Blue Moon Rising (Darkwood) (49 page)

“Rupert; you’ve been hurt! What happened?”

“Several hundred demons were foolish enough to try and stop me coming back to you. I’m fine now, honest. How are you, lass; you’re looking great.”

“Well, I was,” said Julia dryly, “until some great oaf of a Prince got blood all over my new gowns.”

Rupert stepped back and took his first good look at her. Julia’s robes were a curious mixture of fashion and practicality, and though her face was painted and rouged in the latest Court style, her long hair fell unfettered to her waist, held out of her face only by a simple leather headband. She wore a sword openly on her hip.

“It’s your sword,” said Julia. “You gave it to me in the Darkwood, remember?”

“Yes,” said Rupert. “I remember.”

His voice was suddenly flat and cold. Julia looked at him curiously.

“What is it, Rupert?”

“Harald just invited me to your wedding tomorrow,” said Rupert.

Julia looked away, unable to meet his gaze. “We all thought you were dead. I thought you were dead. You don’t know what it’s been like here, on my own. It’s not as if I was given any choice as to whether or not I wanted to get married. And Harald … Harald’s been very good to me while you were away.”

“Yeah,” said Rupert. “I’ll bet he has.”

Julia spun on her heel and stormed off down the corridor. Rupert shook his head disgustedly. Why the hell hadn’t he kept his mouth shut? Now he’d have to go after her, and apologize, and … His shoulders slumped. What was the point? She’d admitted she was going to marry Harald. Rupert looked down the corridor after her, but it was empty. He turned his back on it.

He opened his door, stepped into his room, and shut the door behind him. He then locked and bolted it. He leaned back against the solid oak door, let out a long heartfelt sigh, and stared round his room. Fifteen foot by fifteen, most of it taken up with his bed, wardrobe and wash basin. Threadbare carpets covered the floor, but the bare stone walls were cold and featureless. The only other door led to his private jakes. Rupert had never been the sort to accumulate possessions, and the simple bedchamber would have seemed stark and utilitarian to anyone but him. As a Prince of the line, he was entitled to a full suite of rooms and half a dozen personal servants, but he’d never wanted them. Servants just got in the way when he wanted to be alone, and besides; how many rooms can you live in at one time?

Rupert started toward the bed, and then he turned back and checked the door was securely locked. He checked the solid steel bolt, too, running his thumb over the cold metal again and again to be sure the bolt was all the way home. Ever since he first returned home from the Darkwood, Rupert had been grateful his room had no windows. It meant he only had to guard his door against demons. With his sword in his hand he could face any number of demons, but ever since that first trip through the endless night, he was afraid of what might creep up on him in the dark while he was asleep and helpless. He needed to rest. He needed to sleep. But he knew he wouldn’t be able to rest or sleep until he was sure he was safe. He moved over to the wardrobe, shook his head disgustedly, and gave in to his fear, one more time. He set his shoulder against the side of the massive wardrobe, and slowly pushed it forward to barricade the door. And only then did he stumble over to his bed and sit on it.

An oil lamp burned steadily on the simple wooden stand that held his wash basin. Metal brackets on the bed’s headboard held two unlit candles. Rupert used the lamp to light both the candles, and then put the lamp back on the stand, taking care not to disturb its flame. He couldn’t bear the thought of waking up to find his room in darkness. He slowly unstrapped his sword belt, and placed it on the floor beside his bed, safely at hand, should he need it. And finally, he just sat there on his bed, staring at the bleak stone wall before him.

The Blue Moon was full. Darkness had taken the Forest for its own, because he hadn’t got back in time. And Julia …

I could have loved you, Julia.

Rupert lay back on his bed, bloody clothes and all, and fled into sleep. His dreams were dark and restless.

*      *      *

Lord Darius scuttled endlessly through the pitch dark tunnels, muttering to himself as he went. The thin, querulous sound of his voice echoed hollowly back from the thick, stone walls to either side of him, and seemed to reverberate on the dank, still air long after he was gone. From time to time there was a faint patter of many running feet as the air vent rats retreated into their holes to let him pass. Darius ignored them. They were too small and too timid to hurt him, as long as he kept moving. A faint gleam of light showed in the darkness ahead, like a single star on a moonless night. Darius stopped running and crouched motionless in the dark, peering warily at the unsteady glow before him. Apart from his own labored breathing, all was still and silent. After a while, Darius drew his dagger from his sleeve and started cautiously forward.

