Blood and Honor (Forest Kingdom Novels)

by Green, Simon R.

The churning lights shining deep in the gutted body pulled at his eyes, mesmerizing him, and he jerked his gaze away with an effort. He could hear Dominic groaning and cursing, and stumbling back and forth behind him. And then Jordan looked up, and his gaze met the mad eyes in Elizabeth’s face, and he knew what he had to do. He took a firm grip on his sword, and cut at the Lady Elizabeth’s neck. His sword bit deeply, and blood spurted out in a thick jet. He cut again, and severed the head completely. It fell past him, and bounced once on the floor before rolling away. The eyes still moved, and the mouth worked silently. And then blood welled from the gateway in a steady stream, and in the blink of an eye the gateway fell in on itself, and was gone. The body hanging on the wall was just a body, and Elizabeth’s head lay still and silent on the floor. Jordan turned away.

  Sir Gawaine was sitting on his haunches, pale and drawn but now clinging grimly onto his ax. There was a scuffing sound to Jordan’s right, and he looked quickly around to see Dominic leaning against the wall by the door. He’d put out the flames by conjuring up water, but not before the fire had done its worst. Half his hair was gone, and his face was horribly disfigured. There was a drifting smell of burned meat in the air. Dominic peered at Jordan with his one good eye, and raised a shaking hand in a mystical gesture, only to stop as Gawaine lurched to his feet again, ax at the ready. Dominic smiled at Jordan, his teeth horribly white against the scorched and blackened flesh of his face.

  “I’ll watch you die by inches for this, actor.”

  A split in the air opened before Dominic and swallowed him up. The air sparked with static, and then was still. Jordan and Sir Gawaine looked at each other.

  “Always has to have the last word, your brother,” said Gawaine.

  They put away their weapons, and Gawaine glanced briefly at what was left of the Lady Elizabeth.

  “Poor lass,” he said quietly. “I never liked her, but no one should have to die like that.”

  “Let’s get out of here,” said Jordan. “I’m so tired, I’m asleep on my feet.”

  Gawaine smiled wearily. “I’d forgotten just how hectic life can be at Castle Midnight. You’d better grab some sleep while you can, Your Highness. We’ve closed the gateway, but it’s only a matter of time before the Unreal grows strong enough to break through on its own. And we still don’t know how much damage Dominic’s troops have done under cover of the chaos.”

  “Doesn’t this place ever quiet down?” said Jordan disgustedly. “I’ve appeared in murder mysteries that were less complicated than this.”

  “The only way this castle will ever know peace is when there’s a king on the throne. That’s the truth you always have to remember here. Castle Midnight needs a king. Any king.” He stretched slowly, and shook his head. His chain mail rustled softly, as though protesting. “Let’s go. And Jordan … I wouldn’t mention Elizabeth’s death to Viktor. Not just yet. It had better be our secret, for the time being.”

  Jordan nodded, and he and Sir Gawaine left the room and made their way back down the corridor. The Unreal was gone, and the West Wing was nothing more than cold stone and warm lamplight. There was a peaceful stillness to the air, like the calm after a thunderstorm has passed. Jordan felt a slow wave of tiredness moving through his body as tense muscles gradually unwound, but even so he wasn’t fooled by appearances. Behind the air of normality, the Unreal was still there, waiting.

  Jordan and Sir Gawaine found the rest of their party waiting for them back at the barricade. Captain Doyle and his men were looking after the exhausted steward and Mother Donna, while Cord stood guard a little distance away. Taggert had one arm heavily bandaged, but was well enough to be arguing firecely with Doyle as to whether or not she was fit enough to return to duty. The two of them broke off and looked around as the guards raised a cheer on seeing Jordan and Gawaine. Many willing hands helped to pull the barricade apart and make an opening for the returning heroes. Wee Geordie and the ghost dog were jumping up and down excitedly, and apparently vying with each other to see who could make the most noise. Gawaine took it all rather brusquely, but Jordan was in his element. It had been awhile since he’d known adulation like this, and he intended to enjoy it while it lasted. He clapped Doyle on the shoulder, and smiled magnanimously at the guards.

  “The gateway’s been destroyed,” he said loudly, and grinned at Taggert. “You should have a slightly easier time of it for a while, Steward.”

