Blue Moon Rising

by Simon R. Green

  BLUE MOON RISING

  Simon R. Green

  Copyright © 1991

  First published in Great Britain in 2000 by Millennium

  ISBN 1 85798 987 2

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One THE RAINBOW RUN

  Chapter Two HOMECOMING

  Chapter Three DUELS

  Chapter Four ALLIES

  Chapter Five THE DARK TOWER

  Chapter Six TRAITORS TO THE CROWN

  Chapter Seven THE LONG NIGHT

  Chapter Eight CREATURES OF THE DARK

  Chapter Nine IN THE DARKWOOD

  Chapter Ten ENDINGS AND BEGINNINGS

  For my mother and my father who were always there when I needed them.

  In those days there were heroes and villains, and darkness walked the earth. There were dragons to be slain, captured princesses to be saved, and mighty deeds were accomplished by knights in shining armour.

  Many tales are told of that time, tales of steadfast bravery and derring-do. This isn’t one of them.

  Chapter One

  THE RAINBOW RUN

  Prince Rupert rode his unicorn into the Tanglewood, peering balefully through the drizzling rain as he searched halfheartedly for the flea hiding somewhere under his breastplate. Despite the chill rain he was sweating heavily under the weight of his armour, and his spirits had sunk so low as to be almost out of sight. “Go forth and slay a dragon, my son,” King John had said, and all the courtiers cheered. They could afford to. They didn’t have to go out and face the dragon. Or ride through the Tanglewood in full armour in the rainy season. Rupert gave up on the flea and scrabbled awkwardly at his steel helmet, but to no avail; water continued to trickle down his neck.

  Towering, closely packed trees bordered the narrow trail, blending into a verdant gloom that mirrored his mood. Thick fleshy vines clung to every tree trunk, and fell in matted streamers from the branches. A heavy, sullen silence hung over the Tanglewood. No animals moved in the thick undergrowth, and no birds sang. The only sounds were the constant rustle of the rain as it dripped from the lowering branches of the water-logged trees and the muffled thudding of the unicorn’s hooves. Thick mud and fallen leaves made the twisting, centuries-old trail more than usually treacherous, and the unicorn moved ever more slowly, slipping and sliding as he carried Prince Rupert deeper into the Tanglewood.

  Rupert glowered about him, and sighed deeply. All his life he’d thrilled to the glorious exploits of his ancestors, told in solemn voices during the long, dark winter evenings. He remembered as a child sitting wide-eyed and open-mouthed by the fire in the Great Hall, listening with delicious horror to tales of ogres and harpies, magic swords and rings of power. Steeped in the legends of his family,

  Rupert had vowed from an early age that one day he too would be a hero, like Great-Uncle Sebastian, who traded three years of his life for the three wishes that would free the Princess Elaine from the Tower With No Doors. Or like Grandfather Eduard, who alone had dared confront the terrible Night Witch, who maintained her remarkable beauty by bathing in the blood of young girls.

  Now, finally, he had the chance to be a hero, and a right dog’s breakfast he was making of it. Basically, Rupert blamed the minstrels. They were so busy singing about heroes vanquishing a dozen foes with one sweep of the sword because their hearts were pure that they never got round to the important issues, like how to keep rain out of your armour, or avoid strange fruits that gave you the runs, or the best way to dig latrines. There was a lot to being a hero that the minstrels never mentioned. Rupert was busily working himself into a real foul temper when the unicorn lurched under him.

  “Steady!” yelled the Prince.

  The unicorn sniffed haughtily.

  “It’s all right for you up there, taking it easy; I’m the one who has to do all the work. That armour you’re wearing weighs a ton. My back’s killing me.”

  “I’ve been in the saddle for three weeks,” Rupert pointed out unsympathetically. “It’s not my back that’s bothering me.”

  The unicorn sniggered, and then came to a sudden halt, almost spilling the Prince from his saddle. Rupert grabbed at the long, curlicued horn to keep his balance.

  “Why have we stopped? Trail getting too muddy, perhaps? Afraid your hooves will get dirty?”

  “If you’re going to be a laugh a minute you can get off and walk,” snarled the unicorn. “In case you hadn’t noticed, there’s a massive spider’s web blocking the trail.”

