Blue Moon Rising (Darkwood) (55 page)

Rupert glanced at the King, who had still made no move to enter the Armory. His face was tight and drawn, and beads of sweat showed clearly on his forehead beneath the crown. Rupert looked quickly at Harald, but his brother’s placid mask was firmly in place, showing nothing but a polite, patient interest. And perhaps it was only Rupert’s imagination that made him see an extra, hungry gleam in Harald’s eyes. Rupert looked back at the unlocked, inviting doors, and then stepped forward and pushed open the left-hand door. It swung smoothly back under his hand, the ancient counterweights barely whispering despite their long years of neglect. The Seneschal was quickly at his shoulder with a flaring torch as Prince Rupert entered the Armory of the Forest Kings.

The great hall stretched away before him, its boundaries lost in the gloom beyond the torch’s light. To his left and to his right and straight ahead stood blades he’d heard of all his life, but never expected to see. Rupert moved slowly forward down the narrow central aisle. Swords and axes and maces filled the weapon racks and hung proudly on the walls, their richly worked metal and leather scabbards still perfectly preserved by the Armory’s spells. Hanging beneath a simple brass plaque bearing its name was the great broadsword Lawgiver, wielded by seven Forest Kings in succession, until the blade finally became too battered and nicked to take an edge. Not far away stood the slender silver blade named Traitor, wielded by the infamous Starlight Duke during his short-lived usurpation of the throne. And more, and more … A sudden, overwhelming sense of history and ages past rushed over Rupert like an endless tide as he slowly made his way to the rear of the hall. The Forest Kingdom was a great deal older than most people realized, or cared to remember.

Many of the weapon stands lay empty and abandoned, their blades gone to arm those who presently defended the Castle against the demons. Other swords had been left behind, having seen too much wear and tear to be useful as anything more than objects of ceremony and history. But still there were thousands upon thousands of weapons, waiting patiently in their ranks for the day they would once again be drawn in defence of the Forest Land. Some blades Rupert recognized by name or reputation, while others had passed out of history completely. More than once Rupert found himself staring at some nameless sword, and wondering what tale of triumph or tragedy lay locked within the enigmatic blade. But even though he’d never seen them before, he still knew the Infernal Devices when he came to them.

They stood together in their own little alcove; three huge longswords in chased silver scabbards. Their foot-long hilts were bound with dark, stained leather, and from the size of the scabbards the blades had to be at least seven feet long, and six inches wide at the crosspiece. Rupert stood before them and knew why his skin had begun to crawl outside the Armory. The swords stank of blood. As quickly as he recognized the smell, it was gone, leaving Rupert to wonder if perhaps he’d only imagined it. The blades stood before him, cold and majestic, and apparently no more dangerous than any other sword. But still Rupert felt a deep-rooted sense of forboding, as though close at hand some ancient and awful creature was stirring uneasily in its sleep. He shook his head angrily to clear it, and reached for the nearest blade. The Seneschal quickly grabbed him by the arm and pulled him back.

“I wouldn’t, Sire; the swords are Protected. Try and touch one before the spell is removed, and we’ll be carrying what’s left of you out of here in a bucket.”

“Of course, sir Seneschal,” said Rupert. “I didn’t think.” He could feel his face burning, and silently damned himself for a fool. It should have been obvious, even to him, that blades as powerful as the Infernal Devices wouldn’t have been left unguarded. “I take it there is a counterspell?”

“There is,” said the King. “I learned it from my father, as he learned it from his. I never thought I’d have to use it.”

Rupert and the Seneschal moved aside to let King John approach the Infernal Devices. Harald held back a way, watching closely from behind his mask of indifference. The King stood a while before the three great swords, and then, finally, he said three words in a harsh, guttural language unlike anything Rupert had ever heard before. The King’s words seemed to hang on the air, echoing and re-echoing. And then the swords answered him.

