“Then do something about it,” said Cameron. “You’re the sorcerer.”
“I’m also a man who knows his limitations,” said Van Fleet. He wanted to glare at the Prince but couldn’t quite raise the nerve. He settled for glowering at the Castle image. “These protections aren’t just old and well established; they’re positively ancient. Laid down by sorcerers far more powerful than me. There’s Wild Magic in there as well as High, along with a whole bunch of things I don’t even recognise. Making my head hurt just looking at them. I haven’t got anything that could even touch them. Be like licking your finger during a thunderstorm, and sticking it in the air to see if the lightning was heading your way.”
“Isn’t there anything you can do?” said Staker. “There must be something!”
“I can work at the outer edges,” Van Fleet said reluctantly. “Defuse something here, unravel something there, work my way in, layer by layer. The defence magics extend right to the edge of the clearing, in case you hadn’t noticed . . . But it could take me weeks, even months, to peel away all those layers. We’d do better to wait for the magical help the King is sending.”
“The Red Heart,” the Champion said heavily. “Or whatever that unnatural thing really is. Am I the only one who damn near had an accident in his underwear when that thing appeared in Court?”
“If you knew what it really was . . . or what I think it might be . . . you’d run away and hide in a whole different country,” said Van Fleet. “And I may, yet.”
“What do you think it is?” said Staker. “Come on, man, if we’re going to fight beside it, we need to know.”
“It’s older than Redhart, older than Humanity,” said the sorcerer. “And it’s not any kind of pagan god, even if some of our more gullible ancestors worshipped it in the past.”
“So what does that leave?” said the Champion.
“I think it’s a demon,” said Van Fleet. “Something really bad, left over from the old War . . . So you have to wonder why it’s helping us. If it is . . .”
“All right,” said the Champion. “Someone’s been drinking his own potions again . . . Do let us know when the rational parts of your brain kick back in.”
“The King assured me that when the Red Heart arrives, he will bring with him powerful magical allies,” said Cameron, raising his voice just enough to bring everyone’s attention back to him. “Don’t ask me what these forces might be; my father didn’t see fit to confide in me. Even though I’m supposed to be running this campaign. Hopefully, these new magical allies will be powerful enough to do something about the Castle’s protections. Otherwise, we might as well just set up the siege engines, and throw bloody rocks at it. In which case, we could be in for a really long siege, gentlemen.”
“When is the Red Heart supposed to get here?” said the Champion. “And why didn’t it just come through the dimensional gate with the rest of us?”
“Ask the King,” said Van Fleet.
The entrance flaps to the tent burst open as Prince Christof arrived, fussily brushing raindrops from his elegant chased armour, complete with pointed greaves, spiked elbows, and a horned steel helmet. He’d had it designed specially. His sword, on the other hand, looked entirely professional, even brutal, as it hung on his hip. He smiled about him.
“I always like to look my best on important occasions. And what could be more important than this?”
“Where have you been, Brother?” said Cameron.
“Just taking a little walk in the woods, getting the lie of the land, and the feel of the place,” Christof said easily. “I can’t say I care much for this Forest . . . The tall trees are impressive enough, I suppose, but there are far too many of them. It’s all a bit much . . . I prefer the wide-open spaces of Redhart. I do.”
“When we win this war, the Forest will be part of Redhart,” said Cameron.
Christof smiled. “Then perhaps Father will give it to you, Brother.”
King William hadn’t wanted both his sons to go to war, but Christof had insisted on going. He was damned if he was going to just hang around the Court, running errands for the King, while his elder brother was off pursuing fame and glory. And, perhaps, his way to the throne . . . No, if there was glory to be had, Christof was determined to seize his own share. Let Cameron plot his clever strategies, and run his battles; Christof would make sure to be out and about, in all the right places, being seen doing terribly heroic things. Let the King try to give his throne to a man who stayed in his tent, while his brother was out saving the day. Even a King who’d just won a war would have to bow down to public opinion over something like that. Cameron might know battles, but Christof knew people.
