“I knew it,” said the Stalking Man. “You just don’t have it in you, do you, to kill your own son. But I have no problem at all with killing you.”
“Then do it,” said Jack. “If that’s what it takes, if that’s what you need . . . to find peace at last. To be able to lay down your burden of being the Stalking Man. Go on; kill me. I’m not going to fight you. I’m an old man; I can give my last few years to you. One last gift, from father to son.”
Dusque stepped forward, his sword glowing in the gloom. Someone’s blood dripped thickly from the blade. His face was twisted with emotion, his eyes wild. He drew back the sword for the killing thrust. Jack stood calmly, at peace with himself.
Their eyes met.
“You think I won’t kill you?” Dusque said loudly. “That Heaven’s protections will keep you safe from Hell’s power?”
“I don’t think Heaven or Hell have any place in this,” said Jack. “This isn’t about the Walking Man, or the Stalking Man. This is just a moment, in the middle of a war, between father and son. Perhaps this is what we should have done long ago. It’s all right, boy. Do it. And then maybe I can finally tell your mother how sorry I have always been that I wasn’t there for her.”
Leland Dusque thrust his sword deep into the ground, and let go. It stood upright, quivering. Dusque shook his head, his whole body shaking. Because for all he was, and all he’d done, he still couldn’t kill his father.
“Give it up, son, like I did,” said Jack. “Neither your office nor mine were ever meant to be for life. Just for as long as we needed them.”
“You don’t understand,” said Dusque. “The promises I made to Hell . . . I’ve done things. Bad things . . .”
“You think I haven’t?” said Jack. “That’s what penance is for. Why do you think I spent twenty bloody years in a monastery?”
“Hell will never give me up.”
“It only ever had the power over you that you gave it. Walk away. Like I did. Service can only ever be by choice.”
“And then what?” said Dusque.
Jack laughed briefly, and gestured at the battles raging around them with a wave of his hand. “I think we can probably find something useful to do. Don’t you?”
Dusque nodded quickly. “Never did like William. Nasty little man.” He came forward and looked down at the dead body in the mud. “Is that . . . ?”
“Yes. Your aunt Gillian. She fought well.”
“She was a warrior. She probably would have hated to die in bed . . .”
Jack gave a quick bark of laughter. “You really didn’t know your aunt! She would have most definitely preferred to die in bed, preferably after a really big meal, a decent brandy, and a romp with some man far too young for her.”
They both smiled. Jack drew his sword, and Dusque pulled his sword out of the ground. And together, side by side, they went off to find some monsters to kill.
“What the hell was that Leland Dusque nonsense for, anyway?” said Jack. “I gave you a perfectly good name: Matthew.”
“You can’t be a Stalking Man and a terror in the world with a name like Matthew, Father. No one would take you seriously.”
“Remind me to introduce you to Gillian’s son, Raven, when this is all over,” said Jack.
“What? The Necromancer? You mean Raven isn’t his real name?”
“Of course not. It’s Nathanial.”
“You see! My point exactly!”
• • •
Jack’s daughter, Mercy, went dancing through the Forest in her Sir Kay armour, her long blonde hair all aglow in the night, swinging her sword with both hands, darting in to kill an Unreal thing, and then jumping back and moving quickly on. She was fast and deadly, a delightful angel with a cutting edge, and nothing could touch her. Some things tried to run from her, and she cut them down anyway, from behind. Mercy had spent most of her life training to be a warrior, much of it in secret, and now she was free to break loose at last. It felt good, so good. She laughed and sang and danced as she killed. As much a monster as the things she moved among.
• • •
The heroes of the Forest Land fought well and bravely. Sometimes that was enough. And sometimes it wasn’t.
Sir Russell Hardacre, the aristocratic Blademaster, strolled casually among the Unreal, cutting them down left and right with hardly any effort, stepping over the bodies of the fallen to kill some more. Doing what he was born to do, and loving every moment of it. Until an arrow hit him in the back of the neck and he fell forward, face-first, into the mud.
