Blood and Honor (Forest Kingdom Novels) (26 page)

“Can’t you do something about this?” he whispered to Grey Davey.

The sanctuary shrugged unhappily. “Maybe. I don’t know. If I use my power to dispel this darkness, it might not leave me much to face whatever’s out there. The Unreal is very strong here, Tim. I can feel it pressing against the light.”

“Get rid of the darkness, Davey,” said Blood flatly. “We’re too vulnerable like this.”

“All right. But I’ve got a bad feeling about this.”

“You’re always having bad feelings.”

“And they’re usually right.”

Grey Davey pulled his power about him like a cloak, and the darkness faded away, unable to withstand the sanctuary’s presence. Blood stared about him. The corridor seemed to stretch away forever in both directions, without beginning or end. The walls had sagged inward, bulging out into the corridor, as though the solid stone and plaster had somehow melted and run and then reformed. The floor was covered with thousands of crawling insects. Some of the guards cried out in disgust as the scurrying creatures swarmed over their boots. Black tar dripped from the low ceiling, hot and smoking.

“How much of this is Real?” Blood asked Davey.

“I’m not sure,” said the sanctuary. “When the Unreal is strong, some of its changes can’t be undone. The changed state becomes Real. Stay close by me. Nothing can harm you as long as I’m here, but … something’s wrong here, Tim. Something’s horribly wrong.”

He looked around him, his hands clenching into fists. Blood felt it, too: a deep unsettling feeling of being watched.

“Something’s coming our way,” said Davey quietly. “Something awful.”

Blood nodded tightly. His men had picked up on the tense atmosphere, and were hefting their weapons and glaring about them. Blood knew he’d better find them a target soon, or they’d start coming apart.

“So what do we do, Davey? Stand our ground, turn and run, try to press on? What do we do?”

“I don’t know! I’ve never seen anything like this!” Stray magic sparked and sputtered around the sanctuary’s clenched fists. “I think we’d better go back, Tim. I’m not up to this. We need the steward and her High Magic.”

“All right,” said Blood quietly, “everyone start backing away down the corridor. Keep your eyes open and your swords ready. Take your time, there’s no need to hurry.”

He kept his voice carefully calm and even, but already some of his men were starting to panic. Blood didn’t blame them. So far, his example had kept them from breaking into a run, but he didn’t know how long that would last. Grey Davey wasn’t helping. His face was ashen white, and his eyes were fixed on something in the distance only he could see. Blood glared at the corridor that stretched away behind them. He couldn’t tell if they were any closer to the West Wing’s boundary or not. He didn’t even know if what he was seeing was Real or only an illusion. He would have sworn they hadn’t walked very far into the West Wing …

And then the roaring began. The air pressure began to build, and the rising wind tugged at the guards’ clothing. They turned and ran, charging down the corridor. Blood grabbed Davey by the arm and hurried after them. Something big was coming down the corridor after them: something huge and unstoppable. Blood glanced back over his shoulder and swallowed sickly as he saw what it was. A change wind was sweeping down the corridor, transmuting the world from gold into dross, from Reality into nightmare. The walls erupted as the wind passed over them. Gaping mouths opened in what had been stone and plaster, and howling voices shrieked in agony. The floor began to melt and run away, revealing jagged-edged holes full of bloodred flowers. The ceiling caught fire. And the change wind roared on, leaving damnation in its wake.

Timothy Blood looked for the end of the corridor ahead, and couldn’t see it. It didn’t make much difference anyway. The change wind would catch him in a matter of moments, and whatever was left of him after that wouldn’t care about anything anymore. He looked around for the sanctuary, and then skidded to a halt as he saw that Grey Davey had stopped and turned to face the change wind. The guards kept on running.

“Move it!” Blood screamed to the sanctuary. “We’ve got to get out of here!”

“You go,” said Grey Davey, raising his voice to be heard over the roar of the approaching wind. “I’m needed here. My power will buy you and your men the time you need to escape. You’ve got to tell Taggert about this. Warn the castle. Tell them nowhere’s safe anymore.”

He stood his ground, and pulled his power about him. Blood looked over his shoulder at his disappearing guards, and then looked back at the sanctuary.

“Ah hell,” he said finally. “Someone’s got to watch your back, Davey.”

