Forest Kingdom Trilogy 1 - Blue Moon Rising

silver and copper that keeps our economy afloat. But since the Darkwood has spread its boundaries, more and more of the mines have fallen to the long night. Demons are crawling up out of the pits and spilling into the main workings. Miners are afraid to go down into the dark. Some mines have had to be sealed, for fear of what might emerge from the deepest shafts.'
    The King scowled thoughtfully. 'I hadn't realised things had got so out of hand.'
    'You can't be expected to keep track of everything, John.'
    'Perhaps if I sent the Barons more guards ...'
    'No, John, we can't afford to lose any more men. We're thinly enough spread as it is. We can't really spare that troop of guards you're sending with the Champion and young Rupert.'
    'I know,' said the King, 'but if we didn't let Rupert have them, I really think he wouldn't go.'
    'Yes,' smiled the Astrologer. 'He's finally learning . . .'
    They shared a smile, and then the King frowned again, and looked away.
    'They'd better bring back the High Warlock,' he said softly. 'After the mess we've made of things, he's our only hope.'

Chapter 3
    DUELS
    Thin trails of mist curled lazily on the chill morning air as Rupert saddled his unicorn in the courtyard. The dawn sun had barely crept above the horizon, and the sky was still splashed with blood. Not the best of omens for the journey ahead. Rupert grinned tiredly, and then leaned briefly against the patiently waiting unicorn as a yawn stretched his jaw to its limit. According to the water clock he'd had almost six hours'
    sleep, but it seemed he'd barely laid his head on the pillow before a servant was shaking him awake.
    A lukewarm bath and a cold breakfast hadn't improved his temper, and being studiously ignored by his own troop of guards was the last straw. Rupert cursed under his breath as the bitter cold numbed his fingers, making them clumsy on the harness. A buckle slipped from his grasp, and he grabbed awkwardly for it. Although his back was to the guards, he could hear some of them laughing. He flushed hotly as he tightened the cinch, sure he was the butt of their humour. One joke , he thought angrily, just one and I'll feed the man his chain-mail, link by link ! Rupert smiled sourly, and shook his head. Not yet out of the Castle gates, and already he was thinking of attacking one of his own guards. He closed his eyes a moment and breathed deeply, searching for some kind of calm. There was a long journey ahead of him, with plenty of time for him and his guards to test each other's measure.
    Assuming they survived long enough.
    Rupert brushed the thought aside, quickly fastened the last few straps, and then turned and stared casually about him. Half a hundred guardsmen and their mounts milled back and forth in the courtyard, interspersed with hurrying servants and grooms. Flagons of mead and cheap sweetmeats were being warmed over flaring braziers by gaudily clothed hawkers, and here and there small knots of men spoke quietly with hooded priests. A dozen guards were fighting mock duels under the Champion's watchful eye, and the towering stone walls echoed to the ring of steel on steel. Other guards stood and watched, polished their swords with oiled rags, and practised looking evil. Rupert found their obvious competence both intimidating and comforting. He pulled his cloak about him, and stamped his feet to keep warm. His breath steamed on the still morning air. Rupert frowned; it shouldn't be this cold so early in the autumn.
    The Darkwood must be closer than anyone thought... he let his hand drop to the pommel of his sword.
    The sooner he got this journey started, the better.
    And yet he hesitated, watching the duelling guardsmen thrust and parry, their swords flashing brightly in the gloomy courtyard. Sweat glistened on the guards' faces, and their breathing grew harsh as they drove themselves ever harder, searching for the elusive first blood that would decide the duel. Rupert remembered all too clearly the many times he'd fought in this courtyard, in the early morning chill. Bitter memories surfaced, of standing awkwardly under his tutor's disdainful gaze, wrapped in ill-fitting chain-mail and carrying a sword that seemed far too heavy for his skinny arms. His duelling partner had been a lean, muscular guardsman, almost twenty years his senior and many times better than him.
    Between them, the tutor and the guard slowly turned the young Prince into a swordsman. He paid for the knowledge with blood and