Once In a Blue Moon (79 page)

He’d been separated from the Princess Catherine early on, but his old friend and bodyguard Peter Foster was still there at his back, stubbornly refusing to be forced away. Defending his Prince from all those threats he never saw. Richard never knew how many times Peter saved his life, or how many wounds his old friend took, putting himself between Richard and attacks intended for him. Peter was cut, and torn, and horribly wounded, and blood dripped steadily from him, but he would not fall. Not while his Prince and friend needed him. He suffered hurt after hurt, injuries small and large, and would not cry out, for fear it would distract Prince Richard from what he needed to do. Peter gritted his teeth and struck out doggedly with his sword, cutting and killing what he could. Putting his body and his life between his old friend and all the things that would kill him. He left a long, bloody trail behind him, but still he would not fall.

•   •   •

T
he Sombre Warrior strode ahead of the Princess Catherine, cutting a path through the enemy for her to follow. It was what he did best. He swung his great sword with both hands, and the force of his terrible blows sent dead things flying this way and that, dead before they even hit the ground. He sheared right through massive creatures, gutted some and beheaded others. And those that got past his blade found that their claws and fangs made no mark on his heavy armour. They came at him in waves, and they could not slow or stop him. When the press of fighting eased, the Sombre Warrior would cut through overhanging branches, or lesser trees, to open up a trail for others to follow. The creatures of the Unreal came at him in wave after wave, and broke against him.

Catherine stuck close behind the Warrior, using him as her shield, striking out at anything that tried to come at him through his blind spots. She was doing what she could with her Blood Magic, her elemental command of the air, but in the dark and the confusion, and the constant shifting of men and monsters fighting around her, there was a limit to what she could usefully do. There was never time for her to stop and concentrate without leaving the Sombre Warrior’s back unguarded. So she stuck with him, and defended him, and killed anything that got too close.

•   •   •

G
illian Forester found herself fighting alone very early on, but she was used to that. In fact, she preferred it. She always felt better when she had no one to worry about but herself. She grew a long silver blade from the Cestus, that ancient gauntlet from the depths of the Armoury. It glared supernaturally bright in the gloom, as though it was cutting through the dark itself. She strode steadily forward, and though the long blade felt eerily light in her hand, still it cut through anything that dared stand against her, as though it had the weight of the world behind it. Gillian cut down one awful thing after another, and laughed at how easy it was.

She was still careful to conserve her energy. First lesson she taught her students: save your strength for when you’ll need it. And while she was in excellent shape for a woman of her age, she was still a woman of her age. She whirled about with vicious, controlled cuts and parries, pacing herself. Because there was still so much to be done. The Unreal felt no such reservations. They came howling out of the trees from everywhere at once, hitting her from every side at once, and the sheer pressure of numbers overwhelmed her. They ran right over her, dragging her to the ground.

Gillian rolled back and forth in the thick mud, flailing about her with her Cestus sword. The rain was pounding down harder than ever, filling her eyes and blinding her, running down her wrinkled cheeks like tears. Claws raked her flesh, and blood spurted. Teeth closed on one shoulder and shook her roughly, even as she cried out from the pain despite herself. Gillian stabbed and cut with her silver sword, but there were just too many of them. She couldn’t even force herself back to her knees. And then a great jagged blade came slamming down out of nowhere and chopped clean through her wrist, above the silver gauntlet.

Her hand jumped away, bouncing and sliding across the muddy Forest floor. She could see it, on the other side of the trail. The blade sank back into the Cestus, and it was just a gauntlet again. The fingers slowly opened, and were still. Gillian looked blankly at the blood jetting furiously from the stump of her wrist. She had time to think a single word,
Cursed
, before the massive sword came driving down again, and slammed through her heart, pinning her to the earth. Her head went back, and she looked up into the night sky, through the towering trees, and cursed the Blue Moon with her last breath.

The monsters tore her to pieces.

