Blue Moon Rising (Darkwood) (21 page)

He studied the three Landsgraves carefully, taking his time. It wouldn’t do to have them thinking they could rattle him. Sir Blays took the center position; a short, stocky man with close-cropped gray hair and deep, piercing eyes. Calm, sober, and soft-spoken, he cultivated an air of polite consideration, which fooled only those who didn’t know him. King John had known him for almost twenty years.

The impressively muscled figure waiting impatiently to the right of Sir Blays had to be Sir Bedivere. Rumor had it he’d killed a dozen men in duels. There were whispers he’d provoked the duels deliberately, for the sport of it, but no one had ever said that to the man’s face. He was young and darkly handsome, in a self-indulgent way, and the King didn’t miss the weakness that showed in Sir Bedivere’s puffy eyes and pouting lower lip. Some day he’d be a possible replacement for the Champion; if he lived that long.

The quiet, timid figure to the left of Sir Blays was Sir Guillam, a man so ordinary in appearance as to be practically invisible. Tall rather than short, and perhaps a little on the skinny side, his round open face had no more character in it than a baby’s. His thinning hair was a mousey brown, neatly parted in the center. His pale gray eyes blinked nervously as he shifted uncomfortably under the King’s gaze, and King John hid a smile behind his hand. Sir Guillam was a familiar type; he’d obey whatever instructions he’d been given to the letter, mainly because he wasn’t bright enough to do anything else. Such emissaries were easy to confuse, and even easier to manipulate. And then Sir Bedivere stepped suddenly forward, and bowed deeply to the throne.

“Your majesty; if I might beg a moment of your time …”

“Of course, Sir Bedivere,” said the King graciously. “You are the new Landsgrave of Deepwater Brook demesne?”

“Aye, Sire; I speak for the Copper Barons.”

“And what do they wish of me this time?”

“Only what they’ve always wished, Sire; justice.”

A ripple of laughter ran through the courtiers, dying quickly away as the Landsgrave stared coldly about him. Easily six foot six in height, his broad shoulders and massive frame might even have given the Champion himself pause. Sir Bedivere swept the packed Court with a challenging gaze, and then dismissed them all with a contemptuous toss of his head, as not worthy of his attention.

“Justice …” said the King mildly. “Could you be more specific?”

“The Copper Barons must have more men, Sire. Demons are overrunning the mining towns, destroying everything in their path. Refugees line the roads, more, every day. We can’t even feed them all, let alone give them shelter when the night falls. Already, there have been riots in the towns. Most of our guards are dead, killed trying to hold back the demons. What few men we have left can’t hope to maintain law and order. The Copper Barons respectfully demand that you send a substantial part of your Royal Guard to help drive back the darkness that threatens us.”

The King stared at the Landsgrave. “So far, I have sent your masters almost five hundred guardsmen. Are you telling me they’re all dead?”

“Yes,” said Sir Bedivere. A shocked murmur rustled through the courtiers.

“They died fighting demons?”

“Aye, Sire.”

“How many of the Barons’ own men rode out against the dark?”

Sir Bedivere frowned. “I don’t quite see …”

“How many!”

“I really couldn’t say,” said the Landsgrave shortly. “A great many guards had to stay behind to protect the town and maintain order …”

“I see,” said the King. “My men died, while the Barons’ guards stayed safe behind stout town walls.”

“This is all quite irrelevant,” said Sir Bedivere calmly. “My masters require more men from you; how many troops will you send?”

“I have no men to spare,” said the King flatly.

“Is that your final answer?”

“It is. My men are needed here. The Barons must defend themselves, as must I.”

“They don’t have a Castle to hide in,” said Sir Bedivere loudly.

Silence fell across the Court, the courtiers struck dumb by the open insult. Such a remark from a Landsgrave was almost a declaration of treason. Everyone looked to King John for his reaction, and it took all his years of experience and diplomacy to keep his visage calm and unmoved. A quick glance at Blays and Guillam had shown the King that he would find no support there. Their faces and their silence said more plainly than words that Bedivere spoke for all of them. The King had always known that sooner or later the Barons were bound to take advantage of the situation and turn against him, but he hadn’t thought it would be this soon. Whatever happened here today, whatever decision he made, the Copper Barons couldn’t lose. If he sent them men he couldn’t spare, that would be a clear sign of weakness, and they’d just return with even more outrageous demands. If he refused to help, the Barons would use that as an excuse to topple him from his throne, and replace him with someone more to their liking. Someone they could control. Sir Bedivere had been sent for just one purpose; to insult and humiliate King John before his Court, and make it plain to one and all that the real power in the Forest Land now resided with the Barons.

