“You did what you had to,” said Chappie. “You had no choice. You didn’t tell them the worst part. The demon had already dug up several graves in the cemetery, and feasted on what it found there.”
“It just wanted to go home,” said Chance.
“Don’t we all,” said the dog.
“When we got back to the Forest Castle, they told me King Harald had been murdered in my absence,” said Chance. “His enemies had come for him, and I wasn’t there to protect him. If I hadn’t gone off after that demon—”
“The King would have died anyway,” snapped Chappie. “The King was protected by Sir Vivian and his guards, and the bloody Magus’ magical wards, and the killer still got to him. What could you have done to protect him, that all those people couldn’t?”
“I don’t know,” said Chance. “And because I wasn’t there, I’ll never know.”
Not long after leaving the Darkwood behind, they came to a clearing Hawk recognized. He shouldn’t have been able to; it looked like just another clearing, like so many they’d already passed through, but somehow he knew. He could feel the difference in his bones, and in his soul. He stopped his horse abruptly, and looked about him. Fisher had to rein in her horse and come back to join him. Being in the lead, Chance didn’t notice for a while, and Chappie had to yell to him to come back. He quickly turned his horse around, one hand near his great axe, but there was no sign of any threat. The birds were singing, the grass was thick and luxurious, the trees stood tall and proud. Just one more Forest clearing.
“You know what this place is, too, don’t you?” Hawk asked Fisher.
“Of course. How could I not know?”
“Well, how about letting us in on the secret?” said Chappie as he and Chance came back to join them.
“This is where we met the Demon Prince,” said Hawk. “In what was then the sick heart of the Darkwood. This is where I called down the Rainbow to banish the darkness. This is where we emerged from the long night, when the Darkwood was thrust back to its original limits. And this is where the High Warlock told me my father, King John, was dead.”
“Damn,” Chance said softly. “This is the place? All the songs and legends tell of it, but no one ever seemed to know exactly where it was.” He looked eagerly about him, trying to see what Hawk and Fisher saw, but all he saw was a Forest clearing. “This is history! There should be … I don’t know, a plaque or a shrine or something. So people could come here, on pilgrimages—”
“No,” said Hawk. “Let it stay a legend. The reality would only disappoint them, just as it’s disappointing you. You built this place up in your imagination till no reality could match what you saw in your mind’s eye. This place isn’t important. It’s what we did here that matters.”
“And some of what we saw and did here are best kept to ourselves,” said Fisher. “We still have nightmares, sometimes.”
“I would have given everything I had, to have been a part of such an undertaking!” said Chance.
“That’s the legend talking,” said Hawk. His hand rose slowly to his face, as though the old scars were bothering him. “The reality was somewhat different. You look at this clearing and see only awe and wonder and the triumph of the light. We look at it and remember horror and pain and how close we came to losing everything. I saw my father betrayed by his oldest friend. I saw my Julia crippled, by a living horror older than humanity. I saw Death stare me in the face and grin. I called down the Rainbow, and it was bright and glorious and wonderful beyond belief, but in the end that’s not what I remember.”
“We remember the dark,” said Fisher. “We always will.”
Chance could hear the revulsion in their voices, and looked around the clearing again, straining to see something of what they saw, but he couldn’t. For him, it was just a clearing. He decided to change the subject.
“You said this is the last place you saw your father, Your Highness?”
“Hawk. I’m just Hawk now. But yes. He was alive when we banished the Demon Prince, and he lived to see the Darkwood thrown back, but the strain was too much for him. He died here, and the High Warlock magicked the body away. He never would say why; only that he had done what was necessary. And knowing what I know about my father, and his part in the coming of the long night, I never questioned the High Warlock. I didn’t think I wanted to know.”
“What you’re hearing now isn’t part of the legend,” Fisher said to Chance. “And if you’re smart, you won’t repeat any of it.”
“Of course not,” Chance agreed quickly, though there were many questions he wanted to ask.
