Blood and Honor (Forest Kingdom Novels) (30 page)

“That’s right,” said Doyle slowly. “She just went in, a few minutes ago.”

Jordan looked thoughtfully at Wee Geordie. At least half an hour had passed since Geordie had told him the steward was in danger … Perhaps time moved differently when you were a ghost. He looked back at Doyle, and smiled reassuringly.

“We’re here to help, Captain. How many guards do you command?”

“Four guards, two walking wounded. I’ve been promised reinforcements, but God knows when they’ll get here.”

Jordan scowled, and looked at Sir Gawaine. “We can’t wait. According to Geordie, Taggert needs us now.”

“You can’t be thinking of going in there, sire,” said Doyle quickly. “There’s nothing you could do. Even your brother Dominic would be hard-pressed to stand against this much unreality.”

“The steward’s in trouble! She needs us!”

“Your concern does you credit, Your Highness, but we’ve already lost a sanctuary and a dozen good men. It’s death to go in there now.”

Jordan looked at Gawaine. “He does have a point, you know.”

“But you promised!” Wee Geordie looked accusingly at Jordan, and he sighed heavily.

“Yes,” he said. “I promised. Let’s go, Gawaine.”

He climbed up and over the barricade, with Gawaine close behind him. It gave uneasily under their weight, and Jordan couldn’t help wondering how long it would hold if something nasty decided to leave the West Wing. On descending the other side, he was somewhat surprised to find Wee Geordie and the bloodhound already waiting for him. Jordan decided he wasn’t going to ask. It seemed there were definite advantages to being a ghost. A thought struck him, and he turned to Sir Gawaine as he climbed down from the barricade.

“Can Geordie be hurt by anything in the West Wing?” he said quietly.

“I don’t see how,” said Gawaine, just as quietly. “I mean, he is dead, after all.”

Jordan led the way down the corridor, frowning to himself as he realized for the first time that he wasn’t at all sure what he was going to do when he caught up with the steward. After what he’d seen her do in the Great Hall, his sword and conjurer’s tricks weren’t going to be much help. He shrugged mentally. He’d just have to improvise.

And then they came to the boundary of the Unreal, and they stopped dead in their tracks.

The corridor had given way to a night-dark forest, lit by dancing emerald fires that burned unsupported on the air. The boles of the trees were twisted and gnarled, the whorls of bark forming horrid faces that looked at Jordan with knowing eyes. Bugs and insects the size of Jordan’s hand scuttled across the ground in the thousands, forming a heaving living carpet. A guard wearing torn chain mail came running through the forest, screaming and howling wordlessly. A great wind came roaring after him and tore the flesh from his bones as he ran. The man was dead before Jordan could even begin to look away.

“And this is just the edge,” said Gawaine quietly. “It’ll get worse the farther we go in. Stay close beside me.

He hefted the ax the High Warlock had given him so long ago, and started forward. The runes on the heavy axhead began to glow. Insects crunched loudly under Gawaine’s boots, and some ran up his legs, their antennae waving furiously. Gawaine ignored them, and kicked a path through the ones swarming on the ground. Jordan drew his sword and hurried after the knight, his lips curling in disgust. He’d never liked bugs. He tried to step gingerly around the worst concentrations, but there were just too many of them. Wee Geordie and the bloodhound brought up the rear. Jordan didn’t notice it, but the insects drew back rather than approach the young ghost and the dog.

Gawaine swung his ax at a tree that blocked his way. The bark oozed blood, and the branches thrashed angrily. Gawaine cut it down anyway. Branches from the surrounding trees reached for him with crackling fingers of sharpened twigs. Gawaine met them unflinchingly with his ax. He and his brother Vivian had held Tower Rouge against an army, and there was little left in the world that could scare him anymore. Jordan moved in beside him with his sword. The two of them pressed on, and the forest couldn’t stop them. And then, in the space between one step and the next, the forest was suddenly gone and madness took its place.

They were deep in the West Wing now, and the Unreal had thrown away its masks. They were back in the corridor again, but the walls were studded with inhuman faces that disappeared when you looked at them directly, but smiled and snarled endlessly at the corner of your eyes. There were holes in the floor that fell away forever. The ceiling seemed to be miles overhead, its features blurred by distance. And in that corridor, creatures from a fever’s nightmare swarmed about Damon Cord and fought to pull him down. His clothes were torn, and soaked with his own blood and others’. He swung his mace with frenzied strength, but in the end there were just too many creatures, and they brought him down.

