Blood and Honor (Forest Kingdom Novels)

by Simon R. Green

  “Where is the steward now?”

  “Up on the roof, my lord, dealing with the gargoyles.”

  “Tell her I’d like to see her, when she has a spare moment. It’s not important, but I would like to see her.”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  Captain Doyle sketched him a quick bow, and scurried away. William watched him go. Not all that long ago, it had been the custom for rulers to execute those who brought them bad news. William could understand why. There was a sick, hollow anger churning within him, and he wanted to lash out at someone, anyone, but he knew he couldn’t. He had to appear calm and controlled at all times, even when he was falling apart inside. His followers expected it of him. Damn them. He leaned back in his chair, and wished that he could leave. He was tired; he was always tired, these days. He was so tense he couldn’t ever relax, and what little sleep he got didn’t refresh him. Gabrielle did her best to help and support him, but there wasn’t really anything she could do. He looked across at her, and saw she was looking at him concernedly. He managed a small smile for her.

  “Don’t worry, my love. I’m all right. Just thinking.”

  “About Richard? I am sorry, William.”

  “I know. I’ll miss him, more than I can say. But no, I wasn’t just thinking about him. More and more I keep wondering if I’m doing the right thing. The Rite of Transference is a hell of a gamble, and it could all so easily go wrong. We could end up with a real villain for a king. And the alternatives may not be as bad as we thought. My little talk with Viktor went a lot better than I had anticipated. Exile’s changed him a lot, and all for the better. Maybe I was wrong to meddle in the succession after all.”

  “Now, stop that,” said Gabrielle quickly. “You and I spent months weighing up the pros and cons of what we might have to do when father died. This is the only way to save Redhart, and you know it. They’re my family, William, and I know them far better than you ever could. None of my brothers are fit to be king, least of all Viktor. Ah, he’s mellowed a lot, I’ll grant you that, but if anything he’s weaker and more indecisive now than he ever was. They’re my father’s sons, all three of them—worthless to the bone.”

  “Now, Gabrielle, that’s not true. Your father and I had our disagreements, but there was still much in the man that I admired.”

  “He was a fool,” said Gabrielle flatly. “He wasted his life on endless battles for a few extra miles of land. All he ever really cared for was bloodshed and slaughter. Never had any time for his family. My mother worshiped him, and she was lucky if she saw him one day in ten. And his children hardly saw him at all. If he’d spent more time with his sons, they might not have turned out the way they did.”

  “He can’t have been all bad,” said William, smiling. “He managed to produce you, didn’t he?”

  “Don’t change the subject. Redhart needs a strong king, a king it can rely on, and the simple truth is that none of Malcolm’s sons are fit to rule. Were any of them to become king, Redhart would face utter devastation. You can change that. History will remember you as the man who put an end to the nightmare. I know it’s been hard for you, my love, but it’s nearly over now. Just hang on a little longer. I know how close you and Richard were, how much he meant to you, but you’re not alone. You still have me.”

  “Yes,” said William, smiling gently. “I still have you.”

  Grey Davey glared down the wide corridor that led into the West Wing. Oil lamps and flaring torches burned at regular intervals along the walls, but halfway down the corridor the light faded away into an impenetrable darkness. The tense air was hot and moist, like a midsummer night before a thunderstorm. It smelt vaguely of urine and burning cloth. There was something unsettling about the darkness that filled the corridor. The longer Davey looked at it, the more he began to feel dizzy and light-headed. It felt almost like vertigo, as though he was looking down from the top of a tall tower. He deliberately looked away for a moment, and the feeling began to fade. Davey glanced at the guard captain beside him, who nodded understandingly.

  Captain Timothy Blood was an average height man in his early forties, with short dark hair and unremarkable features. Put him in a crowd, and you could walk right past him without noticing. Which was why he’d spent most of his early career as a spy. He’d been very good at it. He worked mostly in Hillsdown and the Forest Kingdom, and they never even knew he’d been there, until they discovered something secret had gone missing. And by then he was always long gone. But eventually the life began to pall on him, as his need for thrills and excitement gave way to a deeper need to be able to trust someone. Anyone. His years in service had earned him a captain’s rank in the guards, and he took it with never a single regretful thought. It wasn’t a bad life in the guards, all told. Or at least it hadn’t been, until King Malcolm’s death. Now he was kept busy from dawn to dusk trying to keep the princes’ troops from each other’s throats, and the Unreal seemed to be breaking through everywhere at once.

