Blue Moon Rising (Darkwood) (65 page)

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Rupert leaned back against the locked stable door, and waited impatiently for the others to join him. It was still bitter cold in the courtyard, and he was beginning to wish he’d gone into the Castle proper and found himself a good thick cloak. He beat his hands together and blew on them, and then crossed his arms tightly across his chest. Cold. Always cold, these days. He looked hopefully round the bustling courtyard, but there was still no sign of any of the others.
I don’t know why I bother being on time
, thought Rupert bitterly.
Nobody else ever is.
He drew his sword and put himself through a series of simple exercises, but the numbing cold made him awkward, and his lack of depth perception kept throwing him off. He finally gave up in disgust, and slammed his sword back into its scabbard. Like it or not, his days as a swordsman were definitely over. Maybe he should take up the axe instead; it was a lot harder to miss with an axe.

He gently ran his fingers over his sealed eyelids, and swore softly. His eye was gone, but it still hurt. He flexed his left arm and shoulder, and sniffed dourly. He supposed he should be grateful that at least something was working right again.

He frowned, remembering the way the unicorn had looked, lying sleeping in the stable. The groom had dosed the animal with a sleeping draught. He assured Rupert the unicorn would recover from his wounds eventually, but there had been more hope than conviction in the man’s voice. Rupert sighed tiredly. Long before the unicorn could wake from his drugged sleep, the final battle would be over…one way or another.

He looked out across the crowded courtyard, and smiled suddenly as he spotted a familiar goblin hurrying past, carrying a bucket of steaming pitch almost as big as he was. Rupert called after him, and the goblin looked back, startled. He grinned broadly on seeing Rupert, and came back to join him. He dumped the bucket on the ground beside them, swearing horribly at the pitch when it looked for a moment as though it might slop over the sides. He started to offer Rupert his hand, but saw the condition of it just in time, and decided on a snappy salute instead.

“Hello, Princie,” said the smallest goblin cheerfully. “How you doing?”

“No so bad, considering,” said Rupert. “I just wondered if you knew how your friends got on in the battle. I got separated from the main bulk of the army early on, and I rather lost track of things.”

“They all died,” said the goblin matter-of-factly, “Every single one of them. They did their best, but goblins weren’t made for fighting, or being brave.”

“I’m sorry,” said Rupert. “I didn’t know.”

“Our leader died with them,” said the smallest goblin. “He insisted on leading his men into battle. He was never really happy as leader, but he was all we had. He tried hard. Poor bastard; he never really got over the death of his family in the first demon raid.”

“So who’s leader now?” asked Rupert.

The smallest goblin grinned broadly. “Me, of course; who else? I may not know much about fighting and heroics, but I’m an expert when it comes to dirty tricks and booby traps. Now then, if you’ll excuse me, I’d better get this bucket up to the battlements before the pitch cools off. Wait till those demons try climbing up the outer walls; they won’t know what’s hit them!”

He chuckled nastily, grabbed up his bucket, and scurried back into the crowd. Rupert watched him go, while in his mind’s eye he saw again the biggest goblin he’d ever known, hunched inside ill-fitting bronze armor, and growling sarcastically behind an evil-looking cigar. A goblin who’d once asked Rupert if he could teach the goblins how to forget, because they’d never learned how, and there was so much they wanted to forget …

Someone called Rupert’s name, and he quickly turned to see Julia and the High Warlock come walking out of the crowd toward him.

“I’ve got something for you,” said Julia cheerfully, and handed Rupert a length of black silk. He looked at it dubiously.

“It’s very nice, Julia. What is it?”

“It’s an eye patch, silly. Try it on.”

Rupert opened it out, and after a few false starts, pulled the strap over his head and eased the patch into position. He glanced self-consciously at Julia. “Well? How does it look?”

“You look very rakish,” said Julia, cocking her head on one side to better admire the effect. “Just like the pirates in my story books when I was a girl.”

“Thanks a bunch,” growled Rupert. He glared at the Warlock, daring him to say anything, and the Warlock turned quickly away to study the stables. He gazed skeptically at the rambling, broken-down building, and looked distinctly unimpressed.

“Are you sure you’ve got a dragon in there?”

“He chose the stable,” said Julia. “And I for one wasn’t going to argue the point.”

“Quite,” said the Warlock. “How did you persuade him to come here in the first place?”