Sir Gawaine howled a Forest warcry, and charged into the midst of the creatures. His ax was a shimmering blur as it sheared through a distorted shape that screeched in agony and despair and then vanished. Something with jagged teeth launched itself at Gawaine, and he spun quickly around to bury his ax in its breastbone. He staggered back a step under the creature’s weight, and then it too was gone, and air rushed in to fill the gap where it had been. Gawaine grinned wolfishly. It seemed the ax’s property of destroying inimical magic was working to his advantage. He gripped the haft firmly and swung again. The runes on the steel head burned with a bright silver fire.

Jordan did his best to guard Gawaine’s back, but it was all he could do to clear a space in the press of inhuman bodies. Damon Cord reared up from under a crowd of monsters, and struck about him with his mace. Blood ran from a long scalp wound, making his face an ugly crimson mask. A crawling thing with too many legs and an insane woman’s face ran down the wall to strike at Wee Geordie. Jordan saw the thing coming, but knew he couldn’t hope to reach the boy in time. And then Geordie turned and looked at the monstrosity. He frowned, and it fell dying to the floor.

Good thing I decided to help him
, thought Jordan.

The Unreal creatures suddenly gave up on their prey, and fled down the corridor, their shapes changing as they ran. Jordan and Gawaine stood together in the empty corridor, panting for breath. Damon Cord reversed his long-handled mace and leaned on it wearily.

“Thanks for the help. I couldn’t have lasted much longer.” He looked approvingly at Gawaine’s blood-soaked ax. “That’s some ax you’ve got there.” He glanced at the bloodhound, and raised an eyebrow. “Though this is a hell of a time to be taking your dog for a walk.”

Jordan looked at Cord’s bloodstained clothing, and frowned worriedly. “Are you all right? Do you need a surgeon?”

Cord shook his head. “I’ll live. Look, Your Highness, I’m grateful for your help, but we can’t stay here. The steward and Mother Donna are up ahead, and they’re in trouble. You’ve got to help them. I can’t. The best I can do is guard your backs.”

Sir Gawaine nodded briskly, and set off down the corridor. Blood dripped steadily from his ax. Wee Geordie hurried after him, the bloodhound padding close at his side. Jordan had to wait a moment to get his breath back before continuing, and that was how he saw what happened to the dog. It was trotting along quite happily when a long warty tentacle snapped out of the corridor wall and grabbed at the dog. Jordan opened his mouth to shout a warning, and then stopped as the tentacle passed clean through the bloodhound’s body as though it wasn’t there. The tentacle tried again, but to no effect. The bloodhound padded on, unconcerned, and the tentacle whipped back into the wall. Jordan’s mouth closed with a snap.

It’s a ghost. It’s another damned ghost. No wonder it kept appearing and disappearing …

Jordan shot a glance at Cord, but he didn’t seem to have seen anything untoward. Jordan shook his head, and started after the others. He’d always heard Castle Midnight was lousy with ghosts, and it looked as though the stories were true. He soon caught up with Sir Gawaine, and they walked side by side deeper into the heart of the Unreal. Cord brought up the rear, silent and scowling. The corridor continued to fluctuate around them, but although strange shapes came and went like the threads of a drifting nightmare, none of them drew near the small party. Word of Sir Gawaine’s ax had spread among the Unreal.

Jordan kept a careful watch about him, nonetheless. There was something horribly unsettling about the West Wing now, apart from the insane shifting and stirrings in the passageways. The very nature of the world seemed somehow different, as though all the old relationships like cause and effect were no longer valid, or at least no longer constant. You couldn’t rely on left and right or up and down to mean the same things anymore. The simple everyday certainties upon which the Real world is based had become confused and contradictory. Time itself appeared to become slow and sluggish, and then speeded up again. Jordan had never felt so scared in his life. It was as though he’d woken from the worst nightmare he’d ever had, only to find he was trapped in the dream and unable to break free. He could turn and run, of course. No one was stopping him. He could run back the way he’d come and escape all this madness. No one would blame him. It was the sensible thing to do. But in the end, he only considered the thought seriously for a moment or two, and then discarded it. He wasn’t going to turn back. He had his pride and his dignity … and his honor. He’d promised Wee Geordie his help. And Catriona Taggert needed him.

