“I’m not a traitor! I was never a traitor!” Bright crimson spots burned on the Warlock’s cheeks as he stepped forward to glare up at the Champion, his hands clenched into fists. “I left because I chose to! For more than forty-five years I watched over the Forest Kings, keeping the Land from harm. I was John’s protector when you were still learning which end of a sword to hold! Why I finally decided to leave is my business, not yours. I gave forty-five years of my life to the Forest Land, you’ve no right to ask any more of me.”
“Take a good look, Sire,” said the Champion, calmly, to Rupert. “There was a time, long ago, when this drunken old fool was a hero. The most powerful magician the Forest Land had ever known. His deeds are legendary. There are dozens of songs about him, you probably know some of them. There were even those who said he had the makings of a Sorcerer Supreme. But somewhere along the line, he decided to throw it all away. He turned his back on his duty, and frittered away his magic on fireworks, illusions and pretty baubles for the ladies. He could have inspired a generation, but he preferred to spend his time getting drunk and chasing the tavern whores. The High Warlock of legend—a coward and a renegade who betrayed his King when his King most needed him.”
“It wasn’t like that!” screamed the Warlock. “You bastard, it wasn’t like that at all!”
The Champion laughed. The Warlock howled wordlessly with rage, and a pure white flame roared from his outstretched hand, smashing into the Champion’s chest and throwing him back on to the crowded table-top under the window. Glass tubing shattered as the Champion crashed into it and lay still. Blood ran from his nose and mouth. The nearby animals screamed shrilly, and ran to and fro in their cages. The Champion stirred, and reached for his sword. The Warlock gestured again, and crackling white flames sprang from his fingertips to press the Champion back against the tower wall. Rupert drew his sword and started forward. The Warlock blasted him off his feet without even looking round. Rupert tried to get up, and couldn’t. All he could do was watch helplessly as the Warlock’s balefire slowly lifted the Champion from the table and pinned him to the wall a good twenty feet above the floor.
“I never liked you,” said the Warlock. “You and your precious duty. You don’t know the meaning of the word! What did duty ever mean to you, except as an excuse to kill people? Well, there’s no King to protect you now, sir Champion. I’ve waited a long time for this …”
Rupert looked frantically round for his sword. Already the Champion’s chain-mail was glowing cherry red under the relentless heat of the balefire. Individual links sagged and ran away in tiny rivers of molten steel. Rupert finally spotted his sword, lying just out of reach under a nearby table. He gritted his teeth and dragged himself forward inch by inch until he could reach the blade. His head still buzzed angrily from the knock it had taken during the fall, but he could feel his strength rushing back as he wrapped his hand round the familiar swordhilt. He grabbed the table edge and pulled himself to his feet. The High Warlock had his back to him, intent on his victim. The Champion’s eyes were closed, and he didn’t seem to be breathing. Rupert staggered forward and set the point of his sword against the Warlock’s back.
“Let him down,” he said harshly. “Let him down, now.”
“Go to hell,” said the Warlock. “No man calls me a traitor and lives.”
“I’m your Prince,” said Rupert. “In my father’s name, I order you to release his Champion.”
The balefire vanished, and the Champion floated slowly down, to a gentle landing on the table-top below. Rupert pushed the Warlock aside, and ran forward to examine the Champion. His chain-mail had melted and fused together, and the leather jerkin beneath had been charred and consumed by the intense heat, but the bare flesh under the gaping hole was completely unharmed. The Champion’s breathing was calm and even, and already he showed signs of returning consciousness. Rupert turned to stare at the High Warlock, who shrugged uncomfortably.
“A simple healing spell. He’ll be all right in a while.”
“Would you really have killed him if I hadn’t stopped you?”
“Probably not,” said the Warlock. “I always was too soft-hearted for my own good. Not to mention extremely loyal to your father. You fight dirty, Rupert.”
“Of course, I’m a Prince.”
They shared a crooked smile. Two glasses of white wine appeared in the Warlock’s hands. He offered one to Rupert, who accepted gratefully. After all he’d been through, he felt he deserved a drink. He took a good sip, and raised an appreciative eyebrow.
“Not a bad vintage, sir Warlock.”
