Prince of the Icemark (15 page)

“The forces and resources of the Hypolitan are of course at your disposal, My Lord. What strategies have you prepared?”

T
heir Vampiric Majesties sat at great ease in the Blood Palace. After several weeks of campaigning, the luxuries of their sumptuous home were especially welcome. The Vampire King was enjoying a particularly fine vintage of red wine while the Queen ate sweetmeats from an exquisite silver dish. Both occupied their thrones as they gave audience to their court, a practice they’d been denied while fighting in the Icemark. The Undead monarchs basked in the simpering adoration of their courtiers, and periodically they would turn to each other and smile toothsomely as the perfect
rightness
of things impressed itself upon them.

The only jarring element was the presence of General Romanoff who, as ever, would insist on discussing the war.
She stood now next to the Royal thrones and informed the King and Queen that the Wolf-folk had at last completed the ceremony in which a new monarch was chosen.

“Then surely that is good news, General,” Her Vampiric Majesty said. “With the new werewolf King safely installed, we can expect their infantry to return almost immediately.”

“Not quite,” the general replied. “Their numbers were so depleted after the battle in the Great Forest, they’ll need to gather reinforcements, and that will mean travelling north to the Icesheets.”

“To the Icesheets?” the Vampire King questioned. “Surely not. Why can’t they recruit from their usual sources in the Wolfrock Mountains?”

“I really think that neither of Your Monstrous Majesties quite understand the scale of the defeat they suffered at the hands of the Icemark King,” Romanoff replied irritably, and with dangerous indifference to Royal protocol. “Almost an entire generation of Wolf-folk warriors were wiped out! Put simply, there are too few werewolves of fighting age left in the mountains. King Guthmok is forced to travel to the Icesheets and recruit from the Ukpik tribes that live there.”

“Oooh! The Ukpik werewolves,” said Her Vampiric Majesty, raising her shoulders and screwing up her face in delight. “They’re the large ones with white pelts, aren’t they? I’d imagine they could cause mayhem on the field of battle!”

“They’re the
very
large ones with white pelts, yes, Your Majesty,” Romanoff agreed. “And as they’re almost as strong as the Rock Trolls and vastly more intelligent, they can be devastating in warfare.”

“Oh, how
exciting!”
said the Vampire Queen. “Just imagine the blood flowing over the land like a flood!”

“Calm yourself, my putrescent petal,” said His Vampiric Majesty. “I think we must all learn the unfortunate lesson that when fighting this human King one shouldn’t count one’s corpses until they are dead.”

“What exactly do you mean, oh darling cadaver?”

“Simply this: Redrought Lindenshield has luck on his side, and I for one will not believe he’s beaten until his lifeless body is dragged into my presence and thrown at my feet.”

“I must agree, Sire,” said General Romanoff. “At least half of a successful war-leader’s reputation relies on good fortune. Even the Polypontian Empire’s General Scipio Bellorum has achieved victories through sheer
bonne chance
as well as his legendary tactical brilliance. And I fear Lindenshield enjoys similar good luck.”

“Then let us be the despoilers and breakers of his good fortune,” said the Vampire Queen. “The time has come to destroy this petty mortal and his so-called New Model Army.”

His Vampiric Majesty smiled at his Queen and raised his glass in salutation; the burden of physical immortality was made so much more bearable by the woman who had been his Consort for millennia.

Tharaman, one hundredth Thar of the giant Snow Leopards that ruled the Hub-of-the-World, watched as the newly recruited army of Ukpik werewolves marched through the southern provinces of his lands. Their white pelts blended perfectly with the surrounding ice sheets and snow, but Tharaman-Thar’s acute eyesight easily followed their course as they headed south. He had recently ascended to power during the nightless summer of the Arctic regions, and as a new ruler, he had ambitions to begin his reign with a mighty victory.

The Ukpik Wolf-folk had become bothersome of late, attacking Leopard-Holts and killing many of his subjects, including cubs and their nursing mothers. And now, to add insult to the damage and death they had inflicted on his domain, a newly recruited army of the creatures was marching across his lands without permission.

