Last Battle of the Icemark
Read Last Battle of the Icemark Online
Authors: Stuart Hill
Praise for THE CRY OF THE ICEMARK
WINNER OF THE WATERSTONE'S CHILDREN'S BOOK PRIZE 2005
. . . will have readers shivering with delight . . . From the moment that its 13-year-old-heroine, Princess Thirrin, punches a werewolf on the nose you know you're in for a rollicking good read
.
TIMES
. . . a supremely satisfying read which really deserves to be called a page-turner . . . [Hill's] original and quirky approach could yet make him the proper heir to Joan Aiken's crown
.
PHILIP ARDAGH, GUARDIAN
. . . the writing is as crisp and clear as the snowy landscape Hill depicts so beautifully. The characters are so fresh, and the writing so vivid, that Hill should win many new recruits to fantasy fiction among 10 to 14-year-olds
.
SUNDAY TELEGRAPH
. . . a first novel with a distinctive and seductive voice
.
INDEPENDENT
. . . a sensational new author who is going to take the children's book world by storm . . . read it, read it, read it . .Â
.
BOOKSELLER
Praise for BLADE OF FIRE
Hill is great at battle-scenes, and his benign werewolves and vampires are a pleasing twist on legendary monsters
.
AMANDA CRAIG, TIMES
The book had me laughing out loud, close to tears and on the edge of my seat throughout. I cannot wait for the next instalment
.
TINA EVERITT, WATERSTONE'S
. . . a book that grabs you by the throat and captures you so completely that resistance is futile and everything else has to be put on hold until you finish
.
BECKY STRADWICK, BORDERS
Blade of Fire
is the exhilarating sequel to the fantastic
Cry of the Icemark
. . . a tale that moves along at a blistering pace with excitement at every turn, it proves that Stuart Hill is a fantastic storyteller. I simply could not put this down. Wonderful stuff
.
BOOKSELLER
Hill is ingenious in his use of real historical figures and societies as the basis of his fantasy . . . Four-star review
BOOKS FOR KEEPS
Stuart Hill
2 Palmer Street, Frome, Somerset BA11 1DS
Contents
C
HAPTER
1
T
he gentle crackle of burning logs was the only physical sound that disturbed the peace. Outside the window the cold autumn night sparkled and glittered with stars, and the moon ladled a silver puddle of light across the floor of the darkened room. It was the night before Samhein, or Halloween as some of the older country folk still called it, and the veils between the physical and spirit worlds were so thin that Oskan Witchfather could clearly hear the whisper and echo of voices beyond.
As a warlock and wielder of magic, none of this held any fears for him; he knew he was simply listening to part of the natural â and supernatural â order of the Cosmos. His ear automatically sifted through the various calls and voices of the ether, identifying and categorising each and every phenomenon it encountered: ghost, banshee, Undead, demon, angel.
He rested his mind for a moment in the peace of the Spirit Realms; its sounds of birdsong, the perfume of flower-scented breezes and the gentle sibilance of falling silver rains marked it as the residence of the Goddess and the place of Heavens such as Valhalla and the Summerlands.
He slowly drifted towards sleep, most of his powers veiled in that protective state that kept them safe from the clamour and noise of the living and unliving worlds. But then a sudden gust of wind breathed around the stonework of the window, the rush of air finding a voice in the cracks and crevices and softly wailing with a note of such despair and omen that it shook the Witchfather from his rest. Oskan fully opened his mind again, searching for signs of danger. Immediately his head was filled with the entire tumbling, tangling cacophony of the spiritual and natural worlds, and he listened carefully.
He soon found what he was looking for. An unmistakeable âvoice' calling in the Darkness, and growing stronger day by day. A tone that was deeply evil . . . and familiar. Medea!
A time was fast approaching when he'd need to face this new threat, and either destroy it or be destroyed. He sighed and settled back into his seat, trying to recapture the peace that had fled. There was always time enough for confrontation, and he wasn't ready yet for the struggle that would come. He needed to gather his strength and prepare his powers before he would be ready for battle. And, if he was completely honest with himself, he had to admit that he was more than a little afraid of what he'd found.
For the time being, he wanted to rest from the dangers of the world and the Cosmos, and for the next two days or so he was determined to enjoy the celebrations of Samhein. He closed his psychic ear, and listened instead to the physical activities of the palace around him.