“I rescued him from a Princess,” said Rupert, and Julia nodded solemnly. The High Warlock looked at them both, and decided not to ask any more questions. He didn’t think he really wanted to know.

Rupert unlocked the door, and pushed it open. Darkness filled the old timbered building, though bare slivers of light showed through the boarded-up windows. Rupert took a torch from its bracket by the door, and lit it with his flint and steel. The sudden flame pushed back the darkness, and the stable leapt into being before them. The empty stalls were full of shadows, and the low, thatched ceiling showed dimly through the gloom. Rupert moved slowly forward into the stable, followed by Julia and the High Warlock.

Their footsteps echoed dully on the still air, and the torchlight constantly jumped and flickered, though none of them could feel any draught. They found the dragon at the rear of the stables, curled up in a nest of dirty straw. His great folded wings rose and fell in time to the slow steady burr of his breathing. Rupert stared silently at the sleeping dragon, and felt a hot flush of shame run through him. The dragon had been hurt in the Darkwood, because of him. Hurt so badly that the creature was still sleeping off his wounds months later. Hurt, and maybe dying. And now here he was again, hoping to wake the dragon so that he could ask him to risk his life in the Darkwood one more time. Rupert felt tired, and guilty, and not a little ashamed, but he was still going to do it. The dragon was the only chance the Forest Land had left.

The High Warlock whistled quietly as he took in the size of the dragon, and nodded thoughtfully. “How long has he been sleeping like this?”

“Two, three months,” said Julia. “He never really got over the beating he took on our first journey through the Darkwood. Once we got here, he took to sleeping most of the time, until finally we couldn’t wake him at all.”

The Warlock frowned. “Odd; dragons don’t usually take long to heal. Either a wound kills them, or it doesn’t.”

He moved in close beside the dragon, and passed his hand slowly over the creature’s head. A pale, scintillating glow formed briefly around the sleeping dragon, and then vanished. The dragon slept on, undisturbed. The High Warlock stepped back, nodding grimly to himself.

“As I thought; he’s been under this spell for months.”

“A spell? You mean this sleep isn’t natural?” burst out Rupert. “Somebody’s been deliberately keeping him like this?”

“I’m afraid so,” said the High Warlock. “And whoever cast this spell must still be around somewhere, or it would have collapsed by now.”

“I can’t believe it,” said Julia. “I just can’t believe it.
Another
damned traitor? There can’t be! The only ones with a grudge against King John were Darius and his conspirators, and they’re all either dead or in exile. Who else is there that could be a traitor?”

“No use looking at me,” said the Warlock. “I’m rather out of touch with Forest politics.”

“Whoever it is would have to be after the crown for himself,” said Rupert slowly. “Nothing else would be worth taking these kind of risks for. So we’re looking for someone who wants to be King … or who can’t wait to be King.”

“No,” said Julia. “It can’t be.”

“Why not?”

“Because … he just wouldn’t, that’s why not. He turned against the conspirators who would have made him a King!”

“From what I can gather, if he had gone along with them he’d have ended up as nothing more than a figurehead for the Barons.”

“Perhaps I’m being a little slow,” said the Warlock testily, “but who the hell are you talking about?”

“Harald,” said Rupert grimly. “My brother, the Prince Harald. He always was … ambitious.”

“Harold,” said the Warlock thoughtfully. “I remember him as a boy. Big, healthy lad; very fond of hunting. I was his tutor for a while, but I don’t recall him ever showing much aptitude for magic.”

“There you are,” said Julia quickly. “Our traitor has to be a pretty powerful magician.”

“Not necessarily,” said Rupert. “They never did find the Curtana.”

“The Sword of Compulsion!” said Julia. “Of course; that was what the King intended to use against the demons in the first place.”

“Exactly,” said Rupert. “Only it got lost during the conspiracy. The Landsgraves swore they never had it, and I’m inclined to believe them. I’ve seen the wards that protected the Infernal Devices, and they were specifically keyed to the Royal line. Anyone else trying to take the swords would have been killed instantly. It seems only logical that the Curtana would have been protected in the same way.”

“So whoever took the sword had to be a member of the Royal family,” said the High Warlock slowly.

“Yeah,” said Rupert. “My father, Harald, or me. Now I was away when the sword disappeared, and it doesn’t make sense for the King to have taken it, so that only leaves … Harald.”

