Once In a Blue Moon

by Simon R. Green

  They threw themselves at each other again and again, cutting and parrying, forcing each other back and forth across the clearing, their breath coming hard and ragged, sweat flying from their faces. The fight went on and on, long after other fighters would have dropped from sheer exhaustion. The speed and frequency of their attacks lessened, as they duelled each other to the limits of their strength, and beyond.

  The watching soldiers were crying out at every blow now, as though they could will their Prince to victory through their support. They crowded right up to the edge of the clearing. They’d never seen a fight like this before. They knew this was one of those moments when history becomes legend; and they were there. They knew they would be telling this story to their children, and grandchildren, and anyone who would listen, for the rest of their lives.

  Cameron swung his sword round in a long arc, and Hawk ducked under it at the last moment. He felt a breath of air stir his hair as the blade swept past. He swung his axe in a vicious short arc, aiming for the weak spot in Cameron’s armour, where the leg met the groin. Cameron pulled back at the last moment, so the axe glanced off solid steel, denting it deeply. The sheer weight of the armour was slowing Cameron down, for all his great strength, and dampening his responses. He hadn’t expected the fight to go on this long.

  The two men stood facing each other for a long moment, heads hanging down, sweat dripping off their flushed faces, both of them drawing in great lungfuls of air. Glaring unyieldingly into each other’s eyes. Neither of them had drawn blood yet. Hawk was still grinning. Cameron raised his sword with both hands and charged forward, bringing the heavy blade down on Hawk’s head with all his strength. Hawk braced himself, and brought his axe up to block the blow, putting all his strength behind it. The long sword hammered down into the axe, and the sword blade shattered. Cameron stumbled on, with half a sword in his hand, unable to stop, and Hawk’s axe punched through his armour and buried itself in Cameron’s chest.

  The crowd noise fell away to nothing. Cameron stood looming over Hawk, looking down at the axe head in his chest. He looked more surprised than anything. Hawk jerked the axe blade out of Cameron’s armour, and a great welter of blood followed it. Cameron fell to his knees, as though only the axe’s presence had been holding him up. He opened his mouth to say something, but only blood came out. Cameron fell slowly backwards, into the mud, and lay still, his face entirely expressionless. He didn’t move again.

  Hawk watched him for a while, just to be sure, and then slowly straightened up and looked about him. He was breathing so hard he couldn’t speak. He raised his left arm and wiped the sweat from his face. He still held his axe out before him. Blood dripped steadily from the axe head. The High Warlock did good work. All around him Redhart soldiers stood silently, looking grimly back at him. None of them moved, or said a word. The unbeatable Prince had been beaten. They couldn’t believe it. And then General Staker stepped into the clearing, hurried forward, and knelt beside the fallen Prince. He checked for signs of life, and when he couldn’t find any, he stood up to face Hawk.

  “You cheated!” he said, almost hysterically. “You must have! There’s no way you could have beaten the Prince otherwise!” He looked about him for support. “This result doesn’t stand! It doesn’t count, because he cheated! I say we hold him as a hostage!”

  “Sounds good to me,” said Prince Christof, stepping forward to stand beside the General. “I mean, yes, I went along with this contest, but only because I was sure we were going to win. We didn’t come all this way to give up just because Cameron wasn’t up to the job. We expected too much from a man who spent the last eight years living in a cave. We should never have listened to him. We came here to rescue my sister, Catherine, and conquer a country. And that’s what we’re going to do.”

  The soldiers packed together round the clearing cheered him loudly, and nodded vigorously to one another. Cameron had let them down, and they were eager to follow a new leader. Christof looked at Hawk.

  “Chain him up. Maybe we can exchange him for Catherine. Before we tear their Castle down.”

  “We could send bits of him back to the Castle, one at a time, until they agree to surrender,” said the General.

  “Is that how you want to win this war?” said the Champion, stepping out of the crowd. “With such dishonourable methods?”

  “That man just killed your Prince!” said the General.