He sauntered over to look admiringly at the image of Forest Castle, and dabble his fingertips in the colourful protections. Van Fleet tensed but had enough sense not to say anything.
“Will Blood Magic be any use against this Wild Magic?” said Christof. “Would it perhaps be possible for Cameron and myself, working together, to punch a hole through these defences? Big enough for our army to use?”
“Always possible, I suppose,” said Van Fleet. “Blood Magic is a form of Wild Magic, after all. Oh, didn’t you know that? Your Blood Magic derives from the returned Unreal, which means, strictly speaking, that anyone of the Redhart Royal line is at least partly Unreal.”
“Don’t push your luck, sorcerer,” said Christof.
“Wasn’t aware I had any left,” said Van Fleet.
They all looked round sharply as the tent flaps billowed open again and the Stalking Man strode in. Followed, rather less grandly, by the Prime Minister, Gregory Pool. Leland Dusque stopped at the end of the table, struck an attitude, and grinned cheerfully about him. Knowing that none of the others wanted him there, and enjoying it. A tall, fleshy man, in his bloodred robes and hood, he dominated the whole scene, just by being there. The others might be soldiers, but he was a killer, and he gloried in it. Hell’s presence on Earth, the will of the Pit in the world of men. And blood and death and horror accompanied him wherever he went.
Gregory Pool stood dripping by the entrance, as though unsure of his welcome. He was soaked to the skin in his fashionable expensive clothes, and for all his impressive size, his usual poise and assurance were gone, swept away by recent events. His subtle ploys and devious strategies were no match for the fast-moving imperatives of war. He’d only ever had influence, not real power, and the King no longer listened to him. Gregory Pool had been left behind, and he knew it.
“I shouldn’t be here,” he said petulantly. “I’m a politician, not a soldier.”
“I already tried that line,” said Van Fleet. “You’ll notice I’m still here.”
“You’re here, Prime Minister, because the King wants you here,” Christof said mildly. “To represent Parliament and make a report to them afterwards. You’re here to observe, not participate. So do try not to get underfoot, there’s a good chap. Personally, I would have brought a minstrel, rather than a politician. You both lie, but minstrels do it with more style.”
Pool brought out his silver snuffbox and fumbled the lid open with shaking fingers. Van Fleet slapped it out of his hands. The box fell to the carpeted floor, spilling cocaine everywhere. Pool looked blankly at his fallen box and then got down on his knees and scrabbled at the scattered white powder with his unsteady hands.
“Get him out of here,” said Cameron. “He serves no useful purpose. Send him back.”
Van Fleet nodded, muttered under his breath, and gestured briefly; and the Prime Minister vanished.
“The King will not be pleased to see the Prime Minister back again,” said General Staker.
“He can always send another observer,” said Christof. “Hopefully one who can hold a tune.”
“We can’t afford distractions,” said Cameron.
“Couldn’t agree more,” said Staker, glaring at the Stalking Man. “I’d feel a lot happier if he weren’t around!”
“How unkind,” murmured Lelan
d Dusque.
“We can win this war without your kind of help!” said Staker.
“Perhaps, General,” said Dusque. “But William wants me here. He has a use for my . . . special talents. So your opposition to my being here could be seen as treason. Couldn’t it?”
“You see?” Staker said loudly to the others. “Every word he speaks is full of Hell’s poison!”
“And given that William wants the Stalking Man here,” said Van Fleet, “what does that tell us all about our revered monarch’s current state of mind?”
“Now that does border on treason, sorcerer,” said the Champion.
“It can feel like that,” said Van Fleet, “when you’re the only sane man left in the room. Or the tent.”
“No quarrelling in the command tent!” Prince Cameron said sharply. “Either we all pull in the same direction, or I’ll kick people out until we do. Have you placed your men where I instructed, General?”
