Forest Kingdom Trilogy 1 - Blue Moon Rising

within the boundaries of the Forest Land. It wasn't long before travellers brought the news that the High Warlock had settled in an old border tower, on the far side of the Forest.
    Rupert could still remember the look on his father's face when the Champion had finally confirmed the news. At the time he'd been too young to understand the emotion he'd seen so clearly, but looking back, he now recognised it as helpless rage. The Warlock had defied the Edict, and there was nothing the King could do about it. He did try, for his pride's sake.
    He summoned magicians to him from the Sorcerers' Academy, but all their spells and curses came to nothing against the High Warlock's power. He sent a troop of guards to tear down the Warlock's tower.
    They never came back. And so, finally, the King turned to other matters, and the Warlock was left to himself. Time passed, and dark tales grew about the Dark Tower, and the magics the High Warlock practised there. But though there were many tales, there were few facts, and as the long years passed and the Warlock never left his tower, he gradually faded out of history and into legend, becoming just another bogeyman that harried mothers could use to frighten their children into obedience.
    He was a traitor. He was a traitor, a coward and a drunk.
    Soft footsteps sounded behind him, and he dropped his hand to his swordhilt as he looked quickly round. The Champion stared past Rupert at the tower, and smiled coldly.
    'Snakes have their holes, rats have their nests, and the Warlock is still in his tower. He never did care much for the light of day. Have you found the door, Sire?'
    'There doesn't seem to be one, sir Champion.'
    The Champion raised an eyebrow, and then reached up and knocked loudly on the shutters of the
    nearest window. For a long moment nothing happened, and then the shutters flew open to reveal a grey-haired old man dressed in sorcerer's black. He glared impartially at Rupert and the Champion, yelled 'Go away!' and slammed the shutters in their faces. Rupert and the Champion exchanged glances.
    'We're going to be polite,' said Rupert determinedly. 'We can't afford to be left stranded out here when night falls. Try again.'
    The Champion nodded, and knocked on the shutters. 'Please come out, sir Warlock, we need to talk to you.'
    'No!' came the muffled reply.
    'If you don't come out, we'll come in and get you,' said the Champion calmly.
    'You and what army?'
    'Us and this army.'
    The shutters flew open again and the High Warlock looked past Rupert and the Champion at the twenty-five guards gathered together at the foot of the tower's hillock. Rupert glanced back at his men, trying to see them as the Warlock would. Their armour was battered and bloodied, but they hefted their swords with a grim competence. They looked tired, disreputable, and extremely menacing; more like bandits than guardsmen. The Warlock sniffed, and fixed the Champion with his gaze.
    'This your army?'
    'Yes.'
    'Get them off my lawns or they're all frogs.'
    The Warlock slammed the shutters again. Rupert turned to the Champion.
    'Now what do we do?'
    'Well,' said the Champion, thoughtfully, 'first, we get the army off his lawns.'
    Rupert glared at the Champion's departing back. There were times when he wondered just whose side the Champion was on. He sighed, turned reluctantly back to the closed shutters, and reached up to tap on them politely.
    'Sir Warlock? Are you still there?'
    There was no answer, and the shutters remained firmly closed. Oh great, thought Rupert disgustedly, we've upset him now. He looked back at his men. Under the Champion's orders they'd sheathed their swords and moved away from the tower. They were now standing at parade rest and trying hard to look harmless. They weren't being noticeably successful. Rupert glanced up at the darkening sky, and his frown deepened into a scowl. Night was almost upon them. Already the air was growing colder, and it seemed to Rupert that the swirling wall of snow was just a little closer to the Dark Tower than it had been. He hammered on the shutters with his fist, but still there was no reply. Rupert swore harshly. He was damned if he'd let his men face the dark again while there was shelter at hand. He studied the closed shutters thoughtfully. They didn't look all that strong. He grinned suddenly, and carefully inserted his
    sword between the two shutters. It was a tight fit at first, but Rupert leaned on the sword and it slid gradually in until the