  Blood stirred uneasily. None of the hard lessons he’d learned playing the ancient game of danger and deceit were any use when it came to facing the Unreal. He tapped the flat of his sword against his leg, and wished he’d brought along something heavier as well, like a mace or a morning star. He smiled slightly. Why not wish for a suit of armor while he was at it? The Unreal might be somewhat disturbing, but it was just a part of his job, and he’d deal with it in the same way he dealt with all the other problems his job produced—by hard work, perseverance, and if need be, cheating. He flexed his shoulders, trying to keep the muscles relaxed and easy. Having Grey Davey nearby helped. The sanctuary’s presence was both calming and invigorating. Problems seemed simpler and easier to deal with, and fears and insecurities faded away into the background. Unfortunately, sanctuaries were immune to their own power.

  Grey Davey glared down the corridor, his glare deepening into an angry scowl. “This shouldn’t be happening,” he said finally. “I mean, this is the West Wing, damn it. Nothing ever goes wrong in the West Wing.”

  “Great,” said Blood. “That means the darkness ahead is nothing more than a mass hallucination, and we can all go back to our beds. Only it isn’t a hallucination. Is it? Tell me what to do, Davey. You’re the expert.”

  Davey sniffed sourly. “When it comes to the Unreal, there aren’t any experts. Just people who’ve stayed alive longer than others. Fill me in on what’s been happening here, Tim. Maybe we can still nip this in the bud before it has a chance to establish itself.”

  “Things started to feel wrong about an hour ago,” said Blood, glancing briefly at the darkness down the corridor, to make sure it wasn’t getting any closer. “One of our regular patrols in this area hadn’t reported back. I sent in another patrol to see what was keeping them. They didn’t report back either. And then I started to hear some disturbing rumors. On a normal day, people pass in and out of this wing all the time, just going about their daily business. Only now people were still going in, but they didn’t seem to be coming back out again. And people who went to look for them just vanished without a trace. So I sent for a sanctuary. Just before you got here, this darkness appeared in all the corridors that led into the West Wing. Whatever’s in there knows you’re here.”

  “That’s what I like about you, Tim,” said Davey. “You’re always such an optimist.”

  “Would you rather I lied to you about our chances?”

  “It couldn’t hurt.”

  They stood together awhile, looking down the corridor. The darkness seemed to shift and stir, as though it was watching them. Behind them, Blood’s company of guards murmured uncertainly among themselves, and waited for orders. Blood glanced back at them, and knew he’d better get them moving soon. Once they were doing something, they’d be too busy to be scared. He wished for a moment that he’d brought more than just the one squad. A dozen guards weren’t much to set against the Unreal. On the other hand, when it came to the Unreal he could have a hundred guards at his back and he still wouldn
’t feel secure. He looked at Grey Davey, and decided he’d better start the ball rolling. Left to himself, Davey tended to forget the urgency of the situation, and just stand around thinking. But Blood couldn’t give the order to go in himself: that had to come from Davey. The sanctuary outranked him.

  “Any advice for my men, before we go in?” said Blood, tactfully.

  “Yeah. Try not to get killed.” Grey Davey scowled suddenly, and glanced sideways at Blood. “Sorry, Tim. This business has got me all upset. The West Wing has always been the most stable part of the castle: the one area you could depend on. If that’s been breached by the Unreal, then nowhere’s safe anymore. Get your men ready, Tim. We’re going in.”