  Rupert sighed, heavily. “I suppose you want me to check it out?”

  “If you would, please.”

  The unicorn shuffled his feet, and the Prince felt briefly seasick. “You know how I feel about spiders …”

  Rupert cursed resignedly, and swung awkwardly down from the saddle, his armour protesting loudly with every movement. He sank a good three inches into the trail’s mud, and swayed unsteadily for a long moment before finding his balance. He forced open his helmet’s visor and studied the huge web uneasily. Thick milky strands choked the narrow path, each sticky thread studded with the sparkling jewels of trapped raindrops. Rupert frowned; what kind of spider spins a web almost ten feet high. He trudged cautiously forward, drew his sword, and prodded one of the strands. The blade stuck tight, and he had to use both hands to pull the sword free.

  “Good start,” said the unicorn.

  Rupert ignored the animal and stared thoughtfully at the web. The more he looked at it, the less it seemed like a spider’s web. The pattern was wrong. The strands hung together in knotted clumps, falling in drifting streamers from the higher branches, and dropping from the lower in thick clusters that burrowed into the trail’s mud. And then Rupert felt the hair on the back of his neck slowly rise as he realised that although the web trembled constantly, there was no wind blowing.

  “Rupert,” said the unicorn softly.

  “We’re being watched, right?”

  “Right.”

  Rupert scowled and hefted his sword. Something had been following them ever since they’d entered the Tanglewood at daybreak, something that hid in shadows and dared not enter the light. Rupert shifted his weight carefully, getting the feel of the trail beneath him. If it came to a fight, the thick mud was going to be a problem. He took off his helmet, and put it down at the side of the trail; the narrow eyeholes limited his field of vision too much. He glanced casually round as he straightened up, and then froze as he saw a slender, misshapen silhouette moving among the trees. Tall as a man, it didn’t move like a man, and light glistened on fang and claw before the creature disappeared back into the concealing shadows. Rain beat on Rupert’s head and ran unheeded down his face as a cold horror built slowly within him.

  Beyond the Tanglewood lay darkness. For as long as anyone could remember, there had always been a part of the Forest where it was forever night. No sun shone, and whatever lived there never knew the light of day. Map-makers called it the Darkwood, and warned Here Be Demons. For countless centuries, Forest Land and Darkwood had been separated by the Tanglewood: a deadly confusion of swamp and briar and sudden death from which few escaped alive. Silent predators stalked the weed-and-vine-choked trails, and lay in wait for the unwary. And yet, over the past few months, strange creatures had stalked the Forest Land, uneasy shapes that dared not face the light of day. Sometimes, when the sun was safely down, a lone cottager might hear scratchings at his securely bolted doors and shutters, and in the morning would find deep gouges in the wood, and mutilated animals in his barn.

  The Tanglewood was no longer a barrier…

  Here Be Demons.

  Rupert fought down his fear, and took a firmer grip on his sword. The solid weight of the steel comforted him, and he swept the shining blade back and forth before him. He glared u
p at the dark clouds hiding the sun; one decent burst of sunshine would have sent the creature scuttling for its lair, but as usual he was out of luck.

  It’s only a demon, he thought furiously. I’m in full armour, and I know how to use a sword. The demon hasn’t a chance.

  “Unicorn,” he said quietly, peering into the shadows where he’d last seen the demon. “You’d better find a tree to hide behind. And stay clear of the fight; I don’t want you getting hurt.”

  “I’m way ahead of you,” said a muffled voice. Rupert glanced round to find the unicorn hiding behind a thick-boled tree some distance away.

  “Thanks a lot,” said Rupert. “What if I need your help?”

  “Then you’re in bother,” said the unicorn firmly, “because I’m not moving. I know a demon when I smell one. They eat unicorns, you know.”

  “Demons eat anything,” said Rupert.

  “Precisely,” said the unicorn, and ducked back out of sight behind his tree.

  Not for the first time, the Prince vowed to find the man who’d sold him the unicorn, and personally do something unpleasant to every one of the swindler’s extremities.

