Blue Moon Rising (Darkwood) (5 page)

The packed stones shifted uneasily under his weight, and Rupert held his breath as he waited for them to settle. Slowly, step by step, foot by foot, he moved across the scree, taking his time and testing each part of the scree cautiously before committing his weight to it. Despite all his efforts, the sliding stones carried him closer and closer to the edge, and Rupert knew he wasn’t going to make it. The gusting wind plucked fussily at his cloak, and he felt the scree stir under his boots. He shifted his weight slightly to compensate and the scree ran like water beneath him, carrying him remorselessly toward the escarpment’s edge. Rupert threw himself flat, digging his hands deeply into the scree, and he slowly slid to a halt with one foot hanging over the edge. He could hear stones falling, tumbling down the side of the mountain.

Barely five feet of scree stood between him and solid rock, but it might as well have been five miles. Rupert lay still, breathing shallowly. He couldn’t go on and he couldn’t go back; the slightest movement could mean his death. Rupert frowned as an answer occurred to him. A slight movement couldn’t save him, but a lunge with all his strength behind it just might. It might also kill him. Rupert grinned suddenly. What the hell; if the scree didn’t get him, the dragon probably would. He pulled his legs carefully up under him in one slow, controlled movement, and dug his feet into the scree. The shifting stones carried him a little closer to the edge. Rupert took a deep breath and lunged for the solid rock beyond the scree. He landed awkwardly, the impact slamming the breath from his lungs, but one outflung hand grasped an outcropping of rock, and he held on tightly as the sliding scree carried his body out over the long drop. For a moment he hung by one hand, feet searching helplessly for support, loose stones showering down around him, and then his free hand found a hold, and slowly he pulled himself up onto hard, solid rock. Rupert staggered a few feet away from the edge and then collapsed, shaking with reaction, his heart hammering madly. The unyielding stone path beneath him felt marvelously comforting.

He rested a while, and then clambered painfully to his feet. His whole body ached from fighting the scree, and he’d torn his hands on the jagged rock. Without the water canteens he’d left with the unicorn, Rupert couldn’t even clean his wounds, so he did the next best thing and ignored them. He hoped like hell they wouldn’t get infected; he was a long way from the nearest healer. He shrugged the thought aside, turned his back on the scree, and trudged tiredly along the uneven path that would lead him eventually to his dragon.

Some time later the trail suddenly disappeared, replaced by a seemingly endless series of narrow steps cut into the sheer rock face. Rupert turned away from the sight, and looked out over the long drop, taking in the view. Beyond the many miles of tended fields, the Forest seemed very small, and very far away. Rupert sighed once, regretfully, and then turned back to the steps and began the long climb.

The steps were crooked and uneven, and pain blazed through Rupert’s legs and back as, for hour after hour, he fought to maintain his pace. The stone stairway stretched out behind and before him for as far as he could see, and after a while Rupert learned to keep his head down, and concentrate only on those steps directly ahead of him. The air grew steadily colder as he made his slow way up the mountain, and the driving wind carried sleet and snow from the summit. Rupert huddled inside his thin cloak and struggled on. Vicious gusts tugged at him as he climbed, and the bitter wind blew tears from his eyes. The cold numbed his hands and feet, his breath steamed on the chill air, and still he climbed, step after step after step, fighting the cold and the surging wind and his own pain.

He was Prince Rupert of the Forest Kingdom, and he was going to face his dragon.

The stairway ended in a narrow ledge before a vast cave mouth. Rupert stood swaying on the ledge, ignoring the freezing wind that wrapped his cloak about him, and the harsh breathing that seared his throat and burned in his chest. The cave gaped before him like some deep wound in the sheer rock face, filled with darkness. Rupert moved slowly forward, fatigue trembling in his legs. The Night Witch’s map hadn’t lied; he’d finally found his dragon. Ever since leaving the Court, he’d wondered how he’d feel when he finally had to face the dragon. If he’d be … scared. But now the time had come, and he didn’t feel much of anything, if truth be told. He’d given his word, and he was here. He didn’t believe he could beat the dragon, but then he never had. Deep down, he’d always known he was going to his death. Rupert shrugged. The Court expected him to die; maybe he’d live, anyway, just to spite them. He drew his sword, and took up the best position he could on the narrow ledge. He tried not to think about the long drop behind him, and concentrated instead on the correct form of the challenge.

