Blood and Honor (Forest Kingdom Novels)

by Simon R. Green

  “Give him his due,” said Roderik. “He was rather famous, in his day.”

  “Theatricals,” sniffed Argent. “Never knew one that was worth the breath it took to damn him. Gypsies, tramps, and thieves, the lot of them. Never done an honest day’s work in their lives.”

  “Be that as it may,” said Roderik, diplomatically, “the fact is that we need him, Robert, and most of all we need his willing cooperation. Try not to upset him, for the time being at least. I get the feeling he could do something really creative in the way of sulking if he put his mind to it.”

  Argent sniffed again, but said nothing. Roderik looked at him, started to say something, hesitated, and then started again.

  “Robert, how long have we known each other?”

  “Twenty-odd years. Something like that.” Argent smiled slightly. “Most of it seemed to make sense, at the time. Why?”

  “Because the only time you get this touchy is when something’s troubling you. We’ve been involved in quite a few schemes over the years. Some came off, some didn’t. There’s no reason to get yourself worked up, Robert; it’s just another scheme, that’s all.”

  “I know, Rod. Just another scheme.”

  “Then why are you so tense?”

  “I am not tense!”

  “You want to shout that again, Robert? I don’t think they caught all of that at Castle Midnight.”

  “I’m fine,” said Argent, more quietly. “There’s nothing wrong with me.”

  “Bull. I’ve seen men on their way to the headsman’s ax who looked more relaxed than you do. You’re not really worried about the actor, are you? He’ll do his job, and do it well. He’s already so like Viktor it frightens me.”

  “I’m not worried about the actor,” said Argent. “I can’t stand the man, but he seems competent enough.”

  “Then what is it? What’s the problem?”

  “Nothing! I’m fine! Now go away and leave me be, Rod. I’m tired, and I’m wet, and I think I’m starting a cold. I’m really not in the mood for conversation.”

  He turned away from Roderik, and began brushing his horse down with great energy and concentration. Roderik sighed, and decided he’d try again later. He knew from long experience that when Argent decided he wasn’t going to talk, a team of wild horses couldn’t drag one word past his lips.

  Jordan was busy helping Gawaine get a fire started. The early morning was still bitterly cold, despite the bright sunshine. Unfortunately, like everything else in the moor, the heather was soaking wet, and so far it had stubbornly resisted all the knight’s efforts to set it alight with flint and steel. Jordan watched silently for a while, and then crouched down beside Gawaine. He palmed a fire pellet from his sleeve, cracked the coating deftly with his fingernail, and then dropped the pellet into the piled heather with a quick mystical gesture. The heather immediately burst into flames, and thick smoke curled up as the fire took hold. Jordan and Gawaine straightened up, and held out their hands to the leaping flames. Gawaine looked sideways at Jordan.

  “That was very impressive. Mind telling me how you did it?”

  Jordan smiled. “Professional secret, I’m afraid. The quickness of the hand deceives the eye, and all that. It’s really quite simple, when you know how.”

  Gawaine nodded. “It seems Count Roderik was right in choosing you. If that wasn’t fire magic, it’s the nearest thing I’ve seen to it outside Castle Midnight.”

  Jordan bit his lip, and looked seriously at Gawaine. The knight seemed in a companionable enough mood, and there were a few questions Jordan very much wanted answered … “Tell me about Castle Midnight, Gawaine. Some of the stories I’ve heard about it have been … pretty damned strange. Are there really ghosts and monsters walking through the corridors at all hours of the day and night? Is there really a dungeon that eats people? Is it true that anyone can work magic in the castle, just as long as they’ve spent the night there?”

  “Yes and no,” said Gawaine, smiling slightly. “There are all sorts of stories about Castle Midnight, but most of them have got rather confused in the retelling. Magic, elemental magic, that is, is very common at the castle, but that’s only because so many of the aristocracy have some ties to the royal Bloodline. In fact, status among the castle’s High Society is largely determined by the power of your magic, as that demonstrates the relative purity of your Blood. As for ghosts and monsters … that’s a little more complicated. You have to understand that what is Real and Unreal can easily become rather confused at the castle. It’s always been that way. Some say there’s High Magic built into the ancient walls. Others claim there’s Wild Magic in the hill the castle rests on. No one knows the whole truth. But for as long as anyone can remember, there have always been ghosts in Castle Midnight, day and night. They’re mostly harmless, as long as you don’t upset them, and after a while you get used to them. They’re only people who have become lost in time. Who wandered from the path and cannot find their way back.”

