Blue Moon Rising (Darkwood) (36 page)

He shook his head wearily. These days, the Astrologer was his only link with his widespread forces. His guards and militia were scattered all over the Land, fighting to hold back the dark. By using his magic, the Astrologer could get messages to the various troops much faster than any horseman or carrier pigeon. Unfortunately, there was so much communications work for the Astrologer that he had little time for anything else. Including searching for the Curtana.

In the meantime, events in the Land went from bad to worse. Until he had to cope by himself, King John hadn’t realized how much he’d come to depend on his old friend. There were taxes to be set, tithes to be gathered; all the endless paperwork of running a Kingdom, that never stopped even when the Land was under seige. It had been bad enough when he’d just had to sign the damn stuff …

He’d managed to unload some of the more routine matters onto his Seneschal, but with the Darkwood pressing ever farther into the Forest, each new day brought more news of refugees on the march, fleeing the approaching darkness with whatever possessions they could carry on their backs. Horses were in short supply, and the guards had commandeered all carts to carry what little of the harvest had been gathered in. The long strung-out trails of homeless people were sitting targets for looters, outlaws, and demons. Guardsmen protected the main roads as best they could, but there just weren’t enough men to go around.

In the towns, prices soared as food grew scarce. Guards had to be diverted from the roads to put down riots. No matter where the King sent his men, it never seemed to help. They were always too few, and too late. Even with his Astrologer and his Champion to help, it would have been a logician’s nightmare, but without them, the King could only stand and watch as his Kingdom slowly tore itself apart.

He sighed, and gently massaged his aching temples. Some days his crown seemed heavier than others. How had he come to rely on the Astrologer so much? There was a time he’d had dozens of advisers and favorites to stand as a buffer between him and his Court, the Barons, and all the other troubles of his reign. But over the years all the ones he’d liked and trusted had either died, or fallen away, or been proven base and false, until now only his Astrologer and his Champion remained, to stand at his side and help him bear the weight of kingship. And neither of them were here now he needed them.

The sheer querulousness of that thought sobered him suddenly, and a cold rush of shame ran through him. The Astrologer was working himself into the ground keeping the communications moving, and the Champion had rode unhesitatingly into the Darkwood in search of the High Warlock. If they could do so much in defense of the Realm, how could he, as King, be expected to do any less? King John frowned, and beat gently on the arm of his throne with his fist. Rupert and the Champion were months overdue, and with every day that passed, the chances of their ever returning grew steadily less. As far as the Court was concerned, everyone on that ill-fated expedition was dead, and had been for some time. The King sighed quietly, and finally admitted to himself what he couldn’t admit in public; that Rupert and the Champion wouldn’t be coming back. The admission hurt him strangely. Deep down, he’d still some-how clung to the belief that the High Warlock would return from exile, and drive back the demons and the darkness with his sorcery, and all would be well again. It came hard to the King to realize he’d wasted so much hope on an empty dream.

“Your majesty?” said one of the guards uncertainly, and King John snapped out of his reverie to find the farmers’ deputation still standing patiently before him. The King stared at them blankly, shocked at how long he’d kept them waiting while his mind wandered.

“I’m sorry,” he said quickly. “The Castle migration began last week, and I have much on my mind. What exactly is it that you want from me?”

The farmers looked at each other, and finally one middle-aged man stepped forward from their midst to be their spokesman. He was plainly ill at ease in the grandeur of the Forest Court, and he didn’t seem to know what to do with his hands, which were large and awkward and tattoed with ground-in dirt from working the earth all his days. But when he finally began to speak, the King forgot all these things, and saw only the simple dignity of a man weighed down with pain, yet still unbroken and unbowed.

“I am Madoc Thorne, of Birchwater demesne,” said the farmer slowly. “I farm twelve acres, as my father did before me, and his father before him. The land is yet kind to my family, though we must work it hard and long to make our living, and still pay our taxes and our tithes. For nigh on seven generations my family has raised the corn and gathered it in, harvest after harvest. It was my intention to some day hand this on to my eldest son, as it was handed on to me, but I no longer have any sons. The plague has taken them from me.”