“For a long time, I wasn’t sure whether I really believed my father was dead,” said Hawk. “I never saw his body. And part of me didn’t want to believe it … because I never got to say good-bye. But the more I hear about what’s happened to the Forest Land, the clearer it is that King John has to be dead. There’s no way he could stay hidden with so much going on. And he would have come back from the shores of Death itself to avenge his murdered son, if he could. So he’s dead. Just like Harald. Which only leaves … me. The last of my line. There’s Harald’s son, Stephen, of course, but he’s half Hillsdown. I could be King, if I chose. I have that right. It could be said to be my duty.”
“But you don’t want to be King,” said Fisher.
“No,” said Hawk. “I don’t.”
Time to change the subject again, thought Chance. “There’s no doubt about the High Warlock being dead, I’m afraid. The Magus told us when he came to Court to announce himself the Warlock’s chosen successor. King Harald needed to be sure the High Warlock was dead, so he sent some admittedly rather reluctant emissaries to the Dark Tower, to check out the situation. They found the High Warlock dead in his chair, and the Tower deserted, so they collapsed the whole damned Tower on top of him, to be his cairn. And perhaps also in the hope that all that weight of stone would be enough to hold his spirit down, and keep it from wandering.”
“I’m still pissed off about that,” said Chappie. “Barbarians! It was my home, too.”
“So much death,” Hawk said tiredly. “No wonder we stayed away so long.”
They rode on through the Forest. More days passed. There were many areas of dead trees and dead land, places blighted by the fall of the long night that had still not recovered, and perhaps never would. There were trees with no leaves, whose dark trunks crumbled at the touch, rotted away from within, and whole clearings where nothing grew, and the bare ground was cracked and dry. Silent, because no living creature would enter these places, and even the birds and the insects avoided them. Old wounds that would never heal. The horses didn’t want to enter these places, either, and on the few occasions when there was no other choice, the riders had to keep a hard rein to prevent the horses from bolting. They tossed their heads, eyes rolling, and their hooves threw up dust and ashes where they walked.
Some parts of the Forest would take generations to recover. And some never would.
Dotted here and there in the woods, in quiet clearings and open glades, they came across many small churches and shrines. Most were Christian, simple places for worship and celebration, but there were other shrines, too, for older gods and more ambivalent forces. The long night had put the fear of God into the Forest population, and they took their comfort where they could find it. There were standing stones and crude altars, marking old places of power and the occasional genius loci; old battlefields in the never-ending struggle between good and evil, or light and dark. Fresh garlands of flowers lay curled around ancient stones with fresh markings, along with simple prayers written on scraps of paper and weighted down with smooth stones on which open eyes had been painted. Prayers for good weather and better harvests, or just to keep the dark times at bay. There were even occasional small shrines for Prince Rupert and Princess Julia, and old King John, too, with flowers and simple offerings, and pleas for their return someday. Hawk found them touching, but Fisher just turned up her nose. Fisher had always believed t
hat God helps those who help themselves.
They were heading into the more populated areas now, passing through the many new small towns and villages built to replace those lost or destroyed during the Demon War. Bright and shining with freshly quarried stone and new timber, the paint and plaster were still wet on the most recent additions. In the larger towns, new buildings sprouted up amongst the old like new flowers in an old garden. They were all lively, busy places, thronging with people, many of whom still had strong Redhart or Hillsdown accents. The new arrivals had made their mark in other ways, too, showing clearly in unfamiliar architectural styles, and their own transplanted ways and traditions. Hawk found some of these alien ways upsetting, in what should have been the heartland of his old home, but he did his best to hide it. Wherever they had come from, they were Forest people now. His people if he decided to be King. So he smiled and nodded at the friendly faces, and felt more of a stranger in this new Forest Land than they did.
