Blue Moon Rising (Darkwood) (33 page)

“I don’t recall inviting you in,” said a mild voice above him, and Rupert’s heart jumped as he looked up at the ceiling. A sturdy rope ladder hung down from the open trapdoor, and as Rupert watched open-mouthed, the High Warlock climbed agilely down to join him. Seen close up, the Warlock wasn’t particularly impressive. He was a short man, his head barely coming up to Rupert’s chest, and his black sorcerer’s garb only accentuated his bony, slender frame. Deep lines etched his narrow face, and his eyes were vague. “What are you doing here?” he asked Rupert pleasantly. “And why are all those soldiers cluttering up my view?”

“We need your help,” said Rupert cautiously. The Warlock seemed to have entirely forgotten his previous bad temper, and Rupert didn’t want to upset him again. “The Dark wood …”

“Terrible place,” said the Warlock. “It’s so dark.” A glass of white wine appeared in his hand from nowhere. “Care for a drop?”

“Not right now, thank you,” said Rupert politely.

“It’s good stuff,” insisted the Warlock. “I brew it myself.” He waved his free hand at the glass tubing, and then leaned forward confidentially. “I put a dead rat in every new barrel, to give it a little body.”

Rupert decided not to think about that. “We can talk about the wine later, sir Warlock; right now, I need your help.”

The Warlock smiled crookedly. “Do you know who I am, young man?”

“You’re the High Warlock,” said Rupert. “The last hope of the Forest Land.”

The Warlock looked at Rupert sharply, all the vagueness gone from his eyes. “Don’t you people ever learn? I don’t give a damn about the Forest Land. Your whole stinking little Kingdom can rot in Hell for all I care! Now get out of here! Get out of my home and leave me in peace, damn you.”

“That’s no way to speak to your Prince,” said a cold voice from behind Rupert. He looked quickly around, and was relieved to find the massive figure of the Champion filling the open window. The Warlock glared at the Champion, and then all the strength seemed to run out of him. He lifted his wine glass to his lips, but it was empty. His mouth worked, and he threw the glass away.

“Why can’t you leave me alone?” he whispered. “Just go away and leave me alone.”

“If it was up to me,” said the Champion, climbing carefully down from the windowsill, “I’d leave you to hide in your hole until hell froze over. Unfortunately, the King needs you.”

“I’m not going back,” said the High Warlock flatly. “And there’s not a damn thing you can say that will change my mind. There’s nothing to call me back to the Forest. Nothing at all.” He stopped suddenly, and for the first time looked closely at Rupert. “The Champion said you were a Prince. Are you really one of John’s boys?”

“I’m Rupert. The youngest son.”

“Of course; Rupert. I thought you looked familiar.” The Warlock’s face softened. “You look a lot like your mother.”

“I have twenty-five men outside,” said Rupert. “Will you give them shelter from the night?”

“They’re safe enough out there,” said the Warlock. “No demons can pass my wards. Your men can camp outside tonight, and leave in the morning. Of course, you’re welcome to stay here, Rupert. It’s been a long time since I last saw you.”

“Twenty-one years,” said the Champion. “Twenty-one years since you turned traitor.”

“I’m not a traitor! I was never a traitor!” Bright crimson spots burned on the Warlock’s cheeks as he stepped forward to glare up at the Champion, his hands clenched into fists. “I left because I chose to! For more than forty-five years I watched over the Forest Kings, keeping the Land from harm. I was John’s protector when you were still learning which end of a sword to hold! Why I finally decided to leave is my business, not yours. I gave forty-five years of my life to the Forest Land; you’ve no right to ask any more of me.”

“Take a good look, Sire,” said the Champion calmly. “There was a time, long ago, when this drunken old fool was a hero. The most powerful magician the Forest Land had ever known. His deeds are legendary. There are dozens of songs about him; you probably know some of them. There were even those who said he had the makings of a Sorcerer Supreme. But somewhere along the line, he decided to throw it all away. He turned his back on his duty, and frittered away his magic on fireworks, illusions, and pretty baubles for the ladies. He could have inspired a generation, but he preferred to spend his time getting drunk and chasing the tavern whores. The High Warlock of leg-end; a coward and a renegade who betrayed his King when his King most needed him.”

“It wasn’t like that!” screamed the Warlock. “You bastard, it wasn’t like that at all!”

