Blue Moon Rising (Darkwood)

by Green, Simon R.

  Rupert glimpsed a brief flash of light from Darius’s dagger as it sliced through the air toward him, and he threw himself desperately to one side. Darius’s blade cut through Rupert’s chain mail as he fell, but somehow just missed his ribs. Rupert hit the floor rolling and was quickly on his feet again sword in hand as Darius came toward him, snarling and muttering to himself.

  The tiny discolored knife swept back and forth in quick, vicious arcs as Darius pressed forward, and Rupert backed away. He knew poison on a blade when he saw it, and he wasn’t about to take any chances. The extra reach of his sword should be enough to keep Darius at bay until the others answered his call.

  Harald and King John appeared at the Armory doors, and Darius snarled at them. Black dripping balefire flew from his pointing hand. Harald drew Flarebright from its scabbard and was on guard in one swift motion, and the balefire soaked into the great gleaming length of steel and was gone. Darius turned on the King, but he’d already drawn Rockbreaker. Darius stepped back from Rupert, and raised his hands in the stance of summoning. A long jagged crack appeared in the stone floor before him. A dirty blood-red mist boiled up out of the widening crack, followed by a rush of clawed and taloned devils with murder in their glowing eyes. The air was full of the stench of brimstone. Both Harald and the King froze for a moment as deep-buried atavistic terrors ran through them, and then the moment passed, and they leapt forward, roaring their war cries. Flarebright and Rockbreaker gleamed ruddy in the crimson hell light. The devils screamed and mewled as the Infernal Devices cut them down, but ever and always they rose to the attack again, their wounds healed and gone in the blinking of an eye. Harald and the King stood back to back, and fought on.

  Darius turned on Rupert again, and backed him up against a wall, shifting eagerly from foot to foot as he searched for an opening in Rupert’s defense. He wanted to kill Rupert with his dagger, if he could. Feel the blade turning in the Prince’s flesh. It would be so much more satisfying. Rupert swayed back and forth to match Darius’s movements, and searched frantically for some way out of the mess he’d got himself into. There was nowhere left to retreat to, and from the look of things, Harald and the King needed his help desperately. The poisoned dagger cut at him again and again, and Rupert could feel the sweat running down his sides as he struggled to parry every blow. Darius was leaving himself wide open, but Rupert didn’t dare relax his guard long enough to make an attack. Even a scratch from that blade might be enough to kill him. On the other hand, he didn’t need the growing ache in his arms to tell him he couldn’t keep this up for long. Despite the High Warlock’s spells, he was a long way from being fully recovered from his wounds, while Darius’s strength and fury seemed never-ending. Rupert scowled. He had to do something, while he still had the energy to bring it off.

  Rupert parried yet another blow, and then swung his sword in a flat, vicious arc at Darius’s eyes. Darius fell back instinctively, and Rupert threw himself at Darius’s waist, groping for Darius’s knife hand. They fell to the ground in a tangled heap, and the devils and the crack in the floor vanished in the blinking of an eye, with no trace remaining to show that they had ever been there.

  Rupert and Darius scrambled to their feet. Darius laughed breathlessly, and threw himself at Rupert’s throat. Harald cut him out of midair with one sweep of Flarebright’s massive blade. Blood flew in a wide arc as the impact of the blow threw Darius crashing back against the corridor wall. The huge sword had almost cut him in two, and yet still somehow Darius tried to turn and run. Harald stepped forward, and ran him through from behind. Darius snarled once, and then slid slowly down the wall, leaving a wide smear of blood on the ancient panelwork.

  Harald tried to pull the blade out of Darius’s back, but the sword wouldn’t move. A slow red flush crept up the long steel blade as Flarebright nuzzled deeper into the wound it had made. Harald tugged at the sword with both hands and finally, reluctantly, it jerked free. The whole length of the blade had acquired a grim, crimson sheen.

  “Well,” said the Seneschal quietly from the Armory door. “If nothing else, the Infernal Devices do seem to be living up to their reputations. Barely drawn a few minutes, and already christened in blood.”