The kitchens had been busy all day, preparing food for the great feast that would take place the following night, and the faint clatter of pots and pans reached him as the chefs and scullions hurried about in a desperate attempt to spread the
heavy workload over two days. Of course, most of the cooking would need to be done on the day of Samhein itself, but some of the cakes and pastries would actually improve if left to mature for a few hours in a cool pantry. And many of the cold meats and pickles would take no harm if stored away carefully.
Dozens of guests had already settled into the citadel, and, most importantly, Tharaman-Thar and Krisafitsa-Tharina, the giant Snow Leopard monarchs of the Icesheets far to the north, and their daughter, Princess Kirimin, were due to arrive in a matter of a few hours or so. But there was still time for peace in all of the joyous chaos, and the threat of new powers arising in the Darkness. He decided to steal a few minutes' sleep before the demands of the festival became too great.
He'd just wriggled his shoulders deeper into the cushions and composed himself for rest when an unmistakeable sound floated into his consciousness. Outside the firmly closed door, the huge expanse of the empty Great Hall echoed like a bell. The servants had finished decorating it for the Samhein feast and were wisely keeping all the housecarles and werewolves out until the actual day of the celebration, so the crunch and tread of a pair of chain-mailed boots as they paced across the flagstones sounded almost as loud as an entire advancing army. With great determination Oskan ignored it, but the noise was getting closer and closer until, with a rattle and bang, the door was wrenched open and his wife and warrior queen, Thirrin Freer Strong-in-the-Arm Lindenshield, burst into the room.
“Arse, arse and arse again!” she shouted.
The Witchfather was used to this sort of drama, so it was only reluctantly that he opened his eyes and watched as his
wife, dressed in full armour, busily handed her shield and weapons to one of the housecarle door guards.
“Good evening, dearest,” he said, deciding to use quiet irony as a shield against her noise and bluster.
“And arse yet again,” she answered. “And a mucky one at that!”
“Yes, I'm very well, thank you. And yourself?”
“I'm thinking of banning all messages and news over the Samhein period. At least that way I'll be able to relax and enjoy it.”
“Yes, it is a lovely evening, isn't it? The stars and moonlight are truly splendid.”
“I can't imagine why we thought the werewolf relay was a good idea. All it does is tell us of war and death and chaos.”
“Yes, I love the night before Samhein too. It's so peaceful. The lull before the chaos, I suppose â but still, it is pleasant.”
Thirrin paused and looked at him. “What are you wittering on about, Oskan? Here I am worrying about the latest reports from the Polypontian Empire, and all you can do is whine on about moonlight like some love-struck teenager!”
He sighed, his attempts to hang on to at least a semblance of domestic peace completely defeated. “I know all about what's happening in the empire. I heard the reports.”
“Fine!” said Thirrin, taking off her mail shirt and draping it over the back of a chair. “So what are we going to do?”
“Watch events carefully, and see what happens,” he answered wearily. “It's all we've ever been able to do.”
She drew breath to reply irritably, then paused before finally saying, “You're right, of course. When has the Icemark ever dictated events?” She crossed to a chair that stood facing Oskan's on the opposite side of the hearth, and sat down
heavily. “But wouldn't it be nice to be in control of events, just once? I mean, here we are, the defeaters of the Bellorum dynasty, the breakers of the Imperial host, and all we can do is watch while the Polypontian Empire destroys itself fighting dozens of internal wars, and wait to see who comes out on top!”
Oskan nodded. “And by the looks of things, whoever does finally get to be top dog will be a threat to us . . . again.”
Thirrin leaned back in her chair and closed her eyes. “But we already know who it'll be, don't we? Erinor of Artemesion and her unstoppable Hordes.”
For a while he didn't reply, and just sat gazing deeply into the flames of the fire.
“I somehow get the impression I don't have your undivided attention!” Thirrin snapped. “I mean, is there any real point continuing this conversation?”
He looked up and smiled apologetically. “I'm sorry, Thirrin. I'm a bit distracted.”
She threw up her hands in despair. “Ye Gods! What can be more distracting than the break-up of the Polypontian Empire and the possibility of a war with Erinor and her invincible army? Come on, man, spit it out!”
Oskan shuddered as all of his instincts suddenly screamed at him that the moment had come. He would have to tell his wife the secret he'd been harbouring, the very subject he'd been trying to avoid for months. He looked at her quietly as he gathered the strength he'd need to tell her the terrible truth.