  Taggert grinned back at him, and moved forward to stand before him. “You saved my life, Your Highness. Hell, you saved all our lives. I don’t know what happened while you were in exile, but I thank God for it. You’ve come back a fine and honorable man, Viktor, and I’m proud to serve under you.”

  She drew her sword and raised it in the ancient warrior’s oath of fealty. There was a clash of steel as the guards raised their swords, too, and then one by one they knelt and bowed their heads to Jordan. Captain Doyle and Captain Blood knelt with their men, their faces proud and glowing and just a little awed. Taggert, Damon Cord, and Mother Donna sank to one knee, and bowed their heads. Jordan had strong feeling that things were starting to get out of hand. He looked to Sir Gawaine for advice, and found the knight was kneeling, too. Jordan looked away, and found Wee Geordie and the bloodhound looking at him worshipfully. He swallowed hard and waved weakly at them all with his hands.

  “Thank you, my friends. I only did my duty. Now get up. Please.”

  They got to their feet, adulation and respect still shining from their faces. Jordan felt decidedly nervous. Without quite knowing how, he’d raised a spirit here that wouldn’t easily be dispelled, and he had no business doing so. He wasn’t a prince, just a paid actor doing his job. He looked almost wildly about him for a distraction, and his gaze fell on Geordie and the bloodhound. An idea that had been simmering at the back of his mind for some time finally settled into shape, and he walked over to the two ghosts.

  “Geordie, I think I know how we can find your mother for you. Do you know what kind of a dog this is? He’s a bloodhound, bred and trained specially to track people by their scent. If we can just find something that used to belong to your mother, I think this clever dog might be able to lead us right to her.”

  The young boy’s face lit up, and he ran forward and threw his arms around Jordan’s waist. He hugged Geordie tightly in return, feeling tears forming in his eyes. No child should have to endure what Wee Geordie had gone through for so many years. Sir Gawaine stepped forward, and cleared his throat politely.

  “I beg pardon for intruding, Your Highness, but might I have a word with you?”

  “Of course, Gawaine.” Jordan eased himself free from the young ghost’s embrace. “I won’t be a moment, Geordie, and then we’ll make a start.”

  He moved over to Sir Gawaine, who carefully lowered his voice.

  “Are you sure you know what you’re doing? The Lady Mary of Fenbrook has been dead and buried for centuries. How is a bloodhound going to reunite her with her ghostly son?”

  “Because the dog’s dead as well,” said Jordan. “He’s a ghost bloodhound.”

  Sir Gawaine looked at the dog, and then at Jordan. “One of these days I’m going to learn to stop asking you questions. You always come up with such disturbing answers. Very well, sire. If you’re serious about this, you’ll find a gold locket on a chain that once belonged to the Lady Mary in the Old Museum. It’s here in the West Wing, just four corridors along and clearly marked. You can’t miss it.”

  Jordan nodded his thanks, made his good-byes, and gathered up Wee Geordie and the dog. They set off down the corridor together, the two ghosts barely able to restrain themselves to Jordan’s pace. He was glad Gawaine hadn’t volunteered to go with him. In some strange way, he felt this was a personal business between him and the two ghosts. They had helped him when he needed it; now he would help them. Perhaps because he needed to believe he was worthy of the trust Wee Geordie had placed in him. He glanced unobtrusively at the young boy and the bloodhound as they padded at h
is side. The boy had scruffy hair and dust marks on his face, and the dog was molting. It was hard to accept that they were both really dead, and that what walked so casually at his side were really nothing more than memories made flesh and bone. Jordan’s gaze settled on Wee Geordie. All those years, spent searching for a mother who died centuries before. All the long years, wandering endlessly through bleak stone corridors, looking for someone, anyone, who would simply sit and talk with him instead of running away. Jordan’s throat tightened, and he swore silently to himself that come what may, he’d do whatever it took to reunite Wee Geordie with his mother. He glanced at the boy and the dog one last time, and then stared resolutely straight ahead.

