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 an
d 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.
The Warlock looked up sharply as a demon stalked forward out of the Darkwood. It walked uneasily on two legs, and though its shape was vaguely human, an oily green fire dripped steadily from its jaws to spark and sputter on the ground. Its wide slash of a mouth was filled with huge slablike teeth, and its eyes burned yellow in the dark. The Warlock’s eyes narrowed, and the demon stopped its advance. The High Warlock raised one hand, and the demon snarled soundlessly and turned and loped back into the Darkwood. The Warlock smiled tightly.
As the demon disappeared back into the endless night, something deep in the darkness roared its hunger, and the Warlock frowned thoughtfully. Toward the end of the last demon attack, he’d sensed something huge and awful making its way toward the Castle. At the last moment it had held back rather than test his power, but already the Warlock could feel changes taking place in the Darkwood. The demons were massing for another attack, and with them … The High Warlock shivered suddenly, although he no longer had a real body. Under the Blue Moon’s light, creatures that should have slept till the end of time now walked the world of men once more. Nightmares and horrors made flesh and bone stirred restlessly in the endless night, and waited impatiently for the order to move against the Castle.
The Warlock shrugged, and took to the air again. Things happened as they would, when they would; and it made no sense to worry about them. He brushed the grim thoughts from his mind and flew slowly over the moat, staring speculatively down at the massive sheet of ice covering the water. A great dark shadow moved slowly under the ice, following his path. The High Warlock hovered in place above the ice, and the shadow stayed still beneath him. The Warlock frowned curiously. It seemed there was something still alive in the moat, but he couldn’t quite make out what. Even more interesting, it could apparently see his astral spirit. Whatever it was, it was trapped under the ice. The Warlock sank down over a crack in the ice, and peered intently at the dark shape in the water. It stirred uncertainly, and then the Warlock jumped back instinctively as the shape surged suddenly up against the underside of the ice. The crack widened and broke apart, and a single eyeball on a long pink stalk emerged through the gap. The Warlock drifted down onto the ice, a cautious distance away.
“Hello,” he said politely. “Who are you?”
A thick bubbly voice came softly to him, though whether through the crack in the ice or directly to his mind, he wasn’t sure.
I live here, said the voice. In the water. In the moat. Home. My name … that was a long time ago. Long time ago. Who are you?
“I’m the High Warlock. I’m a sorcerer.”
The eyeball swivelled back and forth on its stalk to get a better look at him. I remember you, I think. From the Dark Tower.
“Ah yes,” said the Warlock. “That was some years ago, wasn’t it? You disturbed me at my work, and I changed you into something and sent you back here.”
Long time ago, said the thick, inhuman voice. Long time. I live here now. In the moat. Home.
“I hadn’t realized it had been so long,” said the Warlock. “I’m sorry. I’ll change you back …”
“No! Please; no. I’m happy here, guarding the moat. It’s all I want; all I ever wanted. In the summer there are fish and birds and insects, and I hear their voices, hear their songs. The wind and the rain and the Forest are a part of me now, and I am a part of them. I can feel the seasons change, and the world turn, and the slow steady pulse of the living. I can’t give that up. I can’t go back to being human. To being only human.
“Yes,” said the High Warlock. “I know. I couldn’t give it up, either. But isn’t there anything I can do for you?”
The eyeball nodded thoughtfully. Come and talk to me, said the bubbling voice. Talk to me, sometimes. I do get lonely here, for someone to talk to in the speech of men.
“I’ll come when I can,” said the Warlock.
Promise?
“Promise.”
Good. Good. The eyeball turned to stare past him, taking in the darkness. The long night has fallen, sorcerer. You’d be safer inside the Castle.
“So would you.”
Bubbling laughter. The demons don’t bother me. They know better. Go back into the Castle, High Warlock. Go back into the light, and the safety of company. Come to me again, when the night is over. Please?