From his vantage point amongst the snow-covered rocks of the Southern Holt, Tharaman could see that his force was outnumbered by the werewolves, but he and his Snow Leopards had surprise and righteous anger on their side. Soon the Ukpik army would pass close to the spur of rocks where the Thar and his fighters were hidden, and then they would strike. The short northern summer was almost over and already the temperatures were plummeting; the blood that would be spilt this day would freeze as it fountained from artery and vein.

Tharaman-Thar nodded silently to Taradan, his second-in-command, who stood with him, and the mighty leopard bowed his head before moving stealthily away to give the order to prepare.

At the head of the Ukpik host, the Thar could see two slightly smaller and much darker werewolves. These he guessed must be the new King, Guthmok, and perhaps Prince Grishmak, the most important whelp of the Royal House of Blood-Drinker. Tharaman had made sure that he was well informed about the lives and activities of his enemies, and especially so since the unprovoked attacks on the Leopard-Holts by the Ukpik werewolves. Never again would he be unprepared, and never again would an enemy march over his lands without him knowing and without severe retribution.

The werewolves were drawing closer, and Tharaman raised
his head, his mouth slightly open as he tasted their scent. They’d obviously just eaten; the perfume of seal and walrus blubber hung over them in a miasma. The Thar’s fiery eyes narrowed; they’d pay dearly for their meal.

The time was now! Leaping from his hiding place Tharaman stood on a high rock, threw back his head and let out a mighty roar. Immediately his army replied and erupted from the rocks and clefts where they’d been concealed. The Thar launched himself towards the enemy and joined his warriors, leading their charge. The leopards gave their coughing bark of challenge, which echoed over the frozen land, and the Ukpiks turned to face the danger. Quickly they deployed into battle-groups, roaring in defiance.

The Snow Leopards hit them like a living avalanche and smashed through the Ukpik ranks. The werewolves fought back with ferocity and the snow was stained crimson as the mighty creatures wrestled back and forth. Tharaman towered into the air and crashed down onto the Ukpiks before him, crushing out their lives, then, spinning about, he seized a snarling head in his jaws and tore it from his enemy’s shoulders.

The battle raged on as the sun slid towards the horizon on the short early autumn day. But when the shadows grew long over the Icesheets, the Snow Leopard army finally broke through the werewolf line, bringing down thousands of the Ukpik warriors, and driving a wedge deep into their phalanx.

King Guthmok desperately redressed his ranks and bravely drove forward as he tried to repel the claws and teeth of the leopards. Tharaman, at the head of his army, saw him coming and, calling up his war band, he ran to meet the threat. The clash of onset echoed over the frozen lands as the Thar’s
mighty claws swept aside the werewolves to reach Guthmok himself.

The two met in a collision of muscle, teeth and claws, Tharaman pushing back the werewolf King as his claws fought for grip on the ice. Guthmok sank his teeth into the leopard’s shoulder, but Tharaman ripped his face open with a sweep of his claws, piercing an eye so that it ran like bloody jelly down his face.

The Thar threw the werewolf off and, roaring, he reared skywards ready to smash down and kill his enemy. But at that moment a young whelp ran in. He wore a silver collar, and through his rage Tharaman recognised Grishmak. The Prince was prepared to die for his King.

The Thar paused. “You dare deny my righteous wrath? Stand aside or die!”

“I’m ready to fight to the death if needs be,” the whelp replied.

The Thar dropped to all fours. Around them the battle continued. Everywhere the Ukpik army was broken and fleeing. Thousands of werewolf corpses littered the snow, their blood seeping around them in freezing pools.

Tharaman looked at the injured King and the defiant Prince of the werewolves. “Your army is smashed, do you concede defeat?”

Grishmak turned to Guthmok, who nodded.

“Then leave my lands and never again cross my borders without permission. The deaths of my subjects have been more than avenged. Never let it be said the Snow Leopards of the Hub kill for pleasure or know not the value of mercy.”

Prince Grishmak helped his King to his feet and winced as the Thar called his warriors in to end the battle. Tharaman
turned to the werewolves. “But tell me, why do you march over my lands with such a mighty host? What threat do you face or what conquest do you attempt?”

Guthmok wiped the bloody remains of his eye from his cheek. “We answer the call of Their Vampiric Majesties. The war against the human King Redrought is going badly and they need reinforcements.”

