Blue Moon Rising (Darkwood) Read online

  “Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t turn you into a frog,” demanded the Witch.

  Rupert showed her his sword. The Witch grinned nastily.

  “Sheath it, or I’ll tie it in a knot.”

  Rupert thought about it a moment, and then slipped the sword back into its scabbard. “I believe you knew my grandfather,” he said carefully.

  “Possibly,” said the Night Witch airily. “I’ve known many men in my time. What was his name?”

  “Eduard, of the Forest Kingdom.”

  The Night Witch stared at him blankly, and then all the fire seemed to go out of her eyes. She turned slowly away, and moved over to sink into a battered old rocking chair by the fireplace.

  “Yes,” she said finally, almost to herself. “I remember Eduard.”

  She sat quietly in the rocking chair, staring at nothing, and Rupert took the opportunity to get to his feet and take a quick look around him. The cottage was filled with a dull, unfocussed light that seemed to come from everywhere at once, though there was no lamp to be seen. The walls leaned away from the floor at different angles, and bats squealed up in the high rafters. A cat’s shadow swayed across a wall without a cat to cast it, and something dark and shapeless with glowing eyes peered out from the empty, smoke-blackened fireplace.

  Rupert studied the Night Witch curiously. Somehow she didn’t seem quite so impressive when she wasn’t actually threatening him. Rocking quietly in her chair, with her cat in her lap, she looked like anybody’s grandmother, a shrunken gray-haired old lady with a back bent by the years. She was painfully thin, and suffering had etched deep lines into her face. This wasn’t the Night Witch of legend, the raven-haired tempter of men, the terrible creature of the dark. She was just a tired old woman, lost in memories of better times. She looked up, and caught Rupert’s eyes on her.

  “Aye, look at me,” she said quietly. “I was beautiful, once. So beautiful men travelled hundreds of miles just to pay me compliments. Kings, emperors, heroes; I could have had my pick of any of them. But I didn’t want them. It was enough that I was … beautiful.”

  “How many young girls died to keep you beautiful?” said Rupert harshly.

  “I lost count,” said the Witch. “It didn’t seem important, then. I was young and glorious and men loved me; nothing else mattered. What’s your name, boy?”

  “Rupert.”

  “You should have seen me then, Rupert. I was so lovely. So very lovely.”

  She smiled gently and rocked her chair, eyes fixed on yesterday.

  “I was young and powerful and I bent the darkness to my will. I raised a palace of ice and diamond in a single night, and Lords and Ladies from a dozen Courts came to pay homage to me. They never noticed if a few peasant girls went missing from the villages. They wouldn’t have cared if they had.

  “And then Eduard came to kill me. Somehow he’d found out the truth, and he came to rid the Forest Land of my evil.” She chuckled quietly. “Many the nights he spent in my cold halls, of his own free will. He was tall and brave and handsome and he never once bowed to me. I showed him wonders and terrors and I couldn’t break him. We used to dance in my ballroom, just the two of us, in a great echoing hall of glistening ice, each chandelier fashioned from a single stalactite. Slowly, I came to love him, and he loved me. I was young and foolish, and I thought our love would last forever.

  “It lasted a month.

  “I needed fresh blood, and Eduard couldn’t allow that. He loved me, but he was King, and he had a responsibility to his people. He couldn’t kill me, but I couldn’t change what I was. So I waited till he slept, and then I left my palace, and the Forest Land, and came here to live in the darkness, where there’s no one to see that I’m not beautiful anymore.

  “I could have killed him and kept my secret safe. I could have stayed young and lovely and powerful. But I loved him. My Eduard. The only man I ever loved. I suppose he’s dead now.”

  “More than thirty years ago,” said Rupert.

  “So many years,” whispered the Witch. Her shoulders slumped, and her crooked, twisted hands writhed together. She took a deep breath and let it go shakily, then looked up at Rupert and smiled tiredly. “So you’re Eduard’s kin. You have some of his looks, boy. What do you want from me?”

  “I’m looking for a dragon,” said Rupert, in a tone he hoped suggested that, if at all possible, he’d really rather not find one.

