grinned. For a hundred ducat bonus, he’d wipe out a whole royal family. And then he pulled up short, startled, as Robert Argent blocked his way with a drawn sword. The mercenary looked at him, and his grin widened. One short, tubby merchant with a brand-new sword shouldn’t be much of a problem. The mercenary glanced briefly at Prince Viktor, just in case he was about to launch any more magic, but he was apparently busy fumbling with his sleeves and muttering to himself. Argent lashed out clumsily with his sword, and the mercenary parried it easily. He quickly took over the attack, and forced Argent back step by step, the merchant defending himself more by strength and determination than skill. In a matter of seconds, the mercenary knocked Argent’s sword out of his hand, and drew back his blade for the killing thrust.
“Hold, assassin!” roared Jordan, in his most commanding voice. He gestured mystically, and blue-white flames flared up about his hands. The mercenary took one look, and started backing quickly away. Jordan adopted his most impressive High Warlock stance. The trick was to keep the audience looking at you, rather than the hands. That way they wouldn’t notice how quickly the flames started to die down. He ran his hands through a quick series of mystical gestures, using the movements to hide his palming of another flare pellet from his sleeve, and threw the pellet at the mercenary. It cracked open as it hit his chest, and the liquid in the pellet burst into flames. The fire took a savage hold on the mercenary’s clothes, and leapt up around his face. He screamed shrilly, and dropped his sword to beat at the flames with his hands. Jordan stepped forward, and ran the man through with his sword. The mercenary fell to the ground, and lay still. The flames burned fiercely on the unmoving body.
Jordan looked quickly about him. The flames licking around his hands were already beginning to gutter. Argent gave him a quick nod to show he was all right. Gawaine was just finishing off his last opponent, but Roderik was being beaten slowly back by his. Jordan blew out the flames on his hands, and moved stealthily in behind the mercenary. It only took a moment to remove his cloak and sweep it over the mercenary’s head, blinding him. He grabbed frantically at the heavy material, and Roderik ran him through. Jordan pulled his cloak away as the mercenary collapsed, and put it on again. Roderik looked at the dead man, and then at Jordan, and raised an eyebrow.
“Don’t believe in fighting fair, do you?”
“I believe in winning,” said Jordan, settling his cloak comfortably about him.
“A very sensible attitude,” said Sir Gawaine, stepping over a dead body as he came forward to join them. He looked sternly at Argent, who was still groping in the shadows at the side of the trail, trying to find the sword he’d dropped. “If you’re going to stay with us, Argent, I’d better teach you how to fight. Or at least how to hang onto your sword.”
“If you were doing your job properly, I wouldn’t need to know how,” said Argent, finally straightening up with his sword in his hand. “You’re supposed to be our bodyguard, remember?”
“We all fight when we have to,” said Roderik quickly. “Now, may I suggest we all get the hell out of here? Those mercenaries knew where to find us; for all we know there could be more of them on their way right now. Damn it, Gawaine, I would have sworn nobody knew we were coming here.” He frowned unhappily at the mercenary he’d just killed. “It’s a pity we couldn’t take one of them alive to answer questions.”
“Sorry,” said Gawaine. “I’ll try to remember next time.”
He strode away to round up the scattered horses. Jordan noticed with pride that of all the party’s mounts, only Smokey had stayed put. In fact, when he thought about it, Jordan was actually quite proud of himself, too. He’d helped to take on six fully armed mercenaries, had killed two himself, and had come out of it without a scratch. Not bad going … The rising wind brought him the smell of burned pork from the mercenary he’d killed, and the reality of the situation suddenly caught up with him. He felt faintly sick, and his hands began to shake. He’d only been on this job a few hours, and already people were trying to kill him. Next time, there might be a hell of a lot more of them … He stepped forward to confront Roderik, and fixed him with an icy glare.