Thick streams of dirty golden light fell from a side vent set high on the tunnel wall. A rusty metal grille split the light into a dozen gleaming shafts, choked with swirling dust and soot from the tunnel air. Darius crouched just outside the falling light, and bit his lip nervously. This much light meant he was close to an inhabited area of the Castle, and that meant food and drink and a chance to strike back at his enemies. But he had to be careful. Ever since he’d first fled into the network of hidden tunnels and air vents within the thick Castle walls (how long ago? he didn’t know anymore) he’d been afraid to go back into the Castle itself. Even when hunger and thirst finally drove him to leave his tunnels for a time, he lived in constant terror of being found and trapped by the King’s men. He had no doubt the guards would kill him on sight. He’d have given such orders. It was only sensible. And so he left the darkness only when he had to, slipping out of hidden panels and concealed air vents at times when he was sure there was no one around to see. He stole bread and meat and wine, never enough to be missed, and never enough to satisfy the gnawing hunger that burned in his belly all his waking hours.

Darius stared into the golden light before him, and fought down an impulse to leave his tunnels and take his chances in the Castle, just to be able to move and live in the light again. The constant darkness of the interconnecting tunnels weighed remorselessly down on him like water dripping on a rock, gradually wearing it away with an endless patience. Darius snarled silently, and shook his head stubbornly. He couldn’t leave the dark yet. It wasn’t time. He’d sworn to stay in the tunnels until his dark master called him forth, and in return he’d been given power over his enemies. Real power. Sorcerous power. He could feel it, burning within him, growing stronger all the time. The dark one had taken Darius’s long-neglected talent and stirred it into awful life. Darius smiled. Soon his power would blaze like a beacon, and then he would leave the dark and gain his revenge. Until then, he waited, for as much as he wanted to walk in the light again, he wanted revenge more. Much more.

Darius moved forward into the golden light, and stood on tiptoe to stare into the side vent. The light hurt his eyes, and tears ran down his dirty stubbled cheeks, but he couldn’t look away. After a while, his ankles began to hurt. He ignored the pain as long as he could, but finally he was forced to move away from the side vent, and the golden light that comforted him. He stood thinking for a moment, weighing the pros and cons, and then he reached into his sleeve and took out his last precious stub of candle. He used his dagger hilt to strike sparks against the side vent’s metal grille, and the candle wick finally lit. All at once the tunnel seemed to spring into being around him, as though it had been waiting eagerly for that little extra light to make it real and solid again. Darius cringed away from the roof of the tunnel as it pressed down bare inches above his head. The walls crowded in around him as the sudden light once again made clear how horribly narrow and enclosed the tunnel was. Darius staggered around and around in a tight little circle, and everywhere he looked a wall of ancient brickwork stared mockingly back, only inches away. A cold sweat ran down his face, and he moaned and whimpered and flapped his hands aimlessly as the panic rose in him. Darius spun around and around and around, unable to stop. He was buried alive deep in the stone guts of the Castle, miles away from light and air and freedom. He screamed suddenly, and attacked the wall before him with his fists, and then he tripped and fell and lay sobbing in the filth that coated the tunnel floor. He lay there for some time in the darkness, blind to anything but his own panic, and then his sobs slowly died away as his fear receded, leaving behind nothing but a simple, overwhelming tiredness. He sat up, and wiped at his face with the back of his hand. He felt something move in his closed hand, and opened it to find he’d crushed his candle stub into a shapeless mass of crumbling wax. Darius sniffed once, and then threw the wax away.

He scrambled awkwardly to his feet, retrieved his dagger from where he’d dropped it, and moved back into the golden light falling from the side vent. He brushed at the foulness that soaked his clothes, and wished fleetingly for a mirror. He often wondered how he looked now. He could tell he’d lost weight from the way his robes hung loosely about him, but he felt there’d been other changes too, though he couldn’t quite name them. He was cold and tired all the time, but he’d got used to that. Darius shrugged, and stopped thinking about it. It didn’t matter. Nothing really mattered any more, except the face that floated always before him, even in the deepest and darkest of the tunnels; Harald’s face, smiling calmly as the Prince betrayed him to his enemies.

You can’t trust anyone these days, Darius.