Immediately Tharaman’s voice rose over corpses and living alike. “Do not taunt me with your lies and legends! Human Beings are myths and shadows created in the minds of the deluded. Leave now before I change my mind and allow my warriors to destroy what remains of your broken army!”

“My Lord Thar,” said Grishmak determinedly, “I myself have spoken to the human King, Redrought, after he defeated our army in a great battle before his capital city. Human beings are not stuff of legend, but walk beneath the same sun and breathe the same air that we do.”

The mighty Snow Leopard glared at the werewolf Prince. “Then if you do not lie, you can only be deluded. Lay your head down before me now, and I will crush to oblivion the illusions that trouble your brain!” And with that he threw back his head and let out a mighty roar.

The werewolves scrambled away, not daring to argue with the Thar any more. Their army was reduced to less than half the size it had been. The Vampire King and Queen would have to make do with what remained.

Tharaman watched them go thoughtfully. The young were-wolf Prince seemed both intelligent and a creature of honour. Therefore, would he lie about the existence of Human Beings? What would he gain from doing so?

A growl rumbled deeply in the Thar’s chest. He could only be deluded, there could be no other explanation . . . none at all . . . could there?

R
edrought sat in the War Room of the citadel waiting for the Basilea and her Consort to arrive. For once Kahin had found other things to occupy her time and Cadwalader was spending a happy time hunting down Hypolitan rats, so the young King was enjoying an unaccustomed peace. The Royal Adviser’s voice had of late become something of a background drone, whose irritating quality only became obvious when it finally stopped.

Redrought was so relaxed he actually found himself singing happily. Though his adolescent baritone had almost completely established itself by this point in his young life, every now and then it would insist on wavering from the deepest bass to a sudden falsetto squeak, taking him by surprise. But
as there was no one to hear him he carried on regardless. He’d always enjoyed the sound of his own voice, even if nobody else had, and he was just about to launch into his favourite cavalry paean when he noticed Princess Athena and Commander Saphia standing in the doorway. They must have come in when he was accompanying himself by beating out a tattoo on the table.

He leapt to his feet. “I, er . . . I, er . . . I was singing . . .” he said as though he needed to explain.

“Really?” said Saphia. “I thought someone was having a tooth pulled.” Then she added “Your Majesty,” as an after-thought.

“Right,” said Redrought and nodded while his toes curled involuntarily in his boots.

“Please, carry on,” said Saphia. “Don’t let us stop you.”

“Er . . . no . . . I’d more or less finished anyway,” he answered, and despaired as his voice suddenly shot up several octaves.

“Oh shame. Do you take requests?”

“Well, no . . . I don’t know any Hypolitan songs . . . no.”

“I could teach you some. Let’s see, now, there’s—”

“Shut up, Saphia!” Athena snapped. “Leave him alone.”

“But I was only being friendly.”

“You were being anything but. I know sarcasm’s second nature to you, but some people don’t understand it.”

“Or are too stupid to recognise it,” Saphia muttered to herself.

“What was that?” Athena asked sharply.

“Nothing. Shall we join the King and keep him company?”

Much to Redrought’s dismay both girls sat down and looked at him as though they expected him to actually talk to
them. He grasped wildly at a subject. “It’s getting quite cool, isn’t it?”

“It’s the beginning of autumn; it does that,” Saphia said. “You just wait. Winter gets really cold.”

“I love the autumn,” Athena added, trying to support the floundering King.

“Do you?” he blurted in relief. “It’s the beginning of my favourite time of year. All the good festivals begin now: the Equinox, then Samhein, and on to Yule . . .” His voice trailed away.

“It’s funny how the festivals always happen at the same time every year, don’t you think?” said Saphia, a smirk on her face.

“Samhein’s my favourite,” said Athena, ignoring her friend.

“Mine too,” Redrought said smiling brightly. “I love the shadows and the ghost stories and the lovely . . .
creepiness
of it all!”

“Yes, me as well. It’s the best time for ghost stories, everyone gathered around a fire and telling the scariest they can.”

“I’ve never heard one that scared me,” said Saphia scornfully.

“Perhaps you’ve just never heard a good storyteller,” said Redrought, beginning to relax.

“Are you saying the Hypolitan can’t tell stories?” asked Saphia waspishly.

“No . . . no, I didn’t mean it that way . . . I just meant perhaps you’d just been unlucky in missing the best . . .”