  “And the monsters?” said Jordan, hesitantly.

  “There are a few monsters, every now and again. Our steward takes care of them, as and when necessary. I suppose I’d better tell you about her. Catriona Taggert is the third of her line to serve as steward to the castle. Good-looking girl, and tough with it. She has no Blood, but like all her family she’s very proficient at the High Magic. She and Viktor don’t get on. I think he disapproves of anyone outside the aristocracy wielding so much power. Anyway, it’s the steward’s job to keep an eye on the Unreal, and make sure it doesn’t get out of hand. In normal times, there isn’t much for her to do.

  “You see, the combination of Real and Unreal in one place generates a hell of a lot of mystical power: a power the king can draw on through the ancient Stone set under his throne. The power amplifies the king’s elemental magic enormously, and at the same time enables him to keep the Real and the Unreal in balance. This, of course, ensures that the power keeps on flowing, which means … and so on, and so on. However, at times like these, when there’s no king on the throne, things can get pretty hairy at Castle Midnight. Without the king to maintain the balance, the Unreal starts trying to break loose and run free. All kinds of insanity take shape and form, and come to life. Ghosts and monsters are only the half of it. And this, of course, is where the steward really comes into her own. Her job is to hold things together as best she can with her sorcery, until a new king takes the throne, and restores the balance.”

  “You make it sound as though the Unreal is … alive,” said Jordan slowly.

  Gawaine shrugged. “No one knows for sure what the Unreal is. Ask ten different people, and they’ll give you ten different answers. You’ll see for yourself when we get to the castle.”

  “Wait a minute,” said Jordan. “I think I’m missing something here. If there’s that much power just waiting to be grabbed, why haven’t Lewis or Dominic simply declared themselves king, and taken the throne by force? From what I’ve heard about those two, it ought to be the first thing they’d think of.”

  “As I keep pointing out, inheritance isn’t quite that simple at Castle Midnight,” said Count Roderik.

  Jordan looked around sharply. Roderik and Argent stepped forward and warmed their hands at the fire. Jordan wondered if he ought to say something cutting, given their earlier slights, but decided against it. For better or worse, he had to learn to work with these people. And they were, after all, the ones who were paying him. Fifty thousand ducats, he thought grimly. And I’m earning every bloody penny of it. He realized Roderik was still talking, and paid attention to him.

  “In order to inherit the kingship,” said Roderik patiently, “the claimant has to produce both the king’s crown and his seal of office, and present them to the Stone in the correct ceremony. The Stone then grants the king power over the Unreal. Without that power, no king can rule in Redhart.”

  “Don’t tell me,” said Jordan. “The crown and the seal have both gone missing, right?”

  “I said you
were starting to think like a prince,” said Gawaine. “Viktor and his two brothers have been turning the castle upside down since Malcolm died, but there’s no trace anywhere of crown or seal.”

  “Wait a minute,” said Jordan, frowning thoughtfully. “If Lewis or Dominic had killed King Malcolm, that would mean they’d have to have the crown and seal. Since they obviously haven’t got them, that proves Lewis and Dominic couldn’t have been the murderers! I mean, they wouldn’t have been stupid enough to kill the king without being sure where the crown and seal were first. Would they?”

  “The best laid plans can go adrift,” said Roderik. “Or perhaps there was a third party involved that we don’t know about … There’s a great deal concerning the king’s death that remains unclear. What is clear is that if it becomes known at Court that Prince Viktor is ill, and therefore vulnerable, he’ll lose all hope of support. That’s why we need you, Jordan. We need you to be the prince in public, so that our people can carry on the search behind the scenes.”