It was early evening when the rain came down, sudden and hard. Thunder rumbled directly overhead, and lightning flared blue-white in the darkening sky. They had come to a place where the trees were widely spaced, and there was no obvious shelter. The horses tossed their heads unhappily, and Chappie slunk in close beside Chance, his tail between his legs and his ears flattened, flinching with each new crash of thunder. Hawk spotted the ancient signpost, half hidden in tall grass, that pointed the way to the small town of Breckon Batch, and they hurried down a narrow trail already fast turning to mud under the driving rain. Chance was the only one with any rain gear, and he didn’t have time to stop and put it on, so they were all pretty soaked when the flaring lightning showed them a squat stone tavern on the edge of town, the Starlight Inn. They stabled their horses in the modest lean-to beside the tavern, and hurried inside, though Hawk paused to give the swinging sign a dubious look. The Starlight was a clear reference to the original Starlight Duke, who’d rebelled against a Forest King long ago, and split off his own territory to form what was now Hillsdown. In Forest history, the Starlight Duke was an infamous traitor, and in Rupert’s day naming a Forest inn after him would have been an open treason.
Not surprisingly, the Starlight Inn turned out to cater mostly to Hillsdown immigrants. The patrons fell silent as the newcomers came crashing into the dim smoky room, stamping their boots on the stoop and shaking the rain from their cloaks, but they warmed up quickly once Chance introduced himself. It seemed the Questor’s good reputation was known throughout the Kingdom. Hawk and Fisher looked on just a little jealously as the inn’s patrons made a fuss over Chance and gave him the best seat by the fire. The tavern owner produced jugs of hot mulled ale, and wouldn’t hear of them going any further that night, not in such terrible weather. He had rooms available, at very competitive prices, and he wouldn’t take no for an answer. He called for the serving wench to bring dry clothes, and room was made for Hawk and Fisher at the fire. Chappie lay as close to the flames as he could get, steaming happily.
Soon they were all dry and comfortable, and more able to take an interest in their surroundings. The crowd seemed pleasant enough, though their thick Hillsdown accents some-times made their speech impenetrable to Hawk. Chance and Fisher were more used to it, so Hawk just sat back and let them do most of the talking. He was more interested in studying the changes the immigrants had brought with them, even to something as simple and basic as a tavern. Most obviously, there was the sign of the fish everywhere, instead of the cross; reminders that these people had their own separate Church. Many of the drinks on offer behind the wooden bar were unfamiliar, and when hot food finally arrived, it consisted of traditional Hillsdown delicacies, most of which Hawk just looked at dubiously. The main offering was a deer’s entrails steamed in a sheep’s stomach. Fisher attacked it ravenously, saying loudly that it had been a long time since she’d had a chance at such good food.
“It’s the spices that make all the difference,” she said to Hawk, somewhat indistinctly. “Eat up; this’ll put hairs on your chest.”
“Then why are you eating it?” muttered Hawk, prodding the steaming mound before him with a fork.
“If you don’t want it, I’ll have it,” said Chappie.
“Now there’s a surprise,” said Chance. He was eating his portion with no apparent problems, so Hawk reluctantly tried a small mouthful. He then decided he was rather hungry after all, and did his best to eat without thinking too much about what he was actually chewing. The spices did make a difference.
The innkeeper bustled over, a broad-shoulder and barrel-chested man who had clearly been a soldier at some time in his life. “Is all to your liking, Sir Questor? Here, let me stick the hot poker in your ale again, warm it up some. And is there anything else your servants would be needing?”
“We are not his servants!” said Hawk, looking up sharply.
“My apologies, sir. And what might you be, then?”
“His companions,” said Fisher as Hawk struggled for an answer. “We’re on our way to the Castle.”
“Good luck to you all then, sir and madam; ‘tis a very unhappy place at present, so I’ve heard. What with the King so sudden dead, God bless him, and no one any clearer as to the who or why.”
“How did you feel about the King?” asked Hawk. “I mean, he wasn’t your King for long.”
“He was our King,” said the innkeeper firmly. “We all swore allegiance to him when we first became Forest citizens. And proud we were to do so. The old Duke, he ruled well enough in Hillsdown, I suppose, but he never really cared for his people, or for what they thought of him. Wasn’t a bad sort, really. As long as you paid your taxes on time and kept your mouth shut about things that didn’t concern you, he mostly left you alone. But King Harald, he was a hero; saved us all from the long night. A good man, so I’ve heard tell.”