Darius crouched down on his haunches in the golden light. To either side of him, he could just make put the dirt and smoke-smeared walls, running with slime and sooty water. A thin, slippery mud squelched under his feet. The centuries old brickwork surrounding him was pitted and uneven, and the drainage channels that should have carried away the condensation and other deposits were all hopelessly blocked. The Castle was getting old, falling apart. Much like him. Darius scowled, and muttered to himself, remembering all the things he’d planned, all the things he’d meant to do. He’d had so many plans … all worthless now. His rebellion was over. Finished. Beaten before it had even begun. Darius chuckled softly, and the unpleasant sound took a long time to die away into whispering echoes. There was still his revenge. All the people who’d tricked and lied and driven him into the darkness were going to pay in blood for what they’d done to him. The dark master had promised him this.

Darius hefted the dagger in his hand, admiring the way the golden light shimmered on the narrow steel blade. Dirty brown specks of dried blood still crusted the blade near the crosspiece. Darius frowned. It was a pity about Cecelia. There was no doubt he was better off without her; she was always getting in his way, slowing him down. Always
pawing
at him. And yet still he missed having her there, at his side. He’d always been able to talk to Cecelia, even though she hadn’t understood half of what he had to say. A pity about Cecelia. But she shouldn’t have got in his way.

Darius tensed suddenly as he heard voices rising and falling, not far off. The voices became steadily louder as they drew near, but there was a sinister blurred quality to the sound that made the words indecipherable. Darius shrank back against the wall as the voices boomed like thunder in the narrow tunnel, and then suddenly they stopped, cut off in mid-word, and all was still and silent again. Darius smiled uncomfortably, and relaxed again. Sound travelled strangely in the air vents, echoing and re-echoing until it faded into whispers, but every now and again some freak of acoustics would bring Darius voices and conversations from the inner Castle, as clearly as though he was there in the room with those who spoke. Darius knew what had happened to his fellow rebels. More than once he’d been tempted to leave his tunnels and beg for exile too, but his pride wouldn’t let him. He had to have his revenge, or all his time in the dark had been for nothing.

He turned away from the side vent and set off down the tunnel, leaving the golden glow behind him. Darkness soon returned, as though it had never been away. Darius muttered constantly to himself as he scurried down the long narrow tunnel, happily contemplating all the bloody revenges he planned for his many enemies.

Soon
, he promised himself.
Soon.

The High Warlock was bored. The Champion was in conference with the King and not to be disturbed, Rupert had disappeared, and everybody else was too busy or too tired to talk to him. The Warlock wandered back and forth through the endless Castle corridors, to see what there was to see, but he soon grew tired of that. He needed some fresh air and some open space. The Castle held too many memories. He found an empty corner, sat down and sank quickly into a trance. His astral spirit floated up out of his body, and flew back down the corridors, through the entrance hall and out into the courtyard; an invisible presence, like a passing breeze.

The square was packed solid with refugees, and even in the open courtyard the high stone walls were unbearably oppressive. The Warlock flew quickly over the bent heads of the apathetic refugees, up over the Castle wall, and out into the long night.

The ice-bound Castle shimmered eerily in its own silver light, like a single huge snowflake. The light didn’t travel far into the Darkwood. Once the Forest had been full of life, but now nothing moved save the demons, stalking silently through the endless night. And though the trees themselves were rotten and decaying, they were still, somehow, horribly alive. The Warlock could hear them screaming.

All around him, the darkness beat on the air like a continuous roll of thunder and, high above, the Blue Moon howled ceaselessly. The Warlock’s senses revealed much more of the world than most humans ever saw, and what would have seemed a static, motionless scene to any other observer was full of sound and fury to the High Warlock. To his left and to his right, the ghosts of yesterday retraced their movements again and again; moments caught in time like insects imprisoned in amber. Every now and then, a ghost would vanish from his sight like a bursting soap bubble, as the presence of today finally overcame that dim remainder of the past. Paths of power, old and potent, burned all around the Castle, their blinding light undiminished by the Darkwood. The Warlock frowned suddenly as he sensed something moving, deep in the earth. Ancient and inhuman, it stirred fitfully, and then returned to its long sleep. The Warlock relaxed a little. The Forest was far older than most people realized, and some traces still remained of creatures that rose and fell long before the coming of man. Too few realized how lightly such creatures slept.