  The four of them stood silently around the fire for a while, each man considering the complications of the situation, and his own part in it. Gawaine roused himself first, and set about preparing a frugal breakfast. Argent went to make sure each of the horses had a nose bag. Roderik pulled a folded map from one of his panniers, and busied himself plotting the quickest route back to Castle Midnight. Once again, Jordan found himself rather left out of things, and decided to go for a little walk to see what there was to see. Besides, the exercise might warm him up. He blew on his hands and wished, not for the first time, that he hadn’t bet his gloves on that last roll of the dice two towns back. He never had been lucky with dice; unless they were his own.

  The open moor stretched away in all directions, colored gray and purple by the hard-wearing heather that flourished where little else would. The only disturbance in the even landscape was a smooth oblong mound that rose a good ten feet above the moor, lying not far from the rough trail. Jordan walked slowly through the heather toward it. Despite the patchy heather that covered the mound from crown to foot, he could still tell the shape was too regular for it to be a natural phenomenon. More likely it was a barrow of some kind: a burial mound for some ancient chieftain.

  When he was a child, Jordan’s mother had told him never to go near a barrow, because that was where the faerie kind lived, and if they tempted him through the secret door in the heart of the barrow, he’d never be seen again. When he was a little older, he sat and listened wide-eyed to the old ballad of Silbury Hill, which told of a king in golden armor who lay sleeping under a barrow with his great sword in his hand, waiting to be called forth to do battle with the final evil at the end of time. When he reached a man’s age, Jordan decided that all the stories and ballads were nothing more than myths and legends, and barrows were just graves and mounds of earth. He still had a fondness for the old stories, and often incorporated them into his act, but he knew there was no truth in them. Or so he’d believed. Until now.

  Approaching the great mound of earth was like knocking on the door of a haunted house. There was something about the barrow: a disturbing sense of presence, of something evil waiting and watching … Jordan stopped halfway to the mound, and stared at it for a long moment. He shivered suddenly, and pulled his cloak about him. The chill of the early morning air grew sharper, and a gusting wind tousled his hair. The temperature dropped sharply, and Jordan was startled to see his breath suddenly steaming on the air before him. The light began to fade away. Jordan looked up at the sky. Dark clouds were rolling overhead, cutting off the sun. The wind began to blow steadily, carrying a bitter cold that sliced through Jordan like a knife, despite his thick cloak. He moved quickly back to join the others, who were chattering agitatedly together.

  “What is it?” demanded Jordan. “What the hell’s happening? The sky was clear ten minutes ago. Storm clouds can’t gather that quickly. It’s not natural!”

  “Damn right it isn’t,” growled Gawaine. He drew his ax, and hefted it lightly. “Stay close, Your Highness. We’re under attack.”

  Jordan looked up at the sky again. The dark clouds stretched across the sky, and thunder rolled menacingly close at hand.

  “Is this what you meant by elemental magic?” he asked Roderik.

  Roderik shook his head quickly, still staring at the darkening sky. “No, Jordan, you’d need more than air or water magic to build a storm like this. This has got to be High Magic.”

  “All right, it’s High Magic. What do we do about it?”

  “I don’t know!” said Roderik. “Give me time to think! Gawaine … stand ready with your ax.”

  “His ax?” said Jordan incredulously. “What’s he going to do with that; climb on my shoulders and start carving chunks out of the clouds?”

  “Keep the noise down, Your Highness,” said Gawaine calmly. “This isn’t just an ax. The High Warlock made it for me a long time ago.”

  He hefted the heavy weapon easily in his hand, and for the first time Jordan noticed a series of spidery runes traced across the steel blade. They seemed almost to glow and shimmer in the reduced light. Jordan looked back at the sky. Dark clouds boiled above them, seething with energy. The light had gone out of the day, and the moor was gray as twilight. Thunder crashed suddenly, a deafening roar that shook the air. Jordan staggered back a step, and clapped his hands to his ears. Rain hammered down. The heather bowed under its concentrated pressure. Jordan was soaked to the skin in moments. He looked frantically about him for some kind of shelter, but there wasn’t any. The horses were rearing and neighing shrilly, despite everything Argent could do to soothe them, spooked by the sudden storm.