  I wonder how they died …

  They soon reached the Old Museum, and Jordan frowned. The brass plaque on the door looked like it hadn’t been polished in years. The door squealed loudly as he pushed it open, and the room beyond was dark and gloomy. Jordan took a torch from the nearest wall holder, and led the way in. The museum was a large, spacious, dusty room. All four walls were covered with tightly packed bookshelves. The carpet was dry and hard underfoot, and the smeared windows looked as though they hadn’t been opened in years, never mind cleaned. Jordan didn’t know what the New Museum might be like, but it was clear no one had visited the Old Museum in a long time. Presumably the ever-present ghosts more than filled the castle population’s interest in the past.

  A large plain table stood alone in the middle of the room, bearing a number of exhibits in flyspecked glass cases. Jordan moved over to study them. Wee Geordie and the bloodhound trailed along after him. The boy was staring around him with wide eyes, but didn’t seem interested in anything in particular. The bloodhound sneezed at the dust. Jordan found the idea of a sneezing ghost strangely unsettling. He concentrated on the exhibits before him, and carefully wiped some of the dust from the glass cases with his sleeve. The first case held a severed human hand, carefully stuffed and mounted. Spidery handwriting on a card at the base of the display case said simply Rocca’s Bane. Jordan shrugged. The name didn’t ring any bells. The next case held an ornate silver goblet, crusted with semiprecious stones. Just looking at it made Jordan’s fingers twitch hungrily. He forced the thought aside, and concentrated on the display card. Sebastian’s Chalice. Jordan shook his head, none the wiser. The next case held a slender silver knife, the hilt covered in tiny etched runes and glyphs, too small to be read with the unaided eye. The card said simply The Starlight Duke’s Dagger.

  Jordan’s breath caught in his throat. He might not recognize any of the other exhibits, but this … the legendary Starlight Duke had founded Hillsdown some six hundred years ago. Children learned his life story at school, and the rulers of Hillsdown were still called duke rather than king, in honor of the great and famous man. And here was his dagger. His dagger. It had to be worth a fortune … Jordan shook his head slightly, and moved on. He didn’t dare take anything but the locket. Too many people had known he was coming here. Unfortunately. The next case held a simple gold locket on a rolled-gold chain. Jordan studied it for a long time before looking at the card. It said simply Lady Mary’s Locket.

  Jordan slipped his torch into a nearby holder, and carefully lifted up the glass cover. It clung stubbornly to its base for a long moment, and then came free with a quiet sucking sound. Jordan put the glass carefully to one side, and then picked up the locket and chain. He felt more than saw Wee Geordie crowding in beside him, but he didn’t look away from the locket. It was very light in his hand, and the oval locket opened easily once he found the clasp. Inside were two perfect miniature portraits. The one of the left showed a young boy with thin, pinched features and straw-colored hair. The right-hand portrait showed a beautiful young woman. She had long blond hair that fell in curls and ringlets to her bare shoulders. Her high cheekbones and pale blue eyes gave her a cold, almost harsh look, but her smile was warm and loving. Lady Mary of Fenbrook: dead and buried these past two hundred years. Jordan took a deep breath, and turned and crouched down beside Wee Geordie. He held the open locket so that the boy could see both portraits.

  “That’s me,” said Geordie, looking at the left-hand portrait. Awe and wonder filled his face.

  “Do you recognize the woman?” said Jordan.

  “That’s my mother,” said Geordie. “I told you she was beautiful.” He reached out a hesitant hand to touch the portrait, then lowered his hand again, and just looked at the calm, serene face. “Mother,” he said quietly, “I’ve been looking for you for such a long time.”

  Tears stung Jordan’s eyes again, and he fought them back. It wouldn’t do for the boy to see him so upset. He sniffed quickly a couple of times, and then looked around for the dog. He started slightly on finding that the animal had moved silently up on his other side without him noticing. He straightened up, and held the locket before the dog’s nose. The bloodhound sniffed the cold metal thoroughly. Jordan looked hard at the dog, and the animal stared back at him with old, wise eyes.

  “We need you to find Wee Geordie’s mother,” said Jordan slowly, not knowing how much, if any, of what he was saying the dog understood. But there was something about the ghost dog that suggested he understood a great deal, in his way. He looked unblinkingly at Jordan, then at Wee Geordie, and then he lifted his great head and sniffed the air. He wagged his tail twice, and headed purposefully for the open door. Geordie hurried after him. Jordan tossed the locket back onto its stand and hurried after the two ghosts.