All in all, he’d never felt less heroic in his life.

“Hideous monster, I, Prince Rupert of the Forest Kingdom do hereby challenge ye! Come forth and fight!”

There was a long pause, and then finally a deep voice from far inside the cave said, “Pardon?”

Feeling slightly ridiculous, the Prince took a better grip on his sword and repeated his challenge. There was an even longer pause, and then Rupert dropped into his fighting stance as the dragon emerged slowly out of the darkness, filling the cave mouth with his massive bulk. Long sweeping wings wrapped the creature like a ribbed emerald cloak, clasped at the chest by wickedly clawed hands. A good thirty feet from snout to tail, with light slithering caressingly along his shimmering green scales, the dragon towered over the Prince, and studied him with glowing golden eyes. Rupert hefted his sword, and the dragon smiled widely, revealing dozens of very sharp teeth.

“Hi,” said the dragon. “Nice day, isn’t it?”

Rupert blinked resentfully. “You’re not supposed to say anything,” he told the dragon firmly. “You’re supposed to roar horribly, claw the ground, and then charge upon me breathing fire.”

The dragon thought about this. Two thin plumes of smoke drifted up from his nostrils. “Why?” he asked finally.

Rupert lowered his sword, which was becoming heavier by the minute, and leaned on it. “Well,” he said slowly, “It’s traditional, I suppose. That’s the way it’s always been.”

“Not with me,” said the dragon. “Why do you want to kill me?”

“It’s a long story,” said the Prince.

The dragon grunted. “Thought it might be. You’d better come on in.”

He retreated into his cave, and after a moment’s hesitation Rupert followed him into what quickly proved to be a tunnel. In a strange way, he felt almost angry that he hadn’t had to fight; he’d spent so long preparing for the moment, and now it had been taken from him. He wondered if the creature might just be playing with him, but it seemed unlikely. If the dragon had wanted him dead, he’d be dead by now. He stumbled clumsily on down the tunnel, a cold sweat beading his brow as the light fell away behind him. The unrelieved gloom reminded him of the Darkwood, and he was glad when the darkness soon gave way to the cheerful crimson glow of a banked fire. He hurried toward the light, and burst out of the tunnel mouth to find the dragon waiting patiently for him in a huge rock chamber easily five hundred feet across, the walls of which were covered with the largest collection of preserved butterflies Rupert had ever seen.

“I thought dragons collected hoards of gold and silver,” said Rupert, gesturing at the hundreds of highly polished display cases.

The dragon shrugged. “Some collect gold and silver. Some collect jewels. I collect butterflies. They’re just as pretty, aren’t they?”

“Sure, sure,” said the Prince soothingly, as sparks glowed hotly in the dragon’s nostrils. He sheathed his sword, sank down onto his haunches opposite the reclining dragon, and studied him curiously.

“What’s the matter?” asked the dragon.

“You’re not quite what I expected,” Rupert admitted.

The dragon chuckled. “Legends rarely are.”

“But you can talk!”

“So can you.”

“Well yes, but I’m human …”

“I had noticed,” said the dragon dryly. “Look, most of the legends, that we’re big and strong and nasty and eat people for any or no reason, all those stories were made up by dragons, to frighten people away.”

“But …”

“Look,” said the dragon, leaning forward suddenly. “One on one I’m more than a match for any human, but no dragon can fight an army.” The huge creature hissed softly, golden eyes staring through Rupert at something only they could see. “Once, dragons filled the skies, masters of all that was. The sun warmed our wings as we soared above the clouds and watched the world turn beneath us. We tore gold and silver from the rock with our bare claws, and the earth trembled when we roared. Everything that lived feared us. And then came man, with his sword and his lance, his armor and his armies. We should have banded together while we still could, but no; we fought each other, and feuded and squabbled, and guarded our precious hoards. And one by one we fell, alone. Our time had passed.”

The dragon lay brooding a moment, and then shook himself. “Why did you come to challenge me?”

“It’s supposed to prove me worthy to be King.”

“Do you want to kill me?”

Rupert shrugged, confused. “It’d be easier if you were the monster you’re supposed to be. Haven’t you slaughtered women and children, burned property to the ground, and stolen cattle?”

