Forest Kingdom Trilogy 1 - Blue Moon Rising

had been. The only light came from a single foxfire lamp set high up on the wall, but Darius's eyes had grown so used to the dark that even this dim glow was enough to light the corridor clearly. He glanced uneasily about him, uncomfortable in such an open space after so long in the cramped and narrow tunnels, and then crouched down on his haunches next to the wall. His once fashionable clothes were fouled and dirty, and hung loosely on his thinning frame. His unhealthy flesh was blotched and waxy pale, hanging in ugly folds and flapping jowls from having lost too much weight in too short a time. No fine Lord or Lady from the Court would have recognised Lord Darius now in the half-mad, scarecrow figure that crouched like an animal in the shadows because it preferred the darkness to the light.
    His puffy eyes glistened brightly as he peered quickly about him, ready to turn and run at the first sign of danger. Again and again his hand moved nervously to the dagger concealed in his sleeve, but no shadow stirred, and no sound broke the silence, save for his own unsteady breathing. The South Wing waited, as it had waited undisturbed for so many years, but still there was a tension on the unmoving air, as though the very Stones themselves were aware that something evil walked the empty corridors.
    There was a cold, brooding look in Darius's face, as though he held some awful secret within him, of things done or planned in the dark because they could not stand the light of day. Rupert would have recognised the look. He had passed through the endless night, and something of that darkness was in him
    too, and always would be. The Darkwood had placed its mark on both their souls, but whereas Rupert strove to throw the darkness off, Darius had surrendered to it willingly, in return for what it had promised him.
    Darius held up his left hand, and flames licked around his fingers without consuming them. He had power now, power from his dark Master, and with that power all debts would be repaid, all insults avenged.
    Darius laughed softly, and the flames disappeared. He crouched alone in the gloom, saying nothing, thinking little, waiting for those he feared and hated to come to him, there in the quiet and the cold and the darkness of the deserted South Wing.

    King John sighed, and watched dourly as his breath steamed on the chill air. He pulled his cloak tightly about him, and moved his chair a little closer to the banked, glowing fire. Even in his private rooms, deep in the heart of the Castle, it seemed there was no escaping the bitter cold of the Darkwood. He stared thoughtfully at the High Warlock, sitting opposite him on the other side of the fireplace. The Warlock sprawled inelegantly in his chair, chewing on a chicken leg, his short tubby legs propped up on a footstool. The cold didn't seem to bother him at all.
    Lamps and candles filled every spare niche in the overcrowded room, but still the overall impression was one of gloom. Always, in the past, the King had been able to draw strength and comfort from the many layers of ancient Stone that surrounded him, from the musics and the mysteries of Forest Castle, his legacy and birthright. For twelve generations before him, the Forest Kings had defended the land from all that threatened it, and something of that strength and determination had come to reside in Forest Castle itself, or so John had always believed. But now the long night had come, and all the ancient magics in the Castle walls had not been enough to keep out the Darkwood. The King scowled testily; times were hard indeed when a man couldn't even find a little peace and comfort in the security of his own rooms. John smiled briefly, recognising the pettiness of his thoughts, and pushed them firmly to one side. He glanced again at the High Warlock, and memories ran swiftly through his mind, not all of them bad. He and the Warlock had never been especially close, but they'd worked well together, for many years. There was even a time he'd thought of the High Warlock as his strong right arm, but that was a long time ago. A very long time ago.
    The Warlock stripped the last of the meat from the chicken leg and then, as John watched, casually broke the bone in two and sucked at the marrow like a child with a stick of candy. When he'd finished, he threw the bone into the fire and wiped his greasy fingers on the front of his robe. King John looked away. The High Warlock he remembered would rather have died than behave in