Blue Moon Rising

  “Things are different now,” said Harald finally. “You’ve been gone a long time, almost seven months, and Julia’s had time to think. Time to see things differently. Julia and I … we’ve come to know each other very well, in your absence. Very well indeed. She’s marrying me of her own free will, Rupert, because she prefers me to you.”

  “Liar!”

  Harald smiled coldly. “Talk to Julia, if you wish. She’ll tell you the same. You’ve lost her, Rupert, just as you’ll always lose to me.”

  He turned to go. Rupert snatched his sword from his scabbard, and lunged after him. Harald spun round, sword in hand. Their blades met in a flurry of sparks, and then Rupert collapsed on the steps as his legs betrayed him. He tried to get up again, and couldn’t. He’d used the last of his strength in the darkness, and now there was nothing left. He lay sprawled and helpless across the marble steps, panting harshly, still somehow hanging on to his sword. He slowly raised his head and there was Harald, standing above him, sword in hand. Harald smiled down at him.

  “Get some rest, dear fellow,” he said calmly. “You’ve been through a lot, and I’d hate for you to have to miss my wedding.”

  He sheathed his sword, and turned and walked away, leaving Rupert lying in his own blood. Rupert tried to get his legs under him, but there was no strength left in them. His wounded shoulder was filled with a sickening ache, and the foul stench of the demon gore soaked into his clothes was suddenly overpowering. Rupert lowered his head on to his sword arm, and closed his eyes.

  I’m tired, he thought fretfully. I’ve done all I can; let somebody else carry the bloody burden for a while. I’m just so damn tired …

  He heard someone coming down the steps towards him, but he didn’t even have the strength to raise his head and see who it was. The footsteps stopped beside him, and a firm hand took him by his uninjured shoulder and turned him over. Rupert moaned despite himself, and looked up to see the High Warlock scowling down at him.

  “Why the hell didn’t you tell me you’d been hurt?”

  “Just a few scratches,” muttered Rupert blearily.

  “Idiot,” snapped the Warlock. He knelt down beside Rupert, and at a gesture from his stubby fingers, Rupert’s leather jerkin slowly peeled itself away from the jagged wound in his shoulder. Blood ran freely as the barely formed scabs broke open again, and the Warlock whistled softly.

  “Will you look at that … bit clean through to the bone, and then broke it in half a dozen places. It’s a wonder you lasted this long. Now hold still.”

  The Warlock’s fingers writhed through a series of intricate movements too fast for Rupert to follow, and then the pain in his shoulder was suddenly gone. Rupert twisted his head round, and watched in amazement as the splintered bone in the open wound knit itself together again. The wound closed over it, and within seconds nothing remained but a long white scar. Rupert stared at it breathlessly for a moment, and then cautiously flexed his arm. It worked fine. A slow grin spread across Rupert’s face as he worked his arm again and again. It felt great. The Warlock chuckled quietly, and a full wine glass appeared in his hand from nowhere.

  “Drink this. It’ll do you good.”

  Rupert sniffed the cloudy white wine suspiciously, and then gulped the stuff down. It tasted even worse than it smelled, and it smelled pretty bad. He shook his head quickly, and handed the glass back.

  “A very poor vintage, sir Warlock.”

  The High Warlock grinned, and the glass disappeared from his hand in a puff of brimstone smoke. “You should taste what it’s like before I dissolve it in wine. It’ll help replace the blood you’ve lost, and clear some of the toxins from your system, but right now what you need more than anything is a good night’s sleep. Go and get some. Now, if you’ll excuse me, it’s time I had a word with your father. We’ve a lot to discuss.”

  He hesitated, as though considering whether to say something further, and then he turned and walked back into the entrance hall. Rupert lay back on the marble steps, luxuriating in the wonderful peace that follows a release from pain. He tried his left arm again. His shoulder seemed a bit stiff, and the new scar tissue tugged uncomfortably with every movement, but all in all Rupert decided he felt better than he had in months. A pleasant lethargy flowed through him, and he was sorely tempted just to lie back and go to sleep right there on the steps, but he knew he couldn’t do that. Sleeping on cold marble would leave him good for nothing when he finally woke up. He sighed regretfully, and tempted himself with thoughts of a steaming hot bath, to be followed by a soft bed in a warm room. Heaven. Sheer heaven. He rose slowly to his feet, sheathed his sword, stretched and yawned, and finally started up the steps to the main entrance. After all the many months, he was actually going to sleep in civilised surroundings again. And anyone who got in his way would live just long enough to regret it.