“When I took on this impersonation, nothing was said about having to face bands of armed mercenaries. I’m an actor: a strolling player. I’ve damn ill skill with a sword, and no real interest in acquiring any. If I’d wanted a life of danger and excitement, I’d have joined the tax collectors. In short, either you give me one hell of a good reason to stay, or I’m for the nearest horizon and you can find some other half-wit to play Prince Viktor.”
Roderik nodded slowly. “I see. And what would you consider a good reason to stay?”
Got him, thought Jordan gleefully. All I have to do is name a price they can’t possibly meet, and I’m free!
“Fifty thousand ducats,” he said flatly. “Take it or leave it.”
“Very well,” said Count Roderik. “Fifty thousand ducats it is.”
Jordan swallowed dryly. “That’s a good reason to stay,” he said finally.
“There’s really no need to worry,” said Roderik as Gawaine came back with the horses. “A week from now, we’ll be back at Castle Midnight. Our people can protect you there.”
“A lot can happen in a week,” said Jordan darkly. He thought for a moment. “What’s Castle Midnight like? Will I be safe there?”
“Depends what you mean by safe,” said Gawaine. “Castle Midnight isn’t exactly your average castle.”
“How do you mean?” said Jordan.
“You must have heard some of the stories,” said Roderik.
“Well, yes,” said Jordan. “But they’re just stories. Aren’t they?”
“Are you going to tell him,” asked Gawaine, “or shall I?”
“Castle Midnight is very old,” said Argent, “and a place of power. Within its walls, what is Real and Unreal is sometimes largely a matter of opinion.”
“Great,” said Jordan, shaking his head. “Just what this job needed. More complications.”
CHAPTER 2
* * *
Bloody Bones
Castle Midnight stands alone: a lowering, brooding hulk of black basalt stone, set atop Brimstone Hill. The castle is unspeakably old, but its walls are still as thick and sturdy as they ever were. No ivy clings to the smooth stones, and all the many years have left no trace on the grim walls to mark their passing. The tall dark towers look out over the surrounding land through narrow, watchful embrasures, sometimes lit with strangely colored fires. The castle did not always belong to the kings of Redhart; they took it by force of arms and sorcery some seven hundred years ago. But it is theirs now, and they gave it the name by which it has been known and feared for centuries: Castle Midnight.
Within the towering black walls, the Real and the Unreal exist side by side, drawing strength from each other. Midnight is, after all, the hour that divides day from night, light from dark, the waking from the sleeping. It is that fleeting moment when the reality of what is and the possibility of what may be lie in balance … and sometimes in harmony. Those who rule in Castle Midnight draw their power from the juxtaposition of Real and Unreal, but all who live there know the balance is at best precarious and easily disturbed. And should things ever get out of control, one way or the other, there is no power in or out of this world that could put things back together again.
Castle Midnight stands alone, unique and awful, ominous and powerful. Its shadow falls across all of Redhart. It has seen wonders and terrors beyond counting in its time, and known the passing of kings. King Malcolm is four weeks dead, and the throne stands empty. Within the black walls, the Unr
eal stirs and grows strong.
The Monk stood motionless before Prince Lewis, his cowled head bowed as though in thought. His long, flowing robe was the pale gray of dirty cobwebs. Its hem brushed against the floor, and the billowing sleeves were linked together in front of him. Prince Lewis studied the bowed head warily. It wasn’t natural for anyone to stand that still for so long. He wondered if he ought to say something, but decided against it. The Monk didn’t like to be disturbed when he was working. Lewis shifted his weight from one foot to the other, and scowled uncertainly. The Monk was his most powerful ally, and his only real hope against Dominic’s sorcery, but Lewis wasn’t blind to the risks involved in such an alliance. For some hidden reason of his own, the Monk followed Lewis’s requests as though they were orders, but the prince knew beyond any shadow of doubt that all his secular power and elemental magic wouldn’t be enough to save him if the Monk ever turned against him. The Monk was acknowledged by all as the most powerful sorcerer in Castle Midnight.