King John shuddered suddenly, as though a cold wind had blown over his grave. “The tales are true, then. Plague has come to Birchwater.”

“And passed beyond, Sire; spreading faster than a bushfire fanned by the wind. Through all the Birchwater demesne, there’s not a town nor a village nor a hamlet that hasn’t felt its touch. Four hundred dead, to my certain knowledge, and ten times that number lie trembling in their beds, wracked with pain as their fever slowly consumes them. Nothing helps; not prayer, nor medicines, nor magic. Men, women, and children are struck down without warning, and waste away to nothing as their families watch, helpless. Livestock fall in their byres, never to rise again. Corn stands rotting in the fields, blighted by the early Winter, because there is no one left to harvest it.

“I had four sons, your majesty; four fine sons who worked the land beside me. Good boys, all of them. So far, I’ve had to bury two of them, and their mother. The other two cannot leave their beds. By the time I return home, it seems likely I’ll have to dig another grave. That’s why we’ve come to you, Sire; because we couldn’t sit at home and do nothing while the plague takes our families, wasting the flesh from their bones and twisting their limbs till they cry out from the pain of it.

“We’re not young men, you and I, your majesty. We’ve seen hard times before, and know the hardest time passes eventually. But this time, if you cannot help us, I fear no one will be left to see its passing.”

There was a long silence, as King John searched for something to say. The farmer had told his tale with a simple honesty that was almost brutal, sparing himself nothing to be sure the King understood what was happening in Birchwater. The King understood only too well. The plague had appeared out of nowhere less than a month ago, starting at the Darkwood’s boundaries and then spreading outwards with ferocious speed. At first it was thought that rats carried the disease, and then blame fell upon the refugees, but as more and more deaths were reported in all corners of the Land, it soon became clear that there was only one possible source for the contagion; the demons were carrying it out of the Dark wood.

And now the plague had come to Birchwater, less than a week’s travel from the Castle.

“I will send you priests and surgeons,” said the King finally. “As yet they have no cure to offer, but they can perhaps ease the pain of a victim’s passing. I can’t guarantee how many will reach you; I no longer have enough men to safeguard the highways. The demons …”

“The demons! It’s always the demons!” Madoc Thorne stared desperately at the King, tears of rage and despair starting to his eyes. “Without a cure, what use are priests and surgeons to us? Send us men, Sire; men who can fight, and will teach us to fight. If we can’t defend our homes from the plague, We can at least defend them from the demons that carry it. A bow can only do so much! I know the Barons have always forbidden us from training in the sword and the axe, but it’s our only chance to stop the plague and turn it back!”

King John looked at his hands, so that he wouldn’t have to look at the farmers. How could he tell them that all their long journey, all their sacrifices, had been for nothing? He sighed briefly, quietly, and lifted his great leonine head. He sought for some comforting words with which to cushion his answer, but as he met the farmers’ hopeful eyes, he knew he couldn’t lie to them.

“My friends; I cannot help you. I have no men to send you, either to guard your fields or train you in the arts of war. The Barons no longer heed me; what men they have, they will not relinquish. I’ve had to strip this Castle of guards just to keep the main highways open. I have no shortage of weapons; you are welcome to as many as you can carry, but I cannot spare one man to go with you.”

The farmers stared at the King, and then at each other.

“Is that it?” said one of the youngest farmers, moving forward to stand beside Madoc Thorne. “We came all this way, fighting off outlaws and footpads and creatures of the dark, leaving our families and our farms unprotected, just to hear you say there’s nothing you can do?”

“I’m sorry,” said King John.

The young farmer started forward, his fists clenched, but Thorne grabbed him by the arm and held him back. “That’s enough! Leave the King be; he’s said his piece. He could have lied to us, told us everything’d be all right, but he didn’t. He told us the truth. We may not like it, but at least now we know where we stand.”

“Aye,” said the young farmer. “We know that.” And he turned away, so that no one could see he was crying.

