Blue Moon Rising (Darkwood)

by Green, Simon R.

  “Take Sir Guillam away,” he said gruffly, and the two guardsmen moved confidently forward.

  Guillam stabbed the first guard through the heart, and cut the throat of the second while his first victim was still crumpling to the floor. For a moment nobody moved. The Landsgrave had moved so quickly his attack had been little more than a blur. And then somebody screamed, and everything happened at once. More guards moved forward, and Sir Guillam met them with his blade. He moved among the guards with murderous ease, deflecting every blow aimed against him with movements almost too fast to be seen. Guardsmen died without ever knowing what killed them.

  “Dear God,” said King John faintly. “The man’s a Bladesmaster. I wondered why the Barons made him a Landsgrave … What better assassin could there be than a man who’s literally unbeatable with a sword in his hand? I should have guessed … but they’re so rare these days. So very rare …”

  “You’d better get out of here,” said Harald quietly. “Those guards aren’t going to hold Guillam long; he’s more of a danger than Bedivere ever was.”

  “I think you may well be right,” said the King. “But I’m not running until I have to. Sir Guillam may be unbeatable with a sword, but let’s see how he fares against a couple of crossbows.”

  He gestured to the two waiting guardsmen, who stepped quickly forward, loaded crossbows already in their hands. At the King’s nod they moved a few feet apart, to be sure of catching Guillam in a crossfire, and then each man nestled the heavy wooden stock of his bow comfortably into his shoulder, and took careful aim. Guillam shrieked when he saw them, and without any warning turned and ran for the far door at the end of the Hall. He lashed out viciously at those courtiers who didn’t get out of his way fast enough, and unarmed men and women fell in bloody heaps to mark his passing. And then two bowstrings twanged as one, and Guillam was slammed violently against the right-hand wall. He whimpered once, quietly, and then his sword fell from his limp fingers, and he hung still and silent from the two heavy steel bolts that pinned him to the wall.

  Julia burst into Darius’s private chambers just in time to see the huge bookcase swing slowly open, revealing a concealed passage. Darius stood beside the bookcase, waiting impatiently for it to open wide enough for him to enter. Cecelia clung frantically to his arm, sobbing uncontrollably with shock and panic. Gregory turned to face Julia, sword in hand. She hesitated in the doorway, sweeping her sword back and forth before her. She’d easily outdistanced the guards, weighed down by their heavy armor, and Julia quickly realized that they weren’t going to catch up in time to help her. She smiled grimly; at best the odds were only two to one against her. Gregory hefted his sword and glanced back at Darius.

  “Get Cecelia out of here,” he said quietly. “I’ll hold them off.”

  Darius tried to force his bulk into the slowly widening gap between the wall and the bookcase. Cecelia pressed close beside him, sobbing and clinging tightly to his arm as though for comfort. Darius pushed her away, but she only tightened her grip, wedging them both into the narrow gap. There was a rising clatter of approaching feet, and then the first of the guards burst into the room, followed quickly by a dozen more. Gregory moved forward to block their way. His sword trembled in his hand, but in his eyes Julia could see a cold determination to sell his life dearly. He grinned mockingly at the guards and then glanced back at the bookcase, just in time to see Darius draw a dagger from his sleeve and stab Cecelia again and again until she let go of his arm and fell limply to the floor. Gregory screamed her name, threw his sword away, and ran over to crouch beside Cecelia’s unmoving body. Darius disappeared into the concealed passageway, and the bookcase slowly closed itself behind him. By the time the guardsmen got to it, the gap was once again too narrow to let them pass. They couldn’t even stop the bookcase closing.

  Julia approached Gregory cautiously, her sword held out before her, but he just sat on the floor, cradling Cecelia’s body in his arms. Her eyes stared wildly, and blood seeped steadily from her tattered bodice, staining Gregory’s tunic where he held her to him. He looked up at Julia, and she realized sickly that the young guardsman was crying.

  “There wasn’t any need for this,” said Gregory. “No need for this. Cecelia? Cecelia, love?”