There were also those who whispered that the Monk wasn’t Real.
Lewis decided, not for the first time, that he wasn’t going to think about that. He turned his back on the Monk, and walked away to stand under his oak tree. He found its shade soothing. He looked aimlessly around his apartment, but there was nothing he could see that needed his attention. Everything was as it should be. The apartment had started out as just another stone-walled chamber deep in the castle, but over the years Lewis had adapted it to suit his needs and whims. The earth magic he’d inherited by his Blood gave him power over everything that lived or grew in the earth. It wasn’t a very useful attribute inside the castle, but Lewis liked to exercise his magic, so he brought the outdoors inside. The floor of his apartment was covered with a layer of earth, from which grew a thick carpet of neatly trimmed grass. Its rich scent perfumed the air. A huge oak tree filled one corner of the room, its branches pressed flat against the high ceiling. It had no real roots, but Lewis’s magic kept it alive. From time to time, Lewis would grow flowers or vegetables in his apartment, just to prove that he could, but of late he hadn’t been in the mood. Since his father’s death, he’d had more important things on his mind. Killing Dominic and Viktor wasn’t going to be easy.
Lewis leaned back against the wide trunk of his oak tree, and glared at the still figure of the Monk. He hated to be kept waiting. No one but the Monk would have dared to make him wait. Lewis pushed himself away from his tree, and walked over to look at himself in the full-length mirror on his wardrobe door. His scowl slowly gave way to a satisfied smile. Every now and again, Lewis liked to check that he was still looking good. Not that he ever doubted it, but he found the confirmation soothing. He nodded approvingly to his reflection, who nodded politely back. Lewis was a tall, imposing man in his late twenties, with a harsh bony face and thinning brown hair. His chest and shoulders were muscular, and his waistline hadn’t varied by so much as an inch in almost twelve years. His superbly tailored clothes were cut in the latest fashion, but dyed in the only colors he ever wore: earth brown and forest green. Even his cloak was a pleasant russet brown. He carried a sword at his hip, and though the scabbard was ornately decorated with gold and silver curlicues, the sword within was standard military issue. Lewis was a master swordsman, and ready to prove it to anyone at the drop of an insult. People talking to Lewis tended to be very careful about how they chose their words.
The Monk’s cowled head rose suddenly, and Lewis felt a familiar chill run through him as he saw the open cowl held nothing but an unfathomable darkness. The Monk’s robe might hold a human shape, but if there was a body inside the robe, no one had ever seen it. Lewis kept his face calm as he strode over to rejoin the Monk, and held his head a little higher. He was a prince of Redhart, soon to be its king, and he stood in awe of no man.
“Well?” he said coldly. “Have you located them?”
“Yes, Your Highness,” said the Monk. “They’re out on the moors, by Barrowmeer. Count Roderik’s spells of concealment misled me for a while, but I have them now.”
The Monk’s voice was distant and echoing, as though it came not from just inside his cowl, but rather from some unimaginable distance further in. The words were clear, if quiet, and the tone was polite enough, even courteous, but there was no animation in the voice: no emotion or humanity.
Lewis nodded curtly. “All right, you’ve found Roderik’s party, but is Viktor with them?”
“See for yourself, Your Highness.” The Monk’s sleeves parted, revealing no hands at the gray cuffs, and only darkness within. The right sleeve gestured gracefully, and the air before Prince Lewis shimmered and then cleared to show a vision of Barrowmeer. Lewis fought to keep his expression calm and unimpressed. It was like looking through a window that wasn’t there, save that the scene was utterly silent. Lewis watched closely as the four men on horseback reined in their horses and looked out across the open moor. His gaze settled on one familiar face, and he nodded grimly.
“Viktor. I knew he wasn’t in the castle anymore.”
The Monk gestured lightly, and Prince Viktor’s face filled the view.
