Blue Moon Rising (Darkwood) (47 page)

Chane’s jaw dropped, and all the color drained from his face in a second. “Sir Champion …” he whispered faintly. “They told us you were dead! But … if you’re alive, then he must be …”

He stared wide-eyed at Rupert, who smiled sardonically back. And then, to Rupert’s utter amazement, Chane lowered his pike, knelt before him, and bowed his head. The other men-at-arms did the same.

“Forgive me, Sire,” said Chane, his voice breaking with emotion. “Forgive me for not recognizing you, but it’s been so long … we’d given up all hope … everyone said you were dead! Everyone!”

“Well I’m not,” said Rupert shortly. “Or if I am, I’m a bloody thirsty ghost.”

Rob Hawke immediately offered Rupert his canteen. Rupert nodded gratefully to the guard, and sheathed his sword. He took the canteen, pulled out the stopper with his teeth, and sucked greedily at the lukewarm water. He’d never known water to taste so good. His thirst finally died away, and he reluctantly handed the canteen back. Chane and the other men-at-arms were still kneeling before him, and he gestured uncomfortably for them to get up. Their continued devotion was becoming embarrassing.

“Welcome back, Sire,” said Chane, rising quickly to his feet, his eyes shining with something that might almost have been religious awe. “Welcome home, Prince Rupert.”

His words echoed loudly on the stillness, and then a murmur ran quickly through the crowded refugees. Heads turned to stare in Rupert’s direction, and here and there people stood up to get a better look. The murmur ran swiftly back and forth, growing louder all the time, building to a roar. Within seconds everyone in the courtyard was on their feet and advancing on Rupert, laughing and cheering and chanting his name over and over again. Rupert’s guards moved forward instinctively to protect him, and Chane and his men-at-arms were quick to join them, forming a human barrier between Rupert and the heaving, cheering throng. Rupert shrank back against the Castle wall, staring about him in bewilderment as the crowd pressed forward against his line of guards. Everywhere he looked there were shouting, cheering faces, many streaked with tears. Some of the refugees were actually jumping up and down with joy. Rupert looked to the Champion.

“What the hell is going on here?”

The Champion smiled. “Apparently we were all given up for dead long ago, and with your mission to the Dark Tower a failure, what hope was there for the Forest Kingdom? But now here you are, back from the long night at the last possible moment, bringing with you the legendary High Warlock, who will of course put everything to rights again with one wave of his hand. You’re the answer to all their prayers, Sire.”

Rupert snorted. “Are you going to tell them the bad news, sir Champion, or shall I?”

The Champion smiled dourly. The refugees were pressing forward again, paying no attention to the guards’ warnings, or their drawn swords. The crowd’s voice was slowly changing, becoming desperate and angry. Rupert wasn’t just a returned hero, he was also their Prince; they wanted to know where he’d been, what had happened to him, why the journey had taken so long, why he hadn’t returned in time to save them from the darkness. They didn’t see the blood and tiredness on him, they saw only the hero and savior they wanted to see; the miracle-worker who would throw back the demons, defeat the long night, and make everything the way it used to be. Their voices became querulous and demanding, and they pushed and shoved at one another, jostling the guards and reaching out to try and touch Rupert himself, to compel his attention. The crowd’s voice changed yet again, becoming harsh and ugly as the refugees slowly realized Rupert wasn’t making them the promises they wanted to hear. Different factions tried to outshout each other; some pleading for more food or water for their families or their livestock, others demanding living quarters inside the Castle, away from the dark. Their voices rose and rose as they demanded hope and comfort and answers Rupert didn’t have. He tried to talk to them, to explain, but they were too busy shouting to listen. Rupert couldn’t really blame them; he was so tired and confused his explanations didn’t make much sense even to him. The refugees surged angrily back and forth, their cheering excitement of only a few moment before gone, as though it had never been. The guards looked at Rupert for orders as the crowd pressed forward yet again.

“Get the hell away from me!” roared the Prince, and drew his sword. The guardsmen immediately fell into their fighting stance, and waited for the order to attack. The men-at-arms levelled their pikes, and the Champion hefted his war axe thoughtfully. The blood-smeared blades and heavy pike-heads gleamed dully in the torchlight as the refugees fell suddenly silent. The uncertain hush lengthened as Rupert glared round at the sullen faces ranked before him.