  Lighting flared across the sky, and cracked down to strike the ground barely a dozen yards away from the group. The ground shook violently, and where the bolt had hit, the heather burst into flames. The pouring rain put them out again before they could spread. Thunder roared again, even closer and louder than before. It seemed to echo on in Jordan’s bones, even after the sound was gone. Lightning struck again, closer this time, and the impact sent all of them flying to the ground. Jordan burrowed down into the heather, knowing even as he did that it wasn’t going to be enough to hide him. Roderik called for them all to stay close together, but his voice was all but lost in the roar of the storm. Jordan looked up, and then buried his head in his arms as the lightning struck again. The earth shuddered beneath him, and he could feel the heat of burning heather not far away. The lightning was drawing steadily closer.

  Gawaine surged to his feet in the pause after the lightning struck, and held his ax above his head. Jordan watched incredulously, half convinced the knight meant to sacrifice his life to save the others. The lightning flared again: a jagged arc of light that stretched from the clouds to the ax’s head in a fraction of a second. The steel blade glowed fiercely as the lightning hit it, but Gawaine barely flinched. And then the lightning was gone, and Gawaine still stood there, unharmed. Jordan brushed the rain out of his eyes with the back of his hand, and watched disbelievingly as lightning flared again and again, blinking on and off in quick succession, drawn to the glowing ax head like moths to a candle. Gawaine stood firm, holding the ax above him, his head turned away and his eyes squeezed shut. Slowly, gradually, the lightning strikes grew farther apart, and the thunder lost its roar. The wind died away to nothing, and the rain lost its sting.

  Roderik clambered to his feet, and raised his hands above his head. The rain spattered on his upturned face as his brow furrowed in concentration. A breeze blew from his hands, building quickly into a roaring gale. Gawaine staggered as he felt its first touch, then realized what was happening and threw himself to the ground. Jordan did the same. The heather was pressed flat by the howling wind. Jordan dug his fingers into the muddy ground to try and anchor himself. Roderik stood tall and proud, unmoved by the tempest he had summoned into being. The rain began to die away, and a gap appeared in the dark storm clouds. A shaft of morning light fell onto Roderik like a spotlight.
More breaks appeared in the clouds as the wind broke them apart and moved them on. The rain gradually stopped, and was replaced by the returning sunshine.

  Roderik lowered his hands, and as quickly as that, the gale died away to a wind, and then to a breeze, and then was gone. For a while there was only an echoing silence, and then one by one the birds began calling to each other in the heather. The storm had passed, leaving nothing behind to mark its fury save a few patches of blackened and smoldering heather. Gawaine got to his feet, nodded briefly to Roderik, and sheathed his ax. He moved away to calm the terrified horses, while Jordan and Argent got up and went to join Roderik, who was rubbing tiredly at his temples.

  “Are you all right, Rod?” said Argent anxiously. “I never knew you had so much Blood.”

  Roderik gave him a quick, reassuring smile. “I’m fine, thanks. Just a little out of practice. It’s been a long time since I dared use my air magic in public.”

  “Why’s that?” asked Jordan. “I thought you said strong elemental magic was a mark of status in High Society?”

  Roderik smiled sourly. “It also makes you a target for intrigues and assassinations. The fewer people who remembered I was Malcolm’s cousin, the safer I was.”

  He swayed suddenly on his feet as a wave of tiredness caught up with him, and Argent quickly took his arm and helped him sit down. From the way Argent fussed over Roderik, it was clear the two of them were old and close friends, and Jordan decided his presence was something of an intrusion. For want of anything better to do, he walked over to help Gawaine with the horses. The hobbles had kept them from bolting, but their nerves were shattered. Their eyes were rolling wildly, showing the whites, and it was some time before the horses would let anyone get close enough to begin calming them. Gawaine and Jordan stuck at it, talking slowly and smoothly, and gradually the horses began to respond. Normally, Jordan wouldn’t have had the patience, but as it was, he welcomed the chance to do a little quiet thinking. Roderik had said the sudden storm had been caused by High Magic, which suggested two things. Firstly, there was definitely a traitor among Roderik’s people. The mercenaries finding them might have been just an unlucky break, but the storm had been planned and delivered right to them. And secondly, it was now clear that Prince Viktor had some very powerful enemies. Elemental magic might be fairly common at Castle Midnight, but High Magic was a different matter. High Magic meant a first-class sorcerer, and there weren’t many of those left in the world these days.