  Timothy Blood nodded to his men, and there was a brief whisper of steel on leather as they drew their swords. Blood moved unhurriedly among them, checking their weapons and equipment, and murmuring the odd word of encouragement where needed. He forced himself not to be overanxious. The Unreal was always dangerous, but these were good men. Professionals. He could trust them to do their job. Blood detailed three of them to carry torches. He wasn’t sure how much use they’d be in the Unreal darkness, but he wanted the option. He racked his brain for anything he might have forgotten, but quickly realized he was just putting off the moment when he’d have to lead the way into the darkness. It was at times like this that he really missed being a spy. He nodded brusquely to Grey Davey, and the two of them set off down the corridor toward the darkness, the company of guards close behind them.

  The darkness seemed to swirl hypnotically as they drew nearer. The temperature dropped sharply, and Blood clenched his teeth to stop them chattering. He shivered once, and hoped no one would mistake it for nerves. The Unreal night loomed up before them, and Blood and Davey hesitated only a moment before stepping into it. It was horribly silent inside the darkness, as though they’d suddenly been transported miles underground. The light from the guards’ torches produced a pool of light just big enough to move in. Beyond the pale golden glow there was nothing but the night. The small sounds the party made as they moved along seemed strangely distinct and magnified, but there were no echoes. Blood had no way of telling where he was, or what if anything might lie outside the pool of light. He hefted his sword nervously, and then lifted his hand suddenly to call a halt. Something was moving out there in the darkness. The guards stirred nervously as they heard it too: soft scuffing sounds, not far away, and something that might have been the stealthy pattering of clawed feet. The sounds circled the group slowly, never once entering the pool of light. And then, from out of the darkness, there came the sound of something giggling. Blood’s hackles rose. There was nothing human about the shrill laughter.

  “Can’t you do something about this?” he whispered to Grey Davey.

  The sanctuary shrugged unhappily. “Maybe. I don’t know. If I use my power to dispel this darkness, it might not leave me much to face whatever’s out there. The Unreal is very strong here, Tim. I can feel it pressing against the light.”

  “Get rid of the darkness, Davey,” said Blood flatly. “We’re too vulnerable like this.”

  “All right. But I’ve got a bad feeling about this.”

  “You’re always having bad feelings.”

  “And they’re usually right.”

  Grey Davey pulled his power about him like a cloak, and the darkness faded away, unable to withstand the sanctuary’s presence. Blood stared about him. The corridor seemed to stretch away forever in both directions, without beginning or end. The walls had sagged inward, bulging out into the corridor, as though the solid stone and plaster had somehow melted and run and then reformed. The floor was covered with thousands of crawling insects. Some of the guards cried out in disgust as the scurrying creatures swarmed over their boots. Black tar dripped from the low ceiling, hot and smoking.

  “How much of this is Real?” Blood asked Davey.

  “I’m not sure,” said the sanctuary. “When the Unreal is strong, some of its changes can’t be undone. The changed state becomes Real. Stay close by me. Nothing can harm you as long as I’m here, but … something’s wrong here, Tim. Something’s horribly wrong.”

  He looked around him, his hands clenching into fists. Blood felt it, too: a deep unsettling feeling of being watched.

  “Something’s coming our way,” said Davey quietly. “Something awful.”

  Blood nodded tightly. His men had picked up on the tense atmosphere, and were hefting their weapons and glaring about them. Blood knew he’d better find them a target soon, or they’d start coming apart.

  “So what do we do, Davey? Stand our ground, turn and run, try to press on? What do we do?”

  “I don’t know! I’ve never seen anything like this!” Stray magic sparked and sputtered around the sanctuary’s clenched fists. “I think we’d better go back, Tim. I’m not up to this. We need the steward and her High Magic.”

  “All right,” said Blood quietly, “everyone start backing away down the corridor. Keep your eyes open and your swords ready. Take your time, there’s no need to hurry.”

