Forest Kingdom Trilogy 1 - Blue Moon Rising

King's words seemed to hang on the air, echoing and re-echoing.
    And then the swords answered him.
    Rupert's hackles rose as the soft, eerie voices came to him from everywhere and nowhere, rising and falling and blending into strange and unnatural harmonies that seemed to hint at meaning without ever achieving it. The result was complex, liquid and altogether inhuman. The King spoke occasionally in reply, his voice harsh and strained in comparison to the gentle, almost seductive speech of the swords.
    And then the blades fell silent. The King's voice took on a strange, unpleasant rhythm, and then fell to an almost inaudible whisper. The hall grew steadily colder, and Rupert watched his breath steam on the air before him. The old runes etched into the silver scabbards seemed to writhe and curl like living things, and Rupert felt a sudden sense of pressure near by, as though something was fighting to break out... or in. The air stank of freshly spilled blood. Something moved in the shadows beyond the torch's uncertain
    light. And then the King forced out three last words and the Infernal Devices laughed softly, a greedy, eager sound. Rupert shuddered sickly, as though just hearing the sound had somehow dirtied him. The last of the echoes died quickly away, and all was still and quiet again. The torchlight flared and flickered, but the shadows were only shadows. The air grew warmer, and the overwhelming stench of blood was nothing more than an unquiet memory. King John stared impassively at the Infernal Devices, and when he finally spoke, his voice was once again calm and even.
    'Three swords,' he said quietly. 'One for each of the Royal line, to wield against the endless night. I choose . . . Rockbreaker.'
    'And may God deliver us from evil,' whispered the Seneschal.
    King John reached out and took the left-hand sword from the stand. The giant blade appeared almost weightless in his hand, but he made no move to draw it from its scabbard. He simply stared at it for a moment, and then slung it over his left shoulder and strapped it firmly in place. The blade hung down his back, the tip a bare inch above the floor, its long hilt standing up behind the King's head. He hitched his shoulder once, to settle the weight more comfortably, and then stepped back and gestured for Harald to make his choice.
    Harald approached the two remaining swords cautiously. His eyes flickered from one blade to the other, undecided, but finally his gaze came to rest on the right-hand sword. His mask of unconcern suddenly fell away, revealing a harshly lined face with dark, determined eyes, and a grim smile that had nothing at all of humour in it.
    'Flarebright,' said Harald softly, reading the ancient sigils graven into the sword's crosspiece. 'I choose Flarebright.' He took the sword from the stand and slung it quickly over his left shoulder, fumbling at the buckles in his eagerness until the Seneschal had to help him.
    King John gestured for Rupert to approach the weapon stand. Rupert looked at the one remaining sword, but stayed where he was. Go ahead, whispered a voice deep inside him. It's only a suiord. The silver scabbard gleamed enticingly in the torch's unsteady glow. Wolfsbane. A sword of power.
    And Rupert stood again in the Coppertown pit, holding up his sword, calling and calling for a help that never came.
    'No,' he said finally, and turned away. 'I don't trust magic swords any more. Let someone else have it.'
    'Take the sword,' said King John. 'You are of the Royal line, the sword is yours by right and duty. The people need symbols to follow into battle.'
    'No,' said Rupert. 'There are some things I won't do, father, not even for duty.'
    'Take the sword!' snapped the King. That's an order!'
    'Go to hell,' said Rupert, and walked away. His footsteps echoed dully on the silence as he made his way back down the central aisle. All around him, the swords of countless heroes watched reproachfully as he turned his back on them. Rupert walked on, his head held high. He'd done enough, more than enough; no one had a right to ask anything more of him. He'd face the demons again because he had to, but he'd do it with honest steel in his hand, not the foul and terrible evil he'd sensed in the Infernal Devices. A wave of bone-deep weariness surged slowly through him, and Rupert wondered if he had time for just one more hour's sleep before dawn. He was so damn tired ... He shook his head and smiled
    wryly. There'd be plenty of time for rest