  Julia sheathed her sword. “Come on,” she said gruffly, “Leave her. There’s nothing you can do for her now.”

  “Cecelia?”

  “She’s dead, Gregory.”

  He didn’t hear her. He just sat there, rocking Cecelia in his arms, and crooning to her as though she was a sleeping child. The tiny bells of her dress chimed, quietly, with every movement. Tears ran unheeded down Gregory’s cheeks, and his eyes saw nothing, nothing at all.

  The quietly crackling fire was warm and comforting, but Julia was too tired even to hold out her hands to the leaping flames. Exhaustion had crept up on her in the short time it had taken to walk from Darius’s Hall to the King’s private chambers, and now a harsh persistent pain beat dully in her back and legs, and it was all she could do to keep her eyes from closing against her will. Julia tried to sit up straighter in her battered, overstuffed chair, and knuckled her bleary eyes. It would be only too easy to just lie back and doze off in the gentle warmth of the fire, but she couldn’t let herself rest. It had been a long, hard day, and it didn’t seem to be finished with her yet.

  She hid a yawn behind her hand, and Harald smiled tiredly at her from the chair opposite. Unlike Julia, he slumped bonelessly in his chair, his long legs stretched out onto a footstool, his toes quietly toasting before the fire. Fatigue had shaded heavy bags under his eyes, giving him a dissipated, brooding look. His crooked smile suggested that he’d like to be pleased with himself, but was too tired to make the effort. A cup of hot mulled cider stood on a small table beside his chair, and he sipped at it from time to time, in an absentminded way, as though seeking to rid his mouth of an unpleasant taste. Julia smiled at the thought. She’d tried some of that cider herself, and how anyone could drink the stuff voluntarily was beyond her.

  King John sat between the two of them in an old, high-backed chair, pulling thoughtfully at his beard and frowning into the fire. He still wore his thick fur coat, wrapped around his shoulders like a grandmother’s shawl, and every now and again he shivered suddenly, as though in response to a cold wind only he could feel. Julia watched him worriedly. Tired though he obviously was, he should have been elated, or at the very least pleased; when all was said and done he had broken the rebellion before it even got started, killed most of the ringleaders, and avoided a civil war that would have destroyed the Forest Kingdom. But instead his mouth was grim and his gaze was troubled, and in some subtle way he looked … older.

  Julia looked away. The King’s private chambers were much smaller than she’d expected. Her father had lived in rooms large enough to drill troops in. Fabulous tapestries had hung from every marble wall, gorgeous mosaics covered the floors, and huge glass windows filled every room with a blaze of light. Of course, the Duke’s palace was drafty as hell and impossible to heat, but the Duke never gave a damn. He had a position to maintain and appearances to keep up, and on bad days the Duke seemed to believe that if he so much as entered a room less than fifty feet square, he was slumming. Julia smiled tightly. There were things about Hillsdown she missed, but her father’s palace definitely wasn’t one of them. Neither was her father, come to that.

  King John’s rooms were altogether different. Not one of them was more than fifteen feet square, and they all seemed to have been furnished with comfort rather than fashion in mind. Julia looked approvingly about her at the combined sitting room and bedchamber, and smiled indulgently. The room had that comfortable, cramped cosiness that only men living alone can achieve. Books lined the walls from floor to ceiling and overflowed onto the tables and chairs, where they fought for space with plates and cups and papers of state. Chipped statuettes and faded miniatures filled every nook and cranny, jostling each other for position. Much of the room’s furnit
ure was worn and battered, and had the look of objects retained long past the time when their usefulness was over, simply because they were old and familiar. Even the many rugs that covered the floor from wall to wall were threadbare in patches. And then a log cracked loudly as it shifted position in the fire, and John stirred uneasily in his chair.

  “Can’t get used to being in my winter quarters this early,” he grumbled. “Feels all wrong. Here it is barely autumn, and already there’s snow drifts a foot deep and ice covering the moat. The leaves have barely left the trees, and yet without a roaring fire close at hand day and night, my old bones ache from the cold. And the damn servants set up my furniture all wrong. They did it on purpose, just because I shouted at them a few times.”