Rupert’s hackles rose as the soft, eerie voices came to him from everywhere and nowhere, rising and falling and blending into strange and unnatural harmonies that seemed to hint at meaning without ever achieving it. The result was complex, liquid, and altogether inhuman. The King spoke occasionally in reply, his voice harsh and strained in comparison to the gentle, almost seductive speech of the swords. And then the blades fell suddenly silent. The King’s voice took on a strange, unpleasant rhythm, and then fell to an almost inaudible whisper. The hall grew steadily colder, and Rupert watched his breath steam on the air before him. The old runes etched into the silver scabbards seemed to writhe and curl like living things, and Rupert felt a sudden sense of pressure nearby, as though something was fighting to break out … or in. The air stank of freshly spilled blood. Something moved in the shadows beyond the torch’s uncertain light. And then the King forced out three last words, and the Infernal Devices laughed softly; a greedy, eager sound. Rupert shuddered sickly, as though just hearing the sound had somehow dirtied him. The last of the echoes died quickly away, and all was still and quiet again. The torchlight flared and flickered, but the shadows were only shadows. The air grew warmer, and the overwhelming stench of blood was nothing more than an unquiet memory. King John stared impassively at the Infernal Devices, and when he finally spoke, his voice was once again calm and even.

“Three swords,” he said quietly. “One for each of the Royal line, to wield against the endless night. I choose … Rockbreaker.”

“And may God deliver us from evil,” whispered the Seneschal.

King John reached out and took the left-hand sword from the stand. The giant blade appeared almost weightless in his hand, but he made no move to draw it from its scabbard. He simply stared at it for a moment, and then slung it over his left shoulder and strapped it firmly in place. The blade hung down his back, the tip a bare inch above the floor, its long hilt standing up behind the King’s head. He hitched his shoulder once, to settle the weight more comfortably, and then stepped back and gestured for Harald to make his choice.

Harald approached the two remaining swords cautiously. His eyes flickered from one blade to the other, undecided, but finally his gaze came to rest on the right-hand sword. His mask of unconcern suddenly fell away, revealing a harshly lined face with dark, determined eyes, and a grim smile that had nothing at all of humor in it. “Flarebright,” said Harald softly, reading the ancient runes graven into the sword’s crosspiece. “I choose Flarebright.” He took the sword from the stand and slung it quickly over his left shoulder, fumbling at the buckles in his eagerness until the Seneschal had to help him.

King John gestured for Rupert to approach the weapon stand. Rupert looked at the one remaining sword, but stayed where he was.
Go ahead
, whispered a voice deep inside him.
It’s only a sword.
The silver scabbard gleamed enticingly in the torch’s unsteady glow. Wolfsbane. A sword of power.

And Rupert stood again in the Coppertown pit, holding up his sword, calling and calling for a help that never came.

“No,” he said finally, and turned away. “I don’t trust magic swords anymore. Let someone else have it.”

“Take the sword,” said King John. “You are of the Royal line; the sword is yours by right and duty. The people need symbols to follow into battle.”

“No,” said Rupert. “There are some things I won’t do, father; not even for duty.”

“Take the sword!” snapped the King. “That’s an order!”

“Go to hell,” said Rupert, and walked away. His footsteps echoed dully on the silence as he made his way back down the central aisle. All around him, the swords of countless heroes watched reproachfully as he turned his back on them. Rupert walked on, his head held high. He’d done enough, more than enough; no one had a right to ask anything more of him. He’d face the demons again because he had to, but he’d do it with honest steel in his hand, not the foul and terrible evil he’d sensed in the Infernal Devices. A wave of bone-deep weariness surged slowly through him, and Rupert wondered if he had time for just one more hour’s sleep before dawn. He was so damn tired … He shook his head and smiled wryly. There’d be plenty of time for rest after the battle, one way or another. All the time in the world. He walked out of the Armory and into the corridor, and Lord Darius was waiting for him.

Rupert glimpsed a brief flash of light from Darius’s dagger as it sliced through the air toward him, and he threw himself desperately to one side. Darius’s blade cut through Rupert’s chain mail as he fell, but somehow just missed his ribs. Rupert hit the floor rolling and was quickly on his feet again sword in hand as Darius came toward him, snarling and muttering to himself.

The tiny discolored knife swept back and forth in quick, vicious arcs as Darius pressed forward, and Rupert backed away. He knew poison on a blade when he saw it, and he wasn’t about to take any chances. The extra reach of his sword should be enough to keep Darius at bay until the others answered his call.