Dr. Strangely Weird, in his flowing, coloured robes, walked in glory through the carnage, unnatural energies spitting and sparking on the air around him. And wherever he turned his gaze, howling creatures melted and ran away like candle wax.
Roger Zell, who had wandered so far in search of what it meant to be a hero, moved quietly from shadow to shadow, darting out to kill before disappearing again. He preferred winning to grandstanding.
Hannah Hexe, once a member in good standing at the Night Academy, walked through the trees doing loathsome things, and blood and screams and horror went with her. The Sisters of the Moon had been quite right to throw her out.
Tom Tom Paladin strode steadily forward, cutting a path through the monstrosities that tried to block his way, not even trying to defend himself. He had so much penance to do. It was almost a relief to him when the Unreal dragged him down through sheer force of numbers and put an end to his pain.
Stefan Solomon never even saw the creature that took his head off from behind.
• • •
A running battle between Forest soldiers and a pack of wolf things swept Catherine away from Richard, carrying her and the Sombre Warrior along with them. By the time the two of them had fought free, she couldn’t even see Richard and Peter any longer. She cried out, but there was no answer, and a sudden rage blazed up within her as she lost her temper, one more time. She summoned up the Wild Magic in her Blood, and a great storm raced through the Forest, a massive blast of air like a battering ram, that ripped trees up by the roots and threw them everywhere. Great clouds of splinters flew through the air like shrapnel, piercing every living thing in her path. The raging winds picked up monsters and tore them limb from limb, and threw the pieces away. It was her blind rage, manifested in an intangible force that could not be stopped, that destroyed everything before her. She fought back at the world that threatened her and those she loved, pounding it with her elemental magic until it broke.
The anger fell away, and Catherine stood exhausted in an empty clearing, breathing hard, surrounded by the broken and splintered remains of trees, and the dead and dying remains of Unreal creatures. She looked about her, and slowly realised she couldn’t see the Sombre Warrior anywhere. She went looking for him, and found him some distance away, where the winds of her rage had carried him. He was standing with his back against a huge, unbroken wide-trunked tree. She ran up to him, and then stopped abruptly, as she saw the blood-smeared branch protruding from his chest. Her rage had sent him flying through the air and slammed him against the tree, and a branch had punched right through his armour. It was only the branch that was holding him up. The impact had knocked his helmet off, and she could see his bare face. Horribly, he was still alive.
She moved slowly forward, trembling with shock. It wasn’t until she felt the wetness on her cheeks that she realised she was crying. She stood before him, and his eyes saw her. He tried to smile. Blood came out of his mouth.
“I’m sorry,” said Catherine. “Oh God, I’m so sorry.”
“We all tried to warn you . . . about your temper,” said the Warrior.
She grabbed one of his hands, and held it in both of hers, but it was obvious he couldn’t feel it.
“You should have chosen someone better to give your service to,” she said. “Can you tell me your name now, sir Warrior? Please?”
But he was dead, his eyes looking past her at whatever it is only the dead can see. Catherin
e let go of his hand, and it dropped back to his side. She turned away. Whoever the Sombre Warrior was, or might have been, originally, that man was gone. He was a legend, now and forever.
Catherine walked on through the trees, calling out for Richard. A coldly focused anger moved along in the air ahead of her, striking out at any Unreal thing that dared draw near.
• • •
Chappie the dog got separated from everyone almost immediately, and he chased back and forth, taking on anything that didn’t have the sense to run away. He was still a huge and powerful animal, for all his age and grey fur, and blood dripped steadily from his powerful jaws. Until finally, somewhat to his surprise, he got so far ahead of everyone else that he found himself back in the recently cut clearing where Hawk had duelled with Prince Cameron, and he had killed General Staker. Chappie shrugged, and then stopped and looked around him, sniffing suspiciously at the air. He was not alone. In fact, he was surrounded.