  “Yes,” said Harald. “They like blood. And they love to kill.” He stared thoughtfully at Flarebright’s red-tinged steel, and then slipped the sword back into its scabbard. His face quickly regained its usual calm, but his eyes remained vague and uncertain, as though he was only just beginning to realize what he’d let himself in for. He suddenly noticed that his hands were spotted with blood, and wiped them clean on his jerkin with quick, compulsive movements.

  “Anyway,” he said quietly, “The important thing is that finally we’ve caught our traitor. Darius must have let the demons into the South Wing through the air vent tunnels he knew so well, and he must have used his newfound magic to interfere with the High Warlock’s teleport spell.” He looked down at Darius, lying broken on the ground. “Luckily, he’s no great loss. No one’s going to miss him.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Creatures of the Dark

  Even before he left the main entrance hall, Rupert could feel the cold waiting for him out in the courtyard. The temperature in the hall dropped steadily as he approached the main doors, and suddenly his breath was steaming on the air before him. Rupert pulled his cloak about him, and nodded brusquely to the guard at the doors. The guard opened the doors a crack, and Rupert slipped quickly out onto the main stairway. The doors slammed shut behind him, to keep in what little warmth remained, and Rupert winced as the bitter cold of the courtyard cut at him like a knife. Coal braziers and banked fires glowed bravely here and there across the crowded courtyard, spreading all too little heat or light. Thick snow and ice covered the battlements and stable roofs, and shining hoarfrost pearled the inner walls. Torches blazed at regular intervals along the walls, but the main light was the bright blue glare of the Full Moon, riding high above on the endless dark of the starless night. And in that courtyard, under that unhealthy light, the last army of the Forest Land slowly gathered itself together.

  Rupert stamped his feet and beat his gloved hands together as he stared down at the milling crowd that packed the courtyard from wall to wall. The refugees and their camps were gone, moved into the Castle for the time being at least, their place taken by grim-faced men and women preparing themselves for battle. There was little talk or chatter. Outside, the Darkwood pressed close about Forest Castle, nuzzling at its walls like some huge, determined hound searching for the prey temporarily denied it. Rupert shuddered suddenly as the old familiar sense of oppression and forboding settled upon him once again. He fought the fear down, refusing to give in to it, knowing that if he ever did, even for a moment, he’d never be free of it for the rest of his life. He studied the gathering army below him, and wondered how they’d react when they finally went out into the Darkwood, and discovered that the demons were only part of the evil they had to face.

  He watched dourly as some five hundred men and half a hundred women strapped their armor about them, and tested the balance of whichever weapon they felt most comfortable with. All too many had obviously never drawn a weapon in anger in their lives. The guards and men-at-arms ran through their exercises with quiet competence, while the courtiers and traders, farmers and townspeople copied the fighting men as best they could, sweeping their blades awkwardly back and forth before them. Priests moved calmly from group to group, talking quietly and reassuringly, giving comfort where they could. The grooms led the few remaining horses out of the stables, keeping a firm grip on the reins and murmuring soothingly to the nervous, suspicious animals. Rupert frowned thoughtfully. The last time he’d tried to take horses into the Darkwood, they’d had to be blindfolded and led in by hand. Hopefully the Castle war chargers were made of sterner stuff.

  He looked away, and then smiled slightly as he spotted a small group of goblins sitting quietly by the stables. They were happily engaged in filing jagged barbs into
the edges of their swords, and then smearing the barbs with fresh horse dung, so that any wounds they made would be sure to fester. Up on the battlements, the rest of the goblins were preparing cauldrons of pitch and boiling oil. Rupert shook his head mournfully. For all their good points, there was no getting away from the fact that the goblins had absolutely no sense of honor or fair play. They should do very well in the coming battle.

  The High Warlock was sitting at the bottom of the main entrance steps, drinking wine straight from the bottle. Rupert started down the steps toward him, only to stop short when he realized the Warlock’s eyes were unfocussed and far away. There were fresh wine stains on his robes, and he swayed slightly from side to side in time to some old song he was singing quietly to himself. Rupert watched the Warlock a while, and felt a little of his hope go out of him. With so much at stake, he’d been depending on the Warlock to stay sober and keep his wits about him, but apparently that had been too much to ask. Rupert’s hands closed into fists, and then opened again. It wasn’t the Warlock’s fault he wasn’t the man the legends had made him out to be. It’s not as if he was the only one to let me down, thought Rupert tiredly. He remembered Julia, hanging on Harald’s arm at Court. You’d think I’d have learned by now; I can’t depend on anyone but myself. Rupert continued on his way. He walked right past the Warlock, but the Warlock didn’t even notice.