“Medea,” he finally replied, and the name seemed to fall like a lead weight into the middle of the room.
“Medea?” said Thirrin quietly. “But . . . but she's dead.”
A silence developed, deepening as Oskan turned back to
the flames. “The Icemark and the allies banished her . . . no, no. Let's be honest, now that we've come to it;
I
banished her to the Darkness after the last war. And by all the laws and rules of normality, she should have died.” Oskan looked up and held his wife's gaze. “She
should
have died, Thirrin. But our daughter is beyond the laws and rules of normality.”
“She's alive?” came the reply in a horrified whisper. “Medea's alive in that dreadful, hideous place?”
He nodded. “But if it's any comfort to you, please don't think she's in any sort of torment or pain. Oh no, not our dearest daughter! If anything she's the tormentor; she's the inflictor of pain!”
Thirrin heard almost none of this. Her mind was in turmoil. Medea was alive: their child, the daughter they'd raised and loved. Medea, the traitor who'd disrupted her own country's war effort and who'd tried to kill her own brother! Medea, the Adept who could have helped to defeat the empire, but who instead had plotted against her family and helped the enemy!
Thirrin was racked by a tumult of conflicting emotions: undeniable joy that her child had cheated death and still lived; seething anger for the crimes that child had committed. But at the base of it all was something else: a terrible crushing guilt that she'd never been able to relate to the child who'd had no interest in the military and warfare. Could her neglect, her inability to reach out to her strange, aloof daughter, have somehow pushed her towards the Darkness? Could she, Thirrin, be responsible for her embracing evil?
“Are you listening to me?” Oskan asked, breaking into her thoughts and dragging her attention back to the present.
“Yes . . . yes. Medea, she's alive.”
“More than that, I'm afraidâ”
“Why didn't you tell me?” she interrupted quietly. “Why didn't you tell me my daughter's still alive?” Then, with sudden suspicion and a rising tone, “How long have you known?”
He turned away again to look into the fire. This was another question he'd been dreading. “I've known for certain only a short while. But I've suspected for some time.”
Thirrin slammed her hands down hard on the arms of her chair. “Why didn't you say? I'm her mother, I have a right to know!”
“You know now.”
“Not good enough . . . not nearly good enough! You should have told me when you had the first inklings of a suspicion! Not wait until you knew for sure and needed to talk about . . . about . . . well, about what, exactly? How glad you are, perhaps? How relieved you are that she's alive; how sorry you are that you were driven to send her into the Darkness in the first place?!”
“No. None of that. I'm not relieved she's alive or sorry I exiled her,” he said quietly. “Exactly the opposite, in fact. I regret she survived and I'm only sorry the Darkness didn't finish her once and for all. But sometimes that . . .Â
place
reacts in ways that even I can't fathom.”
Thirrin leaped to her feet, a raging outburst rising in her throat. But then she stopped and stood quietly instead, fully aware that her anger stemmed from her own terrible sense of guilt. “What can we do?”
“I'm not sure. We need to make a decision, but to do that you need to know all the facts.”
Thirrin sat down again and rested her head against the high back of the chair. “Go on.”
He paused, uncertain how his wife would take what he was about to say. But then, taking a deep breath, he plunged in. “She's evil, more evil than you can ever imagine. And her power has grown enormously. I've been watching her ever since I first detected her unmasked mind and recognised it. I'm not entirely sure what she's planning, but we must be on our guard â she still hates the Icemark, in fact even more so since her exile, and I think she's after revenge.” He poured it all out in one breath and waited for her response.
“Is there no hope of rescuing her and perhaps . . . well, I don't know, making her see sense?”
Oskan laughed despite the terrible nature of the situation. “She doesn't want to be rescued, Thirrin. Don't you see? In the Darkness she has status and power. She's almost a queen. And she has only one more test to pass and she'll have proved herself the most powerful Adept in the domain. The most powerful of all, save for one . . .”
“Save for one? And who might that be, exactly?” Thirrin asked, catching the significance of the phrase, and then she watched as he drew into himself, unable to go on. It was almost as though a huge weight had been levered onto his shoulders and his skeleton was being crushed under the burden.
“My father,” he finally answered quietly. Suddenly his head was filled with a raging fire of sensations, as light and sound, rich scents and terrible stenches flooded his senses.
Thirrin screamed as he slumped forward in his seat, but then stood back when she recognised the symptoms of the Sight. All she could do was wait and hope that he came out of the trance quickly.