Chappie growled menacingly, whipping his great head back and forth, but wherever he looked the Unreal looked back. All kinds of creatures stepped slowly out of the trees and into the clearing, watching him with all kinds of glowing, inhuman eyes. Chappie turned this way and that, showing off his great teeth, snarling continuously.
“Why do you fight us?” said one of the creatures, a silver-grey wolf thing, easily twice the size of the dog. “After all, you’re not like them. You’re one of us. An Unreal creature, fashioned from Wild Magic, that just happens to look like a dog.”
“I am a dog,” said Chappie. “And I’m nothing like you.”
“Join us.”
“Never!”
“You’re not like them, and you never will be,” said the wolf thing. “No matter how long you live, or how much you pretend.”
“Of course I’m not like them,” said Chappie. “I’m a dog! I’m better than them! That’s why I have to look after them.”
The Unreal creatures surged forward into the clearing, pressing forward from every side at once, and Chappie went happily forward to meet them, to tear and bite at them, one old dog with fire in his heart, fighting for those he loved.
• • •
Raven the Necromancer found himself face-to-face with the sorcerer Van Fleet. They both looked rather ragged by now, their once impressive robes tattered and torn and stained with blood. Some of it their own. They advanced slowly on each other, like two scarecrows sent out to duel as champions, and men and monsters alike took one look at them and went somewhere else to do their fighting.
Raven and Van Fleet stopped, facing each other, a respectful distance apart. Raven like a piece of the night in his black tatters, the Infernal Device Soulripper in his hand, straining to be used. Van Fleet, in the ragged remains of his wildly coloured peacock robes, barely restrained magics spitting and crackling on the air around him. Van Fleet smiled suddenly at Raven.
“I’ve been looking for you, Necromancer. I’ve got a special spell, carefully researched and designed just to put an end to you.”
He jabbed a stubby finger at Raven, while mouthing a Word so powerful it shook the sorcerer like a rag doll, and a terrible force existed in the world. Just for a moment. And then it vanished, quite suddenly, unable to find anything to hang on to. Raven was still standing where he had been, entirely unmoved and unaffected. Van Fleet gaped at him.
“That’s not possible. That’s just not possible! That spell was specially designed to strip you of every Necromantic spell and power source you have! I spent weeks on it. It can’t have failed!”
“Well, technically speaking, it didn’t,” said Raven. “But unfortunately for you, I’m not a Necromancer, and never have been. I know nothing of the magic of murder and death. Never even dabbled in such things. It was all just an act. A performance I put on, to build up my reputation. I’m really just a High Magic sorcerer. Like you.”
“But you made the dead sit up and talk!” said Van Fleet almost hysterically. “Everyone saw you!”
“You all saw what I wanted you to see. I moved the dead bodies around with my mind, and did all the voices myself. Just said what people expected to hear, backed up by some careful research . . . A little manipulation here, some throwing of the voice there, and everyone saw what my reputation made them expect to see. People can be very gullible. Come on, Van; you didn’t really think that a grandson of Prince Rupert and Princess Julia would sell his soul in return for murder magic, did you?”
“All a trick,” Van Fleet said numbly. “All an act, all this time . . .” Suddenly he glared at Raven. “I have other spells! Other magics!”
“And I have an Infernal Device,” said Raven.
The two men looked at each other for a long moment. And then Raven lowered his sword and leaned on it.
“Really, Van,” said Raven. “You’re as fed up with this as I am, aren’t you? Neither of us ever intended for things to get this far out of hand. We’re sorcerers, research scholars, not fighters. You didn’t want the Unreal back in Castle Midnight, never mind loose in the world.”
“How did you know that?”
“Because I know you’re not stupid.”
“All right, maybe I’m not happy with the way things have worked out,” said Van Fleet. “Maybe I never wanted this. But what can I do?”
“Work with me,” said Raven, “and help shut it all down.”
