Simon R. Green - Forest Kingdom 2 - Blood and Honor

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Chapter One

Hidden Faces

The demon appeared from nowhere in a puff of evil-smelling smoke. The

warped and twisted trees of the Darkwood loomed protectively over the crouching figure. The High

Warlock stood tall and proud before the demon, his jet black cloak swirling ominously about him in

the evening breeze. The stagelights gleamed brightly from the cloak's silver embroidery of stars

and moons and sigils. The Warlock gestured imperiously, and a sword suddenly appeared in his right

hand. Gaudily coloured lights shrieked and flashed around the crouching demon, and the Warlock

stepped back a pace. The sword was no longer in his hand. He drew himself up to his full, imposing

height, and raised his arms in the stance of summoning. He chanted a spell in a deep, ringing

voice. The audience watched breathlessly, and then gasped in awe as bluewhite flames flared around

the Warlock's upraised hands. The flames danced and crackled noisily on the gusting wind, but the

Warlock's hands remained unburned. His voice rose to a commanding roar, and then the demon burst

into flames as the Warlock gestured sharply with a flame-wrapped hand. The twisted creature burned

fiercely, and the audience cheered. The High Warlock turned and smiled coldly at them, and they

fell silent before his unwavering gaze.

'And thus did the demons of the Darkwood fall before me, in the darkest hour of the Forest

Kingdom. In that faraway land, I stood shoulder to shoulder with the noble King John, and his

heroic sons Harald and Rupert, and the forces of darkness could not stand against us.' The High

Warlock low-ered his hands to his sides, and the bluewhite flames sputtered and went out. 'The

long night ended, the demon hordes were thrown down and destroyed, and the Forest Land was saved.

That was the way it had to be, for is it not written that evil cannot prevail against good, and

that the darkness shall always give way to the light?'

He clapped his hands sharply and the stagelights flared brilliantly for a moment, pushing

back the shadows of the falling evening. The lights dimmed again, and the Warlock folded his arms

across his chest. His black cloak folded about him like great membraneous wings. His gaunt face

was harsh and forbidding, and his cold grey eyes stared unwaveringly out over the hushed audience.

'And that, my friends, is the true history of the great and wondrous High Warlock, and his part in

the destruction of the Darkwood. A tale of adventure and intrigue, honour and treachery, and the

inevitable triumph of Good over Evil. My honoured friends . . . the performance is at an end.'

He bowed once, and then gestured imperiously with his left hand. Smoke billowed up around

him from nowhere, and then drifted away to reveal the actor standing alone in the middle of the

crude wooden stage, dressed once again in his simple everyday clothes. He stepped forward and

bowed deeply, and the audience beat their hands together until they ached. The Great Jordan smiled

and bowed graciously, but all too quickly his audience began to drift away, and only a few of them

paused to drop a coin in his offerings bowl.

Jordan waited until the last of his audience had left, and then he sat down on the edge of

his stage and began wiping the make-up off his face with a piece of dirty rag. Without the

carefully placed shadings and highlights, his face looked younger and softer, and nowhere near as

forbidding. His shoulders slumped wearily as the tiredness of the day caught up with him, and the

air of mystery and command that had surrounded him on stage vanished like the illusion it was. The

sword he'd used in his act poked him unmercifully in the ribs, and he pulled it out of the

concealed sheath under his cloth-ing. Seen up close it was battered and nicked and not at all

impressive. It was just a sword, which had seen too much service in its time. Jordan yawned and

stretched, and then shivered suddenly. Nights were falling earlier as the summer gave way to

autumn, and the rising wind had a cold edge. He glanced across at the smouldering demon, but the

roughly carved prop had pretty much burned itself out. He'd have to do some more work on the

demon. It still looked all right from a distance, but the spring that threw it out from behind the

concealing piece of scenery must be getting rusty. This was the third time in a week that its

timing had been off. Any later and the damned fireworks would have gone off first. Jordan sighed.