  There was a faint scuffling to his left, and Rupert had just started to turn when the demon slammed into him from behind. His heavy armour overbalanced him, and he fell forward into the clinging mud. The impact knocked the breath from him, and his sword flew from his outstretched hand. He caught a brief glimpse of something dark and misshapen towering over him, and then a heavy weight landed on his back. A clawed hand on the back of his neck forced his face down, and the mud came up to fill his eyes. Rupert flailed his arms desperately and tried to get his feet under him, but his steel-studded boots just slid helplessly in the thick mire. His lungs ached as he fought for air, and the watery mud spilled into his gaping mouth.

  Panic welled up in him as he bucked and heaved to no avail. His head swam madly, and there was a great roaring in his ears as the last of his breath ran out. One of his arms became wedged beneath his breastplate, and with the suddenness of inspiration he used his arm as a lever to force himself over on to his back, trapping the squirming demon beneath the weight of his armour.

  He lay there for long, precious moments, drawing in great shuddering breaths and gouging the mud from his eyes. He yelled for the unicorn to help him, but there was no reply. The demon hammered furiously at his armour with clumsy fists, and then a clawed hand snaked up to tear into Rupert’s face. He groaned in agony as the claws grated on his cheekbone, and tried desperately to reach his sword. The demon took advantage of this to squirm out from under him. Rupert rolled quickly to one side, grabbed his sword, and surged to his feet despite the clinging mud. The weight of his armour made every move an effort, and blood ran thickly down his face and neck as he stood swaying before the crouching demon.

  In many ways it might have been a man, twisted and malformed, but to stare into its hungry, pupil-less eyes was to know the presence of evil. Demons killed to live, and lived to kill; a darkness loose upon the Land. Rupert gripped his sword firmly and forced himself to concentrate on the demon simply as an opponent. It was strong and fast and deadly, but so was he if he kept his wits about him. He had to get out of the mud and up on to firm ground; the treacherous mire gave the demon too much of an advantage. He took a cautious step forward, and the demon flexed its claws eagerly, smiling widely to reveal rows of pointed, serrated teeth. Rupert swept his sword back and forth before him, and the demon gave ground a little, wary of the cold steel. Rupert glanced past the night-dark creature in search of firmer ground, and then grinned shakily at what he saw. For the first time he felt he might be in with a flying chance.

  He gripped his sword in both hands, took a deep breath, and then charged full tilt at the crouching demon, knowing that if he fell too soon he was a dead man. The demon darted back out of range, staying just ahead of the Prince’s reaching sword. Rupert struggled on, fighting to keep his feet under him. The demon grinned and jumped back again, straight into the massive web that blocked the path. Rupert stumbled to a halt, drew back his sword for the killing thrust, and then froze in horror as the web’s thick milky strands slowly wrapped themselves around the demon. It tore furiously at the strands and then howled silently in agony as the web oozed a clear viscous acid that steamed where it fell upon the ground. Rupert watched in sick fascination as the feebly struggling demon disappeared inside a huge pulsating cocoon that covered it from head to toe. The last twitching movements died quickly away as the web digested its meal.

  Rupert wearily lowered his sword and leaned on it, resting his aching back. Blood ran down into his mouth, and he spat it out. Who’d be a hero? He grinned sourly and took stock of himself. His magnificent burnished armour was caked with drying mud, and etched with deep scratch marks from the demon’s claws. He hurt all over, and his head beat with pain. He brought a shaking hand up to his face, and then winced as he saw fresh blood on his mailed gauntlet. He’d never liked the sight of blood, especially his own. He sheathed his sword and sat down heavily on the edge of the trail, ignoring the squelching mud.

  All in all, he didn’t think he’d done too badly. There weren’t many men who’d faced a demon and lived to tell of it. Rupert glanced at the now motionless cocoon, and grimaced. Not the most heroic way to win, and certainly not the most sporting, but the demon was dead and he was alive, and that was the way he’d wanted it to be.

  He peeled off his gauntlets and tenderly inspected his damaged face with his fingers. The cuts were wide and deep, and ran from the corner of his eye down to his mouth. Better wash them clean, he thought dazedly. Don’t want them to get infected. He shook his head and looked about him. The rain had died away during the fight, but the sun was already sliding down the sky towards evening, and the shadows were darkening. Nights were falling earlier these days, even though it was barely summer. Rain dripped steadily from the overhanging branches, and a dank, musty smell hung heavily on the still air. Rupert glanced at the web cocoon, and shivered suddenly as he remembered how close he’d come to trying to cut his way through. Predators come in many forms, especially in the Tanglewood.