The Champion laughed. The Warlock howled wordlessly with rage, and a pure white flame roared from his out-stretched hand, smashing into the Champion’s chest and throwing him back onto the crowded table top under the window. Glass tubing shattered as the Champion crashed into it and lay still. Blood ran from his nose and mouth. The nearby animals screamed shrilly, and ran to and fro in their cages. The Champion stirred, and reached for his sword. The Warlock gestured again, and crackling white flames sprang from his fingertips to press the Champion back against the tower wall. Rupert drew his sword and started forward. The Warlock blasted him off his feet without even looking around. Rupert tried to get up, and couldn’t. All he could do was watch helplessly as the Warlock’s balefire slowly lifted the Champion from the table and pinned him to the wall a good twenty feet above the floor.

“I never liked you,” said the Warlock. “You and your precious duty. You don’t know the meaning of the word! What did duty ever mean to you, except as an excuse to kill people? Well, there’s no King to protect you now, sir Champion. I’ve waited a long time for this …”

Rupert looked frantically around for his sword. Already the Champion’s chain mail was glowing cherry red under the relentless heat of the balefire. Individual links sagged and ran away in tiny rivers of molten steel. Rupert finally spotted his sword, lying just out of reach under a nearby table. He gritted his teeth and dragged himself forward inch by inch until he could reach the blade. His head still buzzed angrily from the knock it had taken during the fall, but he could feel his strength rushing back as he wrapped his hand round the familiar swordhilt. He grabbed the table edge and pulled himself to his feet. The High Warlock had his back to him, intent on his victim. The Champion’s eyes were closed, and he didn’t seem to be breathing. Rupert staggered forward and set the point of his sword against the Warlock’s back.

“Let him down,” he said harshly. “Let him down, now.”

“Go to hell,” said the Warlock. “No man calls me a traitor and lives.”

“I’m your Prince,” said Rupert. “In my father’s name, I order you to release his Champion.”

The balefire vanished, and the Champion floated slowly down to a gentle landing on the table top below. Rupert pushed the Warlock aside, and ran forward to examine the Champion. His chain mail had melted and fused together, and the leather jerkin beneath had been charred and consumed by the intense heat, but the bare flesh under the gaping hole was completely unharmed. The Champion’s breathing was calm and even, and already he showed signs of returning consciousness. Rupert turned to stare at the High Warlock, who shrugged uncomfortably.

“A simple healing spell. He’ll be all right in a while.”

“Would you really have killed him if I hadn’t stopped you?”

“Probably not,” said the Warlock. “I always was too soft-hearted for my own good. Not to mention extremely loyal to your father. You fight dirty, Rupert.”

“Of course; I’m a Prince.”

They shared a crooked smile. Two glasses of white wine appeared in the Warlock’s hands. He offered one to Rupert, who accepted gratefully. After all he’d been through, he felt he deserved a drink. He took a good sip, and raised an appreciative eyebrow.

“Not a bad vintage, sir Warlock.”

The High Warlock smiled modestly. “One of my more useful spells. Now, Prince Rupert; what brings you to the Dark Tower after all these years?”

“The Darkwood,” said Rupert. “It’s spreading. We think the Demon Prince has returned.”

The Warlock stared into his glass. “Damn,” he said quietly. “Oh, damn. How fast is it spreading?”

“Half a mile a day, when we left. Of course, with the Blue Moon rising …”

“Wait a minute, wait a minute!” The High Warlock closed his eyes briefly, as though in pain. “Are you sure about the Blue Moon?”

Rupert stared at him. “Haven’t you looked at the moon lately?”

“I haven’t been outside this tower in twenty-one years,” said the Warlock. “I’ve never felt the need.”

He gestured with his free hand, and he and Rupert rose slowly into the air until they were on a level with the open window. Outside, night had fallen. Stars shone brightly against the dark, and the waiting guardsmen had built themselves a fire, but the main light came from the three-quarter full moon. It hung fat and swollen on the night, its lambent flesh mottled with thick blue veins. The Warlock stared, horrified, at the tainted moon. Clearly shaken and confused, it was some time before he could tear his gaze away and turn to look at Rupert.

“I didn’t know,” whispered the Warlock. “I should have known, but I didn’t. What else have I missed?”