  The constant fear and oppression of the Darkwood gradually diminished as Rupert made his way deeper into the Castle, putting layer after layer of thick stone walls between him and the long night. It was a long trek back to his chambers in the North-West Tower, but somehow the anticipation made it all worthwhile. After so long a time away, it felt good to be back among familiar sights and sounds, and yet Rupert found himself frowning more and more as new, ominous changes caught his eye. The refugees were everywhere, spilling out of their quarters into the corridors and passageways. Most of them just watched blankly from where they sat as Rupert passed, their eyes listless and empty. It was the children who got to Rupert the most; they sat where their parents put them, and watched the shadows around them with wide, frightened eyes. Rupert recognised the signs; they’d been in the Darkwood too long, and the long night had set its mark upon them. He tried to talk to some of the children, but they turned away from him, and would not be comforted.

  Roaring fires blazed in every fireplace, filling the air with more sooty smoke than the over-worked air vents could hope to handle, and yet still the Castle corridors remained cold and bleak, and light whorls of hoarfrost pearled the ancient stone walls. Wherever Rupert went, the passageways and common rooms were only dimly lit. Forest Castle had always depended on the foxfire moss for its light, and now there was none; the bitter frosts of the winter come early had seen to that. There were still torches and oil lamps, but their uncertain light filled the narrow stone corridors with too many unquiet shadows.

  A few minor courtiers came and walked with Rupert awhile, filling him in on the latest news and gossip, and sketching out some of the things that had happened while he was away. Rupert listened unbelievingly as they told him of the abortive rebellion and its consequences, but he wasn’t in the mood for conversation. Finally, they started telling him things he didn’t want to know, and he drove them from him by dropping his hand on to his sword and glaring steadily at them until they got the message. Rupert walked on, alone. Some of what the courtiers had said had been interesting, but he was too tired to care or concentrate.

  The solid oak door of Rupert’s private chambers had never looked more welcoming. He leaned tiredly against the closed door, putting off the moment when he could finally rest, just so that he could savour it that much longer.

  “Rupert! Damn you, where the hell have you been?”

  Rupert straightened up and turned around, and Julia threw her arms round him and crushed him to her, not waiting for any answer. Rupert hugged her fiercely in return, and buried his face in her long blond hair. For the first time in a long time, he felt happy and at peace. Finally, Julia pushed Rupert away, and they held each other at arm’s length, staring hungrily into each other’s eyes. Both of them were grinning so hard their mouths hurt. And then Julia’s smile vanished as she took in the harsh lines of pain and fatigue etched deeply into Rupert’s blood-smeared face.

  “Rupert, you’ve been hurt! What happened?”

  “Several hundred demons were foolish enough to try and stop me coming back to you. I’m fine now, honest. How are you, lass? You’re looking great.”


  “Well I was,” said Julia dryly, “until some great oaf of a Prince got blood all over my new gowns.”

  Rupert stepped back and took his first good look at her. Julia’s robes were a curious mixture of fashion and practicality, and though her face was painted and rouged in the latest Court style, her long hair fell unfettered to her waist, held out of her face only by a simple leather headband. She wore a sword openly on her hip.

  “It’s your sword,” said Julia. “You gave it to me in the Darkwood, remember?”

  “Yes,” said Rupert. “I remember.”

  His voice was suddenly flat and cold. Julia looked at him curiously.

  “What is it, Rupert?”

  “Harald just invited me to your wedding tomorrow,” said Rupert.

  Julia looked away, unable to meet his gaze. “We all thought you were dead. I thought you were dead. You don’t know what it’s been like here, on my own. It’s not as if I was given any choice as to whether I wanted to get married. And Harald … Harald’s been very good to me while you were away.”

  “Yeah,” said Rupert. “I’ll bet he has.”

  Julia spun on her heel and stormed off down the corridor. Rupert shook his head disgustedly. Why the hell hadn’t he kept his mouth shut? Now he’d have to go after her, and apologise, and … His shoulders slumped. What was the point? She’d admitted she was going to marry Harald. Rupert looked down the corridor after her, but it was empty. He turned his back on it.