“I’m tired,” he growled, finally. “I’m going up to my chambers now, to get some rest, and anyone who disturbs me will regret it. I don’t care what your problems are, they can all damn well wait until I’ve got some sleep. Now get out of my way, or I’ll have my guards open up a path for me.”

There was a long, strained silence.

“Ever the diplomat, eh Rupert?” said an amused voice, and Rupert looked over the heads of the crowd to see Harald walking unhurriedly down the steps from the main entrance hall. He strode casually among the refugees, positively oozing reassurance and competence, and weary as he was, Rupert had to admire the performance. Harald’s calm voice promised everything but committed him to nothing, and yet it seemed to satisfy the refugees, who slowly drifted back to their fires and their animals, muttering to each other and shaking their heads dolefully. None of them so much as spared a glance for Rupert. Their returning hero had let them down by being only human. Rupert watched Harald moving confidently through the dispersing crowd, and shook his head slowly. Harald had always had the gift of words, when he chose to use it. That empty-headed routine of his might fool the Court, but Rupert knew better. Ever since they were children, Harald had always been able to manipulate people and situations so that he came out on top; usually at Rupert’s expense.

For all his faults, and there was no denying Harald had many, he was an excellent organizer. Before the evening was over, he’d have drafted a list of all the refugee’s complaints, and have set up a system for dealing with those that really mattered. Rupert sighed disgustedly, sheathed his sword, and leaned back against the Castle wall. There was a time when he’d thought Harald only did such things in order to look good, while still leaving the bulk of the work to other people, but now he saw it was just another reason why Harald would someday be King, while he never would. Harald was a diplomat. Rupert shrugged. Stuff diplomacy. Try using tact and reason with a demon, and it’d rip your head off.

He turned away and nodded gratefully to Chane and his men-at-arms. “Thanks for standing by me. It could very easily have turned nasty.”

The men-at-arms hefted their pikes bashfully, and bowed quickly in return.

“Sorry about the refugees, Sire,” said Chane. “You can’t really blame them; they lost everything they had when the dark came. I doubt there’s a family here that hasn’t lost a child or a parent to the demons. They’ve been frightened and helpless for so long, they needed someone they could strike back at. It just happened to be you.”

“Yeah, well,” said Rupert tiredly. “Thanks, anyway.”

“Sure,” said Chane. “If you ever need us again, you know where to find us. We’d better get back on duty, I suppose; the demons could come anytime.”

He bowed again, and led his men-at-arms back to the gatehouse. Rupert watched them go, and frowned thoughtfully. Either Chane was the most forgiving man he’d ever met, or there was something going on here he didn’t know about. Or maybe … Rupert smiled suddenly. Or maybe he was just getting paranoid again; coming home to the Castle could do that to you. He sighed, and turned back to his waiting guardsmen. At least he didn’t have to worry about them; they’d been loyal to him since the very beginning. Even though they had no real reason to be … After all, the Champion only obeyed him because the King ordered him to … Rupert shook his head angrily, but the thought wouldn’t go away. He knew he had to ask the question, if only because he was so afraid of what the answer might be. Either way, he had to know. He ignored the patiently waiting Champion, and moved on to confront Rob Hawke.

“Why have you remained loyal to me?” he asked bluntly. “When I started out, I had a full troop of fifty guards; I’ve only brought ten of you back. Don’t you blame me for your friends’ deaths?”

Hawke shook his head slowly. “We don’t blame you for anything, Sire. We didn’t expect to survive the Darkwood, never mind the Dark Tower. We figured to stick with you till we were safely out of sight of the Castle, and then we’d all desert. No offense, Sire, but what little we’d been told of you wasn’t exactly encouraging. According to the Castle gossip, you’d never led guards before, you told impossible lies about having been through the Darkwood twice, and you were a coward. We’d no intention of following a man like that into battle.

“And then we saw you take on your brother and the Champion, right here in the courtyard. You drew the Champion’s blood; twice! No one’s done that since he became Champion. After seeing that, it seemed likely the gossip was wrong. Taking on the Champion wasn’t a particularly bright thing to do, but it proved you were a fighter. So, we figured we’d stick with you just long enough to talk you out of going to the Dark Tower, and then you could desert with us. The Champion would just have woken up one morning, and found us all gone. Simple as that.