•   •   •

J
ack saw his sister fall but couldn’t get to her in time. It seemed like every monster in the Forest was deliberately blocking his way. He hacked a path through them, Blackhowl’s awful voice either scattering them or freezing them in place so he could kill them easily; but when he finally got there, and killed the last few things feeding on the torn-up body, he already knew it was too late. Jack sank to his knees beside what was left of his sister. They hadn’t reached her face yet. It was all he had left to recognise her by. He thought she still looked defiant, even in death.

Not far away, he saw the shining silver gauntlet, the Cestus, lying in the mud. He wondered numbly if it had been the old curse that killed Gillian, or just the cold, hard fact that when an army goes to war, some are going to die. He doubted he’d ever know. But it still didn’t seem fair. Gillian, his sister. Daughter of the legendary Prince Rupert and Princess Julia. She’d done so much to make her own legend, to be her own person. He tried to remember the last time he told her he loved her, and how proud he’d always been of her, but he couldn’t. All those years in the monastery, and then . . . they’d just been so busy. He started to pray over her, and then stopped. He was in no fit state of grace, as long as he carried Blackhowl. He looked at the Infernal Device, still nestled in his hand, shoved it point first into the muddy ground, and used the length of the blade to force himself up to his feet again. His knees creaked loudly, and his back ached. The Infernal Device might make him feel young, but that was just another of its lies.

He didn’t care. He would avenge his sister, and drown the Unreal in their own blood before he let himself rest.

He looked around, slowly, as he realised that though the fighting was still going on around him, no men or monsters were coming anywhere near. And then Jack tensed, and his head came up, as Leland Dusque the Stalking Man stepped out of the shadows to face him.

Blackhowl’s terrible cry had fallen away to a sulky murmur in the back of Jack’s head, as he knelt beside his dead sister; but now it began to sing loudly again, anticipating a most satisfying kill. Jack deliberately forced the sword back into its scabbard, cutting off the awful sound. The sword didn’t like that, but Jack didn’t care. He had always been his own man.

“I knew it,” said the Stalking Man. “You just don’t have it in you, do you, to kill your own son. But I have no problem at all with killing you.”

“Then do it,” said Jack. “If that’s what it takes, if that’s what you need . . . to find peace at last. To be able to lay down your burden of being the Stalking Man. Go on; kill me. I’m not going to fight you. I’m an old man; I can give my last few years to you. One last gift, from father to son.”

Dusque stepped forward, his sword glowing in the gloom. Someone’s blood dripped thickly from the blade. His face was twisted with emotion, his eyes wild. He drew back the sword for the killing thrust. Jack stood calmly, at peace with himself.

Their eyes met.

“You think I won’t kill you?” Dusque said loudly. “That Heaven’s protections will keep you safe from Hell’s power?”

“I don’t think Heaven or Hell have any place in this,” said Jack. “This isn’t about the Walking Man, or the Stalking Man. This is just a moment, in the middle of a war, between father and son. Perhaps this is what we should have done long ago. It’s all right, boy. Do it. And then maybe I can finally tell your mother how sorry I have always been that I wasn’t there for her.”

Leland Dusque thrust his sword deep into the ground, and let go. It stood upright, quivering. Dusque shook his head, his whole body shaking. Because for all he was, and all he’d done, he still couldn’t kill his father.

“Give it up, son, like I did,” said Jack. “Neither your office nor mine were ever meant to be for life. Just for as long as we needed them.”

“You don’t understand,” said Dusque. “The promises I made to Hell . . . I’ve done things. Bad things . . .”

“You think I haven’t?” said Jack. “That’s what penance is for. Why do you think I spent twenty bloody years in a monastery?”

“Hell will never give me up.”

“It only ever had the power over you that you gave it. Walk away. Like I did. Service can only ever be by choice.”

“And then what?” said Dusque.

Jack laughed briefly, and gestured at the battles raging around them with a wave of his hand. “I think we can probably find something useful to do. Don’t you?”

Dusque nodded quickly. “Never did like William. Nasty little man.” He came forward and looked down at the dead body in the mud. “Is that . . . ?”

“Yes. Your aunt Gillian. She fought well.”

“She was a warrior. She probably would have hated to die in bed . . .”