The spring wasn't the only thing whose timing was off. He was getting too old for one-night stands

in backwater towns. At twenty-seven he was hardly an old man, but he just didn't have the stamina

any more to put up with an endless round of poor food, hard travel and never enough sleep.

He got to his feet, strapped the sword to his side, and walked unhurriedly over to the

offerings bowl. For a moment be allowed himself to hope, but when he looked it was even worse than

he'd expected. The dozen or so small copper coins barely covered the bottom of the bowl. Jordan

emptied the coins into his purse, and glumly hefted the trifling weight in his hand. Bannerwick

was only a small milltown deep in the desolate north country, but he'd still looked for better

takings than this. If things didn't improve soon, he'd have to go back to card sharking and

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picking pockets to make ends meet. He hadn't seen takings this bad since he first started out on

the stage as a juvenile. Maybe he was losing his touch. Or maybe his material was getting old; the

Demon War had ended seven years ago. Jordan shook his head, and tied his purse securely on to his

belt. It wasn't him and it wasn't his act; if truth be told it was simply that times were hard in

the Kingdom of Redhart. Money was scarce, and strolling players had become a luxury beyond the

purses of most.

It wasn't just Redhart, of course. Jordan had spent most of his professional life in

Hillsdown. He'd known good times there. Not once had he thought he might one day be forced by poor

takings to leave the country of his birth. He'd appeared three times before the Duke himself, and

known the company of great men and their Ladies. They'd been the first to name him the Great

Jordan. He'd travelled widely, even to the Court of the Forest Kingdom itself, though that was

some time before the Demon War. He hadn't been back since. The demons had been defeated, but not

nearly as simply and easily as he made it sound in his performance as the High Warlock. The War

had devastated the Forest and much of the countries that bordered it. The land was slowly

recovering, but there were those who said it would take a generation and more before trade fully

recovered. In the meantime, Hillsdown and Redhart and the Forest Kingdom struggled to keep their

heads above water, and had little time or money to spare for the great players who once touched

the hearts of all who heard them.

Jordan frowned as he tried to work out if he had enough money to buy provisions and to get

drunk, and if not, which of the two was the more important. The mental arithmetic took a

depressingly short time, and he scowled unhappily. It would have to be provisions. Bannerwick

stood alone and isolated in the middle of Redhart's moorland, and it was a good two or three days'

travelling to the next town. He could always pick up a few grouse along the way, but the local

Margrave's men took a very dim view of poaching. When all was said and done, it might prove rather

tricky trying to do his act with only the one hand . . . No, it would have to be the provisions.

Jordan looked about him at the squat little houses clustered around the narrow main street of

Bannerwick. How had he come to this?

The stone and timber houses huddled side by side as much for comfort as support. The rough and

dirty walls were all much the same to look at, like so many defeated faces. Smoke curled wearily

from the narrow chimneypots, and the bitter wind tugged at the tiled roofs as it came gusting in

off the moors. The last light of evening was already fading away, and the main street was

deserted. Country people awoke with the first light, worked while it lasted, and went to their

beds when darkness fell. It was only Jordan's show that had kept them up this late. He supposed he

should be flattered. They hadn't been a bad audience, all told. They'd laughed and cheered in the

right places, and even gasped in awe as his conjuring produced the illusion of magic powers.

Jordan smiled slightly. He'd always believed in giving value for money. Of course there had been a

time, and not that long ago, when he'd been able to include real sorcery in his act, but that time

was past. Hiring sorcerers was always expensive, and of the few spells that remained to Jordan,

most were slowly wearing out.