He grinned at Van Fleet, and after a moment the sorcerer grinned back. Raven forced the Infernal Device back into its scabbard, against its will, and then the two men walked through the Forest, striking out with their magics. And wherever they looked, the Unreal creatures dropped in their tracks, disappearing back to whatever place King William had summoned them from.
• • •
Roland the Headless Axeman and Witch in Residence Lily Peck moved steadily through the trees, leading the staff and students of the Hero Academy into battle. Swords and axes and bows did their work, and all kinds of magic danced on the air, doing appalling things to appalling creatures. Some caught fire, some exploded, and some crashed to the ground so the swords and axes could chop them up like firewood.
The Alchemist walked abroad, smiling unpleasantly, throwing nasty chemical surprises this way and that, while a young man who could work miracles moved slowly and quietly among the wounded, bringing them back from the shores of death. The staff and students of the Hawk and Fisher Memorial Academy showed what they were made of, what they had been trained to do, and frightened the crap out of everything they encountered.
Roland swung his great axe with indefatigable skill, felling everything that came within reach. He cut off heads, and limbs, and hacked his way through whole packs of unnatural creatures. Blood soaked his armour, but none of it was his. Lily Peck walked calmly beside him, looking about her in a thoughtful sort of way, and the world adjusted itself according to her will, becoming a place where the Unreal could not exist. Things faded away, screaming in rage and horror.
But every time, it took a little more out of her, and moment by moment she grew steadily older and more frail. Using up the years of her life to power her magic.
Roland stopped, for a moment, to look at her. “You never told me.”
“You never asked,” said Lily Peck. “Just as I never asked about you.”
They moved on through the trees, leading the way. Because there was more than one kind of hero in the Hero Academy.
• • •
The Unreal was thrown back, defeated and destroyed, until finally what was left turned and ran, or just disappeared back to Castle Midnight. Half scared out of their wits, runner after runner reported the bad news to Prince Christof and the Champion in the Redhart command tent. Soon enough, Christof had no choice but to order his Redhart soldiers into battle, to take the place of the Unreal and fight the Forest force head-on.
It was what the soldiers had been waiting for. They charged forward, fresh and vital, waving their swords and axes and howling Redhart battle cries. They advanced in disciplined ranks, fro
m their carefully chosen and prepared positions, and the Forest forces had no choice but to fall back. They’d come back together to destroy the last patches of the Unreal, but weakened and exhausted, they were no match for the Redhart army. They fell back to the edge of the trees, and then out into the clearing itself, and there they regrouped and made their stand. Setting up a wall of steel and magic and simple courage between Forest Castle and the army that threatened it.
The Redhart soldiers burst out of the last trees, saw what was waiting for them, and stopped to consider. And wait for fresh orders. They hesitated, holding their position in the last few trees at the edge of the clearing. And that was when the dragon appeared in the sky overhead, flying swiftly and strongly under the Blue Moon. A magical creature, at home in the magical night. He cupped his great membranous wings to bring himself to a halt, and then he plunged down, heading straight for the Redhart positions. The soldiers cried out in shock and alarm, and some of them turned to flee, but it was already too late. The dragon opened his great jaws, and a sea of flames struck the Redhart soldiers. The flames burned them all up as the dragon flew over the massed ranks, incinerating them in a moment, washed over by flames more fierce and more terrible than any natural fire. The whole of the Redhart army went up in flames, and fell, and burned. Hundreds, thousands, of bodies, blackened and shrivelled.
The dragon soared up into the sky again, and the flames sank down and disappeared, unable to exist without his presence. The trees at the edge of the clearing were scorched and half consumed, with dark smoke rising up into the blue moonlight, but the flames did not spread, and the Forest did not burn.
The dragon banked around, and then dropped out of the sky to land softly and carefully in the clearing, not far from the Forest force. Who, to their credit, did not flinch. Hawk and Fisher went forward to meet the dragon. No one else felt like going with them. The stench of burned meat was heavy on the night air.
Once In a Blue Moon Page 63