Forest Kingdom Trilogy 1 - Blue Moon Rising

you have it for the knock-down price of only three pints of blood.'
    Rupert gave her a hard look. The Witch shrugged.
    'Worth a try. Since you are Eduard's kin, let me revise that offer. The map's yours, free of charge. If I can remember where I put the damned thing.'
    She slowly rose up out of her chair, spilling the cat from her lap, and hobbled away to investigate the depths of a battered oak filing cabinet in a far corner. Rupert frowned uncertainly. He'd fully intended to kill the Night Witch if he got the opportunity, but even though she spoke casually of murdering so many young girls that she'd finally lost count, somehow he just couldn't bring himself to do it. In a strange kind of way he actually felt sorry for her; her long years alone in the Darkwood had punished her enough.
    More than enough. The Witch was suddenly before him and he jumped back, startled, as she thrust a tattered parchment scroll into his hands.
    'There you are, boy, that'll take you right to him. If you get that far. To start with, you've got to pass clean through the Darkwood and out the other side, and there's damn few have done that and lived to tell of it.'
    'I got this far,' said Rupert confidently.
    'This close to the Tanglewood boundary there's still a little light,' said the Witch. 'Beyond this clearing,
    there's nothing but darkness. Watch your back, Rupert. There's a cold wind blowing through the long night, and it smells of blood and death. Deep in the Darkwood something is stirring, something . . . awful.
    If I wasn't so old, I'd be scared.'
    'I can take care of myself,' said Rupert tightly, one hand dropping to the pommel of his sword.
    The Witch smiled tiredly. 'You're Eduard's kin. He thought cold steel was the answer to everything, too.
    When I look at you, it's almost like seeing him again. My Eduard.' Her voice suddenly shook, and she turned her back on Rupert and limped painfully over to sink slowly into her rocking chair. 'Go on, boy, get out of here. Go and find your dragon.'
    Rupert hesitated. 'Is there . . . anything I can do for you?'
    'Just go,' said the Night Witch harshly. 'Leave me alone. Please.'
    Rupert turned and left, closing the door quietly behind him.
    Sitting alone before her empty fireplace, the Night Witch rocked gently in her chair. After a while her eyes slowly closed, and she fell asleep. And she was young and beautiful again, and Eduard came to her, and they danced together all through the night in her ballroom of shimmering ice.

    Several days' travel later, Rupert had finished the last of his provisions. There was no game to be found in the Darkwood, and what little water there was, was fouled. Thirst burned in his throat, and hunger was a dull ache in his belly.
    Since leaving the Night Witch's clearing he had left all light behind him. The darkness became absolute, and the silence was oppressive. He couldn't see the trail ahead, the unicorn beneath him, or even a hand held up before his eyes. Only the growing stubble on his face remained to show him the passing of time.
    He grew steadily weaker as the unicorn carried him deeper into the Darkwood, for although they stopped to rest whenever they grew tired, Rupert couldn't sleep. The darkness kept him awake.
    Something might creep up on him while he slept.
    He passed a shaking hand over his dry, cracked lips, and then frowned as he slowly realised the unicorn had come to a halt. He tried to ask what was wrong, but his tongue had swollen till it almost filled his mouth. He swung painfully down out of the saddle, and leaned against the unicorn's side until his legs felt strong enough to support him for a while. He stumbled forward a few steps, hands outstretched before him, and grunted with pain as thorns pierced his flesh. More cautious testing revealed that a thick patch of needle-thorned briar had grown across the narrow trail. Rupert drew his sword, and was shocked to find that he'd grown so weak he now needed both his hands to wield it. He gathered the last of his strength, and with awkward, muscle-wrenching cuts, he set about clearing a path through the briar. The unicorn slowly followed him, the proudly horned head hanging tiredly down.
    Time after time Rupert struggled to raise his sword for another blow, fighting the growing agony in his chest and arms. His hands and face were lacerated by the stubborn thorns, but he was so tired he barely felt the wounds. His sword grew heavier in his uncertain grasp, and his legs trembled with fatigue,