Still, there was no denying he'd been in excellent form tonight. The times might be hard,

but he was still the Great Jordan, and the High Warlock was one of his best roles. He'd always

prided himself on his choice of roles. He'd played all the best parts in his time: everyone from

the fabled King Edward who loved the deadly Night Witch, to the heroic Starlight Duke of

Hillsdown, to the sad and tragic sheepminder, Old Molly Metcalf. The Great Jordan was nothing if

not versatile. He'd played before Lords and Ladies, townspeople and vil-lagers, and once even for

a scar-faced man who claimed to be a Prince in exile. Though he never actually said where he'd

been exiled from. Jordan smiled, remembering. In those days, his bowl had known the heavy clunk of

gold and silver and even precious jewels. His ears had rung to roars of joy and admir-ation from

packed theatres, and tearful pleas for just one more encore. But those days were over. The times

had changed, and other names had risen to prominence as his had faded, and now he had to take his

offerings where he could find them.

The Great Jordan, showing his act to a few gawking peasants for a handful of coppers. There was no

justice in the world. Or at least, none a man could learn to live with.

He got slowly to his feet and shook his head. It was getting too cold to sit around

brooding. He threw a blanket over the smouldering demon prop to smother the last of the flames,

and then set about transferring his props and scenery into the back of his small caravan. He

gathered up his stagelights and counted them carefully twice, just to make sure none of them had

disappeared with some unprincipled member of his audi-ence. He stacked the lanterns and lamps in

their proper places, and then went back for his stage. It was supposed to break easily into

sections, but Jordan had to struggle with each square until he was red in the face and short of

breath. He scowled as he slid the last section on to the floor of his caravan. He was going to

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have to do more work on the stage before it would come apart properly, and he hated working with

wood. No matter how careful he was, he always ended up with splinters in his fingers. His scowl

deepened as he laced up the caravan's back flaps. He shouldn't have to do scutwork like this. He

was an actor, not a carpenter.

Jordan smiled sourly. That was his past talking. Stars might not have to do scutwork, but

actors did. If they wanted to eat regularly. And if nothing else, exercise did help to build a

healthy appetite. He set off down the main street, looking for a tavern. Late as it was by country

standards, the town inn would still be open. Such inns always were. I don't care if the speciality

of the house is broiled demon in a toadstool sauce, I'm still going to eat it and ask for seconds,

he thought determinedly. Halfway down the narrow street, his nose detected the smell of hot

cooking, and he followed it eagerly to a squat grimy building that looked no different from any of

the others, save for a roughly painted sign hanging over the door, The Seven Stars. Jordan tried

the door. It was locked. He banged impatiently on the stained wood with his fist. After a long

moment he heard footsteps approaching, and eventually a panel slid open in the door. A dark-

bearded face studied Jordan suspiciously.

'Ah, good evening, innkeeper,' said Jordan pleasantly. 'I find myself in need of a room and

refreshment for the night, and I hope to satisfy that need at your splendid establishment. I fear

my funds are somewhat depleted at the moment, but no doubt I can provide payment by entertaining

your good customers with my songs and stories. How say you?' The bearded face glowered at him, and

then sniffed loudly. 'We don't take theatricals.'

Jordan dropped his aristocratic actor/manager voice, and tried his all-friends-together-in-

adversity voice. 'Listen, inn-keep, I know I'm a bit short of the ready at the moment, but surely

we can come to some sort of arrangement? It's going to be bitter cold tonight, friend.'

The innkeeper sniffed again. 'We don't take theatricals. Hop it.' And the portal in the door

slammed shut.

Jordan lost his temper completely. He kicked the door and hammered on it with his fist.

'Open this door, you son of a bitch, or I'll use my magic to make you even uglier than you already

are! I'll give you fleas, and boils, and warts, and piles! I'll give you warts on your piles! I'll

shrink your manhood to an acorn and turn your nose inside out! Now open this bloody door!'

He heard a window's shutters open above him, and looked up. He just had time to throw

himself to one side, and the slops from the emptied chamberpot just missed him. The shutters

slammed together, and the evening grew quiet again. Jordan slowly picked himself up off the filthy

street, and brushed the worst of the mud from his clothes. Ungrateful peasants. Didn't know a

class actor when they saw one. He started back down the street towards his caravan. It looked like

he'd be sleeping with his props again, and that damned demon was starting to smell something

fierce.