“Do you find things better then, here in the Forest?” said Hawk.
“Well, yes and no, Your Honor. There’s more land for every man, but that means more work in the tending of it. More freedom, I suppose, but the price of everything in the markets is a damn sight higher. And it doesn’t feel like home here yet, if Your Honor understands me.”
“Yes,” said Hawk. “I think I do. This was my home, but I’ve been away a long time. And much has changed in my absence.”
“Change is in the air,” said the innkeeper, moving among them to top off their jugs with fresh ale. “With the King gone, God bless him, there’s talk of politics everywhere. I mean, the Queen does her best as Regent, God bless and save her, but her son, Stephen, is many years off being a man’s age. There are those saying we should seize the opportunity, and make changes now, while we can.”
“What sort of changes?” said Fisher.
“Any and all sorts, ma’am,” said the innkeeper cheerfully. “News from the south tells of all kinds of political systems, and the idea of democracy is on every man’s lips. Though every man seems to have his own idea of what that should mean. There’s speeches and gatherings all over the place, and representatives from the rich and the powerful promising a lot in return for support. With the King gone and the Queen so weakened, God bless them both, it seems like everyone’s getting ready to toss their hats into the ring. And then there’s Duke Alric, of course.” The innkeeper frowned for the first time. “Supposedly he’s here to comfort the Queen in her time of loss, but more likely he’s here to tell the Queen what to do, and none of us like the sound of that. We came here to get away from the Duke.”
The conversation went on for a while, as tavern conversations have a way of doing, going around and around with everyone chipping in, but never actually getting anywhere. Eventually the talk wound down, and the tavern patrons left to go to their homes, lurching and bumping into each other. The innkeeper showed a by now very sleepy Chance and Hawk and Fisher to their rooms. The Questor got the best room in the tavern, of course, as befitting his stature and good reputation. But he did have to share it with Chappie, who still smelled distinctly damp
. Hawk and Fisher got a small, pokey room that was little more than an attic. They wouldn’t give the innkeeper the satisfaction of an objection, so they just smiled and nodded till he left, and only then looked unhappily about them.
There was a very uncomfortable-looking bed, under a blanket that looked like it was more used to covering a horse; an inch of candle in a pewter holder; a bucket in the corner whose smell told them exactly what it was for; and one tightly shuttered window. Outside, the storm was still going strong, with the rain hammering on the roof overhead. Hawk and Fisher stripped off their borrowed clothing in weary silence, and finally cuddled together under the rough sheets. With the candle blown out, the room was pitch dark, save for the occasional flash of lightning that showed eerily around the edges of the shuttered window.
“Does the dark bother you?” Fisher quietly asked Hawk.
“No. Not as long as you’re here.”
“Me neither. We’ll be at the Castle in a few days.”
“Yes.”
“Then what do we do?”
“Play it by ear. This isn’t the Forest we remember. Things are different now. Odds are the Castle will be different, too. But it doesn’t matter. We’ll find Harald’s murderer and see the guilty punished. Because we’re Hawk and Fisher, and that’s what we do.”
“Damn right,” said Fisher.
They laughed quietly together, lay awhile listening to the storm, unable to reach them for all its fury, and then they both slept soundly until morning.
And just a few days later they at last came in sight of Forest Castle. They stopped awhile where the tightly packed trees fell away suddenly to form the edge of a huge clearing, so Hawk and Fisher could savor the moment. Or perhaps just so they could put off the moment when they’d have to go home. Beyond the wide clearing was the dark-watered moat, and beyond that, Forest Castle. Truth be told, it didn’t look like much from the outside. To the untutored eye, it looked like just another time-battered Castle, and a good sight smaller than most. The great stone walls were cracked and pitted from long exposure to the elements, and here and there could clearly be seen patches of white against the gray, where new stone had been brought in to make repairs after the demons’ final assault in the last hours of the long night. The tall, crenelated towers had a battered, lopsided look, and the flags on the battlements hung limply in the hot, breezeless day.