Forest Kingdom Trilogy 1 - Blue Moon Rising

said the Seneschal quietly from the Armoury doors. 'If nothing else, the Infernal Devices do seem to be living up to their reputations. Barely drawn a few minutes, and already christened in blood.'
    'Yes,' said Harald. 'They like blood. And they love to kill.' He stared thoughtfully at Flarebright's red-tinged steel, and then slipped the sword back into its scabbard. His face quickly regained its usual calm, but his eyes remained vague and uncertain, as though he was only just beginning to realise what he'd let himself in for. He suddenly noticed that his hands were spotted with blood, and wiped them clean on his jerkin with quick, compulsive movements.
    'Anyway,' he said quietly, 'the important thing is that finally we've caught our traitor. Darius must have let the demons into the South Wing through the air-vent tunnels he knew so well, and he must have used his new-found magic to interfere with the High Warlock's teleport spell.' He looked down at Darius, lying broken on the ground. 'Luckily, he's no great loss. No one's going to miss him.'

Chapter 8
    CREATURES OF THE DARK
    Even before he left the main entrance hall, Rupert could feel the cold waiting for him out in the courtyard.
    The temperature in the hall dropped steadily as he approached the main doors, and suddenly his breath was steaming on the air before him. Rupert pulled his cloak about him, and nodded brusquely to the guard at the doors. The guard opened the doors a crack, and Rupert slipped quickly out on to the main stairway. The doors slammed shut behind him, to keep in what little warmth remained, and Rupert winced as the bitter cold of the courtyard cut at him like a knife. Coal braziers and banked fires glowed bravely here and there across the crowded courtyard, spreading all too little heat or light. Thick snow and ice covered the battlements and stable roofs, and hoarfrost shone on the inner walls. Torches blazed at regular intervals along the walls, but the main light was the bright blue glare of the Full Moon, riding high above on the endless dark of the starless night. And in that courtyard, under that unhealthy light, the last army of the Forest Land slowly gathered itself together.
    Rupert stamped his feet and beat his gloved hands together as he stared down at the milling crowd that packed the courtyard from wall to wall. The refugees and their camps were gone, moved into the Castle for the time being at least, their place taken by grim-faced men and women preparing themselves for battle. There was little talk or chatter. Outside, the Darkwood pressed close about Forest Castle, nuzzling at its walls like some huge, determined hound searching for the prey temporarily denied it. Rupert shuddered as the old familiar sense of oppression and foreboding settled upon him once again. He fought the fear down, refusing to give in to it, knowing that if he ever did, even for a moment, he'd never be free of it for the rest of his life.
    He studied the gathering army below him, and wondered how they'd react when they finally went out into the Darkwood, and discovered that the demons were only part of the evil they had to face.
    He watched dourly as some five hundred men and half a hundred women strapped their armour about them, and tested the balance of whichever weapon they felt most comfortable with. All too many had obviously never drawn a weapon in anger in their lives. The guards and men-at-arms ran through their exercises with quiet competence, while the courtiers and traders, the farmers and townspeople copied the fighting men as best they could, sweeping their blades awkwardly back and forth before them. Priests moved calmly from group to group, talking quietly and reassuringly, giving comfort where they could. The grooms led the few remaining horses out of the stables, keeping a firm grip on the reins and murmuring soothingly to the nervous suspicious animals. Rupert frowned thoughtfully. The last time he'd tried to take horses into the Darkwood, they'd had to be blindfolded and led in by hand. Hopefully the Castle war-chargers were made of sterner stuff.
    He looked away, and then smiled slightly as he spotted a small group of goblins sitting quietly by the stables. They were happily engaged in filing jagged barbs into the edges of their swords, and then smearing the barbs with fresh horse dung, so that any wounds they made would be sure to fester. Up on the battlements, the rest of the goblins were preparing cauldrons of pitch and boiling