“It’s easy to be brave behind high stone walls,” said Sir Bedivere, an unpleasant smile twisting his mouth. “My masters have only town walls and barricades to protect them from the demons. We demand you supply us with more men!”

“Go to hell,” said the King.

Sir Bedivere stiffened, and for a moment a red glare showed in his eyes, as though a furnace door had suddenly opened and closed. In that swift crimson gleam the King saw rage and hunger and a madness barely held in check, and he shivered, as though a cold wind had blown over him.

“Brave words, from an old fool,” said Sir Bedivere, his voice harsh and strained. “My masters will not accept such an answer. Try again.”

“You have my answer,” said the King. “Now leave my Court.”

“Your Court?” said the Landsgrave. He glanced round at the hushed courtiers and grim-faced guards and men-at-arms, and then laughed suddenly; a dark, contemptuous sound. “Enjoy it while you can, old man. Sooner or later, my masters will send me back to take it away from you.”

“Treason,” said the King mildly. “I could have your head for that, Landsgrave.”

“Your Champion might,” smiled Sir Bedivere. “Unfortunately, he’s not here.”

“But I am,” said Prince Harald, rising suddenly to his feet, sword in hand. The courtiers murmured in approval as Harald moved forward to stand between his father and the Landsgrave. Julia smiled, and surreptitiously transferred her dagger to her throwing hand, just in case one of the other Landsgraves tried to interfere. Sir Bedivere studied Harald a moment, and then laughed quietly. The red glare came and went in his eyes, and he reached for his sword.

“No!” said the King sharply. “Harald, please put away your sword. I appreciate the gesture, but he would quite certainly kill you. Please; sit down, and let me handle this.”

Harald nodded stiffly, slammed his sword back into its scabbard, and sat down beside Julia again. She gave him a quick nod of approval, and he smiled sourly. The King leant forward in his throne, and studied Sir Bedivere narrowly.

“Landsgrave; you have much to learn. Did you really think you could threaten me in my own Court and get away with it? You’re a fool, Sir Bedivere, and I do not suffer fools gladly. You now have a simple choice; bow your head to me, or lose it.”

The Landsgrave laughed, and Thomas Grey stepped forward to face him. The Astrologer raised one slender hand, and Sir Bedivere’s laugh became a scream as a sudden agony burned in his muscles. He tried to reach for his sword, but the searing pain paralyzed him where he stood.

“Kneel,” said the Astrologer, and Sir Bedivere fell forward on all fours, tears of agony and helpless rage streaming down his face. The two other Landsgraves watched horrified as the giant warrior cried like a child.

“And now, bow to your King,” said the Astrologer, and Sir Bedivere bowed. King John looked down at the sobbing, trembling Landsgrave, and found no pleasure in the sight. Instead, he felt tired and soiled and just a little sick.

“Enough,” he muttered, and the Astrologer lowered his hand and stepped back beside the throne. Sir Bedivere collapsed, and lay shuddering on the rich carpeting as the pain slowly left him.

King John looked slowly round his Court, but the courtiers for the most part avoided his gaze. Those few who didn’t look away showed a profound horror and disgust at what the Astrologer had done in his name. King John sighed, and glanced at the black-clad figure standing patiently beside his throne. The dark, saturnine features were calm and relaxed, with only the faintest of smiles playing around his mouth.
Thomas, old friend
, thought the King suddenly,
What’s happening to us? We once swore we’d die rather than use such magics as these.
The thought disturbed him, and he shook his head querulously, as though annoyed by a buzzing insect. His gaze fell upon Sir Bedivere, struggling to raise himself on one knee. The King gestured to two nearby men-at-arms.

“Help the Landsgrave to his feet.”

“No!” gasped Sir Bedivere. “I don’t need your help!”

