Blood and Honor (Forest Kingdom Novels)

by Green, Simon R.

  Taggert laughed shakily. “All right, you’re on. But you’d better be right about this, Viktor. Because if I get killed here, I’ll never forgive you.”

  They shared a quick smile, and then Taggert focused her awareness inward, calling up the light of life that burned within her. It was already seriously diminished from what it should be, but there was enough left to do the job. If she was lucky. She dismissed her shimmering sword and discharged all her power in one controlled blast. Balefire flared up all around her, seething and churning, and then roared away from her toward the throne. The creatures in its path were incinerated in a moment, as though they had never been, and the thorn barrier exploded in a mass of flames. When the light died away again, a pathway to the throne stood clear and open. Jordan ran toward the throne, with Sir Gawaine close at his side. Unseen behind them, Taggert stumbled and almost fell as the last of her strength went out of her. Cord was quickly there at her side, beating back the Unreal with a cold, unyielding ferocity. Roderik gathered the guards together for one last desperate stand.

  Jordan sprinted down the narrow aisle Taggert had opened up in the barrier. He could hear the thorns stirring feebly, but kept his eyes fixed on the throne. He scrambled up onto the marble dais, and then a barbed tentacle shot out of nowhere and scored a jagged red line across his shoulders. He gasped at the sudden pain and almost dropped his sword, but Gawaine was close behind him, urging him on, and a moment later they were both crouching beside the empty throne. Unreal life boiled all around the dais, but none of it dared draw near the Stone that lay beneath the throne. Jordan waited a few moments to get some of his breath back, and then pulled at the throne’s arm. It didn’t budge in the least. He looked at Sir Gawaine.

  “All right, Gawaine, how do we get to the Stone?”

  “Just say the words, Your Highness. The old words, handed down by tradition. Then the throne gives up the Stone, which rolls forward …”

  “I know all that, Gawaine, but what exactly are the damned words?”

  Sir Gawaine looked at him blankly, and then shook his head in disgust. “I’m sorry, Viktor. Of course you don’t know the words. The King would have told the Regent, but it was up to him to pass them on to whoever was designated as heir. Stand back, Viktor. I’ll get you the Stone.”

  He thrust the head of his ax beneath one side of the throne and heaved upward, using the ax’s haft as a lever. The throne groaned and shifted, but didn’t lift an inch. Gawaine put his back into it. Muscles corded on his arms and back, and he grinned mirthlessly as his face grew taut and strained. The ax head glowed brightly, its magic negating the spells that protected the throne. The Unreal began to press slowly closer. And then the throne suddenly heaved up and fell over on its side, revealing the ancient Stone. Sir Gawaine stood panting beside it, his eyes half-closed with exhaustion.

  “Well-done, Gawaine,” said Jordan. “Now what do I do?”

  “Spill your Blood on the Stone, and swear allegiance to it as king. Then the Stone will accept you, and give you power over the Unreal.”

  Jordan looked at him blankly. “Oh my God,” he said softly.

  “What is it?” said Gawaine. “What’s the matter?”

  “I thought I just had to say the right words, once I had the crown and seal … I never thought …”

  “What is it, Viktor? We don’t have much time!”

  “I can’t do it, Gawaine!”

  “What do you mean, you can’t? You’ve got to!”

  “I mean I can’t do it! I don’t have any Blood! I’m Jordan, not Viktor.”

  Gawaine looked at him, and a slow horror crept across his face. “You fool. You’ve damned us all.”

  Jordan looked back across the hall. Taggert had fallen to the floor. Cord stood over her, and fought to keep the Unreal at bay with his warm hammer. Roderik had been backed up against a wall, and was fighting a dogged but losing battle against a crowd of howling, shrieking creatures. Of the fifty or so guards who had followed Jordan into the hall, barely a dozen remained, battling bravely in small clumps against overwhelming odds. The Unreal was growing stronger. More creatures crawled up out of the cracks in the floor, or stepped through the walls or fell from the ceiling. The light pulsing within the Monk’s open robe was blindingly bright, and the power of the Unreal thundered on the air in a never-ending roar. Jordan swayed unsteadily on his feet, and shook his head to clear it. There had to be something he could do. There had to be something …

  Gawaine grabbed him by the arm, and hauled him around to face him. “Why did you do it, Jordan? Why did you kill him? Did you want to be king so badly, you were ready to risk destroying us all?”