The High Warlock smiled modestly. “One of my more useful spells. Now, Prince Rupert, what brings you to the Dark Tower after all these years?”
“The Darkwood,” said Rupert. “It’s spreading. We think the Demon Prince has returned.”
The Warlock stared into his glass. “Damn,” he said quietly. “Oh, damn. How fast is it spreading?”
“Half a mile a day, when we left. Of course, with the Blue Moon rising …”
“Wait a minute, wait a minute!” The High Warlock closed his eyes briefly, as though in pain. “Are you sure about the Blue Moon?”
Rupert stared at him. “Haven’t you looked at the moon lately?”
“I haven’t been outside this tower in twenty-one years,” said the Warlock. “I’ve never felt the need.”
He gestured with his free hand, and he and Rupert rose slowly into the air until they were on a level with the open window. Outside, night had fallen. Stars shone brightly against the dark, and the waiting guardsmen had built themselves a fire, but the main light came from the three-quarters moon. It hung fat and swollen on the night, its lambent flesh mottled with thick blue veins. The Warlock stared, horrified, at the tainted moon. Clearly shaken and confused, it was some time before he could tear his gaze away and turn to look at Rupert.
“I didn’t know,” whispered the Warlock. “I should have known, but I didn’t. What else have I missed?”
He frowned worriedly as he and Rupert sank gently back to the floor. “I’m sorry, Prince Rupert, I seem to have lost touch with what’s been going on in the world. Has it really been twenty-one years? Where did all the time go? Ah well, that’s what being a drunken hermit does for you. I suppose your father sent you to bring me back to Court? Yes, I thought so. Typical of the man. Wait until things have got completely out of hand, and then dump the whole damn mess in my lap and expect me to work miracles. So help me, if it wasn’t my neck as well I’d just sit back and let him stew in his own juices. Unfortunately I can’t do that, and he knows it. Despite all I may have said and done, the Forest is my home, and I can’t turn my back on it. It’ll be strange, going back to my old quarters in the Castle, after all these years. I hope they’ve been redecorated, I never did like the colour scheme. I take it John has lifted the Edict of Banishment?”
“Of course,” said Rupert, glad to get a word in at last. “He needs you, sir Warlock.”
The High Warlock grinned suddenly. “And I’ll bet that sticks in his craw something horrible! Aye, well, I suppose we’d better get a move on, it’s a fair way back to the Forest Castle. The sooner we make a start, the better.”
“You want to leave now?” said Rupert. “While it’s still night? We wouldn’t make it to the Darkwood! Sir Warlock, my men are in no condition to fight demons. They must have time to rest, and regain their strength.”
“Not to worry,” said the Warlock airily. “We won’t have to go back through the Darkwood, I know a short cut.”
Rupert gave him a hard look, and then froze as a cold angry growl came from somewhere behind him. Rupert spun round sword in hand, and then dropped into his fighting stance, as with a clatter and a crash the Champion jumped down from the table the Warlock had left him on. His face was flushed with rage, but his eyes were cold and dark. He smiled grimly, hefted his sword once, and advanced slowly towards the High Warlock.
“You’re a dead man, sorcerer,” said th
e Champion. “You should have killed me while you had the chance.”
“Oh hell,” said the Warlock tiredly. “I’d forgotten about him. Would you care to explain the situation to him, Rupert, or shall I turn him into something less aggressive? Like a dormouse.”
“He’ll listen to me,” said Rupert quickly. The Warlock shrugged, and wandered off to talk to the animals in their cages. The Champion started after him, and Rupert moved hastily forward to block his way. “Sheathe your sword, sir Champion. The High Warlock has agreed to help us against the Darkwood.”
“Get out of my way, Rupert.”
“We need his magic.”
“He tried to kill me!”
“Yes,” said Rupert slowly. “If I hadn’t stopped him, I think he probably would have killed you. But even if he had, and you lay dead and cold at my feet, I’d still bargain with him. He’s our only hope against the darkness, the only chance for survival the Forest has. And that makes him more important than you or I will ever be. So sheathe your sword, sir Champion. That’s an order.”
The Champion growled something under his breath, sheathed his sword, and glared at the Warlock, who was rummaging through the clutter on one of the far tables and muttering to himself.