As he passed a narrow opening between two houses, Jordan thought he heard someone moving

surreptitiously, deep in the gloom of the alley. He slowed to a halt just past the opening, and

scratched thoughtfully at his ribs, letting his hand drift casually down to the sword at his side.

Surely it was obvious to anyone with half the brains they were born with that this particular

actor had nothing worth the effort of taking, but it was best to be wary. A starving man would

murder for a crust of bread. Jordan's hand idly caressed the pommel of his sword, and he eased his

weight on to his left foot so he could get at the throwing knife hidden in that boot if he had to.

And if all else failed, there were always the flare pellets he kept concealed in his sleeves. They

might not be quite as effective as they appeared on stage, but they were dramatic enough to give

most footpads pause. He swallowed dryly, and wished his hands would stop shaking. He was never any

good in a crisis, particu-larly if there was a chance of violence. He let his gaze sweep casually

over the dark alleyway, and then stiffened as his hearing brought him the rasp of boots on packed

earth, and something that might have been the quiet grating of steel sliding from a scabbard.

Jordan whipped his sword from its sheath and backed away. Something stirred in the darkness.

'Easy, my dear sir,' said a calm, cultured voice. 'We mean you no harm. We only want to

talk to you.'

Jordan thought seriously about making a run for it. When-ever anyone started talking that

politely, either they were intent on telling him something he didn't really want to know, or they

wanted to sell him something. On the other hand, from the sound of it there had to be more than

just the one man hidden in the alley darkness, and he wasn't that fast a runner at the best of

times. Maybe he could bluff them . . . He held his head erect, took on the warrior's stance he

used when playing the ancient hero Sir Bors of Lyonsmarch, and glared into the gloom of the alley.

'Honest men do their talking in the light,' he said harshly, 'not skulking in back alleys.

Besides, I'm rather particular about who I talk to.' 'I think you'll talk with us, Jordan,' said

the polite voice. 'We're here to offer you an acting role; a role beyond your wildest dreams and

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ambitions.'

Jordan was still trying to come up with an answer to that when the three men stepped out

of the alley mouth and into the fading light. Jordan backed away a step, but calmed down a little

when they made no move to pursue him. He quickly resumed his warrior's stance, hoping they hadn't

noticed the lapse, and looked the three men over carefully from behind the haughtiest expression

he could manage. The man in the middle was clearly a noble of some kind, for all his rough

peasant's cloak and hood. His skin was pale and unweathered, and his hands were slender and

delicate. Presumably this was the owner of the cultured voice. Jordan nodded to him warily, and

the man bowed formally in return. He raised one hand and pushed back the hood of his cloak,

revealing a hawk-like, unyielding face dominated by steady dark eyes and a grim, humourless smile.

His black hair was brushed flat and heavily pomaded, giving his pale skin a dull, unhealthy look.

He was tall, at least six foot two, probably in his early forties, and looked to be fashionably

slim under his cloak. He wore a sword at his side, and Jordan had no doubt at all that this man

would know how to use it. Even standing still and at rest, there was an air of barely contained

menace about him that was unmistakable.

'Well?' growled Jordan roughly, trying to gain the advantage before his knees started

knocking, 'are we going to stand here staring at each other all night, or are you going to

introduce yourself?'

'I beg your pardon, Jordan,' said the noble smoothly. 'I am Count Roderik Crichton, advisor to

King Malcolm of Redhart. These are my associates, the trader Robert Argent, and Sir Gawaine of

Tower Rouge.'