“Ignore her, she’s heard exactly the same stories as me, and she almost wet herself because of some of them,” said Athena with a giggle.

Saphia glared at her friend. “I did not wet myself!”

“I said
almost
wet yourself. Clean your ears out!”

“Well, I didn’t do that either! I can’t remember ever being even remotely scared by a ghost story, whether at Samhein or any other time. In fact, just name one that ever scared me,” Saphia demanded.

“All right,” said Athena, rising to the challenge. “What about ‘The Midnight Caller’? My Dad told that two years ago, and he said it happened to a friend of his when they were both boys.”

“I don’t remember it,” said Saphia evasively.

“Well, you should. You wouldn’t sleep on your own that night, so it was a good job you were staying over for the Samhein celebrations and you could stay in my bed.”

Redrought desperately tried to avoid the mental image of the two girls in bed together, but failed completely, blushing at the very thought. In a frantic effort to hide his red face, he stood and walked to the window, keeping his back firmly to the room. “I remember hearing one story when I was a little boy. More sad than scary,” he said, waiting for the flames in his cheeks to die down. “It was about a woman whose son was killed in a border clash with the Vampires, and because he was so young his soul couldn’t rest until his mother had kissed him, just like she did before he went to sleep at night. I remember thinking how sad it was . . . and how . . . and how lovely it sounded. I never knew my own mother.”

Saphia snorted and Redrought felt the blush rising in his cheeks again.

“How did it end?” Athena asked, ignoring her friend’s callous behaviour.

Redrought turned to the Princess. “Erm . . . I think . . .
yes, that’s it . . . the Goddess herself was so moved by what had happened that she granted the boy a physical shape again for just as long as it took his mother to kiss him good night. And after that he died for a second time, and his spirit was released.”

“It must have been terrible for the mother,” Athena said sadly.

“Yes, but at least she knew that her son was then safe with the Goddess,” Redrought replied, holding the Princess’s gaze.

Saphia added another snort from her repertoire, but neither her friend nor the King noticed.

The moment was then lost as the Basilea swept into the room with an entourage of officers and chamberlains. “I’m sorry to have kept you waiting, Your Majesty,” she said briskly. “But I’ve only just this minute been informed that you were present in the citadel.”

Redrought tore his eyes away from Athena. “Oh . . . erm . . . it doesn’t matter, the Princess was keeping me entertained.”

Artemis paused and looked at her daughter and the King. “So I see,” she said quietly, then becoming brisk again she added, “Now, what was it you wanted to discuss?”

“The invasion of Their Vampiric Majesties’ lands,” Redrought replied, turning from Athena and, now that he was dealing with a subject he knew, leaving his juvenile awkwardness behind and becoming as efficient and as brisk as the Basilea. “I’ve been finalising a few points with my commanders and also with the witches.”

“The witches?” Artemis questioned. “How will they figure in the invasion?”

“They won’t. Wenlock Witchmother doesn’t approve of
warfare, or the involvement of any of her people in it.”

“As I thought. So I’ll repeat: how will they figure in the invasion?”

“A few have agreed to help in a
private
way without their leader knowing,” Redrought replied, finally leaving the window and sitting down at the table. “As the war-leaders have already discussed, the plan is for me to lead the New Model Army into Their Vampiric Majesties’ lands with as much noise and bluster as possible while the Hypolitan enter secretly via two smaller passes through the Wolfrock Mountains. All of which, we hope, will convince the Vampires that there’s a rift between the allies and that I’m arrogant enough to believe I can continue the war alone. If everything goes the way we hope, they’ll take the bait and sweep down on me in the happy belief that they can destroy me and my army.”

“Yes, yes, we’ve discussed all of this, and the fact that the Hypolitan will then surprise the enemy by hitting them in the right and left flanks while you hold the centre. But how do the witches figure in your plan?” the Basilea demanded again.

Redrought was in his element and completely unconcerned by the formidable woman’s irritability. “Quite simple really. The witch White Annis, and several others, will spread what they call a “Glamour”, a sort of mask, over the two sections of the Hypolitan army, which will hide them from the enemy’s spies while they sneak into The-Land-of-the-Ghosts.”