  Rupert threaded his way through the packed crowd, nodding and smiling absently to those who spoke or called to him. He knew he ought to be doing his bit as a Prince, by rallying the army with pep talks and rousing speeches, but somehow he just couldn’t bring himself to do it. The words would have turned to ashes in his mouth. Harald would have handled it easily enough; he’d have clapped the guardsmen on the back and told them comforting lies, and promised the farmers and the traders honor and glory in battle, with undying fame for those who fell. Rupert moved on through the crowd, his face set in tired, brooding lines. He’d fought the demons too many times already to harbor any illusions about the forthcoming battle. There was nothing but the dark, and the creatures that lived in it, and the things you had to do to defeat them; with little honor, and damn all glory for the quick or the dead.

  The crowd finally thinned away as Rupert approached one of the old stables. The huge, rambling structure seemed unnaturally quiet and deserted, as though recently abandoned. All the windows had been boarded over, and the single great door was locked. Icicles hung in clumps from the guttering, and inches of snow lay undisturbed on the windowsills and doorframe. Rupert took out the key the Seneschal had given him, and unlocked the door. It swung slowly open at his touch, the warped frame protesting quietly with a series of brief creaks and groans. Rupert put away the key and stood in the doorway, looking into the gloom. Everything was dark and still and silent. He stepped back a pace, took a torch from its bracket by the door, and then slowly entered the stable.

  “Dragon?” he called softly. “It’s me; Rupert.”

  There was no answer from the darkness. Rupert held the torch high, and at the rear of the stable dark green scales shimmered dully in the unsteady torchlight. Rupert slowly approached the sleeping dragon, shadows stirring uneasily around the pool of light he moved in. The air was dry and dusty, with a strong musky smell hanging over everything. The dragon lay curled in a circle in a nest of dirty straw, his head resting on his tail, his wings wrapped around him like a huge emerald blanket. The massive wings moved slightly, continuously, in time to the dragon’s slow breathing. Rupert put the flaring torch in a nearby wall bracket, and then crouched down by the dragon’s head. The great golden eyes were closed, and the wide grinning mouth hung slightly open. Rupert reached out a hand, hesitated, and then tapped gently on the creature’s bony forehead.

  “Dragon? It’s Rupert; I need to talk to you. I need your help.”

  The dragon slept on, undisturbed. Rupert crouched among the filthy straw and stared forlornly at the sleeping creature. A sudden wave of despair swept over him. Deep down, he’d always believed the dragon at least would be there beside him when the time finally came for him to go out and face the Darkwood again. I should have known better … First Julia, then the High Warlock, and now the dragon. He had no claim on any of them, and wouldn’t have used it if he had. But it would have been nice if just one of them could have been there at his side. So that he wouldn’t have to face the dark alone. Rupert sighed quietly, and the memory came to him of the dragon standing tall and proud in the Darkwood clearing, spilling a liquid fire onto the demons, destroying them by the dozen with his fiery breath. And then he remembered the dragon lying sprawled and broken in that same clearing, one wing half torn away, golden blood streaming down his side. The dragon, dying in the dark, because Rupert had led him into the Darkwood, and the dragon had trusted him.

  “Sleep on, my friend,” said Rupert quietly. “I’ve no right to ask any more of you.”

  He got to his feet, took the torch from the wall bracket, and walked back to the stable door. He hesitated in the doorway, and looked back at the sleeping dragon. He wanted to say goodbye, but didn’t. He turned and left the stable, locking the door securely behind him. Darkness filled the stable again, the only sound the slow steady burr of the dragon’s breathing.