  “We did make our migration a little early this year,” said Harald. “You have to make allowances.”

  “No, I don’t,” snapped John, “I’m the King!”

  Harald and Julia laughed, and after a moment John smiled sheepishly.

  “You’re right; I shouldn’t have shouted at them. But when you get to my age, the little things in life become more important than they should. In my rooms there’s a place for everything; everything in its place. Oh you can smile, Julia, but all you see is a clutter. Well, maybe it is a mess, at that; but it’s a mess of my making, and I’m used to it. If I wake in the night and it’s dark, I know I can just reach out my hand and find the candle in its usual place. Not that it ever is dark now; I have to be sure the damn fire is properly banked before I go to bed, or risk spending half the night shivering under the covers. Can’t stand that fire. It sits there while I’m trying to sleep, making me jump with sudden noises, and all the time glaring at me like a great red eye.”

  He broke off as the door swung suddenly open, and Lord Vivian strode calmly into the room with a guardsman’s blade at his back. He stopped where the guard told him, a fair distance away from the King, and stood quietly at ease, ignoring everyone. His scabbard was empty, but his hands were unbound. King John nodded curtly to the guard, who bowed formally, and left. Lord Vivian looked at the King.

  “Do you trust me enough to leave me unguarded in your presence?” he asked slowly.

  “Of course,” said Harald easily. “You’re unarmed.”

  Vivian smiled coldly.

  “You’re here because I want to talk to you,” said the King, shooting a warning scowl at Harald. “The Landsgraves are dead, and Darius is still missing; that makes you the nearest thing to a leader the rebels have. They’ll listen to you, where they might not believe me. So, what I’m about to say to you is intended for their ears as well. Is that clear?”

  “Of course,” said Lord Vivian, his pale blue eyes disturbingly direct and unblinking. “But then, I’m hardly in a position to disagree, am I? My life is in your hands.”

  “You’re to be exiled, not executed.”

  “We’re dead either way. Traditionally, exiles are allowed neither weapons nor shelter till they’re beyond the Forest boundaries. Once outside the protection of the Castle walls, my fellow traitors and I will be sitting targets for the first demons to come along.”

  “You could always beg protection from the Barons,” said Harald.

  “Hardly,” said Vivian. “The Barons don’t have enough food to feed their own people, never mind three hundred more mouths. And without their providing an armed escort, it’s extremely unlikely any of us would survive the journey through the Forest. I’ve led scouting parties from one end of this Kingdom to the other; the demons are everywhere. Put us outside these walls unarmed, and you’re condemning us to death.”

  “There is an alternative to exile,” said the King, slowly.

  Lord Vivian smiled coldly. “I thought there might be.”

  “Earlier this evening,” said the King, “I granted an audience to a deputation from the outlying farms. They’re overrun with demons, and fighting a losing battle against the plague. They came to me for help, and I had to tell them there was nothing I could do. But now it seems to me that, just possibly, there is some help I can offer, after all.

  “Go with them, Lord Vivian; you and all your fellow rebels. Escort the deputation back to their farms, defend them against the demons, and teach the farmers how to defend themselves. I’ll supply you with weapons, horses, and whatever provisions we can spare. It’s not much of a choice I’m offering you; if the demons don’t get you, the plague probably will. But all those who serve me in this matter will receive a full Pardon, and when the dark has finally been defeated, those of you who survive may return to the Forest Castle with a clean slate.”

  “You’re right,” said Vivian. “It isn’t much of a choice. I accept your offer, on behalf of myself and my fellow traitors.”

  The King nodded stiffly. “I won’t deceive you, my Lord Vivian; the odds are that none of you will survive to claim that Pardon.”

  “It’s a fighting chance, Sire. And that’s all I’ve ever asked for.”