“The High Warlock was an old man when I first came to Court,” said the Champion. “He’d have to be in his nineties by now. How do we know he’s up to helping us against the Darkwood?”
“I’m not,” said the Warlock, without looking round. “But I will be. Ah, that’s the one.” He picked up a wooden beaker, sipped cautiously at the frothing liquid it contained, and pulled a face. “One of these days I’m going to have to work on the taste.”
He glowered at the beaker, and drained it in several hasty gulps. He then slammed the beaker down on the table, screwed up his face and bent forward, clutching at his chest. Rupert ran over to the Warlock and grabbed his shoulders as he collapsed against the table, shivering and shaking. Rupert winced as he helped support the Warlock’s weight; there was nothing left of the man but skin and bone. And then Rupert felt his hackles rise as the Warlock’s flesh writhed under his hands. He snatched his hands away, watching disbelievingly as new bands of muscle swelled and crawled over the Warlock’s bony frame. His shoulders widened and his back slowly straightened, the vertebrae cracking and popping like wet logs in a fire. Rivulets of black ran swiftly through the thickening grey hair. The Warlock sighed deeply and straightened up, and Rupert watched in awe as the Warlock tugged casually at his beard until it came away in his hands, revealing fresh baby-smooth skin glowing with health. A thick mane of jet black hair fell to his shoulders, and all that remained of his beard was a rakish black moustache. His back was straight, his frame was muscular, and all in all he looked no more than thirty years old at most. He grinned broadly at Rupert.
“Not much use being able to transform things if you can’t do it to yourself as well, eh, lad?”
Rupert nodded speechlessly.
“Now then,” said the Warlock briskly, “I suppose you’re here about the Darkwood.”
“We already told you that,” said Rupert.
“Did you? My memory isn’t what it was. I really should do something about that, but I keep forgetting. Anyway, our main problem isn’t the Darkwood, it’s the Demon Prince.”
“We figured that out for ourselves,” said Rupert.
The Warlock fixed him with a steady glare. “Interrupt me again and you’re an aardvark. Got it?”
Rupert nodded silently. He wasn’t altogether sure what an aardvark was, but he had a definite feeling he wouldn’t enjoy finding out first-hand.
“The Demon Prince,” said the High Warlock thoughtfully. “Evil that walks in the shape of man, the never-born, the soulless. One of the Transient Beings, the stalkers on the edge of reality. His power increases as the Blue Moon rises, but if we can get to him before the Moon is full… before the Wild Magic is loosed in the Land …” The Warlock’s voice trailed away, and his shoulders slumped. He suddenly looked very tired, despite his new youthfulness. “Listen to me, I’m talking as though we actually stood a chance against the Demon Prince. Even at my peak, I was never that good. And I’m a long way from my peak. My power stems from the High Magic, but the Darkwood is of the old, Wild Magic.”
“What’s the difference?” asked Rupert.
The High Warlock smiled grimly. “The High Magic can be controlled, the Wild Magic owes no allegiance to anything save itself.” He stopped suddenly and shrugged, frowning. “Ah hell, I don’t know, there’s always the Infernal Devices in the Castle Armoury. They could make a difference.”
For the first time Rupert realised that, when it came to the Darkwood, the mighty and awesome High Warlock was just as scared and uncertain as he was. “You show me a way to fight the darkness, and I’ll follow you anywhere,” he said impulsively. “Even if it means going back into the Darkwood.”
The Warlock looked at him, and then grinned suddenly. “Practical, aren’t you?”
Rupert grinned back. “I’ve had good teachers.”
“All right,” said the Warlock decisively, “let’s give it a try. Who knows, we might get lucky.”
“Can we go now?” said the Champion. “We’ve little enough time as it is.”
“Oh sure,” said the Warlock amiably. He glanced at Rupert. “Race you to the window?”
“Wait a minute,” said Rupert. “Just out of curiosity, sir Warlock, why aren’t there any doors?”
“Windows are easier to defend,” said the Warlock craftily. “And besides, I never needed a door, till now. I never went out.” He paused to peer wistfully round the crowded room. “What a mess. I always meant to get organised one day, but I just never got round to it. I suppose I’d better put the animals into hibernation before I go. Kinder than … ah well. It’s all for the best, I suppose.”