Slowly, painfully, he got his feet under him. He rested there a moment, breathing harshly, and then rose clumsily to stand swaying before the throne. His legs trembled uncontrollably, but somehow he still held himself proudly erect. Dried tears showed clearly against the pallor of his face, but his steadfast refusal to be beaten by his own weakness leant him a kind of dignity. And then the red glare filled his eyes, and he threw himself at the King. He just made it to the steps, and then the Astrologer raised his hand, and a bolt of lightning slammed into the Landsgrave, hurling him back from the throne. The blinding flash dazzled everyone for a moment, and when they looked again, Sir Bedivere was lying in a crumpled heap some twenty feet from the dais. Where the lightning had struck him in the chest, the intense heat had melted away his chain mail and seared through the jerkin beneath. Thin wisps of smoke rose from the scorched leather. Sir Blays knelt beside the fallen warrior and checked his pulse and breathing.

“He’s alive,” he said finally. “His armor protected him.”

The King gestured to the two men-at-arms. “Get the Landsgrave out of here. Have my surgeon attend him.”

The men-at-arms hurried forward, picked up Sir Bedivere between them, and carried him out of the Court. King John shook his head wearily, leant back in his throne, and eyed the two remaining Landsgraves dourly.

Sir Guillam blinked unhappily at the King and smiled tentatively, obviously out of his depth. A faint sheen of perspiration glistened on his brow, and he constantly shifted his weight from one foot to the other, like a small child too shy to ask his way to the privy. King John frowned, and studied Sir Guillam more carefully. The man couldn’t be entirely useless, or the Barons wouldn’t have sent him. The King’s frown deepened as he considered the various possibilities. Sir Bedivere had already tried to kill him, so Sir Guillam could be a back-up assassin, versed in spells or poisons or curses. He could be a spy, sent to contact any disloyal elements within the Court. He might even be a highly skilled diplomat, behind the timid facade. King John smiled tightly; there was only one way to find out …

“Sir Guillam.”

“Aye, Sire?” The Landsgrave started violently, and peered shortsightedly at the King.

“You are new to my Court.”

“Aye, Sire; I’m the new Landsgrave for the Birchwood demesne. I speak for the Silver Barons.”

“And what do they wish of me?”

Sir Guillam glanced furtively at the sternly brooding Astrologer, and swallowed dryly. He smiled nervously at the King, and ran a finger round the inside of his collar, as though it had suddenly grown too tight.

“The Silver Barons also … require … assistance, Sire. They need, uh …”

What little confidence he had left seemed to desert him entirely, and he fumbled quickly for a parchment scroll tucked into his belt. He unrolled it, found he’d got it upside down, grinned foolishly in embarrassment, turned the scroll the right way up, and read from it aloud.

“My masters instruct me to inform you that they are in dire need of the following; seven troops of guardsmen from your own Royal Guard; four troops of conscript militia; weapons, mounts and supplies for these troops …”

“That’s enough,” said the King.

“There’s a great deal more yet,” protested Sir Guillam.

“Really?” said the King. “You do surprise me. Answer me a question, my noble Landsgrave.”

“Of course, Sire.”

“Why are you here?”

Sir Guillam blinked confusedly, gestured helplessly, and nearly dropped his scroll. “I represent the Silver Barons, Sire; I carry their words to you.”

“No, Sir Guillam; I meant why did they select
you
as the new Landsgrave? You don’t appear to have had much experience in this line of work.”

“Oh no, Sire. Before my appointment, I was Chancellor of the Exchequer to Baron Ashcroft.”

The King winced. An accountant; that was all he needed. On the whole, he’d rather have faced another assassin.

“Pass your list on to my Seneschal, Sir Guillam; he’ll supply you with whatever weapons and provisions we can spare.”

“There is also the slight matter of eleven troops …” Sir Guillam’s voice trailed away as the Astrologer chuckled darkly. The Landsgrave smiled weakly. “We could compromise and call it seven …”

“No compromises,” said the King. “And no troops. Do you wish to argue the point?”

“Oh no, Sire,” said Sir Guillam hastily. “Not in the least. Not at all. Absolutely not.”

He rolled up his scroll, bobbed a quick bow to the King, and then stepped back to hide behind Sir Blays. The King nodded politely to the third Landsgrave, and Sir Blays bowed formally in return. Control and discipline showed in his slow, deliberate movements, and his voice was calm and even as he glared coldly at the Astrologer.

“Your powers have increased since I was last here, sir Astrologer, but don’t think to intimidate me. I don’t frighten that easily. I am Sir Blays of Oakshoff demesne. I speak for Gold.”