Jack gave a quick bark of laughter. “You really didn’t know your aunt! She would have most definitely preferred to die in bed, preferably after a really big meal, a decent brandy, and a romp with some man far too young for her.”

They both smiled. Jack drew his sword, and Dusque pulled his sword out of the ground. And together, side by side, they went off to find some monsters to kill.

“What the hell was that Leland Dusque nonsense for, anyway?” said Jack. “I gave you a perfectly good name: Matthew.”

“You can’t be a Stalking Man and a terror in the world with a name like Matthew, Father. No one would take you seriously.”

“Remind me to introduce you to Gillian’s son, Raven, when this is all over,” said Jack.

“What? The Necromancer? You mean Raven isn’t his real name?”

“Of course not. It’s Nathanial.”

“You see! My point exactly!”

•   •   •

J
ack’s daughter, Mercy, went dancing through the Forest in her Sir Kay armour, her long blonde hair all aglow in the night, swinging her sword with both hands, darting in to kill an Unreal thing, and then jumping back and moving quickly on. She was fast and deadly, a delightful angel with a cutting edge, and nothing could touch her. Some things tried to run from her, and she cut them down anyway, from behind. Mercy had spent most of her life training to be a warrior, much of it in secret, and now she was free to break loose at last. It felt good, so good. She laughed and sang and danced as she killed. As much a monster as the things she moved among.

•   •   •

T
he heroes of the Forest Land fought well and bravely. Sometimes that was enough. And sometimes it wasn’t.

Sir Russell Hardacre, the aristocratic Blademaster, strolled casually among the Unreal, cutting them down left and right with hardly any effort, stepping over the bodies of the fallen to kill some more. Doing what he was born to do, and loving every moment of it. Until an arrow hit him in the back of the neck and he fell forward, face-first, into the mud.

Dr. Strangely Weird, in his flowing, coloured robes, walked in glory through the carnage, unnatural energies spitting and sparking on the air around him. And wherever he turned his gaze, howling creatures melted and ran away like candle wax.

Roger Zell, who had wandered so far in search of what it meant to be a hero, moved quietly from shadow to shadow, darting out to kill before disappearing again. He preferred winning to grandstanding.

Hannah Hexe, once a member in good standing at the Night Academy, walked through the trees doing loathsome things, and blood and screams and horror went with her. The Sisters of the Moon had been quite right to throw her out.

Tom Tom Paladin strode steadily forward, cutting a path through the monstrosities that tried to block his way, not even trying to defend himself. He had so much penance to do. It was almost a relief to him when the Unreal dragged him down through sheer force of numbers and put an end to his pain.

Stefan Solomon never even saw the creature that took his head off from behind.

•   •   •

A
running battle between Forest soldiers and a pack of wolf things swept Catherine away from Richard, carrying her and the Sombre Warrior along with them. By the time the two of them had fought free, she couldn’t even see Richard and Peter any longer. She cried out, but there was no answer, and a sudden rage blazed up within her as she lost her temper, one more time. She summoned up the Wild Magic in her Blood, and a great storm raced through the Forest, a massive blast of air like a battering ram, that ripped trees up by the roots and threw them everywhere. Great clouds of splinters flew through the air like shrapnel, piercing every living thing in her path. The raging winds picked up monsters and tore them limb from limb, and threw the pieces away. It was her blind rage, manifested in an intangible force that could not be stopped, that destroyed everything before her. She fought back at the world that threatened her and those she loved, pounding it with her elemental magic until it broke.

The anger fell away, and Catherine stood exhausted in an empty clearing, breathing hard, surrounded by the broken and splintered remains of trees, and the dead and dying remains of Unreal creatures. She looked about her, and slowly realised she couldn’t see the Sombre Warrior anywhere. She went looking for him, and found him some distance away, where the winds of her rage had carried him. He was standing with his back against a huge, unbroken wide-trunked tree. She ran up to him, and then stopped abruptly, as she saw the blood-smeared branch protruding from his chest. Her rage had sent him flying through the air and slammed him against the tree, and a branch had punched right through his armour. It was only the branch that was holding him up. The impact had knocked his helmet off, and she could see his bare face. Horribly, he was still alive.