He stepped forward to stand beside Grey Davey, sword in hand, and the two of them stood together as the change wind came howling toward them.

Prince Lewis strode angrily back and forth in his private quarters, gulping at a glass of wine without really tasting it. Apart from a few bruises and a nasty gash on one hand, he’d come out of Dominic’s ambush pretty much unscathed, but he was still fuming mad. A third of his men were dead or wounded. Almost another third had deserted his ranks and left the castle. He had the satisfaction of knowing that the Monk and Ironheart had done some considerable damage to Dominic’s troops, but the attack itself still rankled. He’d gone to negotiate in good faith, and they’d laughed at him. Lewis kicked at the thick grass covering his floor. All right; he’d made a mistake. He wouldn’t make the same mistake again.

He threw himself into his favorite chair and stared sulkily at his feet. Nothing seemed to be going right lately. The Monk had failed to destroy Viktor and his people at Barrowmeer, the alliance with Dominic was over before it had even begun, and now his oak tree was dying. He glared at the great tree in its corner. The leaves had fallen from its branches, and the bark was mottled with some kind of fungus. Lewis had almost exhausted his earth magic trying to keep the tree alive, but something in the tree resisted him. Either the Unreal had got past his wards and undermined his magic, or Dominic had somehow managed to poison it. Lewis frowned sulkily. He was fond of that tree. And if all that wasn’t bad enough, now Ironheart was getting mulish. He scowled at the tall suit of armor standing motionless in its corner. The battered armor was clean and gleaming, with only a few flecks of dried blood around the gauntlets’ knuckles to show that Ironheart had recently been in a battle.

“You promised me my freedom,” said Ironheart, his voice as always distant, echoing, and slightly slurred. “You gave me your word, Prince Lewis.”

“So I did,” said Lewis. “When I become king, you shall be free of all obligations to me.”

“That wasn’t the deal.”

“The deal has changed! My dear Ironheart, you must see that I need your protection now more than ever. I really can’t do without you until I am safely on the throne, and the Stone is mine to draw on.”

“You may never be king,” said Ironheart. “I see and hear many things denied to your limited senses. Castle Midnight is under seige. The Unreal is finally breaking free of the chains that have bound it for so long, and creatures of the night wait impatiently in the dark places for the last few barriers to fall. It may already be too late to stop them.”

“Do you know that for sure?” said Lewis.

“No. But I suspect it.”

“Your suspicions don’t matter. Nothing matters to you and I but the bond between us. You’re mine, Ironheart, body and soul, and your only hope for freedom is to obey me in all things.”

“Yes, Lewis. I’m yours. For now.”

“You’re mine until I decide otherwise.” Lewis emptied his glass, and dropped it carelessly onto the grassy floor. He was tired, and his injured hand ached. He wanted to go to bed and forget the day’s troubles in sleep, but he had to Wait for the Monk’s report, and as usual the Monk was late. Lewis scowled. He had to know what was happening in Viktor’s camp. There was a polite knock at the door, and Lewis growled for whoever it was to enter. The door swung open and a young serving maid came in, bearing a cold meal on a tray. Lewis remembered ordering the meal earlier, but he wasn’t hungry anymore. He started to wave the maid and meal away, and then stopped and took a second look at the maid as a different hunger awoke in him.

“Come here, girl. Let me look at you.”

She moved reluctantly forward, holding the tray out before her as though it could protect her from him. Lewis gestured for her to put the tray down on a nearby table. She did so, her hands trembling visibly, and turned slowly back to face him. She was good-looking in a simple, healthy way, with wavy shoulder-length hair and a firm supple figure. She looked to be in her midtwenties, but her pale face and wide eyes made her seem much younger. Lewis smiled at her easily, but she didn’t return the smile.

“They’ve been telling stories about me again, haven’t they?” said Lewis. “You don’t want to believe everything you hear, my dear. My enemies tell lies about me, and try to make me out a monster, and I tell the same kind of lies about them. It’s all part of the game we play. It’s called politics. Now stop shivering and shaking, and relax. Do I look like a monster to you?”

The maid blushed slightly, and shook her head. Lewis nodded surreptitiously to Ironheart, and his mailed hands shot out and grasped the maid’s arms above the elbows. She shrieked, and tried to break free, but couldn’t. Lewis rose slowly out of his chair, and walked over to stand before her. He reached out a hand to caress her face, and she shrank away from him. Lewis smiled slightly.