“Of course, your highness,” Staker said carefully. He might be in charge of the army, but he was still more than ready to follow Cameron’s orders. The Broken Man was a genius when it came to tactics. Staker gestured to Van Fleet, and the sorcerer made the image of the Castle disappear, so the General could spread out his maps on the table. They were pretty basic things, but they served to show the current troop positions surrounding the Castle. Staker and Cameron then spent some time discussing the various strengths and capabilities of each troop, and the possibilities for various attacks. Christof and the Champion did their best to follow it all, but soon gave up and settled for nodding in what they hoped were the right places. Van Fleet didn’t even bother. He just stood off to one side, well away from the Stalking Man, staring at nothing and feeling sorry for himself. When the discussion finally wound down, Staker was greatly impressed. The others mostly didn’t give a damn. They weren’t there to discuss strategy. They were there to kill people.
Cameron finally looked up from his maps and fixed his gaze on Christof. “This is all well and good, but I can’t move a single man till the Red Heart gets here with his forces. The King was most insistent on that. Do you understand our father’s thinking on this matter, Brother?”
“No,” said Christof. “But whatever the Red Heart may or may not be, he is clearly a Being of Power. So, we wait and see . . .”
“Since we’re not going anywhere, or doing anything useful,” said the Champion, “can I just remind everyone that this is all supposed to be about getting the Princess Catherine back safely?” He glared at Van Fleet. “I still don’t see why you can’t just teleport me inside the Castle so I can find Catherine and talk some sense into her. And then you could bring us both back out.”
“Well, that’s probably because you haven’t been paying attention, sir Champion,” said Van Fleet, glaring right back at him. “Remember the Castle’s defences? All those pretty colours around the image? If I try to force you through those wards, you’ll appear on the other side as a collection of large meaty chunks.”
“He’s right, Mal,” said Christof. “There’s no shortcut, no easy way to do this.”
“Let me go to the Castle alone, then, as an envoy,” Malcolm said desperately. “Alone and unarmed. Why wouldn’t they see me then? Maybe I can make some kind of deal, over Catherine. I’m sure if I could just get her alone . . . Knowing they’re surrounded by our army must have put the Forest Court in a more reasonable state of mind.”
“That’s very honourable of you, Malcolm,” said Christof. “Putting your life on the line to save lives all around . . . But you heard Catherine. Either she truly doesn’t want to come back, or she’s completely under their control. Either way, they’d never let you see her, and they’d never give her up. War has been declared; neither side can back down now. No, they’d just take you prisoner, to use as a bargaining chip. The only way to rescue my dear sister is to bring down the Castle.”
“What if they threaten to kill Catherine if we don’t retreat?” said the Champion.
“We’re at war, sir Champion,” Cameron said steadily. “We will all do what we must and make whatever sacrifices may prove necessary.”
“You’d let her die?” said Malcolm. “She’s your sister!”
“But Cameron doesn’t care,” said Christof. “Cameron is famous for not caring. Isn’t that right, Brother?”
“They must know that if they kill the Princess Catherine, there will be terrible reprisals,” said Cameron. “We must rely on their good sense to keep her safe.”
Staker looked thoughtfully at Leland Dusque. “You’re famous for coming and going and no one knowing . . . Could you get through the Castle’s defences and reach the Princess without being noticed?”
“Of course,” said the Stalking Man. “Nothing can stand in my way, while I walk Hell’s path. But I can only walk alone when I walk unseen. I couldn’t take anyone with me, and I couldn’t bring anyone out with me. And besides, Jack Forester is there. The Walking Man that was. He’d know I was there. Given how similar our offices are, it’s hardly surprising we have an affinity for each other.”
And then he stopped. His head came up, and he smiled slowly.
“Well, speak of the devout, and up he pops. Of course, they would send him. The one envoy we wouldn’t kill on sight, or dare take captive. Prepare yourselves, gentlemen; we’re about to be visited by a living legend.”