He frowned worriedly as he and Rupert sank gently back to the floor. “I’m sorry, Prince Rupert; I seem to have lost touch with what’s been going on in the world. Has it really been twenty-one years? Where did all the time go? Ah well; that’s what being a drunken hermit does for you. I suppose your father sent you to bring me back to Court? Yes, I thought so. Typical of the man. Wait until things have got completely out of hand, and then dump the whole damn mess in my lap and expect me to work miracles. So help me, if it wasn’t my neck as well I’d just sit back and let him stew in his own juices. Unfortunately I can’t do that, and he knows it. Despite all I may have said and done, the Forest is my home, and I can’t turn my back on it. It’ll be strange, going back to my old quarters in the Castle, after all these years. I hope they’ve been redecorated; I never did like the color scheme. I take it John has lifted the Edict of Banishment?”

“Of course,” said Rupert, glad to get a word in at last. “He needs you, sir Warlock.”

The High Warlock grinned suddenly. “And I’ll bet that sticks in his craw something horrible! Aye, well, I suppose we’d better get a move on; it’s a fair way back to the Forest Castle. The sooner we make a start, the better.”

“You want to leave now?” said Rupert. “While it’s still night? We wouldn’t make it to the Darkwood! Sir Warlock, my men are in no condition to fight demons. They must have time to rest, and regain their strength.”

“Not to worry,” said the Warlock airily, “We won’t have to go back through the Darkwood; I know a shortcut.”

Rupert gave him a hard look, and then froze as a cold angry growl came from somewhere behind him. Rupert spun round sword in hand, and then dropped into his fighting stance, as with a clatter and a crash the Champion jumped down from the table the Warlock had left him on. His face was flushed with rage, but his eyes were cold and dark. He smiled grimly, hefted his sword once, and advanced slowly towards the High Warlock.

“You’re a dead man, sorcerer,” said the Champion. “You should have killed me while you had the chance.”

“Oh, hell,” said the Warlock tiredly. “I’d forgotten about him. Would you care to explain the situation to him, Rupert; or shall I turn him into something less aggressive? Like a dormouse.”

“He’ll listen to me,” said Rupert quickly. The Warlock shrugged, and wandered off to talk to the animals in their cages. The Champion started after him, and Rupert moved hastily forward to block his way. “Sheath your sword, sir Champion. The High Warlock has agreed to help us against the Darkwood.”

“Get out of my way, Rupert.”

“We need his magic.”

“He tried to kill me!”

“Yes,” said Rupert slowly. “If I hadn’t stopped him, I think he probably would have killed you. But even if he had, and you lay dead and cold at my feet, I’d still bargain with him. He’s our only hope against the darkness, the only chance for survival the Forest has. And that makes him more important than you or I will ever be. So sheath your sword, sir Champion. That’s an order.”

The Champion growled something under his breath, sheathed his sword, and glared at the Warlock, who was rummaging through the clutter on one of the far tables and muttering to himself.

“The High Warlock was an old man when I first came to Court,” said the Champion. “He’d have to be in his nineties by now. How do we know he’s up to helping us against the Darkwood?”

“I’m not,” said the Warlock, without looking around. “But I will be. Ah, that’s the one.” He picked up a wooden beaker, sipped cautiously at the frothing liquid it contained, and pulled a face. “One of these days I’m going to have to work on the taste.”

He glowered at the beaker, and then drained it in several hasty gulps. He then slammed the beaker down on the table, screwed up his face and bent suddenly forward, clutching at his chest, Rupert ran over to the Warlock and grabbed his shoulders as he collapsed against the table, shivering and shaking. Rupert winced as he helped support the Warlock’s weight; there was nothing left of the man but skin and bone. And then Rupert felt his hackles rise as the Warlock’s flesh writhed under his hands. He snatched his hands away, watching disbelievingly as new bands of muscle swelled and crawled over the Warlock’s bony frame. His shoulders widened and his back slowly straightened, the vertebrae cracking and popping like wet logs in the fire. Rivulets of black ran swiftly through the thickening gray hair. The Warlock sighed deeply and straightened up, and Rupert watched in awe as the Warlock tugged casually at his beard until it came away in his hands, revealing fresh baby-smooth skin glowing with health. A thick mane of jet black hair fell to his shoulders, and all that remained of his beard was a rakish black moustache. His back was straight, his frame was muscular, and all in all he looked no more than thirty years old at most. He grinned broadly at Rupert.

“Not much use being able to transform things if you can’t do it to yourself as well, eh, lad?”