Beyond the Blue Moon (Forest Kingdom Novels)

by Green, Simon R.

  There was a general murmur of agreement from the other defenders. The Shaman stepped forward to glare directly at the Duke. “This is my home, and I will not see it threatened. Stand down, Alric, or I swear I’ll see your head stuck on a pike.”

  The Starlight Duke just sniffed briefly. He looked unhurriedly from one determined face to the next, settling at last on the Magus. “Well, sorcerer? Do you have no brave speech to make? No last words of defiance? No? I thought not. I never did believe all the things they said about you. But then, I’ve always known the value of a good bluff. You’ve done nothing of note since you opened the Rift. My spies’ reports were very clear on that. Could it be you burned yourself out casting such a magnificent spell? It doesn’t matter. I am protected from all magical attacks by the Candlemass Charm. And I have enough armed men here to drag even you down. So.” The Duke looked back at his army of mercenaries, poised and waiting for his word. “Kill them. Except for my errant daughter Felicity, kill them all.”

  The mercenaries surged forward, hundreds of armed men yelling battle chants and war cries. And Allen Chance went forward to meet them, his father’s great double-headed war axe in his hands. He swung the massive blades as though they were weightless, and the first mercenaries to reach him died immediately, thrown back bloody and broken. Chance swung his axe with both hands, and the blades sheared through flesh and bone and armor, killing every man who came against him. The sound of steel chopping through flesh was the sound of simple butchery, and the floor ran thick with blood. The Questor’s eyes and his wide smile were both very cold now, and to those there who remembered, he looked very much like his late father indeed.

  But he was only one man, and the tide of mercenaries swept past him like the sea crashing past a stubborn rock. Chappie stayed with Tiffany. His heart ached to be with his friend, but he had sworn to protect the witch. Tiffany’s faith in her magic had been crushed by the Magus’ casual words, but faced with an immediate threat to all she held dear, her old Academy training reasserted itself, and she forced a calm upon her thoughts. She reached deep inside for her magic, her old familiar power, and it responded immediately. Not nearly the powerful force she had grown used to wielding, but a sharp and potent magic all the same.

  Tiffany sent out her will against the advancing mercenaries, and those nearest fell immediately asleep, crashing to the floor. More and more fell as they entered her field of influence, piling up before her. A sharp stabbing pain began in Tiffany’s left temple, and a thin trail of blood ran from one nostril. Cut off from her unexpected power source, she was just a witch now, and the forces she was wielding took a harsh toll from her. It didn’t matter. She had a job to do, and she would not be found wanting.

  A handful of mercenaries stopped outside the reach of her spell, and drew throwing daggers. Chappie charged forward and hit them like a battering ram, scattering the soldiers and throwing them to the floor. And then he was among them, ripping out their throats with his terrible jaws. He glared about him, shaking his head angrily, blood drops flying from his crimson mouth as he looked for more threats. A dozen mercenaries came at him with swords and axes, and he howled happily as he danced among them, tearing at their legs and bellies, moving impossibly quickly for a dog of his great size.

  Tiffany called to the Magus to restore her link to the Mother Witch, but he was standing to one side, still and silent, watching the bloody fury about him but not interfering. His cloak stirred restlessly, but the Magus cast no spells, even as the first mercenaries drew near him. His thoughts seemed to be elsewhere, concentrating on something else, something that mattered more to him than the simple struggle of humans.

  Cally and Sir Vivian fought side by side, wielding their swords with the deadly skills of long experience. They worked well in concert, as though they belonged together. Hardened mercenaries came at them in waves, and not one of them could get anywhere near the warrior woman and the hero of Tower Rouge. Cally and Sir Vivian stamped and thrust, their blades whirling in shining arcs too fast for the human eye to follow, and no one could stand against them. The dead and the dying piled up around them, and still they fought, cutting down their enemies with terrible ease. Cally grinned fiercely as she fought, happy to be doing what she was born to do, and even Sir Vivian was smiling. It had been a long time since they’d faced a threat worthy of their expertise, and after struggling with the shadowy enemies of politics for so long, simple violence like this was a relief and a happy release. For all the odds against him, Sir Vivian felt strangely at peace. It had been far too long since he’d fought beside someone he could count on to match his skill. Not since his brother, Gawaine, in fact. He glanced across at Cally, and she grinned back.

