“It wasn’t your fault …”
“Wasn’t it? The King is the Land, and the Land is the King. I failed as King, and now the Land is paying the price.”
“Bull,” said Julia. “You’re a man like any other, and you did the best you could with an impossible situation. You mustn’t blame yourself, John. The Darkwood doesn’t care how brave or strong you are; it’s a part of Nature, like an earthquake or a storm. You can’t hope to beat it with swords and axes and armies.”
“So what should I do? Give in?”
“No,” said Julia sharply. “We go on fighting, but in a different way. We’ve tried armies and we’ve tried magic, and they’ve both failed us. Now there’s only one way left. Think, John; what’s the real heart of the Darkwood, what gives it life and purpose? The Demon Prince! Destroy him, and you destroy the Darkwood!”
“I don’t believe I’m hearing this,” said Rupert. “It’s all we can do to hold the Castle against the demons, and you expect us to go traipsing off into the Darkwood in search of the Demon Prince himself? We wouldn’t last five minutes out there!’”
“We’ve got to try!” said Julia. “It’s our only hope now.”
“Wait a minute,” said Rupert. “I hate to suggest it, but how about another teleport spell? If he got it right, the Warlock could take us straight to the Demon Prince.”
“No,” said the Warlock quietly. “I don’t have enough magic left to power that kind of spell.”
“The dragon!” said Rupert. “He could fly us over the Darkwood!”
The High Warlock looked at him. “You’ve got a dragon? Here?”
“Sure,” said Julia. “He’s sleeping in the stables.”
The Warlock shook his head slowly. “Nobody tells me anything.”
“The last time I tried, I couldn’t wake him,” said Rupert. “Maybe you can, sir Warlock.”
“It’s worth a try. But I’ll need to rest first.”
“Very well,” said King John. “I suggest we all get whatever rest we can. We’ll meet again in an hour’s time. Unless, of course, the demons get here first.”
“You always were a gloomy bastard, John,” said the High Warlock.
The Warlock sat alone at the bottom of the main entrance steps, brooding over the empty wine bottle in his hand. Only a few hours ago, he could have called up another bottle just by thinking about it, but now … He sighed glumly, and put the bottle down, carefully out of his line of sight. He remembered the drugged wine the servant had brought him, and smiled wryly. Maybe it was time he gave up drinking wine. Right now, he’d settle for a good brandy. He wistfully considered raiding the King’s wine cellars, but decided against it. The demons could come swarming over the walls at any time, and he had to be ready for them. He sighed again, and then glanced up as King John appeared before him.
“You look terrible.”
“Thanks a lot, John.”
“Your hair’s gone gray.”
“That’s what being sober does for you.”
King John smiled in spite of himself. “You’re losing your magic, aren’t you?”
“Looks like it. It’s hardly surprising; I’ve cast more spells in the last twenty-four hours than I’d normally cast in a year. And fighting off the poison took a hell of a lot out of me. Now, every spell ages me a little more. I can feel the winter in my bones, and I’m starting to forget things. I hate it when I can’t remember things.”
“I know,” said the King. “I feel the same way, sometimes. But in a way, it’s a kind of blessing. After all, we both have things we’d rather not remember.”
Julia unstrapped the long, silver scabbard from her back, and studied it thoughtfully. It looked different, now that it no longer contained the Infernal Device. The silver itself seemed dull and lusterless, and the ancient runes set deep into the metal held no meaning at all. Julia hefted the scabbard in her hands, and then threw it away. It fell among a pile of discarded weapons left by the returning army and, from a distance, it was just one more scabbard among many.
Julia leaned back against the inner East wall, and closed her eyes. It felt almost sinful to be resting, when everyone else was racing around the courtyard like a chicken about to have its head chopped off, but until the Warlock decided he was ready, there was nothing for her to do. So she sat down, leaned back against the wall, stretched out her legs, and had a little rest. She let one hand drop to the sword at her side, and smiled slightly. Rupert had given her that sword a long time ago, or so it seemed, and it had done good service by her. Which was more than she could say for Wolfsbane. She’d never been happy with that sword in her hand. She could have hung onto it, rather than letting it vanish into the earth along with the creature it was killing, but she’d chosen to let it go, and still felt she’d done the right thing. Wolfsbane was more than just a sword; much more. It was alive, and it was aware, and it had wanted her mind and her soul. And Julia knew that if she had used the sword long enough, it would have had them both. In the end, she’d given up the sword because she’d wanted so much to keep it.
She heard footsteps approaching. She opened her eyes just long enough to recognize Harald, and then closed them again.
“I see you’ve got rid of the scabbard,” said Harald. “Probably a wise move. According to some legends, the Infernal Devices can never be destroyed, and if they’re ever lost or thrown away, they will eventually find their way back to their scabbards.”
“You believe that rubbish?” asked Julia, not bothering to open her eyes.
“I’ve seen a great many things recently that once I would never have believed possible,” said Harald calmly. “That’s why I threw away my scabbard.”
Julia opened her eyes and looked at him. The scabbard was gone from Harald’s back, and it seemed to Julia that he stood a little taller without it. Their eyes met for a moment, sharing a knowledge they would never reveal to anyone else, of how close they had come to being seduced and overpowered by the swords they’d carried. After a while, they looked away, perhaps because they didn’t want to be reminded. They just wanted to forget.
“Do you think the Warlock will be able to wake the dragon?” asked Harald.
“I don’t know. The dragon’s been hibernating for months. Rupert thinks he may be dying.”
“Well, Rupert has been known to be wrong, on occasion.”
Julia looked at Harald steadily. “You would have shut those gates on him, wouldn’t you?”
“How many more times, Julia? It was necessary. Somebody had to defend the Keep, so that the gates could be shut.”
“Then why didn’t you do it?”
Harald smiled. “I never was the heroic type.”
“So I’ve noticed,” said Julia, and getting to her feet, she walked away in search of Rupert.
* * *
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.