“Of course,” said the Warlock. “Farewell, my friend.” He turned and soared back into the air. The eyeball watched him go until he dipped behind the Castle wall, and was lost to sight. The eyeball turned briefly to stare at the encroaching darkness, and then disappeared back under the ice with a faint slurping sound. The crack in the ice froze over, and the dim dark shape below swam slowly away through the freezing waters of the moat.
Rupert woke slowly to an insistent hammering on his door. He rolled onto his back and stared blankly at the ceiling for a moment, as his dreams fell reluctantly away, and then he sat up suddenly and reached frantically for his sword on the floor by his bed. He felt safer with the sword in his hand. He glanced at his oil lamp, and smiled sourly as he saw the oil had run out, while his candles were still burning. He glared at the shadows that filled the corners of his room, and tried to remember what had woken him. The knocking came again, and the back of Rupert’s mind screamed demons demons demons! He shook his head stubbornly and breathed deeply, and the wild unreasoning fear that had set his heart racing slowly subsided, dying away to its familiar background murmur. He swung cautiously out of bed, wincing at the tired ache that still filled his muscles, and after a moment’s hesitation, he sheathed his sword and laid it on the bed. Whoever it is, they’d better have a damn good reason for disturbing me, he thought grimly. He knuckled his gummy eyes and moved reluctantly over to the wardrobe blocking his doorway. Outside, his visitor knocked again, putting some muscle into it.
“Who is it?” growled Rupert, indulging himself in a long, slow stretch that set his joints creaking.
“The Champion, Sire. You’re needed.”
Since when? thought Rupert sardonically. “All right. Wait a minute.”
He put his shoulder to the wardrobe, and the massive piece of furniture slid jerkily back to its original position. Thick welts in the rugs before his door showed where the wardrobe had stood while he slept. Rupert stooped down and carefully turned the rugs over, to hide the markings. If word got out he had to barricade his door before he could sleep, he’d never hear the end of it. Rupert unbolted and unlocked the door, taking his time about it. Whatever the Champion wanted to tell him, the odds were it wasn’t going to be anything he wanted to hear. He finally pulled the door open, and glared unsympathetically at the waiting Champion.
“This had better be important, sir Champion.”
“I see you’re feeling better, Sire.”
Rupert just looked at him. The Champion shook his head sadly.
“You can’t still be tired, surely? You’ve had almost four hours sleep.”
“Four hours?” Rupert looked around for something heavy with which to brain the Champion, and then gave up on the idea as being too much of an effort. He leaned wearily against the doorjamb and stared disgustedly at the Champion, who looked, as always, calm and rested and ready for anything. “All right, sir Champion; tell me the bad news. What’s happened while I’ve been resting?”
“Not a lot, Sire. The demons are still waiting outside our walls, and the King and the High Warlock have done nothing but scream abuse at each other since they met.”
“Great,” said Rupert. “Just great.”
“So,” said the Champion casually, “I thought it m
ight be a good idea for you to go down to the Court and talk some sense into them.”
“And what makes you think they’ll listen to me?”
“You have immense personal knowledge of the Darkwood, Sire. No man has ever passed through the darkness as many times as you, and returned to tell of it.”
“And?”
“And,” said the Champion, “You’re quite possibly the only remaining member of the Court who doesn’t have his own axe to grind.”
“It’s worth a try, I suppose,” grunted Rupert, dourly. He moved back to the bed and buckled on his swordbelt. He’d worn it for so long he felt undressed without the familiar weight on his hip. All in all, he did feel a little better for his four hours’ sleep. The stiffness was gone from his left shoulder, and he could barely feel the new scar tissue pulling when he moved his arm. He was still tired, but he could handle that. He’d had a lot of practice, recently. He ran his fingers through his tousled hair, pulled his jerkin straight, and then looked down at his blood-soaked clothes. Four hours of restless sleep had not improved their appearance. Rupert thought about changing into clothes more suitable for the Court, and then thought, Forget it. If the Court didn’t like it, tough. He settled his swordbelt comfortably, and strode over to the patiently waiting Champion.