Jordan nodded to them all impartially, and then sheathed his sword as an act of bravado. It seemed

increasingly important to him that they shouldn't think they had him at a disadvantage. According

to the Count's graceful gestures, the man to his left was Robert Argent. He was short and sturdy,

and wore a merchant's clothes. His stomach bulged out on either side of a wide leather belt. His

peasant's cloak hung around him in drooping folds, as though it had been meant for a much taller

man. His face was broad and ruddy, with the broken-veined cheeks of the heavy drinker. His eyes

were a pale blue, and strangely dull and lifeless. His hair was straw yellow, cropped close to the

skull. He looked to be in his late thirties, but the empty eyes made him seem much older. He wore

a sword on his hip, but from the shiny newness of the scabbard, Jordan doubted the sword had seen

much use. His eyes lingered on the man for a moment, though he wasn't sure why. There was just

something about Argent, something . . . cold.

Sir Gawaine stood to Count Roderik's right, leaning casually against the wall. He was chewing on a

cold leg of chicken, and not being too careful about where the grease went. Jordan's stomach

rumbled loudly, and he gave the knight his best brooding scowl to compensate. Gawaine looked at

him briefly, and then gave his full attention back to the chicken leg. Sir Gawaine of Tower Rouge

. . . Jordan had a feeling he knew the name from somewhere, but he couldn't place it. Maybe he was

a minor hero from the Demon War . . . He was tall and well muscled, and though he had to be in his

late fifties, his chest and shoulders were still impressively broad. Chain-mail glinted under the

peasant cloak, and Jordan caught a glimpse of a heavy-bladed handaxe at the man's side. His hair

was iron grey and cut in a style that hadn't been fashionable for at least ten years. His face was

lined and weathered, and when he looked at Jordan his eyes were dark and cynical. His scarred

hands looked disturbingly powerful, and for all his apparent casualness he was no more at ease

than Jordan. Everything about Gawaine shouted to the observant eye that this knight was a trained

warrior, and experienced in his craft. Jordan decided immediately that if these three men turned

out to be villains after all, he'd better go for Sir Gawaine first. And he'd better be bloody

quick, because he wouldn't get a second chance.

'You mentioned an acting role,' said Jordan to Count Roderik.

'The greatest role you'll ever play,' said Roderik.

'What's the money like?' said Jordan.

'Ten thousand ducats,' said Robert Argent. His voice was flat and unemotional, and his cold gaze

fixed unwaveringly on the actor.

Jordan kept his face calm with an effort. Ten thousand ducats was more than he'd ever earned in a

year, even at the peak of his career. And that was a long way behind him. Ten thousand ducats . .

. there had to be a catch.

'Assuming, for the sake of argument, that I'm interested in this job,' he said carefully, 'what

kind of role would I be playing?'

'Nothing too difficult,' said Roderik. 'A Prince, the middle of three sons. There's a great deal

of background information you'll have to learn by heart, but an actor of your reputation shouldn't

have any trouble with that. After all, you are the Great Jordan.' He paused, and frowned slightly.

'Is Jordan your real name, or would you prefer I used another, offstage?'

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The actor shrugged. 'Call me Jordan. It's a good name, and I earned it.'

'I was most impressed with your performance this evening,' said Roderik. 'Did you write the

material yourself?'

'Of course,' said Jordan. 'A strolling player has to be able to adapt his story to suit the level

of his audience. Sometimes they want wit and eloquence, sometimes they want conjuring and

fireworks. It varies. Did you like my High Warlock? I created the character after extensive

research, and I flatter myself I caught the essence of the man.'

'Nothing like him,' said Sir Gawaine. His voice was harsh, with bitter undertones. He looked at

the ragged chicken leg in his hand, and threw it casually away over his shoulder. Jordan's stomach

rumbled again, and he glared angrily at the knight.

'Is that so, Sir Gawaine? Perhaps you'd care to tell me what he was really like?'

'He chased women and drank too much,' said Gawaine.

'He was a great sorcerer!' said Jordan hotly. 'Everybody said so! He saved the Forest Kingdom from

the Demon Prince! All right, there were a few rumours about him, but there are always rumours. And

besides ... it makes for a better show my way.'