  “A dragon?” The Witch stared at him blankly a moment, and then a broad grin spread slowly across her wrinkled face. “A dragon! Damn me, but I like your style, boy. No one’s had the guts to hunt a dragon in years. No wonder you weren’t scared to come calling on me!” She studied him admiringly while Rupert did his best to look modest. “Well, dearie, this is your lucky day. You’re looking for a dragon, and it just so happens I have a map that will lead you right to one. A real bargain, I can let you have it for the knockdown price of only three pints of blood.”

  Rupert gave her a hard look. The Witch shrugged.

  “Worth a try. Since you are Eduard’s kin, let me revise that offer. The map’s yours, free of charge. If I can remember where I put the damned thing.”

  She rose up slowly out of her chair, spilling the cat from her lap, and hobbled away to investigate the depths of a battered oak filing cabinet in a far corner. Rupert frowned uncertainly. He’d fully intended to kill the Night Witch if he got the opportunity, but although she spoke casually of murdering so many young girls that she’d finally lost count, somehow he just couldn’t bring himself to do it. In a strange kind of way he actually felt sorry for her; her long years alone in the Darkwood had punished her enough. More than enough. The Witch was suddenly before him and he jumped back, startled, as she thrust a tattered parchment scroll into his hands.

  “There you are, boy, that’ll take you right to him. If you get that far. To start with, you’ve got to pass clean through the Darkwood and out the other side, and there’s damn few have done that and lived to tell of it.”

  “I got this far,” said Rupert confidently.

  “This close to the Tanglewood boundary there’s still a little light,” said the Witch. “Beyond this clearing, there’s nothing but darkness. Watch your back, Rupert. There’s a cold wind blowing through the long night, and it smells of blood and death. Deep in the Darkwood something is stirring, something … awful. If I wasn’t so old, I’d be scared.”

  “I can take care of myself,” said Rupert tightly, one hand dropping to the pommel of his sword.

  The Witch smiled tiredly. “You’re Eduard’s kin. He thought cold steel was the answer to everything, too. When I look at you, it’s almost like seeing him again. My Eduard.” Her voice suddenly shook, and she turned her back on Rupert and limped painfully over to sink slowly into her rocking chair. “Go on, boy, get out of here. Go and find your dragon.”

  Rupert hesitated. “Is there … anything I can do for you?”

  “Just go,” said the Night Witch harshly. “Leave me alone. Please.”

  Rupert turned and left, closing the door quietly behind him.

  Sitting alone before her empty fireplace, the Night Witch rocked gently in her chair. After a while her eyes slowly closed, and she fell asleep. And she was young and beautiful again, and Eduard came to her, and they danced together all through the night in her ballroom of shimmering ice.

  Several days’ travel later, Rupert had finished the last of his provisions. There was no game to be found in the Darkwood, and what little water there was, was fouled. Thirst burned in his throat, and hunger was a dull ache in his belly.

  Since leaving the Night Witch’s clearing he had left all light behind him. The darkness became absolute, and the silence was oppressive. He couldn’t see the trail ahead, the unicorn beneath him, or even a hand held up before his eyes. Only the growing stubble on his face remained to show him the passing of time. He grew steadily weaker as the unicorn carried him deeper into the Darkwood, for although they stopped to rest whenever they grew tired, Rupert couldn’t sleep. The darkness kept him awake.

  Something might creep up on him while he slept.

  He passed a shaking hand over his dry, cracked lips, and then frowned as he slowly realized the unicorn had come to a halt. He tried to ask what was wrong, but his tongue had swollen till it almost filled his mouth. He swung painfully down out of the saddle, and leaned against the unicorn’s side until his legs felt strong enough to support him for a while. He stumbled forward a few steps, hands outstretched before him, and grunted with pain as thorns pierced his flesh. More cautious testing revealed that a thick patch of needle-thorned briar had grown across the narrow trail. Rupert drew his sword, and was shocked to find that he’d grown so weak he now needed both his hands to wield it. He gathered the last of his strength, and with awkward, muscle-wrenching cuts, he set about clearing a path through the briar. The unicorn slowly followed him, the proudly horned head hanging tiredly down.