The world suddenly changed again. The corridor spun dizzily around him, and then settled. Jordan blinked dazedly as he discovered he and his party were now standing in a small circle of normality, together with the steward and Mother Donna. The sanctuary’s face was gray and drawn from strain and exhaustion. Taggert was sitting with her back to the wall, nursing a torn arm. Her glowing shield was gone, but her balefire sword still crackled quietly in her right hand. She and Mother Donna nodded tiredly to their rescuers, too exhausted even to be surprised.

“We’ve come to help you,” said Jordan lamely.

“A bit late,” said Taggert, “but none the less welcome for that.”

“There’s a gateway somewhere ahead,” said Mother Donna. “I’m sure of it. If we’re to stop the Unreal, it must be destroyed. The steward and I have done all we can. It’s up to you now. There’s a power in your ax, Gawaine—I can feel it. With that, and God’s blessing, you might just live long enough to reach the gateway.”

“Looks like I’ve been volunteered again,” said Sir Gawaine.

“And me,” said Jordan. Gawaine looked at him, and Jordan glared right back at him. “You’re going to need someone to guard your back.”

“You don’t have to do this.”

“Yes, I do. I gave Geordie my word.”

Sir Gawaine nodded approvingly. Jordan felt proud, and just a little sick. Playing a hero onstage was one thing, being one was quite another. He swallowed hard, and turned to Wee Geordie and the bloodhound.

“I want you two to stay here and look after Mother Donna and the steward. Do you think you can do that?”

Geordie’s lower lip thrust out. “I want to stay with you.”

“I need someone to look after the ladies,” said Jordan. “Someone I can trust.”

Geordie thought about it, and then nodded. “I’ll protect them, Viktor. I promise.”

Jordan ruffled the boy’s hair affectionately, and leaned down to pet the dog. It fixed him with its sad eyes, and wagged its tail furiously. Jordan turned back to Sir Gawaine, and nodded jerkily to show he was ready. The knight took a firm grip on his ax, then stepped out of the sanctuary’s circle of normality and back into nightmare. Jordan followed him, sword in hand.

Beyond the circle, things were different again. The light was an unhealthy purple glow that flickered up from jagged holes in the pitch-black floor. Sir Gawaine started slowly forward, and Jordan followed him. He kept well clear of the holes. They looked a lot like mouths to him. The walls were covered with running sores, and the ceiling was so low he had to bend his head to avoid banging it. Somewhere up ahead, something was grunting like a gigantic hog at its trough. It sounded hungry, and horribly eager.

“It knows we’re coming,” said Gawaine softly.

“What the hell are we looking for, anyway?” said Jordan, just as quietly. He felt uneasy about raising his voice. He didn’t know who might be listening.

“Beats me,” said Sir Gawaine. “We’ll know it when we find it. If we get that far. It could be a place or a person, or even an object. It’s a gateway; a part of reality through which the Unreal can enter from outside. Rather like a sanctuary in reverse. It could be anything, anywhere. We just keep looking until we find it. And then we do something about it.”

“Like what?” said Jordan.

“I haven’t worked that out yet,” said Sir Gawaine.

“Great,” said Jordan. “Just great.”

Gawaine grinned at him suddenly. “Sorry you came?”

“Damned right!” said Jordan, smiling in return. “What do you think I am—crazy?”

They continued down the corridor, trying to look in every direction at once. Jordan gripped his sword tightly, until his fingers ached. The passage was ominously quiet. The light blazed up through the holes in the floor. It waxed and waned and flickered unsteadily, as the color changed from a sickly purple to a dark crimson that reminded Jordan inescapably of blood. The harsh, garish light made Gawaine look like a walking corpse. The comparison disturbed Jordan, and he looked away. He paused briefly to look down into one of the holes, careful to keep a safe distance between him and the edge. Far below, something dark and indistinct swam listlessly in a sea of blazing magma. It was too far away to tell how big the thing was, but the slow ponderousness of its movements suggested something unthinkably huge. Jordan looked quickly away, and hurried to catch up with Sir Gawaine.

“The gateway can’t be too far away,” muttered the knight, as much to himself as to Jordan. “The Unreal hasn’t had time to spread far.”

“How does a gateway come about anyway?” said Jordan. “I got the impression they were pretty rare.”