Sir Gawaine shrugged, and looked away.

'If we could return to the subject at hand,' said Roderik icily, glancing angrily at the knight,

'you haven't yet said if you'll accept the role, sir actor.'

'I'll take it,' said Jordan. 'I've nothing better to do, for the moment.' For ten thousand ducats

he'd have played the back end of a mummer's horse, complete with sound effects, but he wasn't

going to tell them that. Maybe he could hit them for an advance ... He looked at Count Roderik.

'Well, my lord, shall we get down to business? What exactly is this role, and when do I start?'

'You start now,' said Argent. 'We want you to return with us to Castle Midnight, and impersonate

Prince Viktor of Redhart.'

Jordan's heart sank, and for a moment he wasn't sure whether to scream or faint. 'You have got to

be joking! Forget it! I'm not getting involved in any conspiracy to commit treason. I once saw a

man hanged, drawn and quartered. It took him hours to die, and he only stopped screaming when his

voice gave out.'

'There's no question of anything treasonable,' said Roderik soothingly. 'Prince Viktor knows all

about this substitution, and has agreed to it.'

Jordan looked suspiciously at the three men before him. They all looked very serious. Sir Gawaine

had even pushed himself away from the wall to stand upright. Jordan noticed uneasily that the

knight's right hand was now out of sight under his cloak, resting just where the handaxe had been.

Jordan turned his attention back to Count Roderik, mainly because it was less disturbing looking

at him than at Sir Gawaine. He gave the Count his best intimidating scowl, and tucked his thumbs

into his swordbelt to stop his hands shaking. 'If the Prince knows about this, then what - oh, I

get it. You want me to act as a decoy, a double to draw out an assassin! The deal is off. I'm an

actor, not an archery target.'

'My dear fellow,' said Count Roderik, his voice dripping sincerity, 'I assure you we wouldn't

waste someone of your undoubted talents on a simple decoy's job. Allow me to explain the

situation. Prince Viktor is required by law and tradition shortly to undergo a series of rituals

at Castle Mid-night. Unfortunately, he is indisposed at present with a rather troublesome illness,

and is unable to perform the rituals. But if he doesn't appear, he'll lose his inheritance.

So, we need

someone who can act enough like the Prince to take his place in public, and perform the rituals.

It's as simple as that.'

'Ah,' said Jordan. 'I see.' He didn't believe for one moment that Roderik was telling him the

whole truth, but for the time being he might as well act as though he did. After all, if he'd

learnt anything as an actor it was that the aristocracy hadn't a clue as to the real value of

money. You could charge them extortionate amounts for performances, not to mention expenses, and

they didn't even blink. If he played his cards right, and watched his back, ten thousand ducats

could be just the beginning . . .

'Assuming I was interested in this job,' he backtracked carefully, 'there are some obvious

difficulties. What about appearance, for example? How similar are the Prince and I in looks?

There's a limit to what I can do with make-up.'

'That won't be a problem,' said Roderik. 'I have a small talent for sorcery. A simple glamour

spell, and you'll become an exact double of the Prince. Much more important is your ability to

convince Viktor's friends and family that you are who you seem. For that, we need an actor of your

considerable talent. Our agents have been travelling throughout the land, searching for someone

suitable, and you can imagine how delighted we were when word came back to us that you might be

available. To be honest, we hadn't even heard you were in Redhart

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file:///G|/Program%20Files/eMule/Incoming/Simon%20R.%20Green%20-%20Fores %20Kingdom%202%20-%20Blood%20and%20Honor.txtChapterOneHiddenFacesThedemonappearedfromnowhereinapuffofevil-smellingsmoke.ThewarpedandtwistedtreesoftheDarkwoodloomedprotectivelyoverthecrouchingfigure.TheHighWarlockstoodtalland...

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