  Time after time Rupert struggled to raise his sword for another blow, fighting the growing agony in his chest and arms. His hands and face were lacerated by the stubborn thorns, but he was so tired he barely felt the wounds. His sword grew heavier in his uncertain grasp, and his legs trembled with fatigue, but he wouldn’t give in. He was Rupert, Prince of the Forest Kingdom. He’d fought a demon and braved the Darkwood, and he was damned if he’d be beaten by a patch of bloody briar. He swung his sword savagely before him, forcing his way deeper into the briar, and then cried out as a sudden burst of sunlight threw back the night.

  Rupert brought up a hand to shield his eyes from the blinding glare, and stumbled forward. For a long time, all he could do was squint painfully through his fingers while shocked tears ran down his cheeks, but finally he was able to lower his hand and blink in amazement at the scene spread out before him. He’d emerged from the Darkwood high up on a steep hillside, and down below him sprawled a vast patchwork of tended fields; wheat and maize and barley, ripening under a mid-day sun. Long lines of towering oaks served as windbreaks, and sunlight reflected brightly from shimmering rivers. Slender stone walls marked the field boundaries, and a single dirt road meandered through them on its way to the huge, dark mountain that dominated the horizon, its summit lost in clouds.

  The mountain called Dragonslair.

  Rupert finally tore his gaze away from the ominous crag and peered dazedly about him. His breath caught in his throat. Not a dozen yards from the Darkwood’s boundary, a fast-moving stream bubbled up from a hidden spring, leaping and sparkling as it tumbled down the hillside. Rupert dropped his sword, staggered forward, and fell to his knees beside the rushing water. He dipped his hand into the stream, brought his fingers to his mouth, and licked cautiously at them. The water was clear and pure. Rupert felt fresh tears start to his eyes as he leant forward and thrust his face into the stream.

  He gulped thirstily at the chill water, coughing and spluttering in his eagerness, and then somehow found the strength to draw back from the stream. Too much water at first would only make him sick. He lay back on the springy grass, feeling comfortably bloated. His stomach growled, reminding him that he hadn’t eaten in days either, but that could wait a while. For the moment, he felt too good to move. He watched as the unicorn drank sparingly from the stream and then turned away to crop contentedly at the grass. Rupert smiled for the first time in days. He raised himself on one elbow and looked back the way he’d come. The Darkwood stood brooding and silent behind him, and the bright sunlight didn’t pass an inch beyond its boundary. A chill breeze blew steadily from the rotting, spindly trees. Rupert grinned savagely at the darkness, and tasted blood as his cracked lips split painfully. He didn’t give a damn.

  “I beat you,” he said softly. “I beat you!”

  “I helped,” said the unicorn. Rupert turned back to find the animal looking worriedly down at him. He reached up and patted the unicorn’s muzzle.

  “I couldn’t have done it without you,” said Rupert. “You were there when I needed you. Thanks.”

  “You’re very welcome,” said the unicorn. “Now then, I’m going to graze on this wonderful grass for some time, and I don’t want to be disturbed until I’ve finished. Is that clear?”

  Rupert laughed. “Sure. You go ahead; the sun’s high in the sky, and I’ve an awful lot of sleep to catch up on. Afterwards … I think I’ll show you how to tickle trout.”

  “Why should I wish to amuse a fish?” asked the unicorn, but Rupert was already fast asleep.

  It took Rupert and the unicorn almost a month to reach Dragonslair mountain. Regular meals and fresh water did much to restore their health and spirits, but the Darkwood had left its mark on Rupert. Every evening, as the sun dipped redly below the horizon, Rupert would build a large fire, even though the nights were warm and there were no dangerous beasts in the area. And every night, before he finally allowed himself to sleep, he carefully banked the fire so that there was sure to be light if he woke before the dawn. His sleep was restless, and plagued by nightmares he chose not to recall. For the first time since he was a child, Rupert was afraid of the dark. Each morning he woke ashamed, and cursed his weakness, and swore silently to himself that he’d not give in to his fear again. And every evening, as the sun went down, he built another fire.

  Dragonslair drew steadily closer and more imposing as the days passed, and Rupert became increasingly uncertain as to what he was going to do when he reached the mountain’s base. According to the Night Witch’s map, somewhere near the summit he’d find a dragon’s cave, but the closer he drew the more impossible it seemed that any man could climb the towering basalt wall that loomed darkly before him, filling the horizon. Yet, despite all his doubts, despite the unreasoning fear that tormented his nights, Rupert never considered turning back. He’d come too far and been through too much to give up now that his goal was finally in sight.