After a few moments silence while she absorbed the information, the Basilea said, “I’m not sure I like the term ‘sneak’. ‘With stealth’ sounds much better.”

“Fine,” said Redrought. “The Hypolitan will be hidden from spies while they sneak with stealth into The-Land-of-the-Ghosts.”

The Basilea shot him a withering glare while Saphia produced another snort. But Artemis then went on, “As you say, in detail quite simple, but as an element of the overall plan, I suspect hugely important.”

“Yeah, exactly,” said Redrought.

The Basilea allowed herself a small smile. “Well, if that’s all, I’ll go and see how the process of spreading the rumour of the rift between the Icemark and the Hypolitan is going. After all, if the plan’s to work, Their Vampiric Majesties’ spies will need to be given the bait.” Then, looking at Athena and back at the young King, she added, “I’ll also leave you to get better acquainted with my daughter, as that seems to be your intention . . . with Your Majesty’s permission, of course.”

She walked to the door, gathering Saphia en route. “If you have no objections, I’ll take the commander with me. There are elements of training for the Sacred Regiment I wish to discuss with her.”

Princess Athena watched with interest as Saphia did everything short of clinging on to the doorjamb as she desperately tried to stay. She could be heard arguing and objecting all the way down the corridor, until the Basilea’s stern voice said something with quiet force, after which a silence fell.

“I can feel her sulking from here,” said Athena.

“Yeah,” Redrought agreed and laughed, before he blushed again.

Cadwalader had brought him a rat. It lay in all its mutilated glory in the very centre of his bed, and recognising it as the love-token it was, Redrought lifted it with reverence, quietly threw it into the wood-stove and shut the door.

Cadwalader himself lay asleep on his back, with his legs in
the air, on the only comfortable chair in the entire campaign tent. Redrought quietly fetched a stool and sat down as he tried to think through what had just happened with Princess Athena. If he was completely honest with himself, nothing much had happened at all, apart from the fact he’d managed to talk to a girl of his own age without making a total fool of himself. A bit of a fool perhaps; a
lot
of a fool probably, but not a total fool.

He felt almost as elated as he had when he’d first stood in the shieldwall on the training ground and
not
been the first housecarle who’d buckled and allowed the whole defensive structure to collapse. He felt almost as proud as he had when he’d ridden his first war horse. After all, he thought, girls were almost as dangerous. They may not have teeth as big as gravestones or sharp hooves shod with iron, but they had vicious words and friends to whisper with, and worst of all, they could giggle!

But now his mood changed abruptly and he began to take a much more pessimistic view of his time with the Princess – she was only humouring him; she was just being polite; she’d rather have been anywhere else other than talking to him. Just as he was getting into his stride and settling in for a good dose of self-pity, Kahin arrived wearing a new collection of clothing that made her look like a galleon in full sail.

“I see the cat’s nicely settled,” she said, nodding at Cadwalader in the comfortable chair.

“Hmm . . . yeah,” Redrought answered distractedly.

Kahin went to the entrance of the tent and issued orders. Within a very short time two more comfy chairs had been found and positioned in the King’s tent. The Royal Adviser was well aware that she could have moved the cat, but it was
beneath her dignity, and besides, she’d no idea where he’d been, though she had every suspicion it was somewhere unhygienic.

“So,” she said, sitting down heavily. “What’s the problem this time?”

“Problem?”

“Well, there must be a reason for you having a face like half-chewed baklava that’s been spat back onto the plate!”

“Like wha . . . ?” Redrought shook his head and held up his hands. “Don’t bother to explain. And anyway, there’s not a problem.”

“No? So you always look like this when you’re happy?”

Redrought refused to answer and stared sullenly at the floor.

“Well it can’t be the war, that’s going as well as wars can at the moment; and it can’t be Cadwalader because he’s here safe and sound and undoubtedly full of something unspeakable. And neither can it be the allies, Mrs Basilea’s been forced to accept your strategies, thanks to her daughter . . .” Kahin suddenly paused and shot a piercing glance at Redrought. “So the only other thing it could be for a boy of your age is girls . . . or perhaps other boys.”

“Don’t be stupid!”

“So it’s girls then,” said Kahin decisively. “Who exactly? Not one of the trollopy kitchen drudges who’ll give their favours for a crust of bread?”