“The one thing you should know by now about Castle Midnight,” he said softly, “is that nothing is necessarily what it seems.”

His hands tore at her clothing. Shortly afterward, she started to scream. She screamed for a long time, but nobody heard her.

An hour or so later, the air rippled in Lewis’s quarters as the Monk appeared. His empty cowl turned slightly to observe the still, bloody form lying limply on the floor. Her wide staring eyes saw nothing at all, and her face wasn’t pretty anymore.

“Get rid of that,” said Lewis, gesturing vaguely in the body’s direction.

The Monk bowed, and the body disappeared. Air rushed in to fill the gap where it had been. “The body will not be found, sire.”

“You’re late!” snapped Lewis.

“My apologies,” said the Monk. “There is much of interest happening in the castle at present, and I like to keep you well-informed. For example, I was right in my suspicions about your brother Viktor. He’s using a double for his public appearances. The man you saw in Court this evening was merely an actor under a glamour.”

Lewis frowned. “I would have sworn it was Viktor. It looked like him, it was his voice … damn it, he had fire magic! I saw it!”

“A conjuring trick, Your Highness—sleight of hand. Nothing more.”

“Dominic already knew about this,” said Lewis suddenly. “That’s what he was hinting at earlier on.”

“Exactly,” said the Monk. “It appears he’s known about this for some time. He’s already set in motion a plan to discredit the impostor. There is to be a Testing before the Stone tomorrow morning. Dominic will challenge the double to spill his blood on the Stone, and when he can’t, thus proving himself an impostor, Dominic will demand to know what has happened to the real Viktor. His people will then be forced to reveal how ill and helpless your brother really is.”

“Not a bad idea,” said Lewis, “and one we can take advantage of. My friends, we are going to attend this Testing. Once the impostor has been revealed, I’ll raise a clamor about who else is pretending to be what they’re not. In the confusion, my men will attack Dominic’s, and you, Monk, will kill my brother. I’d prefer to do it myself, but you’re the only one of us strong enough to stand up against his sorcery. Afterward, we’ll claim he was an Unreal double that had managed to replace the real Dominic, and there’ll be no one left who can prove otherwise. Yes. I like that. Make the arrangements, Monk.”

He turned away, chuckling happily, and disappeared into his bedchamber. Ironheart and the Monk watched in silence as the door slammed shut behind him. There was a faint rasp of metal on metal as Ironheart’s steel gauntlets closed into fists.

“I want to kill him,” said Ironheart quietly. “I want it more than I’ve ever wanted anything before.”

“In good time,” said the Monk. “For the moment at least, we need him. As long as the castle believes we serve Lewis, we’re protected from too close a scrutiny. The steward suspects our nature, but Lewis’s position keeps her from doing anything about it. Put aside your anger, my friend. Lewis is useful to us.”

“He won’t always be.”

“That’s right. And then you and I will teach him the true meaning of fear and suffering.”

Ironheart stirred, his metal joints creaking softly. “It won’t be enough. No matter how much he suffers, it won’t be enough. I need him to burn and writhe as I have all these long years.”

He reached up with his mailed gauntlets and lifted off his helmet. The room’s soft lamplight shone palely on the dead white face. The flesh was slack and utterly colorless, even where the left eye had recently been cut in two by a sword thrust. No blood had flowed from the jagged edges of the wound, nor ever would.

“I’ve been dead almost twelve years now,” said Ironheart slowly. His words were faintly slurred, as he fought to make the dead flesh of his lips and tongue do what they used to do so easily. “Twelve years since I took my life, and damned myself by magic to this unliving hell. I did this to myself, Monk, and all for revenge on a man whose face I can’t even remember now. I always was a fool where a woman was concerned. Now my organs rot and decay within me, and my bones grow brittle, and still the preservation spell won’t let me die the true death. I can feel the rot and corruption within me, and the pain burns endlessly every hour of the day and night. I can’t rest, I can’t sleep, and I’m always so damned tired! Sometimes I think the tiredness is worse than the pain. Can’t you help me at all, Monk? You have power. Can’t you at least let me sleep, just for a while?”

“I’d help you if I could, my friend,” said the Monk, “but the curse on you is beyond my undoing.”