  “I never liked him,” said Christof, not even looking at his dead brother’s body, still lying in the mud. “He was arrogant and overconfident, and it got him killed.”

  “We agreed to abide by the outcome of this fight,” the Champion said doggedly. “If we break faith, how can we hope to make any kind of deal with them?”

  “You’re right,” said Christof. “Hawk’s no use to us as a captive.”

  “We could still persuade him to talk,” said Staker. “Make him tell us what’s going on inside the Castle . . . How to get in, past the defences . . .”

  Hawk chuckled suddenly, and they all looked at him, startled. It wasn’t the sound of an exhausted, beaten man.

  “Come on,” said Hawk. “Bring me down if you can. Who dies first?”

  Nobody moved. They’d all just seen him duel a legend to the death, and none of them were in any hurry to take him on. Because they all knew, deep down, that he was the most dangerous man they’d ever seen.

  “A man like that would never talk, General,” said Christof. “So there’s no reason to keep him alive, is there? Kill the man, General Staker. Have your men drag him down. Use as many as it takes. And then cut off his head. We’ll send it back to the Forest Court to tell them we won!” He smiled briefly. “Perhaps we’ll strap the head to his dog, and he can carry it back.”

  Staker nodded stiffly, and gestured to his soldiers. Hawk brought his axe up and braced himself. The soldiers came running forward from all sides, brave enough as a crowd, eager to get their hands on the man who had killed their undefeated Prince. Hawk swung his axe and cut down three men, one after the other, before the rest ran right over him and hauled him to the ground. The impact knocked the axe out of his hands, and it fell into the mud. Half a dozen soldiers wrestled him onto his knees, and held him there, head down. Hawk still fought them with all his strength, refusing to give up, even as General Stake swaggered forward with his sword in his hands, and stood over him.

  “Don’t think you’ve changed anything,” said the General. “You’re just an inconvenience. Now hold still. The harder you make me work, the more I’ll enjoy it.”

  He rested the edge of his sword on the back of Hawk’s neck for a moment. Hawk could feel his skin part under the sharp edge. A little blood ran down his neck. Staker lifted up his sword, while the soldiers held Hawk in place. And then Chappie came running forward out of the crowd, crossing the distance with amazing speed. He leapt through the air and tore out the General’s throat with one vicious snap of his massive jaws. Blood spurted, and the General cried out briefly. Chappie hit the muddy ground, skidded past Hawk, and then quickly recovered. He hit the guards hard, and they scattered, crying out in shock and fear. Hawk surged up off the ground and grabbed his axe out of the mud. The soldiers were running for their lives. Chappie moved quickly round to guard Hawk’s back. Staker had both hands at his throat, as though trying to hold together the terrible wound the dog’s jaws had made. Blood pumped thickly between his fingers. His eyes were full of horror. Not to be killed in battle, not to be struck down by an enemy’s sword, but to be beaten by a dog . . . He fell to his knees, his hands dropped away from his ragged throat, and then he fell facedown into the mud and lay still.

  “Nice work,” Hawk said to Chappie just a bit breathlessly. “Now get out of here.”

  “I’m not leaving you,” said Chappie.

  “You have to,” said Hawk. “We’re facing a whole army here. We can’t win. But you can get away; they’ll never stop you.”

  “I can’t leave you!”

  “Someone ha
s to tell Fisher what happened!”

  “Goodbye, Hawk,” said Chappie. “I was always proud to have you as my master.”

  The soldiers charged into the clearing, pressing forward from all sides at once. And that was when Raven appeared out of nowhere, grabbed Hawk and Chappie, and teleported them away. The soldiers cried out in thwarted anger, as they looked around a clearing with no prey. Just two dead bodies lying in the mud.

  Their Prince and their General.

