Forest Kingdom Trilogy 1 - Blue Moon Rising

they've been redecorated, I never did like the colour scheme. I take it John has lifted the Edict of Banishment?'
    'Of course,' said Rupert, glad to get a word in at last. 'He needs you, sir Warlock.'
    The High Warlock grinned suddenly. 'And I'll bet that sticks in his craw something horrible! Aye, well, I suppose we'd better get a move on, it's a fair way back to the Forest Castle. The sooner we make a start, the better.'
    'You want to leave now?' said Rupert. 'While it's still night? We wouldn't make it to the Darkwood! Sir Warlock, my men are in no condition to fight demons. They must have time to rest, and regain their strength.'
    'Not to worry,' said the Warlock airily. 'We won't have to go back through the Darkwood, I know a short cut.'
    Rupert gave him a hard look, and then froze as a cold angry growl came from somewhere behind him.
    Rupert spun round sword in hand, and then dropped into his fighting stance, as with a clatter and a crash the Champion jumped down from the table the Warlock had left him on. His face was flushed with rage, but his eyes were cold and dark. He smiled grimly, hefted his sword once, and advanced slowly towards the High Warlock.
    'You're a dead man, sorcerer,' said the Champion. 'You should have killed me while you had the chance.'
    'Oh hell,' said the Warlock tiredly. 'I'd forgotten about him. Would you care to explain the situation to him, Rupert, or shall I turn him into something less aggressive? Like a dormouse.'
    'He'll listen to me,' said Rupert quickly. The Warlock shrugged, and wandered off to talk to the animals in their cages. The Champion started after him, and Rupert moved hastily forward to block his way.
    'Sheathe your sword, sir Champion. The High Warlock has agreed to help us against the Darkwood.'
    'Get out of my way, Rupert.'
    'We need his magic.'
    'He tried to kill me!'
    'Yes,' said Rupert slowly. 'If I hadn't stopped him, I think he probably would have killed you. But even if he had, and you lay dead and cold at my feet, I'd still bargain with him. He's our only hope against the darkness, the only chance for survival the Forest has. And that makes him more important than you or I will ever be. So sheathe your sword, sir Champion. That's an order.'
    The Champion growled something under his breath, sheathed his sword, and glared at the Warlock, who was rummaging through the clutter on one of the far tables and muttering to himself.
    'The High Warlock was an old man when I first came to Court,' said the Champion. 'He'd have to be in his nineties by now. How do we know he's up to helping us against the Darkwood?'
    'I'm not,' said the Warlock, without looking round. 'But I will be. Ah, that's the one.' He picked up a wooden beaker, sipped cautiously at the frothing liquid it contained, and pulled a face. 'One of these days I'm going to have to work on the taste.'
    He glowered at the beaker, and drained it in several hasty gulps. He then slammed the beaker down on the table, screwed up his face and bent forward, clutching at his chest. Rupert ran over to the Warlock and grabbed his shoulders as he collapsed against the table, shivering and shaking. Rupert winced as he
    helped support the Warlock's weight; there was nothing left of the man but skin and bone. And then Rupert felt his hackles rise as the Warlock's flesh writhed under his hands. He snatched his hands away, watching disbelievingly as new bands of muscle swelled and crawled over the Warlock's bony frame. His shoulders widened and his back slowly straightened, the vertebrae cracking and popping like wet logs in a fire. Rivulets of black ran swiftly through the thickening grey hair. The Warlock sighed deeply and straightened up, and Rupert watched in awe as the Warlock tugged casually at his beard until it came away in his hands, revealing fresh baby-smooth skin glowing with health. A thick mane of jet black hair fell to his shoulders, and all that remained of his beard was a rakish black moustache. His back was straight, his frame was muscular, and all in all he looked no more than thirty years old at most. He grinned broadly at Rupert.
    'Not much use being able to transform things if you can't do it to yourself as well, eh, lad?'
    Rupert nodded speechlessly.
    'Now then,' said the Warlock briskly, 'I suppose you're here about the Darkwood.'
    'We already told you that,' said Rupert.
    'Did you? My memory isn't what it was. I really should do something about that, but I keep forgetting.
    Anyway, our main problem