  Lord Vivian stood straight and tall before the King, his head held high, and for the first time since he entered the King’s chambers, there was something about him that might have been dignity and pride. Julia studied him warily, impressed in spite of herself. It occurred to her that just because a man is a traitor, it doesn’t automatically follow that he’s a villain or a coward. Harald sipped at his drink, and made no comment. King John stared into the fire, rather than at Vivian, but when he spoke his voice was calm and even.

  “My Seneschal will take you to the farmers. Their leader is a man called Madoc Thorne; obey his orders as you would mine. Give them all the support you can, Lord Vivian; they were true to me, even after I failed them.”

  “We will defend their lives with our own, Sire. My word on it.”

  King John looked up from the fire, and stared at him for a long moment. “Why did you betray me, Vivian?”

  Vivian smiled. “Ambition, Sire. I wished to be High Commander of the Guard.”

  “No other reason?”

  “No, Sire,” said Lord Vivian quietly. “No other reason worth the mentioning.”

  Harald shot Vivian a quick glance, but said nothing.

  “Well, then,” said King John slowly, “I’ll see you again, my Lord, when all this is over.”

  “Of course, Sire,” said Lord Vivian. He bowed formally to the King, and then turned and left, ignoring Harald and Julia. For a while nobody said anything, lost in their own thoughts.

  “Do you really think he’s going to stay with the farmers?” asked Julia.

  “Of course,” said Harald. “He gave his word.”

  Julia just looked at him.

  “He’s a strange chap, is Vivian,” said the King. “I’ve known him half my life, and I still don’t understand what goes on behind those cold, empty eyes of his. He firmly believes in looking out for his own best interests, and yet in his own strange way he’s intensely loyal to the Land. He follows no cause save his own, but he’s never been known to break his word. He wants to be reinstated, and he wants to do penance; I’ve just given him the chance to do both. He’ll hate taking orders from peasants, but he’ll do it, and cut down any of his fellows who refuse. A strange chap, Vivian; but always loyal to the Land and its needs.”

  “Don’t worry, Julia,” said Harald. “Vivian’s a cold bastard, but he knows his duty. He won’t betray us again.”

  “Well,” said the King, pulling thoughtfully at his beard, “That’s two problems solved, anyway. Unfortunately, we’re still no nearer finding the Curtana.”

  Julia looked at him sharply. “I thought the Landsgraves had it?”

  “Apparently not. I’ve got my guards searching the traitors’ quarters, but I don’t think they’re going to find anything. Blays swore till the end that he hadn’t taken it, and I’m beginning to believe him.”

  “Guillam or Bedivere could have taken it.”

  “Not without Blays knowing.”

  “I’m inclined to agree,” said Harald, staring soberly into his empty cup.
“And that means somewhere in this Castle there’s a traitor we haven’t found yet.”

  “Damn right,” said Julia. “The same traitor who let demons into the South Wing.”

  “I’d forgotten about that,” said Harald.

  “I haven’t,” said Julia. “I’ve still got the scars to remind me.”

  “Time to worry about that tomorrow,” said the King, yawning openly. “All in all, it’s been a fairly successful day, I suppose. Considering how easily it might all have gone horribly wrong.”

  “True,” said Harald. “If you hadn’t brought those crossbowmen with you, there’s no telling how many Sir Guillam would have killed.”

  “Quite,” said John. “I was lucky there. The Landsgraves openly threatened me earlier this evening, when I was meeting with the farmers’ deputation, only to back down and leave when the farmers supported me. That intrigued me; what on earth did the farmers have that could route the Landsgraves so easily? The answer was simple; my guards had swords, but the farmers had longbows. So, I played a hunch, and it worked out.”

  There was a long, thoughtful silence.

  “Three hundred and forty-eight traitors,” John said finally, all the satisfaction gone from his voice. “Three hundred and forty-eight. Not as many as I’d feared, but a damn sight more than there should have been.”

  “Don’t blame yourself,” said Harald sternly. “They’re the ones who failed the Land, not you. Besides, I talked to most of them at the party; believe me, you’re better off without them.”

  “How could you play along with such people?” asked Julia. “Living a double life; different lies for different people … how could you stand it? Why didn’t you just turn Darius in when he first approached you?”