  • • •

  In the Redhart command tent, some time afterward, Prince Christof took formal command of the army, and the situation. With the Broken Man and General Staker both gone, there was no one else. The Champion supported him, and the soldiers were desperate for someone to give them orders. It did help that Cameron had worked out his tactics and troop deployments before he got himself killed, Christof thought, but didn’t say. He and Malcolm leafed quickly through the papers their predecessor had left behind, familiarising themselves with what needed doing. It all seemed straightforward enough. The real work had already been done; all they had to do was carry out the plan. And then claim the credit afterwards. Christof couldn’t stop smiling. It couldn’t have worked out better if he’d planned it himself.

  The Stalking Man stood at the back of the tent, keeping his own counsel. He would do what he would do, once the fighting began. All he required was that everyone else stay out of his way. The sorcerer Van Fleet stood to one side, his arms tightly crossed, openly sulking. Waiting for orders he might or might not obey. Christof glared at him.

  “Did you know Raven was here, watching the fight? Did you know what he was going to do?”

  Van Fleet looked away, his courage unravelling in the face of the Prince’s anger.

  “Obviously not, or I’d have done something,” he said sullenly. “I didn’t know the Necromancer was anywhere near here. In fact, it’s entirely possible that he wasn’t.”

  Christof’s scowl deepened. “Talk sense, sorcerer.”

  “It’s always possible he was watching the proceedings through a vision, back in the Castle,” said Van Fleet. “Hidden from us, behind the Castle’s protections. Though I don’t know how he could jump so far . . . All this way into the Forest, from the Castle . . . and then back again? That would take a lot of power. And it’s not the kind of magic I’d expect from a Necromancer . . . I always said there was more to Raven than met the eye.”

  “Is his magic stronger than yours?” said Malcolm.

  “Almost certainly,” said Van Fleet. “Though I’m pretty sure I could still show him a few nasty surprises.”

  “I say we attack the Castle immediately,” said Christof, turning his back on the sorcerer. “We can’t let the Forest think they’ve got us on the defensive. So, do we attack the Castle from all sides at once, try to force a way in? Or do we find some way to make the Forest forces come out and fight us here, in the Forest?”

  “Why doesn’t anyone listen to me?” said Van Fleet, desperation pushing aside his deference. “You can’t get in, no matter how many soldiers you send against the Castle! They’re protected! All they’ve got to do is sit tight behind their defences, and we can’t touch them!”

  “And do I really need to remind you,” said the Stalking Man, “that you’re supposed to wait for the Red Heart and his magical forces? Whatever they turn out to be . . .”

  “We have to contact the King,” said Malcolm. “Bring him up to date on what’s happened here and see what he says. Not that I mean to undermine your authority, Christof, but King William needs to know his elder son is dead. And his chief general. That may change how he sees the situation.”

  “Of course,” said Christof. “His precious unbeatable son, specially brought back from exile to save the day. He’ll want to know how that worked out.”

  Malcolm shot Christof a warning look. “Now is not the time to revive old grievances, Chris.”

  “You’re quite right,” said Christof. “Whatever would I do without you, Mal?” He glared at the sorcerer. “Make contact with King William. And make very sure no one else can listen in.”

  “I know what I’m doing,” snarled the sorcerer. He stabbed a finger at the air, muttered a few carefully rehearsed Words, and a window opened in midair, giving a view of King William on his throne. The King looked round sharply.

  “What’s happened?” he said roughly. “You weren’t supposed to make contact until the Castle had fallen.”

  “Things have not gone according to plan, Father,” said Christof. “I regret to inform you that your son Cameron is dead. And General Staker.”

  The King looked at him for a long moment, with a cold, unblinking gaze. “What happened?”

  Malcolm stepped forward, and told the story from beginning to end. William didn’t flinch once. Didn’t react at all. Just sat on his throne, thinking.

  “A shame,” he said finally. “You were right to assume command, Christof. It was your place to do so. Go ahead; do what needs doing. I have complete confidence in you. Don’t let me down. Don’t let your country down.”

  “My country, Father?” said Christof, with just enough emphasis in his voice for his father to take notice.

  “You are the last of my sons, Christof,” the King said slowly. “The throne will be yours if you win this war.”

  “Well,” said Christof, “nothing like ambition to motivate a man . . .”