  Go forth and slay a dragon, my son. Prove yourself worthy to the throne.

  The early morning air was still cold from the night’s chill when Rupert rode into the foothills. Thinning grass and stunted shrubbery soon gave way to bare rock, pitted and eroded by long exposure to wind and rain. A pathway cut into the mountainside itself led steeply upwards, and the unicorn cursed steadily under his breath as he picked his way carefully along the uneven path. Rupert kept his eyes fixed firmly on the path ahead, and tried not to think about the growing drop behind him. The trail grew steadily narrower and more treacherous as they ascended, and was finally interrupted by a wide patch of shifting scree. The unicorn took one look at the gently sliding stones that blocked the path, and dug his hooves in.

  “Forget it. I’m a unicorn, not a mountain goat.”

  “But it’s the only way up; it’ll be easy going after this.”

  “It’s not the going up that worries me, it’s the coming down. Probably at great speed, with the wind rushing past me.

  Rupert sighed, and swung down out of the saddle. “All right. You go on back, and wait for me by the foothills. Give me two days. If I’m not back by then …”

  “Rupert,” said the unicorn slowly, “You don’t have to do this. We could always go back, and tell the Court we couldn’t find a dragon. No one would know.”

  “I’d know,” said Rupert.

  Their eyes met, and the unicorn bowed his head to the Prince.

  “Good luck, Sire.”

  “Thank you,” said Rupert, and turned quickly away.

  “You be careful,” muttered the unicorn. “I’d hate to have to break in another rider.” He turned carefully around on the narrow path, and cautiously headed back down the mountainside.

  Rupert stood a moment, listening to the slowly departing hoofbeats. The unicorn would be safe enough in the foot-hills. If scree hadn’t blocked the trail, he would have found some other excuse to send the unicorn back; what remained of the quest was Rupert’s responsibility, and his alone. There was no need for both of them to risk their lives. Rupert shook himself briskly, and studied the vast patch of scree before him. It looked treacherous. Forty feet across, but barely ten feet wide; one wrong move and the shifting stones would carry him clean over the edge. Rupert glanced briefly at the drop, and swallowed dryly. It was a long way down. If he were to slip, he’d probably reach the foothills before the unicorn did. He grinned sourly, and stepped lightly out onto the scree.

  The packed stones shifted uneasily under his weight, and Rupert held his breath as he waited for them to settle. Slowly, step by step, foot by foot, he moved across the scree, taking his time and testing each part of the scree cautiously before committing his weight to it. Despite all his efforts, the sliding stones carried him closer and closer to the edge, and Rupert knew he wasn’t going to make it. The gusting wind plucked fussily at his cloak, and he felt the scree stir under his boots. He shifted his weight slightly to compensate and the scree ran like water beneath him, carrying him remorselessly toward the escarpment’s edge. Rupert threw himself flat, digging his hands deeply into the scree, and he slowly slid to a halt with one foot hanging over the edge. He could hear stones falling, tumbling down the side of the mountain.

  Barely five feet of scree stood between him and solid rock, but it might as well have been five miles. Rupert lay still, breathing shallowly. He couldn’t go on and he couldn’t go back; the slightest movement could mean his death. Rupert frowned as an answer occurred to him. A slight movement couldn’t save him, but a lunge with all his strength behind it just might. It might also kill him. Rupert grinned suddenly. What the hell; if the scree didn’t get him, the dragon probably would. He pulled his legs carefully up under him in one slow, controlled movement, and dug his feet into the scree. The shifting stones carried him a little closer to the edge. Rupert took a deep breath and lunged for the solid rock beyond the scree. He landed awkwardly, the impact slamming the breath from his lungs, but one outflung hand grasped an outcropping of rock, and he held on tightly as the sliding scree carried his body out over the long drop. For a moment he hung by one hand, feet searching helplessly for support, loose stones showering down around him, and then his free hand found a hold, and slowly he pulled himself up onto hard, solid rock. Rupert staggered a few feet away from the edge and then collapsed, shaking with reaction, his heart hammering madly. The unyielding stone path beneath him felt marvelously comforting.

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