  “So, Vivian, what are you doing after the massacre?”

  “Taking you out for a very large drink,” said Sir Vivian, surprising himself.

  “Sounds like a plan to me,” said Cally. “And afterward, I’ll jump your bones till they rattle.”

  “Where have you been all my life?” asked Sir Vivian, and they both laughed as they slaughtered more mercenaries.

  Two soldiers burst past the defenders and threw themselves at the preoccupied Magus. The Duke had armed them with ancient silver arthames, long, slender witch daggers with powerful runes etched into the blades. But before they could reach the Magus, his huge black cloak detached itself from his shoulders and flapped through the air like a bat. It fell upon the mercenaries, enveloping them in its dark folds. The two men screamed as the cloak crushed the life out of them with one powerful constriction. Blood and other things dropped out of the bottom of the cloak as it briefly fed, and then it dropped the ruined bodies on the scarlet floor and flapped back to hover beside the Magus, ready for more prey to approach.

  Sir Robert Hawke swung his sword with unmatchable skill and cut a wide path through the mercenaries. In his younger days he was literally unbeatable with a sword in his hand, and with his strength and health restored there wasn’t a man in the Court who could stand against him. The mercenaries tried to bring him down through sheer force of numbers, but his sword was seemingly everywhere at once, parrying and thrusting and cutting, beating down the most powerful defenses as though they weren’t even there. He was laughing as he fought, even in the face of such appalling odds. It felt good to be himself again, fighting a clear enemy for obvious reason; and these odds were nothing to those he’d faced in the Demon War. And Ennis Page, young and strong and whole again, guarded Sir Robert’s back and cut down those few who managed to get past him.

  “Just like old times,” Page said cheerfully. “Overwhelming odds, an impossible situation, and the whole fate of the Kingdom in our hands. I love it!”

  “Hell, this is amateur hour,” said Sir Robert. “We fought demons in those days.”

  “After we’ve finished here,” said Page, pausing to run through one mercenary, jerk his sword free, and gut another, “what say we kill the Magus? Just on general principles.”

  “Let’s,” said Sir Robert. “I never liked him.”

  The Shaman stood beside the Throne, scowling thoughtfully as his Creature fell upon the attacking mercenaries with horrible glee. The Creature fought like an animal, claws and fangs dripping blood, and now and then he used his unnatural strength to tear a man literally limb from limb. Swords and axes cut at him, but he never seemed to feel them, and his wounds never bled for long. The Shaman watched the tide of battle closely. Even now he was reluctant to reveal the true extent of his powers, but when a handful of mercenaries came rushing toward the Throne, the Shaman sighed briefly and called the power of the Forest about him. He shaped it and thrust it against his enemies, and the mercenaries screamed shrilly as they stumbled to a halt, the Forest already moving within them. Bark swept over their skin, and thorny branches thrust out of their eyes and mouths, tearing through their insides. Soon there were only a dozen spindly trees standing before the Throne, lightly rooted in the wooden floor. The Shaman took no pleasure in the sight. He’d seen too ma
ny men die in his time. He reached over to pat the Queen reassuringly on the arm.

  “Don’t worry, my dear. We’ll see you’re safe. Scum like this are no match for such as us.”

  “Please,” said Felicity. “Help my son. Your magic is different. Can’t you get my son back from Snare?”

  “I already tried,” said the Shaman, frowning. “Snare appears to be warded against any form of magical attack. And I am really not much more than a glorified hedge wizard with a few nasty tricks. You need the Magus.”

  “You try talking to him,” said the Queen disgustedly. “He won’t listen to me.”

  “When the battle’s over, and you and your Throne are safe,” said the Shaman, “you can be sure I intend to have some very sharp words with him.”