  He sighed resignedly. Tired or no, it was time he was on his way.

  “Unicorn! Where are you?”

  “Here,” said a polite voice from the deepest of the shadows.

  “Are you coming out, or do I come in there after you?” growled the Prince. There was a slight pause, and then the unicorn stepped diffidently out on to the trail. Rupert glared at the animal, who wouldn’t meet his gaze.

  “And where were you, while I was risking my neck fighting that demon?”

  “Hiding,” said the unicorn. “It seemed the logical thing to do.”

  “Why didn’t you help?”

  “Well,” said the unicorn reasonably, “if you couldn’t handle the demon with a sword and a full set of armour, I didn’t see what help I could offer.”

  Rupert sighed. One of these days he’d learn not to argue with the unicorn.

  “How do I look?”

  “Terrible.”

  “Thanks a lot.”

  “You’ll probably have scars,” said the unicorn helpfully.

  “Great. That’s all I need.”

  “I thought scars on the face were supposed to be heroic?”

  “Whoever thought that one up wants his head felt. Bloody minstrels … Help me up, unicorn.”

  The unicorn moved in quickly beside him. Rupert reached out, took a firm hold of the stirrup, and slowly pulled himself up out of the mud. The unicorn stood patiently as Rupert leaned wearily against his side, waiting for his bone-deep aches to subside long enough for him to make a try at getting up into the saddle.

  The unicorn studied him worriedly. Prince Rupert was a tall, handsome man in his mid-twenties, but blood and pain and fatigue had added twenty years to his face. His skin was grey and beaded with sweat, and his eyes were feverish. He was obviously in no condition to ride, but the unicorn knew that Rupert’s pride would force him
to try.

  “Rupert …” said the unicorn.

  “Yeah?”

  “Why don’t you just … walk me for a while? You know how unsteady I am in this mud.”

  “Yeah,” said Rupert. “That’s a good idea. I’ll do that.”

  He reached out and took hold of the bridle, his head hanging wearily down. Slowly, carefully, the unicorn led him past the motionless cocoon and on down the trail, heading deeper into the Tanglewood.

  Two days later, Rupert was back in the saddle and fast approaching the boundary between Tanglewood and Darkwood. His aches had mostly died away, thanks to a pouch of herbs the Court Astrologer had forced on him before he left, and though more than once he found himself wishing for a mirror, the wounds on his face seemed to be scabbing nicely. All in all, Rupert was feeling a little more cheerful, or at least only mildly depressed.

  He was supposed to kill a dragon but truth to tell, nobody had seen one in ages, and they’d pretty much passed into legend. Rupert had become somewhat disenchanted with legends; they seemed to dwell on the honour and the glory and miss out the important parts, like how you killed whatever it was without getting killed yourself. ‘Because your heart is pure’ isn’t a lot of help when you’re up against a dragon. I bet mine breathes fire, thought Rupert dismally. He was working hard on a great new rationalisation that would let him turn back almost honourably, when his bladder loudly called itself to his attention. Rupert sighed and steered the unicorn over to the side of the trail. That was another thing minstrels never mentioned.

  He quickly dismounted, and set about undoing the complicated series of flaps that protected his groin. He only just made it in time, and whistled nonchalantly as he emptied his bladder against a tree trunk. If his diet didn’t improve soon, he’d be the only hero going into battle with his flies undone …

  That thought decided him, and as soon as he’d finished what he was doing, Rupert set about discarding his armour. He’d only worn the damn stuff because he’d been assured it was traditional for anyone setting out on a quest. Stuff tradition, thought Rupert happily, his spirits soaring as piece by piece the battered armour dropped into the trail’s mud. After a little thought, he decided to hang on to the steel-studded boots; he might want to kick someone. Clad finally in leather jerkin and trousers and his best cloak, Rupert felt comfortable for the first time in weeks. Admittedly he also felt decidedly vulnerable, but the way his luck had been going recently, he’d only have rusted up solid anyway.