“That doesn’t make sense, either,” said Julia stubbornly. “If he had the Curtana, he would have used it by now. He certainly wouldn’t have gone out to face the demons without it.”

Rupert shrugged. “Maybe there’s some reason why he can’t use the sword yet. Look, it has to be Harald; there’s nobody else it can be.”

“No,” said Julia. “I don’t believe it.”

“You mean you don’t want to believe it,” said Rupert. “From what I’ve heard, you and Harald got pretty close while I was away.”

“And just what is that supposed to mean?”

“You know damn well what I mean.”

“Don’t you shout at me!”

“I am not shouting!”

“SHUT UP!” roared the High Warlock, and glared impatiently at both of them until they fell silent. “Worse than children, the pair of you. Now is it too much to ask, or could we please concentrate on the matter at hand? Namely, the sleeping bloody dragon!”

“Sorry,” muttered Julia, and Rupert mumbled something conciliatory. The two of them traded apologetic glances and smiles as the Warlock turned away to study the sleeping dragon. He stood glowering a moment, and then stretched out his arms before him. A faint, shimmering glow fell from his hands, only to fade away before it reached the dragon’s scales. The Warlock scowled, and tried again. This time, the glow was much brighter, but it still couldn’t reach the dragon. The High Warlock muttered something extremely vulgar under his breath, and raised his arms above his head in the stance of summoning. A brief crimson glow flared around his hands and was gone, and a vivid crackling flame was suddenly dancing unsupported on the air before him. It sank slowly toward the sleeping dragon, and then flared and sputtered, bobbing back and forth on the air as though pressing against some invisible barrier. The Warlock spoke a few words in a strange, fluid language that echoed disturbingly on the still air. His face beaded with sweat, and his hands shook, but still the flame hovered in midair, unable to move any closer to the sleeping dragon. The High Warlock braced himself, and spoke aloud a single Word of Power. His mouth gaped wide in agony as, for a moment, a brilliant light roared up around him, and then it was suddenly gone, and the crimson flame sank slowly down and into the dragon’s gleaming scales. The air in the stable felt suddenly different, as though a barely felt tension had just snapped, and disappeared. The dragon stirred fretfully, and then his great golden eyes crept open, and he lifted his massive head up out of the dirty straw. Julia threw her arms around his neck, and hugged him fiercely.

“Oh dragon … dragon!”

“Julia? What’s wrong, Julia?”

“Nothing. Nothing’s wrong, now that you’re back.”

The dragon looked at Rupert, and his eyes widened slightly.

“Rupert,” he said slowly. “You’re back. How long have I slept?”

“Two or three months,” said Rupert, smiling. “Welcome back, dragon. It’s good to see you again.”

“It’s good to see you again, Rupert. Julia and I were getting rather worried about you. Did you say
months?
”

“That’s right,” said Julia, releasing him. “The Darkwood has fallen over the Castle, the demon horde is battering at our gates, and any moment now they could all come swarming over our walls and slaughter the lot of us.”

“Nothing changes,” said the dragon, yawning widely. The High Warlock studied the hundreds of gleaming teeth, and was visibly impressed. “I don’t suppose you brought me anything to eat, did you?” said the dragon.

“Dragon …” said Julia.

“I know,” said the dragon mildly. “We’re all in imminent danger of being killed. But I’ve been asleep for months, and used as I am to hibernating for long periods, right now I’m hungry. Very hungry. Several roast chickens for starters, I think, and then maybe a cow or two. Or three.”

“Dragon,” said Rupert. “We need you to fly us over the Darkwood, in search of the Demon Prince. Will you do it?”

“Of course,” said the dragon. “Right after dinner.”

The Warlock looked at Rupert and Julia. “I always knew there was a reason why dragons never caught on as pets.”

Ice formed on the inner Castle walls, and the cobble-stones became treacherous underfoot. A dozen wrought-iron braziers burned fiercely in the courtyard, but did little to dispel the bitter cold that hung about the Castle like a numbing shroud. The wounded had all been taken inside the Castle, where some warmth was still to be found, and the dragon sat alone in the middle of the courtyard, eating his way steadily through a large pile of assorted meats. A few guards and men-at-arms were busy strengthening the barricades at the main gates, looking like slow clumsy bears in their huge fur cloaks and gloves. Outside the Castle walls, the endless night was still and silent.