“Are you sure that is him, Your Highness? All my magic indicates that Prince Viktor has not left Castle Midnight.”
“Of course that’s him! Do you think I don’t know my own brother when I see him?” Lewis scowled angrily. “I should have had him killed when he was still safely in exile.”
“He was no threat then, Your Highness. He had no allies of any worth, save for Sir Gawaine.”
“Well he’s got allies now,” snapped Lewis. “I don’t know what they’ve been out looking for, but it must have been bloody important for them to leave the castle at this time. Maybe they’ve found a clue as to where the crown and seal are hidden … And if they get to them before we do …”
“They won’t, Your Highness,” said the Monk. “If you allow me to deal with them. You’ve seen for yourself that assassins are not the answer. The mercenaries you sent were no match for Gawaine and Roderik. But if I were to use my arts …”
“Do it,” said Lewis, staring unblinkingly at Viktor’s face in the vision. “Do it now.”
The sun had been up an hour, and the rain had finally stopped. It had been raining all night, and Jordan had begun to wonder if it would ever end. The early morning felt sharp and fresh after the storm, and the rich scents of earth and grass and heather lay heavily on the air. A few birds were calling to each other out in the heather, and Jordan glared in their general direction. Roderik had kept the party moving all through the night without a break, despite the storm, and as far as Jordan was concerned, the rest of the world had no business sounding so cheerful when he felt so lousy. He sighed heavily, and swung down out of his saddle. Roderik didn’t know it, but he was lucky to be alive. Because if he hadn’t called this halt, Jordan would undoubtedly have killed him. He stamped back and forth beside his horse, working out the cramps in his legs and trying to coax some warmth back into his chilled bones. Ah well, he thought resignedly, it could be worse, I suppose. It could still be raining.
Roderik and Argent set about hobbling the horses, while Gawaine gathered fuel for a fire. Infuriatingly, none of them seemed particularly bothered by the long ride. Jordan scowled, and kicked at the muddy trail with the toe of his boot. It was going to be a rotten day, he could tell. He knew he ought really to be doing something to help the others, but he couldn’t seem to summon up the energy. He hated missing his sleep. Finally he moved over to help Roderik remove the saddles and gear from the horses, on the grounds that it looked like the least work he could get away with. Besides, if he didn’t do something soon, they’d probably make him dig the latrines. Roderik nodded shortly to him, but he didn’t seem particularly appreciative of his help.
“Nice morning,” said Jordan, just to be polite.
“Indeed,” said Roderik, not looking up from the bridle he was checking.
“Do we have much farther to go before we reach Castle Midnight?”
<
br /> “Quite a way.”
“Have you been this way before?”
Roderik gave him a hard look. “Be a good chap, and stop bothering me, Jordan. I’ve got work to do. Why don’t you go for a little walk, or something?”
It was the long-suffering patience in Roderik’s voice that annoyed Jordan the most. It was the kind of voice a harried adult used with an overactive child. Still, never let it be said that the Great Jordan was one to push himself in where he wasn’t wanted. He turned away, and then stopped as he saw Robert Argent coming toward him. He smiled at the merchant determinedly. He was going to have some friendly conversation this morning if it killed him. After a whole night’s traveling in the cold and the rain, he felt he was owed a little friendly conversation.
“Good morning, Robert,” he said brightly. “Looks like it’s going to be a nice day.”
“Shut up and go away,” said Argent.
“I beg your …”
“Shut up. Go and find something useful to do. If you can do anything useful, actor.”
Jordan spun on his heel and walked away, fuming. Argent would pay for that. No one talked to the Great Jordan like that and got away with it. Maybe he could hide a snake in the man’s bedding … or his britches …
Roderick watched Jordan stalk off, and glanced at Argent. “I think you’ve upset him.”
“Good,” said Argent. “He gets on my nerves. Always strutting around like a damned peacock. Actors should know their place.”
Blood and Honor (Forest Kingdom Novels) Page 5