Harald and King John appeared at the Armory doors, and Darius snarled at them. Black dripping balefire flew from his pointing hand. Harald drew Flarebright from its scabbard and was on guard in one swift motion, and the balefire soaked into the great gleaming length of steel and was gone. Darius turned on the King, but he’d already drawn Rockbreaker. Darius stepped back from Rupert, and raised his hands in the stance of summoning. A long jagged crack appeared in the stone floor before him. A dirty blood-red mist boiled up out of the widening crack, followed by a rush of clawed and taloned devils with murder in their glowing eyes. The air was full of the stench of brimstone. Both Harald and the King froze for a moment as deep-buried atavistic terrors ran through them, and then the moment passed, and they leapt forward, roaring their war cries. Flarebright and Rockbreaker gleamed ruddy in the crimson hell light. The devils screamed and mewled as the Infernal Devices cut them down, but ever and always they rose to the attack again, their wounds healed and gone in the blinking of an eye. Harald and the King stood back to back, and fought on.

Darius turned on Rupert again, and backed him up against a wall, shifting eagerly from foot to foot as he searched for an opening in Rupert’s defense. He wanted to kill Rupert with his dagger, if he could. Feel the blade turning in the Prince’s flesh. It would be so much more satisfying. Rupert swayed back and forth to match Darius’s movements, and searched frantically for some way out of the mess he’d got himself into. There was nowhere left to retreat to, and from the look of things, Harald and the King needed his help desperately. The poisoned dagger cut at him again and again, and Rupert could feel the sweat running down his sides as he struggled to parry every blow. Darius was leaving himself wide open, but Rupert didn’t dare relax his guard long enough to make an attack. Even a scratch from that blade might be enough to kill him. On the other hand, he didn’t need the growing ache in his arms to tell him he couldn’t keep this up for long. Despite the High Warlock’s spells, he was a long way from being fully recovered from his wounds, while Darius’s strength and fury seemed never-ending. Rupert scowled. He had to do something, while he still had the energy to bring it off.

Rupert parried yet another blow, and then swung his sword in a flat, vicious arc at Darius’s eyes. Darius fell back instinctively, and Rupert threw himself at Darius’s waist, groping for Darius’s knife hand. They fell to the ground in a tangled heap, and the devils and the crack in the floor vanished in the blinking of an eye, with no trace remaining to show that they had ever been there.

Rupert and Darius scrambled to their feet. Darius laughed breathlessly, and threw himself at Rupert’s throat. Harald cut him out of midair with one sweep of Flarebright’s massive blade. Blood flew in a wide arc as the impact of the blow threw Darius crashing back against the corridor wall. The huge sword had almost cut him in two, and yet still somehow Darius tried to turn and run. Harald stepped forward, and ran him through from behind. Darius snarled once, and then slid slowly down the wall, leaving a wide smear of blood on the ancient panelwork.

Harald tried to pull the blade out of Darius’s back, but the sword wouldn’t move. A slow red flush crept up the long steel blade as Flarebright nuzzled deeper into the wound it had made. Harald tugged at the sword with both hands and finally, reluctantly, it jerked free. The whole length of the blade had acquired a grim, crimson sheen.

“Well,” said the Seneschal quietly from the Armory door. “If nothing else, the Infernal Devices do seem to be living up to their reputations. Barely drawn a few minutes, and already christened in blood.”

“Yes,” said Harald. “They like blood. And they love to kill.” He stared thoughtfully at Flarebright’s red-tinged steel, and then slipped the sword back into its scabbard. His face quickly regained its usual calm, but his eyes remained vague and uncertain, as though he was only just beginning to realize what he’d let himself in for. He suddenly noticed that his hands were spotted with blood, and wiped them clean on his jerkin with quick, compulsive movements.

“Anyway,” he said quietly, “The important thing is that finally we’ve caught our traitor. Darius must have let the demons into the South Wing through the air vent tunnels he knew so well, and he must have used his newfound magic to interfere with the High Warlock’s teleport spell.” He looked down at Darius, lying broken on the ground. “Luckily, he’s no great loss. No one’s going to miss him.”