  But all the time he was talking to his cold-eyed, cold-voiced father, Christof had to wonder how much his father would care if he fell in battle too.

  “I am sending you the help I promised,” said King William. “The Red Heart is on his way with a force . . . I think you will find more than sufficient. If you are wise, Christof, you will stand back and let them do the heavy lifting for you.”

  The window snapped shut abruptly, and the King was gone. Christof and Malcolm looked at each other.

  “What the hell was he talking about?” said Christof.

  “He’s here,” said Van Fleet, raising a hand to his head as though it hurt him. “I can feel his presence in the Forest. Like a coal, burning in my mind. He’s here, and he’s not alone . . . Oh dear God . . .”

  He swayed on his feet, and had to grab the table with both hands to hold himself up. His face had gone deathly pale, and his eyes were wild. Christof and Malcolm hurried out of the tent to see what was happening. The Red Heart was stalking through the trees, tall and magnificent and supernaturally impressive. The soldiers scattered to get out of his way, abandoning their positions. They didn’t like what he’d brought with him.

  All the creatures and entities and strange manifestations of the Unreal, from Castle Midnight.

  An army of unnatural things, lurching and crawling and leaping through the trees. All the ghosts and gargoyles, monsters and miracles, the strangely living and the unquiet dead. Hundreds of them, maybe even thousands, a sight to appal the eye and chill the soul. Soldiers were retreating everywhere now, running wildly through the trees, crying out like frightened birds. The Unreal pressed forward, shining and blazing and flickering, to the very edge of the clearing, and then they squatted down there to stare at the Forest Castle with intelligent, malignant eyes. The Red Heart stood before Christof and Malcolm, and smiled down at them.

  “Do not be alarmed. These are my children, as much as you, and they are mine to command. They will break down the Castle’s defences and protections for you and leave it open for you to take. With your ladders and battering rams and siege engines. I would not deprive you of your sport. Take the Castle, take the people inside, and do what you will with them.”

  He turned away, not caring to wait for any answer, striding off to walk among his unnatural army.

  “It makes sense, I suppose,” said Christof, working hard to keep his voice calm and composed. “Set magic to fight magic.”

  “And better that monsters should fight and die than our soldiers,” said Malcolm. He swallowed hard. “It’s hardly honourable, to send such abominations in
to the field, but there’s been nothing honourable about this war from the beginning.”

  “Cameron’s challenge was honourable enough,” said Christof. “And look how that worked out.”

  “And we thought the Forest people were bad,” said Malcolm, “for using the Infernal Devices.”

  “All’s fair in war,” said Christof. He called for a messenger, and when the man arrived, Christof spoke curtly to him. “Go tell the Red Heart that he and his forces can attack when ready. Don’t look at me like that; you don’t have to get too close. And then you’d better pass the word through our army to draw well back. Give the Unreal room to operate freely.”

  “Don’t you trust them to leave our people alone?” said Malcolm, as the messenger left the tent.

  “Hell, no. Those things were spooky enough inside Castle Midnight. God alone knows what they’ll do now they’ve been allowed to run free in the world. But we’ll worry about how to put the cat back in the bag afterwards. For now, let the monsters do our dirty work. Let them fight and die so real people don’t have to.”

  • • •

  Raven and Hawk and Chappie appeared suddenly inside the Forest Castle Court. Hawk collapsed, sprawling clumsily on the floor. So tired he couldn’t even keep his eyes open. He lay on his side, breathing hard, while Chappie snuffled anxiously at his face. And then Fisher was there with him, holding him in her strong arms, helping him sit up and then sitting there with him so he could lean back against her.

  “Hawk? What the hell happened to you?”

  “I met a man . . . who was probably a better fighter than me,” said Hawk. “But he didn’t have the High Warlock’s axe.”

  He opened his eyes and smiled up into her worried face, and after a moment she smiled back. She checked him over for wounds, quickly and professionally. Chappie sat down beside them, his tail thumping loudly on the marble floor.