He sniffed and shrugged, and walked towards the nearest window. “You know, Rupert, I should never have left the Sorcerers’ Academy. I was quite happy there, changing gold into lead.”
“Shouldn’t that be lead into gold?” asked Rupert.
“Why do you think I had to leave?” said the High Warlock.
The wall of swirling snow pressed close around the Dark Tower, and the still night air was bitter cold. A fresh silver frost covered all the grass and sparkled on the ancient brickwork of the tower. The Warlock was leaving, summer was over, and already the bleak midwinter laid claim to the land so long denied it. Every now and again, Rupert glimpsed strange dark shapes moving purposefully through the howling blizzard, watching and waiting for the High Warlock to step outside the protection of his remaining shields. Rupert scowled, and rested one hand on the pommel of his sword. His guards were tired, battered and bloodied from their trip through the Darkwood, and now he had to ask them to do it again. The Warlock had said something about a short cut, a way to avoid the long night, but Rupert knew better. The maps were clear enough. There was only one route that would get his people back to Forest Castle before the Full Moon, and that was the way they’d come. Through the Darkwood.
“I’m hungry,” said the unicorn.
“You’re always hungry,” said Rupert. “How can you think of food at a time like this?”
“Practice,” said the unicorn. “What are we waiting for now? I hate hanging around like this.”
“Well, not to worry. We’ll be heading back into the Darkwood soon enough.”
“On second thoughts, let’s hang around here for a while.”
Rupert laughed briefly, and patted the unicorn’s neck. “It shouldn’t be so bad this time, we’ll have the High Warlock with us.” He looked up and saw the sorcerer approaching. The Warlock was drinking wine and singing a bawdy song. The unicorn studied him carefully.
“This is the High Warlock? Our great hope against the Demon Prince?”
“Yes.”
“Then we’re in big trouble.”
“Shut up,” growled Rupert, and moved quickly forward to greet the Warl
ock.
“Ah, Rupert,” said the Warlock vaguely, draining his goblet. “Are your men ready to leave?”
“Yes, sir Warlock. They’re good men, you can rely on them to protect your back once we enter the Darkwood.”
“I’m sure I could,” said the Warlock. “But luckily that won’t be necessary. We’re not going back through the Darkwood. I’m going to transport us straight to the Forest Castle.”
Rupert’s heart sank. His mouth was suddenly very dry. “That’s your short cut? A teleport spell?”
“Got it in one, dear boy.”
Rupert tried hard to hold on to his rising temper. “Possibly I’m mistaken, sir Warlock, but as I understand it, there are an awful lot of things that can go wrong with teleport spells.”
“Oh, hundreds of things,” said the Warlock. “That’s why nobody uses them any more. Except in emergencies.”
“Sir Warlock,” said Rupert slowly, “I did not lead my men clean across the Forest Kingdom and through the long night itself, just to throw their lives away on a sorcerer’s whim! Look at you, the state you’re in they’d be safer facing the demons.”
The Warlock looked at him steadily. “Prince Rupert, if there was any other way to reach the Castle in time, I’d take it. But there isn’t. A teleport’s our only chance.”
“A teleport could get us all killed! Look, if it was just me and my men, I’d risk it, but I can’t allow you to put your life at risk. You’re the last hope of the Forest Land, sir Warlock. With you gone, there’d be no one left to stand against the darkness.”
“Don’t rely on me,” said the Warlock. “That’s a good way to get killed.” His voice was soft and tired and very bitter. “I’ve lived too long with myself to harbour any illusions, Rupert. I’m nowhere near as powerful as I used to be, and I never was as powerful as the legends had it. I could have been, but I threw it all away on wine and women, just like the Champion said. I make no apologies, I had my reasons. Good ones. But don’t be under any illusions about my magic. I can’t just snap my fingers and make the Demon Prince disappear. What magic I have is at your disposal, along with whatever knowledge and low cunning my tired old mind still retains. If I can get us to the Castle in time, I think I can help. But I’m not indispensable to your fight, Rupert, I’m not that important any more. I never was, really.”