  The High Warlock leaned back on the entrance steps, glowered about him, and took another drink from his bottle. The wine was a lousy vintage, but he couldn’t be bothered to change it. He was doing his best to get drunk, but somehow it just wasn’t working. He could feel the wine lying sullenly in his belly, while his mind remained stubbornly alert. His eyesight was a little blurred, and his legs a little unsteady, but all the old tormenting memories were with him still. More or less. The Warlock frowned, and shook his head irritably, trying to remember the words of the song he’d been singing, and somehow they eluded him. He hated it when he couldn’t remember things like that. Hated it. More and more there were gaps in his memory where there never used to be; little things, for the most part, but gaps nonetheless. Getting old, he thought sourly. Too many years gone by. Or too much booze. Or both. Yes, probably both. He took another drink from the bottle, spilling wine down his chin. He wished he could remember the words of the song. Eleanor had always loved that song.

  They stood together on the balcony, watching the fireworks splash color across the night skies. Behind them, in the Great Hall, the Victory Ball was well under way. A light summer breeze swirled the Warlock’s robes, and toyed lazily with Eleanor’s hair. Her hair was the color of corn, and she wore a dress of blue and gold, but he couldn’t remember her eyes. Minstrels were playing the song in the background, almost drowned out by the constant chatter of the courtiers. The Warlock watched the fireworks closely. He’d planned the display down to the last detail, but there was always time for something to go wrong. Tempermental things, fireworks. A rocket burst against the night, its fires spilling out to form the shape of a lion’s head. The Warlock smiled, and relaxed a little. Eleanor put her arm through his, and snuggled up to him. He couldn’t remember her eyes.

  The fireworks are very beautiful.

  Thank you, your majesty.

  Must you be so formal, sir Warlock? On a night like this, there should be no formalities between friends. Call me Eleanor.

  As you wish; Eleanor.

  That’s better. Now, won’t you tell me your name?

  To know a sorcerer’s name, is to have power over him.

  I’m sorry. I didn’t know that.

  No reason why you should.

  Oh, look at that rocket! It’s a waterfall; how clever of you. Isn’t it a wonderful night, sir Warlock?

  Indeed it is, Eleanor.

  I don’t think I’ve ever been happier. John is coming home victorious from the Border War, the harvest is safely gathered in and stored, and … and my best friend in all the world has given me such marvelous fireworks for my birthday! It almost feels wrong to be so happy. And the minstrels are playing my favorite song! Dance with me, sir Warlock. Please.


  I’m … not sure that would be proper, Eleanor. The Court …

  Then dance with me here, on the balcony. Just the two of us, alone.

  Her perfume filled his head as they danced together, hand-in-hand, face-to-face, their bodies moving slowly, gracefully to the dimly heard music. Fireworks blazed silver and gold upon the night. When he kissed her, her lips trembled but her arms were strong.

  He couldn’t remember her eyes.

  The High Warlock stared at the half empty bottle in his hand, and cursed himself bitterly for ever having left the Dark Tower. He should never have come back to Forest Castle. He’d been safe in his Tower, with his booze and his work, hidden away from the world. Safe from his past, his memories, and all the things people expected of him. He should never have come back.

  He looked out across the courtyard, and nodded to Rupert as the Prince came over to join him. Rupert glanced at the bottle in the Warlock’s hand, and his mouth set in a cold line.

  “I know,” said the Warlock. “You don’t approve. But sorcerer or no, I need a little something to lean on.” He took a long drink from his bottle, and wiped his mouth on his sleeve. “I keep telling you I’m not the all-powerful sorcerer everyone thinks I am. There are no real magicians left any more. Not like there used to be. Magic is going out of the world, Rupert; and all because of us.”

  “Us?” said Rupert.

  “Man,” said the Warlock. “All because of man. His logical, rational mind will be the death of magic yet. Magic works by its own rules, and they don’t pay much attention to cause and effect. That’s why all the truly great sorcerers have always been eccentrics; they mastered magic because they were as whimsical and contradictory as the sorcery they studied. Magic has its own structure and logic, but it’s not a human logic. There are rules that magic obeys, but even those tend to be contracts of agreement rather than natural laws. I’m confusing you, aren’t I? Magic’s a confusing business. Every year there are less and less people who can bend their minds enough to control magic. Fewer and fewer mad enough to understand sorcery, while still sane enough not to be destroyed by it.