  All across the Court the fight was slowing down. The mercenaries had realized they were losing, and that an awful lot of them were dead. They began to fall back. The Duke had promised them a simple, relatively bloodless coup, with hardly any risk. Nothing had been said about facing magic and heroes out of legend. But they couldn’t afford to lose. As traitors, they’d probably all be hanged. None of them trusted the Duke to protect them. So they turned to Snare and the plan they’d quietly arranged earlier, just in case. Because mercenaries are an inherently suspicious and practical breed. Snare got the nod and brought the whole fight to a halt by holding the sleeping child Stephen above his head and shouting, “Stop! Everyone stop fighting right now, or the boy King dies!”

  Everyone stopped. In ones and twos they disengaged, lowered their weapons, and backed away from each other. All eyes were on the magician Snare now as he slowly lowered the child and cradled him in his arms again. Snare looked about him and then smiled unpleasantly.

  “That’s better. Everyone be sensible now. I hold the trump card, and I’m not afraid to sacrifice it. I want to see all the Queen’s defenders put down their weapons, surrender, and kneel to me. Or I’ll kill the boy … inch by inch.”

  Felicity looked in horror at the Duke. “You’d allow the murder of your own grandson?”

  “No,” said the Duke. “No, I wouldn’t. Snare, give me the child! This was never part of my plan.”

  “It was always part of my plan,” said Snare. “I knew I couldn’t count on you to be strong when it mattered. Now tell everyone to do what I say. The child means nothing to me. I will kill it if I have to.”

  “Give me the child!” said the Duke. “That’s an order!”

  “Oh, be quiet,” said Snare. “You’re getting soft, old man. Let me handle this and we can still win.”

  Sir Vivian summoned up all his magic, compressed it into a single deadly bolt, and threw it at Snare, hoping to catch him off guard. But his magic just rebounded from Snare’s wards, and flew back to strike at Sir Vivian. He was thrown to the ground by the impact of his own magic, and lay there groaning, unable to rise. Cally was immediately there, crouching at his side, sword in hand, putting her own body between him and further harm.

  “Don’t anyone try that again,” Snare said easily. “I may not be a sorcerer yet, but I’ve got defensive wards you wouldn’t believe. Anyone else throws magic my way, I’ll kill the child. No more time to think, Your Majesty. Surrender yourself and your people now, or watch your precious son die.”

  “I think he means it, Your Majesty,” said Sir Robert. “But it’s your decision. If you want to bet he’s bluffing, we’ll follow your lead.”

  “No,” said the Queen. “It was never really my Throne anyway. Lay down your weapons, my people. We surrender.”

  Her defenders looked at each other, then Sir Robert and Ennis Page dropped their swords to the floor and moved back to stand before the Throne. Chance laid down his great axe, took Tiffany by the arm, and led her back to the Throne. Chappie slunk back to join them, still growling under his breath. The Creature loped back to crouch beside the Shaman, licking blood and gore from his hands. Cally threw aside her sword and sat down beside Sir Vivian.

  Tiffany glared at the Magus. “This is all your fault! Do something!”

  “Hush,” said the Magus. “I’m thinking. Something is happening. Something I hadn’t planned on. I can feel it.”

  “It’s happening right in front of you, you idiot!” said Tiffany.

  But the Magus wasn’t listening. His eyes were lost in deep contemplation, and his frown was slowly deepening into a puzzled scowl. Snare laughed softly.

  “I always thought he was more bluff than anything else. Leave him to his dreams and fancies. Now, Your Majesty. Come here and collect your child.”

  “Don’t do it, Fliss!” Cally said immediately. “You can’t trust him!”

  “I know,” said the Queen. “But I have no choice. He has my son.”

  She stood up from the ancient wooden Throne and stepped slowly down from the dais. She looked at her helpless defenders, smiled gently to show them she didn’t blame them for anything, and then walked slowly across what had been her Court to stand before the grinning magician Snare. It was very quiet now, as though everyone was holding their breath. Felicity looked at her son, Stephen, in Snare’s arms, but didn’t dare to reach out and touch him.

  “Very good,” said Snare. “Now you just stand there like a good girl and let me kill you quickly and easily, and I swear no harm will come to your child. I have to kill you, you know.”

  “Yes,” said Felicity. “I know.”

  “Alive you’d always be a rallying point for patriotic rebels. Can’t have that. And don’t look to your father for help. I’m running things now. It was time he stepped aside anyway. Those who rule by force should never grow old, and weak. And besides, I’ve always wanted to kill a Queen.”