“And then we came to Coppertown. We saw what lived in the pit, and we saw you fight it, and win. After that … well, we started to believe in you, and your mission. And maybe we started to believe in ourselves, as well. It hasn’t worked out too badly, all told. No one’s ever faced the odds we have, and survived. We don’t blame you for anything, Sire. We’re proud to have served with you.”

Rupert nodded stiffly, too overcome with emotion to speak. “Thank you,” he said finally. “I couldn’t be more proud of you. I’ll talk to my father; assuming we survive the darkness, there’ll be a grant of land for each of you. My word on it.”

“Just doing what we’re paid for,” said Hawke. “Mind you, the combat bonuses on this little jaunt should add up very nicely. Assuming you’d be willing to do one small favor for us, Sire.”

“Anything,” said Rupert.

“Well,” said Hawke carefully, “If the Champion were to report anything about our planning to desert, we wouldn’t get a penny.”

“He won’t report you,” said Rupert. “Will you, sir Champion?”

The Champion looked at him thoughtfully, and then bowed his head slightly. “As you wish, Sire.”

The guards grinned broadly at one another, and then Hawke suddenly held up his sword in the warrior’s traditional oath of fealty. The other guards were quick to join him, and within seconds there were ten swords raised in the ancient salute. For a moment the tableau held, and then the blades crashed back into their scabbards, and the guardsmen turned and left, heading for their barracks and some much needed rest. Rupert watched them leave, and wished he could go with them, back to the security and camaraderie of their fellows. But he couldn’t. He was a Prince, which meant he was going back to an empty room, and the politics and intrigues of his family and his Court. He looked away, to discover the Champion regarding him speculatively.

“Something wrong, sir Champion?”

“I don’t know, Sire. I’ll have to think about it.”

“I’m still only a second son.”

“Yes,” said the Champion. “I know.” And then he turned, and walked away.

Rupert thought about going after him, and then decided it could wait till tomorrow. Come to that, everything could wait until tomorrow. Or the day after. Hurrying footsteps close by caught his attention, and he looked round to see a tall, portly young man in flashing silks bearing down on him. His shoulder-length blond hair was carefully styled in the latest fashion, and in a courtyard full of hungry people, he looked almost indecently well-fed. He drew himself up before Rupert, struck a dignified pose, and then bowed elegantly. Rupert nodded warily in return, and the man straightened up again.

“Your pardon for intruding, Sire, but on hearing of your miraculous return, I dropped everything and rushed here immediately.”

“You did?” said Rupert.

“But of course, Sire! You have come back to us out of the very darkness itself; come back to save us all! What a song I shall make of this!”

Rupert looked at him. “A song?” he said, slowly.

“Well yes, Sire. I’m the new official Court minstrel. But not to worry, Sire, the song I shall make of your daring exploits will be a tale of great heroics and selfless deeds, of honor and adventure and miraculous escapes …”

His voice trailed away as he caught sight of Rupert’s face. He started backing away and when Rupert drew his sword, and then turned and ran as Rupert advanced on him with murder in his eyes. Rupert gave up after a few steps, but the minstrel had the good sense to keep on running.

“Was that really necessary?” asked the unicorn.

“Definitely,” growled Rupert, sheathing his sword and leaning back against the Castle wall. “It was minstrels and their damn stupid songs on the joys of adventuring that got me into this mess in the first place.”

“You don’t look too good,” said the unicorn.

“You might very well be right about that.”

“Why don’t you go and get some rest, Rupert. Before you fall down.”

Rupert closed his eyes, and for the first time allowed himself to think luxurious thoughts about a hot bath and a soft bed. He sighed contentedly, and then opened his eyes and looked at the unicorn. Bloody streaks covered the animal from head to haunches where the demons had clawed him. His head was hanging down, and his legs were trembling with strain and fatigue.

“You don’t look so good yourself,” said Rupert. “You’re a mess, unicorn. Those demons really got to you.”

“Flattery will get you nowhere,” said the unicorn. “I’ll be fine in the morning; it’s just a few scratches. You’re in worse shape than I am. I’ve seen people being buried who looked healthier than you do right now. For once in your life, listen to reason and go to your bed, damn you. I’m looking forward to my first good night’s sleep in weeks, and I’ve enough to keep me awake as it is, without having to worry about you as well.”