  The bloodhound made his way unhesitatingly down the corridor, looking neither to the left nor to the right. He held his head high, and there was a calm certainty in his sad eyes and untiring gait. Wee Geordie walked close beside him, his gaze fixed hopefully on the dog. The animal turned into a side corridor, padded down the narrow passageway for a while, and then chose another turning. Its calm decisiveness was an eerie spectacle in itself, and Jordan’s hackles stirred uneasily on the back of his neck. The bloodhound led them on, and they followed it through corridors and passageways, up stairs and down, along rotundas, and in and out of countless doors. And still the dog didn’t hesitate in its stride, only stopping when it needed Jordan to open a door for it. The bloodhound headed down one gloomy passage after another, following a trail only he could detect.

  The trail came to a sudden end at a blank wall that sealed off a deserted passageway. The bloodhound sniffed at the bare gray plaster and pawed at it a few times before turning to stare silently at Jordan. He looked down at the ghost of Wee Geordie, and searched for something comforting to say. To have come all this way, and all for nothing … The dog had lost the trail. If it had ever really found it in the first place. Jordan sighed, and stared helplessly at the blank wall. It had been a hell of a long shot anyway, when all was said and done, and it was really no surprise that it hadn’t paid off. But he’d had such hopes … And what was he going to tell the boy? What could he tell him? That he’d picked the wrong person to trust? Jordan frowned suddenly as he caught a glimpse of something that didn’t seem quite right. He moved closer, and studied the grimy plaster from only a few inches away. Under the plaster, just barely visible in the uncertain light, there was the outline of a door.

  Jordan drew the knife from his boot, reversed it, and struck the plaster smartly with the hilt of his knife. The brittle stuff cracked and fell away in flakes, revealing the outline of a sealed-over door. Jordan swore silently. The door handle was long gone, and the door itself was undoubtedly locked, not to mention probably stuck fast in its frame. Getting the damned thing open wasn’t going to be easy. He’d need half a dozen men with axes and crowbars, to start with … He turned to Wee Geordie, standing patiently beside him.

  “I’m afraid the way’s blocked, Geordie. This door must have been sealed off a long time ago, and forgotten. I can’t open it. We’ll have to come back another time, when we’re better prepared.”

  “No,” said Geordie softly. “I don’t think so.” He looked steadily at the hidden door. “It’s been a
long time since I last came this way. A long time … I’d forgotten all about this door. But I remember it now.”

  The plaster cracked and splintered all across the wall, and the outlines of the door were suddenly starkly revealed. Wee Geordie continued to stare at the door, and it slowly stirred and groaned in its warped frame. The wood trembled violently, and then there was a shrill shearing of metal as the old lock burst apart. The door swung open on squealing hinges. An old, musty smell issued from the dark hallway beyond. The bloodhound padded confidently forward, and Wee Geordie followed him into the gloom. Jordan put away his knife, grabbed a wall torch from a nearby holder, and went after them.

  The hallway had clearly been deserted for some time, but there was something about the dark, echoing hall that suggested it had been not so much forgotten as abandoned. All the furniture and trappings were still in place, though covered by a thick layer of grime and dust. Tapestries and portraits hung on the walls, while lamps and torches stood unlit in their holders. Jordan was tempted to light some of them with his torch, but didn’t. He felt as though he was walking through the past, and he didn’t want to disturb anything. Wee Geordie and the bloodhound pressed on, and Jordan had to hurry to catch up with them. The only sound in the hallway was the quiet crackling of the torch’s flame, and Jordan’s echoing footsteps. A sudden chill went through him as he realized neither the boy nor the dog made any sound at all.

  “I remember this place,” said Geordie suddenly, looking about him. “I used to come here with my mother. It was a short cut. But it didn’t look like this. Everything’s so old, and dusty. How long is it since I was last here? I can’t remember … there’s so much I don’t remember anymore.”

  He didn’t look to Jordan for an answer to his question. Jordan couldn’t have answered him anyway; his throat was closed by a pity so intense it was almost pain. A long time ago, something terrible must have happened: something that ended in the deaths of Lady Mary and her son Geordie. Perhaps they were both murdered, here in this hallway. The odds were he’d never know the whole story. All he knew for certain was an impotent rage at the injustice of a young child condemned to wander lost and alone for centuries, knowing only that somehow he had become separated from his mother …