The tent flaps opened, and two guards came in, with Jack Forester walking between them. The guards tried hard to give the impression that Jack was under arrest, but they weren’t fooling anyone. It was clear to everyone that in his own quiet way Jack scared the crap out of the guards. They gave him plenty of room, and kept their hands well away from their weapons. Jack stopped, and the guards stopped with him. Jack smiled easily about him—just a grey-haired old man, in a monk’s robes, leaning on a wooden staff. For a moment none of the Redhart commanders knew what to do; and then Christof gestured for the guards to leave, which they quickly did.
Nearly everyone in the tent looked at Jack Forester with respect and admiration. They knew the stories, all the incredible things he’d done, punishing evil and protecting the innocent as God’s wrath in the world of men. His travels had taken him through much of Redhart, as well as the Forest. King William had actually feasted him once, at Castle Midnight. So they all smiled and bowed to him—except for Leland Dusque.
“God save all here,” said Jack. “I am here as an envoy from King Rufus.”
“We know you,” said Christof. “The one man they could send that we would listen to. You’ll pardon if we seem a little overawed. It’s not every day we come face-to-face with a living legend.”
Jack made a dismissive gesture. “I gave all that up long ago. I’m just a man of God now, hoping we can find a way to avoid mass slaughter.”
No one said anything. They were all studying Jack Forester, and thinking pretty much the same thing. It was hard to accept that this mild-mannered old man had once been one of the most dangerous men alive. You don’t expect living legends to retire and give it all up and grow old. The man before them looked small and diminished, even fragile. And yet, there was still something about him. Jack Forester had a presence; and so did the great sword hanging down his back.
Jack looked past them all, to Leland Dusque, smiling and standing alone. The two men watched each other silently for a long moment, and then Jack turned sternly to Prince Cameron.
“How can you ally yourself with the Stalking Man? With Hell’s presence on Earth? Don’t you know the things he’s done?”
“This is war,” said Cameron, entirely unmoved. “I know the stories. Everyone does. That’s what makes him such a useful weapon.”
“And you’re in no position to cast the first stone,” said Dusque. “That is an Infernal Device on your back, isn’t it?”
Everyone looked at Jack sharply as they heard the old name, their faces full of shock and horror.
“I thought they were all gone!” said Christof. “All the stories
agreed: the three Infernal Devices were lost or destroyed in the last part of the Demon War!”
“No,” said the Champion. “There were other swords, some said, kept secret by the Forest Kings, all these years . . .”
“And you’ve brought them back into the world,” said Cameron.
“What other choice did we have?” said Jack.
“Am I the only one who sees an opportunity here?” said Van Fleet. “He’s brought us an Infernal Device. Why not just take it for ourselves?”
“What makes you think the sword would let you take it?” said Jack. “The Infernal Devices have always chosen their own wielders.”
There was an uncomfortable moment, broken when Jack took a step forward, smiling easily on all present.
“There’s no need for any unpleasantness. I am an envoy, with a simple message. The war can end now, before anyone gets hurt. Go home; let the diplomats talk and find a way to renew the Peace agreement that everyone worked so hard on. You must see that is in everyone’s best interests.”
“You’re right,” said the Champion. “It can all end now. Just give us the Princess Catherine. Return her to us, and then we can all go home.”
“We’re not holding her,” said Jack. “She has chosen to stay of her own free will.”
“You would say that, wouldn’t you?” said the Champion.
“The Princess did volunteer to go back,” said Jack. “She was ready to do that to stop a war. But look around you, sir Champion. Do you think these men would turn back if Catherine walked into this tent right now? No. They came here to fight a war, and that’s what they’re going to do.”
The Champion looked around, at Christof and Staker, and most especially at Cameron, and he fell silent.
The Stalking Man came forward then, and everyone else fell back despite themselves. Heaven and Hell’s chosen stood face-to-face, and it was as though they were the only ones in the tent.