Thorne let him go, and stared awkwardly at the King. “He meant no offense, Sire. He hasn’t been himself since he lost his wife and both his babies to the demons.”

“I’d help you if I could,” said the King.

“We know that,” said Madoc Thorne. “Sorry to have troubled you, your majesty; it’s clear enough you’ve worries other than ours. If you could have your men sort out a few weapons for us, we’ll head back to Birchwater come the morning.”

“Of course,” said the King. “I’ll detail some guards to escort you the first few miles.”

“No, thanks,” said the farmer politely. “Reckon we can manage on our own.”

He bowed his head briefly, and then he turned and left the Court. And one by one the farmers bowed to their King, and followed their spokesman out. King John sat on his throne and bowed to each farmer in turn, and the naked pity in their eyes as they looked on him hurt worse than anything they could have said. They had fought their way through the darkness to reach him, they had defended him against the Landsgraves, but when they turned to him for help, he had none to offer them. He had failed them, but they forgave him, because he was their King. And, troubled as they were, there was still room in their hearts for pity at what he had become; a tired old man who couldn’t cope. One by one, the farmers left the Court, and the King watched them go, knowing that with the morning’s first light they would be on their way back into the Forest, going home to die with their families. The last man closed the doors quietly behind him, but the sound echoed on the silent Court as though he’d slammed them.

“Your majesty,” said one of the guards, and the King waved him to silence.

“Go after the farmers,” he said brusquely. “Both of you. Find them quarters for the night, and have the Seneschal issue them whatever weapons they choose. Then find the Commander of the Royal Guard, and tell him I want to see him. Tell my son I’ll see him and Julia when I’m ready, and not before. Now get after those farmers. Move!”

The guardsmen bowed quickly, and left the Court in silence.

King John leaned back in this throne, and stared out over his empty Court. Outside, night had fallen, and darkness pressed against the stained-glass windows. The many-candled chandeliers spread a golden glow across the Court, and a roaring fire blazed in the huge fireplace, but still the shadows gathered up among the rafters, and there was a chill to the night air that would take more than a simple fire to dispel. The King stared grimly about him, trying to see his Court as it must have looked to the farmers. A quiet horror filled him as, for the first time in a long time, he saw the Court as it was, instead of how it used to be. The timbered floor hadn’t been waxed in months, the portraits and tapestries were blackened and begrimed by smoke from the fire, and even the marble dais upon which his throne stood was cracked and chipped. And under all the superficial evidences of neglect, there was also a feeling of age, of something whose time had passed. The Forest Court had been ancient when King John first came to the throne, but never before had it seemed so faded and shabby to his eyes. As with so many other things, it had fallen apart gradually, over the years, and he just hadn’t noticed.

How has it all come to this?
thought the King, picking at the ragged ermine collar of his cloak. He’d always done his best for the Kingdom, done everything that was required of him. He’d made a good marriage, and they’d been happy together, until illness had taken her from him, twenty-one long years ago. King John sighed wearily, remembering. That had been his first real lesson in Kingship. It had seemed such a simple thing at first; a chill; after a summer swim. And then the chill became a fever, and the fever became something worse. At the end she lay in her bed, her face gaunt from all the weight she’d lost, her head rolling back and forth on the sweat-soaked pillow. Again and again she coughed bright red blood, in long painful spasms that wracked her frail body. All through the long days and longer nights, King John sat by her bed and held her hand, but she didn’t even know he was there. The greatest surgeons and priests and magicians had come at his call, but none of them could save her, and at the last, for all his power, the King could only sit beside the bed and watch the one he loved slowly die.

King John sat on his throne, and looked out over his empty Court. He’d done his best. Fought the Kingdom’s battles, defended the Land against its enemies, and all for what? To sit alone in a dusty, echoing Hall, and know his best hadn’t been good enough.

Out in the antechamber, Harald and Julia glared at each other and argued in whispers while they waited for the King’s summons.

“Look, Julia; you’re going to marry me, and that’s that. It’s all been arranged.”