  “It wasn’t like that,” said Jordan wretchedly. “I never meant … He was mad, just like his brothers. I thought I could save the Kingdom … He was crazy, Gawaine! He was going to start a war that would have destroyed Redhart!”

  “He had the Blood,” said Sir Gawaine. “And without that, we’re all going to die anyway.”

  He turned away, his face a mask of despair. Jordan felt sick. Was Gawaine right? Had he really killed Viktor only because he wanted to be king himself? It didn’t matter. It was too late now for doubts and recriminations. He’d given it his best shot, and it hadn’t been good enough. He’d failed his friends, and failed the kingdom. He looked slowly around him. A dozen creatures swarmed over Damon Cord and pulled him down. He went down roaring and kicking, still trying to swing his hammer. Two of the creatures tore it out of his weakening grip, and threw it away, out of reach. Somehow Cord surged to his feet again, flailing about him with his fists. He was covered in blood, much of it his own. The Unreal milled around him, clawing and snapping, and still Cord fought on, trying to get back to protect the steward.

  Catriona Taggert was back on her feet again, though she couldn’t remember how. She cut desperately about her with a sword she’d snatched from a dead guard’s hand. The Unreal closed in around her, and she swayed drunkenly on her feet as she struggled to keep her sword arm steady. That final blast of balefire had taken too much out of her, and she knew it. The Unreal knew it, too. She could see Cord fighting to get back to her side, but there were too many creatures between them. She risked a quick glance at the throne, and saw Viktor and Gawaine standing over the Stone. She tried to smile bravely. Prince Viktor had got to the Stone. At least she wouldn’t have died in vain. Blood ran down into her eyes, and she lifted a shaking hand to wipe it away. A glistening black creature with a barbed spine lashed out at her while she was distracted, and knocked her to the floor. She tried to get up again, and couldn’t. Something with bloodred eyes and needle teeth stooped over her. Taggert snarled up at it.

  Jordan saw Taggert go down, and screamed her name. He knew he couldn’t get to her in time. All his rage and guilt burned within him, and he stretched out a desperate hand toward her. A jet of roaring flame burst from his hand and shot through the air to fry the creature bending over Taggert. It shrieked once as the flames consumed it, and then fell back and lay still. The Unreal scattered away from the burning corpse. The din of battle went suddenly quiet, and for a moment it seemed that everything in the hall had paused, aware that something vital was happening. Jordan looked disbelievingly at the flames licking harmlessly around his hand. Viktor had the fire magic, not him. He was just an actor who knew a few conjuring tricks. But that was no longer true. He could feel the fire burning within him, waiting to be used. A bright-burning flame, to sear the world clean of foulness and evil. He looked up at the Monk, floating high above the violence below, and realized for the first time that the Monk had stopped laughing. He raised his hand, and smiled grimly at the gateway of the Unreal.

  “Burn in hell, Monk,” he whispered.

  A jet of boiling flame shot across the hall from his hand, and struck the Monk’s robe. The gray cloth flared up in an instant and burned fiercely. The Monk screamed once, a wild, awful sound, and the robe was just a robe, and a swath of burning cloth fell down onto the heads of the Unreal creature
s below. The gateway was closed. Jordan slowly realized that Gawaine was tugging at his arm.

  “Jordan, the Stone! Swear your oath to the Stone before another gateway opens!”

  “What are you talking about, Gawaine? I told you, I’m Jordan. I don’t have any Blood.”

  “You have the fire magic.”

  “I don’t know how I did that. I don’t know where it came from.”

  “It comes from the glamour spell Roderik put on you. It must have. It made you a physical duplicate of Viktor. An exact physical duplicate. Since Viktor had Blood, so do you!”

  Jordan gaped at Gawaine, and then spun around to face the Stone. The Unreal howled with fear and rage, and surged forward, trying to reach the dais before he could complete the ritual. The remaining guards fought desperately to hold back the creatures for just a few more moments. Jordan nicked the palm of his left hand with his sword edge, and a few spots of blood fell onto the top of the ancient Stone. He leant forward to place his palm on the Stone, and then hesitated.