  “Felicity!” said the Duke, and everyone’s head whipped around as his voice rose, strong and powerful as it had always been. “Catch!”

  And he took off and threw to her the Candlemass Charm, the powerful amulet that protected him from all magical attacks. Time seemed to slow as the whole Court watched the magical charm flash through the air to slap into Felicity’s waiting hand. Snare’s eyes widened, but even as he opened his mouth to speak, Felicity drew the slender dagger she always kept concealed in her long sleeve and cut Snare’s throat with one expert slash.

  All the magics that might have protected him were nothing against the power of the Candlemass Charm. He started to fall backward, hands rising uselessly to his severed throat, knowing he should never have allowed the Duke’s daughter to get so close to him. Felicity snatched her still sleeping son out of Snare’s loosening grasp and stepped quickly back, but Snare was dead before he hit the floor. From all around the Court came the sound of the mercenaries’ weapons hitting the floor. They were a practical breed. Felicity looked down at the dead Snare and kicked him in the head.

  The Starlight Duke smiled. “That’s my daughter.”

  Queen Felicity returned to her Throne, cradling her son in her arms. Her defenders quickly took up their weapons and formed an honor guard before the Throne. Sir Vivian was back on his feet but leaning on Cally, his eyes clear and the sword in his hand perfectly steady. The Duke moved slowly forward and bowed formally to his daughter, the Queen.

  “Stephen will wake up in about an hour. The dose I gave Snare was carefully measured.”

  “Why?” said Felicity. “Why did you give up the Charm and put your own life at risk?”

  “He would have killed you,” said the Duke. “I lost one daughter through my stubbornness and pride, and always regretted it.”

  “And Snare was threatening to replace you as ruler of Hillsdown,” said Sir Robert. “I just mention that in passing.”

  The Duke smiled. “There was that, yes. But when all is said and done, family is family.”

  Tiffany put her arm through Chance’s. “Don’t you just love a happy ending?”

  And that was when the wee winged faerie Lightfoot Moonfleet came hurtling into the Court through the open double doors, flying as fast as her wings could propel her. She grew rapidly to
full human size and dropped out of the air before the Magus.

  “Magus! They’ve gone into the Inverted Cathedral!”

  “I know,” said the Magus, snapping out of his trance. “Hawk and Fisher, with the Seneschal, as I planned.”

  “And Jericho Lament!”

  “What?” The Magus looked shocked, then alarmed. He spun on Chance. “The Walking Man has come to Forest Castle? Why didn’t you tell me!”

  “You weren’t around,” said Chance. “What difference does it make?”

  The Magus’ face was bright red now, and his eyes were almost bulging out of their sockets. He swept his arms about him distractedly as though he didn’t know what to do with them. His cloak wrapped itself around his shoulders, but he didn’t even notice. Everyone else was watching him very carefully, and working out which way to jump if he lost control.

  “I knew about Hawk and Fisher,” said the Magus to no one in particular. “I always intended they should enter the Inverted Cathedral. I had hopes of Harald, but he was too weak. And I had a feeling the Seneschal’s presence would be useful, given his lineage. But I couldn’t See, couldn’t predict, that the Walking Man would come here and involve himself! He could ruin everything! I have to stop him!”

  He screamed, a terrible sound of rage and horror and loss, and vanished, taking his cloak with him. There was a long moment of silence, and then everyone turned to look at Lightfoot Moonfleet. She shrugged prettily.

  “Don’t look at me. He never tells me anything.”

  CHAPTER NINE

  * * *

  In the Land of Reverie

  And so they came at last to the summit and spire of the Inverted Cathedral, buried deep in the dark, dark earth. Hawk and Fisher, the Seneschal, the Burning Man, and the Wrath of God in the world of men. Spent and weary now, dragging their exhausted bodies up the last few steps protruding from the blood-dappled inner wall. All except for the Burning Man, of course, who was after all dead and damned, and no longer subject to such lesser torments. They had passed through the Listening Gallery, evaded the Stalking Tatters, and fought their way through the Coil of Dreams. All to reach the sunken spire with its single room and its final terrible secret.