  He kept his voice carefully calm and even, but already some of his men were starting to panic. Blood didn’t blame them. So far, his example had kept them from breaking into a run, but he didn’t know how long that would last. Grey Davey wasn’t helping. His face was ashen white, and his eyes were fixed on something in the distance only he could see. Blood glared at the corridor that stretched away behind them. He couldn’t tell if they were any closer to the West Wing’s boundary or not. He didn’t even know if what he was seeing was Real or only an illusion. He would have sworn they hadn’t walked very far into the West Wing …

  And then the roaring began. The air pressure began to build, and the rising wind tugged at the guards’ clothing. They turned and ran, charging down the corridor. Blood grabbed Davey by the arm and hurried after them. Something big was coming down the corridor after them: something huge and unstoppable. Blood glanced back over his shoulder and swallowed sickly as he saw what it was. A change wind was sweeping down the corridor, transmuting the world from gold into dross, from Reality into nightmare. The walls erupted as the wind passed over them. Gaping mouths opened in what had been stone and plaster, and howling voices shrieked in agony. The floor began to melt and run away, revealing jagged-edged holes full of bloodred flowers. The ceiling caught fire. And the change wind roared on, leaving damnation in its wake.

  Timothy Blood looked for the end of the corridor ahead, and couldn’t see it. It didn’t make much difference anyway. The change wind would catch him in a matter of moments, and whatever was left of him after that wouldn’t care about anything anymore. He looked around for the sanctuary, and then skidded to a halt as he saw that Grey Davey had stopped and turned to face the change wind. The guards kept on running.

  “Move it!” Blood screamed to the sanctuary. “We’ve got to get out of here!”

  “You go,” said Grey Davey, raising his voice to be heard over the roar of the approaching wind. “I’m needed here. My power will buy you and your men the time you need to escape. You’ve got to tell Taggert about this. Warn the castle. Tell them nowhere’s safe anymore.”

  He stood his ground, and pulled his power about him. Blood looked over his shoulder at his disappearing guards, and then looked back at the sanctuary.

  “Ah hell,” he said finally. “Someone’s got to watch your back, Davey.”

  He stepped forward to stand beside Grey Davey, sword in hand, and the two of them stood together as the change wind came howling toward them.

  Prince Lewis strode angrily back and forth in his private quarters, gulping at a glass of wine without really tasting it. Apart from a few bruises and a nasty gash on one hand, he’d come out of Dominic’s ambush pretty much unscathed, but he was still fuming mad. A third of his men were dead or wounded. Almost another third had deserted his ranks and left the castle. He had the satisfaction of knowing that the Monk and Ironheart had done some considerable damage to Dominic�
��s troops, but the attack itself still rankled. He’d gone to negotiate in good faith, and they’d laughed at him. Lewis kicked at the thick grass covering his floor. All right; he’d made a mistake. He wouldn’t make the same mistake again.

  He threw himself into his favorite chair and stared sulkily at his feet. Nothing seemed to be going right lately. The Monk had failed to destroy Viktor and his people at Barrowmeer, the alliance with Dominic was over before it had even begun, and now his oak tree was dying. He glared at the great tree in its corner. The leaves had fallen from its branches, and the bark was mottled with some kind of fungus. Lewis had almost exhausted his earth magic trying to keep the tree alive, but something in the tree resisted him. Either the Unreal had got past his wards and undermined his magic, or Dominic had somehow managed to poison it. Lewis frowned sulkily. He was fond of that tree. And if all that wasn’t bad enough, now Ironheart was getting mulish. He scowled at the tall suit of armor standing motionless in its corner. The battered armor was clean and gleaming, with only a few flecks of dried blood around the gauntlets’ knuckles to show that Ironheart had recently been in a battle.

  “You promised me my freedom,” said Ironheart, his voice as always distant, echoing, and slightly slurred. “You gave me your word, Prince Lewis.”

  “So I did,” said Lewis. “When I become king, you shall be free of all obligations to me.”

  “That wasn’t the deal.”

  “The deal has changed! My dear Ironheart, you must see that I need your protection now more than ever. I really can’t do without you until I am safely on the throne, and the Stone is mine to draw on.”

  “You may never be king,” said Ironheart. “I see and hear many things denied to your limited senses. Castle Midnight is under seige. The Unreal is finally breaking free of the chains that have bound it for so long, and creatures of the night wait impatiently in the dark places for the last few barriers to fall. It may already be too late to stop them.”