“Certainly not,” said the dragon, shocked. “What kind of creature do you think I am?”

Rupert raised an eyebrow, and the dragon had the grace to look a little sheepish. “All right, maybe I did raze the odd village, devour an occasional maiden, but that was a long time ago. I was a dragon; they expected it of me. I’m retired now.”

There was a long pause. Rupert frowned into the gently crackling fire. This wasn’t at all what he’d expected.

“Do you want to kill me?” he asked the dragon.

“Not particularly. I’m getting a little old for all this nonsense.”

“Well, don’t you want to eat me?”

“No,” said the dragon firmly. “People give me heartburn.”

There was another long silence.

“Look,” said the dragon finally, “Killing me is supposed to prove your worth, right?”

“Right,” said the Prince. That much he was sure of.

“So, why not bring back a live dragon? Isn’t that an even braver thing to do?”

Rupert thought about it. “That might just do it,” he said cautiously. “Nobody’s ever captured a real live dragon before …”

“Well then, that’s our answer!”

“Don’t you mind being captured?” asked Rupert diffidently.

The dragon chuckled. “I could do with a bit of a holiday. Travel to strange lands, meet new people; just what I need.” The dragon peered about him and then beckoned for Rupert to lean closer. “Er … Prince …”

“Yes?”

“Do you by any chance rescue Princesses? Only I’ve got one here, and she’s driving me crazy.”

“You’re holding a Princess captive?” yelled Rupert, jumping to his feet and clapping a hand to his swordhilt.

“Keep your voice down!” hissed the dragon. “She’ll hear you! I’m not holding her captive; I’ll be glad to see the back of her. Some Court’s elders sent her up here as a sacrifice, and I hadn’t the heart to kill her. She can’t go back, and I can’t just throw her out. I thought maybe you could take her off my hands …”

Rupert sat slowly down again and rubbed gently at his aching brow. Just when he thought he was getting the hang of things, somebody changed the rules.

“She’s a real Princess?”

“Far as I know.”

“What’s wrong with her?” asked Rupert warily.

“
Dragon!
” yelled a strident voice from a side tunnel. The dragon winced.

“That’s what’s wrong with her.”

The Princess burst into the cavern from one of the side tunnels, and then stopped short on seeing the Prince. Rupert scrambled to his feet. The Princess was dressed in a long flowing gown that might once have been white, but was now stained a dozen colors from dried mud and grime. She was young, barely into her twenties, and handsome rather than beautiful. Deep blue eyes and a generous mouth contrasted strongly with the mannish jut of her jaw. Long blonde hair fell almost to her waist in two meticulously twisted plaits. She was poised and slender and easily six feet tall. As Rupert considered the right courteous words with which to greet a Princess, she whooped with joy and rushed forward to throw her arms around him. Rupert staggered back a pace.

“My hero,” she cooed, bending down to nuzzle his ear. “You’ve come to rescue me!”

“Well, yes,” muttered Rupert, trying to break free without seeming too discourteous. “Glad to be of service. I’m Prince Rupert …”

The Princess hugged him fiercely, driving the air from his lungs.
I was safer with the dragon
, thought Rupert, as bright spots drifted before his eyes. The Princess finally let him go, and stood back to take a good look at him.

He couldn’t have been much older than her, she thought, but the recent scars that marred one side of his face gave him a hard, dangerous look. His long slender hands were battered and torn, and covered with freshly dried blood. His leather jerkin and trousers had obviously seen a great deal of use, his cloak was a mess, and all in all the fellow looked more like a bandit than a Prince. The Princess frowned dubiously, and then her mouth twitched; all in all, she probably didn’t look much like a Princess, either.

“Where’s your armor?” she asked.

“I left it in the Tanglewood,” said Rupert.

“And your steed?”

“At the base of the mountain.”

“You did at least bring your sword?”

“Of course,” said Rupert, drawing the blade to show her.

She snatched it out of his hand, tested the balance, and swept it through a few expert passes.

“It’ll do,” she decided, and gave the sword back to him. “Get on with it.”

“Get on with what?” asked Rupert politely.

“With killing the dragon, of course,” said the Princess. “That’s what you’re here for, isn’t it?”

“Ah,” said Rupert, “The dragon and I have talked it over, and I’m going to take him back to my Castle alive. And you too, of course.”