  The young noble placed his palm firmly onto the bloodstained Stone. He made a soft, puzzled sound, and then the breath went out of him and he fell limply backward. His head made a flat, final sound as it hit the floor.

  Jordan swallowed hard and slapped his palm down onto the Stone. “I swear allegiance to the Stone, and to the kingdom of Redhart!”

  Power surged through him, fell and potent, and for a timeless moment he could see everywhere in Castle Midnight. He could see the Unreal swarming through the rooms and corridors, appearing through hundreds of minor gateways. Everywhere in the castle guards and sorcerers, and men and women armed with whatever they could find, fought to hold back the endless tide of savagery. They fought well and bravely, but they were still losing. Jordan called upon his power, and in the blinking of an eye, the Unreal was banished in its entirety from Castle Midnight, and all the gateways closed.

  Tall shimmering creatures that were chasing a weaponless guard down a corridor disappeared in midstep. Something gray and dusty, sitting giggling over a pile of bloody bones, vanished from the entrance hall. A vast face that had formed in the brickwork of a cellar wall became still and inanimate. Cracks in walls and floors flowed together and were gone, and shadows lay still and undisturbed. The Unreal disappeared, and the world became sane again.

  In the Great Hall, the battling creatures vanished, and air rushed in to fill the spaces where they had been. The darkness overhead disappeared, and the ornate ceiling returned. The creatures of the Unreal were banished, and with them went Damon Cord, who had known all along that this would happen, and had fought with all his strength and courage to help bring it about.

  A slow, peaceful silence settled over the hall, and the handful of survivors knelt and bowed to their new king. Gawaine took hold of the throne, and heaved it back into position over the Stone. Jordan sat down on it hesitantly, and Sir Gawaine of Tower Rouge knelt before him and bowed his head.

  “Redhart has a king again!” he said loudly. “Long live King Viktor of Redhart!”

  And only Jordan saw the wink that Gawaine dropped him.

  CHAPTER 8

  * * *

  A Few Last Truths

  Jordan sat slumped on his throne, and watched exhaustedly as the last of the courtiers filed out of the Great Hall. If he’d known being made king would involve all these bloody ceremonies, he’d have thought twice about it. Jordan usually enjoyed a good ceremony, if only for the theater of the occasion, but it felt rather different when you had to sit to attention all the way through it, for hours on end. It’s all very well them wishing good health to his majesty. They’re not stuck on this bloody throne. I’ll bet I end up with piles. What moron came up with the idea of a throne made of marble, anyway?

  He sighed, and knuckled at his bleary eyes. It had been a long day, and it showed few signs of getting any shorter. For all practical purposes, he’d been the rightful king from the moment he made his oath to the Stone, but both law and tradition had to be followed exactly if he wanted the support of his people. First, he’d had to summon the entire Court, so that the nobility could make their individual oaths of fealty to the new king. A few people had been conspicuous by their absence. Jordan had ordered them banished, and wasn’t surprised to learn that they had anticipated this and were already well on their way. Apparently they had been close associates of either Lewis or Dominic, and didn’t trust in Viktor’s forgiving nature. Jordan didn’t blame them. The ceremonies had dragged on and on, and in the end Jordan had stopped trying to follow them. Instead, he dozed with his eyes open, and smiled and nodded when he felt like it. Which wasn’t often. If the three princes had had to put up with this all their lives, it was no wonder they’d gone crazy.

  But finally the ceremonies had ground to an end. The hall was quiet, the courtiers were gone, and only the really important people remained. Jordan sat up a little straighter, and tried to settle his crown more comfortably on his head. The damn thing was heavier than it looked, and was giving him a headache. Sir Gawaine stood at his left, beside the throne. Jordan’s first act as King had been to make Gawaine his Champion. The courtiers had taken one look at the murderous ax in Gawaine’s hand, and had hurriedly agreed that this was an altogether excellent idea.

  Count Roderik stood directly before the throne. He’d said no more than the bare minimum necessary all through the ceremonies, which hadn’t surprised Jordan at all. What Roderik had to say, and no doubt there was a great deal of it, could only be said in private.