  He opened his door, stepped into his room, and shut the door behind him. He then locked and bolted it. He leaned back against the solid oak door, let out a long heartfelt sigh, and stared round his room. Fifteen foot by fifteen, most of it taken up with his bed, wardrobe and wash basin. Threadbare carpets covered the floor, but the bare stone walls were cold and featureless. The only other door led to his private jakes. Rupert had never been the sort to accumulate possessions, and the simple bedchamber would have seemed stark and utilitarian to anyone but him. As a Prince of the line, he was entitled to a full suite of rooms and half a dozen personal servants, but he’d never wanted them. Servants just got in the way when he wanted to be alone and, besides, how many rooms can you live in at one time?

  Rupert started towards the bed, and then he turned back and checked the door was securely locked. He checked the solid steel bolt as well, running his thumb over the cold metal again and again to be sure the bolt was all the way home. Ever since he first returned home from the Darkwood, Rupert had been grateful his room had no windows. It meant he only had to guard his door against demons. With his sword in his hand he could face any number of demons, but ever since that first trip through the endless night, he was afraid of what might creep up on him in the dark while he was asleep and helpless. He needed to rest. He needed to sleep. But he knew he wouldn’t be able to rest or sleep until he was sure he was safe. He moved over to the wardrobe, shook his head disgustedly, and gave in to his fear, one more time. He set his shoulder against the side of the massive wardrobe, and slowly pushed it forward to barricade the door. And only then did he stumble over to his bed and sit on it.

  An oil lamp burned steadily on the simple wooden stand that held his wash basin. Metal brackets on the bed’s headboard held two unlighted candles. Rupert used the lamp to light both the candles, and then put the lamp back on the stand, taking care not to disturb its flame. He couldn’t bear the thought of waking up to find his room in darkness. He slowly unstrapped his sword belt, and placed it on the floor beside his bed, safely at hand, should he need it. And finally, he just sat there on his bed, staring at the bleak stone wall before him.

  The Blue Moon was full. Darkness had taken the Forest for its own, because he hadn’t got back in time. And Julia …

  I could have loved you, Julia.

  Rupert lay back on his bed, bloody clothes and all, and fled into sleep. His dreams were dark and restless.

  Lord Darius scuttled endlessly through the pitch-dark tunnels, muttering to himself as he went. The thin, querulous sound of his voice echoed hollowly back from the thick stone walls to either side of him, and seemed to reverberate on the dank, still air long after he was gone. From time to time there was a faint patter of many running feet as the air-vent rats retreated into their holes to let him pass. Darius ignored them. They were too small and too timid to hurt him, as long as he kept moving. A faint gleam of light showed in the darkness ahead, like a single star on a moonless night. Darius stopped running and crouched motionless in the dark, peering warily at the unsteady glow before him. Apart from his own laboured breathing, all was still and silent. After a while, Darius drew his dagger from his sleeve and started cautiously forward.

  Thick streams of dirty golden light fell from a side vent set high in the tunnel wall. A rusty metal grille split the light into a dozen gleaming shafts, choked with swirling dust and soot from the tunnel air. Darius crouched just outside the falling light, and bit his lip nervously. This much light meant he was close to an inhabited area of the Castle, and that meant food and drink and a chance to strike back at his enemies. But he had to be careful. Ever since he’d first fled into the network of hidden tunnels and air vents within the thick Castle walls (how long ago? he didn’t know any more) he’d been afraid to go back into the Castle itself. Even when hunger and thirst finally drove him to leave his tunnels for a time, he lived in constant terror of being found and trapped by the King’s men. He had no doubt the guards would kill him on sight. He’d have given such orders. It was only sensible. And so he left the darkness only when he had to, slipping out of hidden panels and concealed air vents at times when he was sure there was no one around to see. He stole bread and meat and wine, never enough to be missed, and never enough to satisfy the gnawing hunger that burned in his belly all his waking hours.

  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 fell remorselessly down on him like water dripping on a rock, gradually wearing it away with an endless lenience. 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 round and round in a tight 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 round and round and round, 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, a
nd 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 out 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.