  Beside Roderik stood Count William and his wife, the Lady Gabrielle. Jordan had been keeping a careful eye on the ex-Regent. If there was to be any real threat to his succession, that was where it was going to come from. William had established a nice little power base for himself as Regent, and it was just possible he might not want to hand it over. Particularly to a man he’d already declared to be unfit to rule. But so far he’d minded his manners and said all the right things in all the right places. Jordan smiled slightly. One of the first things he’d done had been to split up William’s troops, and put them under the command of men loyal only to the king. Just in case.

  And finally, standing at the right of his throne, was the steward, Catriona Taggert. She had one arm in a sling, and the bandage around her head made her look both raffish and endearingly vulnerable. She and Jordan had been sharing little secret smiles all through the ceremonies. Jordan sighed happily, and smiled again. One of the other things he’d done was to banish the Lady Heather from Court, and send her home to Kahalimar. Not only was she a ruthless little baggage, but she’d known Viktor far too well for Jordan’s peace of mind. And with her gone, it was only natural that the new king would turn his attention elsewhere. He grinned at Taggert, and she grinned back.

  I think I handled that rather well, he thought smugly.

  “Now that the ceremonies are over,” said Roderik pointedly, “I think you and I should have a little talk, Your Majesty. In private.”

  “Do you?” said Jordan. “I don’t.” He watched interestedly as Roderik’s face went an entertaining shade of purple. “Whatever you have to say, Roderik, just go right ahead and say it. No need to be bashful. You’re among friends here.”

  “Very well,” said Roderik tightly. “We made an agreement, you and I, on what would happen once you were king. You gave me your word …”

  “So I did,” said Jordan. “I agreed that you should be my chief adviser, and so you shall, but it seems to me that the word adviser has a very specific meaning. I’ll always welcome your advice, Roderik, but whether I follow it or not will be my decision, not yours. As long as your bear that in mind, I see no reason why we shouldn’t have a long and mutually profitable relationship.”

  “There are things I could tell the Court that they don’t know,” said Roderik.

  “I imagine you could,” said Jordan. “But do you think it would be in your best interests to do so?”

  Roderik stood very still for a moment, his gaze fixed
on Jordan’s. Gawaine stirred restlessly. In the end, Roderik bowed stiffly to the throne. “I shall do my best to provide you with good advice, Your Majesty. I think you’re going to need it. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have a great deal of work that must be attended to.”

  “Yes, of course,” said Jordan. “They’re burying Argent soon, aren’t they?”

  “Yes. Do you object to my attending the funeral, Your Majesty?”

  “No,” said Jordan. “He was your friend. And I think perhaps he was more sinned against than sinning. Perhaps he’ll be at peace now.”

  Roderik bowed again, and left the hall. No one said anything until the great double doors had closed behind him. William looked quizzically at Jordan.

  “He’d make a dangerous enemy, sire. He has a great deal of influence in both political and economic circles.”

  “I know. That’s why he’ll make a good adviser, once I’ve got him settled in.”

  William raised an eyebrow. “Is that what you have in mind for me, sire?”

  “Why not?” said Jordan easily. “My years in exile have left me out of touch when it comes to the day-to-day running of the kingdom. I can use your experience and support. My father trusted you. He said you were an honest man. Every King needs at least one adviser he can rely on to tell him the truth, whether he wants to hear it or not. What do you say?”

  William bowed formally. “I would be honored, Your Majesty. There was a time I thought you unworthy to rule, like your brothers. I was wrong. I give you my word that I shall serve you faithfully in all things, for as long as you have need of me.”

  “Thank you,” said Jordan. “Now, my friends, we have one last matter to discuss—the most important of all. Who killed my father?”

  The question hung unanswered on the silence. William finally stirred slightly, and all eyes went to him.

  “As Regent, I ordered a full investigation into King Malcolm’s death, under the steward’s direction. The body was carefully examined by the castle surgeons. There was no trace of poison in the body, nor any sign of foul play. There was no sign of any struggle in his chambers. As far as we can tell, he died peacefully, in his sleep. The suddenness of his death made it seem suspicious, but truth be told he was not a young man, Your Majesty, and death comes to us all, sooner or later.”