Prince of the Icemark (7 page)

“Hiya, Cadwalader!” the King shouted happily, then giggled as the massive cat rubbed his head against his cheek and purred deeply. Cadwalader caught sight of the animal emissaries, still standing patiently on the roadway, and immediately he bristled and hissed with the ferocity of a mountain lion. He was a witch’s cat and the power was strong within him. He continued to growl to himself as the boar, wolf, bear and stag took one look at his evil narrowed eyes and then turned about and galloped off back to the forest.

“Aww, that wasn’t very nice, Caddy, was it?” said Redrought, burying his face in the deep fur of the creature’s flank. “You’re a very naughty wittle puthy cat. What are you? Yes, that’s right, you’re a very naughty wittle puthy cat.”

The Royal Adviser sighed. Redrought may have left his boyhood behind, but it insisted on catching up with him every now and then. She could only hope the werewolf army had no spies watching the fearsome warrior King of the Icemark.

She waited until Redrought turned to make his way back to the palace, all the while talking to his cat, and followed in his wake. Left to her own thoughts she pondered exactly who it was that had the authority and ability to send wild animals as envoys from the Great Forest.

R
edrought had left the bulk of the army strung out across the main trackway that snaked through the Great Forest. Now that most of the contingents had come in from the garrisons of the free southern cities it looked like quite a formidable force once again, even without the new cavalry. Horses would be of no use amongst the densely packed trees and he’d been reluctantly forced to give up the chance of riding Hengist into battle for the first time, but he was almost confident in his infantry.

He could only hope that the Vampire King and Queen had no idea that welding the separate factions into a cohesive fighting unit was proving to be a struggle. Perhaps his commanders were right that once they’d been bloodied in battle
they’d become the army the country so desperately needed. In the meantime, they could guard the approach to Frostmarris and advance at a slow pace while Redrought doubled ahead with his specially picked guerrilla force against the werewolf army.

The warriors of the Wolf-folk had little experience of woodlands. Most of them came from high up in the Wolfrock Mountains, so a small force of woodcrafty fighters could inflict terrible damage on creatures that would find the forest an alien environment. At least, that was the theory; the actual practice might turn out to be wildly different.

As they quickly made their way along the main trackway, Redrought tried to order his thoughts. He’d not been in battle since he’d seen his brother killed, and had no idea how he might react. He might freeze and leave his fighters leaderless; he might even run screaming. He had no way of knowing. All he could do was hope for the best.

At least he knew he looked the part. Grimswald had insisted on dressing him for battle that morning, and he’d stood quietly while the little man had draped him in every piece of leather, linen and equipment he’d need for the battle ahead. He’d even helped Redrought into his under-drawers, something he’d been managing to do for himself since before he was five. But even though he was a little embarrassed, Grimswald had insisted, and had imparted the entire dressing process with a deep sense of ceremony that had helped to relax the young King’s mind.

Then, when he was ready and he’d finally stepped out into the courtyard to take up his command, the entire waiting army had spontaneously broken out into wild cheering. Redrought had no idea that in his leather mailed hauberk and helmet he
looked every inch a warrior King of the Icemark. He’d raised his axe in acknowledgement of the cheering, nodded at Kahin who’d smiled worriedly back, and led his army down through the city.

Now he was leading his small band of woodland guerrillas through the Great Forest, and as the sun began to edge towards the horizon, he took them off the main track and deep into the trees. The scouts had reported that the werewolves were still more than a day’s march away, but he didn’t want to risk being spotted by
their
scouts.

After a few hours of advancing through the dense under-growth, he ordered a stop and they rested and ate while they still had the chance. The forest around them was pitch black, making it impossible to go any further without torches, something the sharp-eyed Wolf-folk would easily spot even through the dense stand of crowding trees. They’d have to wait now for the dawn before going on.

Redrought looked about him at the warriors who’d taken the opportunity to sleep. They were all veterans and survivors of the battle against the Vampire King and Queen, and like every seasoned fighter, they took their ease whenever and wherever it presented itself. Redrought could only be envious; his mind was too active to allow rest. He knew perfectly well that if he failed and the army was broken by the werewolves, then Frostmarris would be vulnerable. Redrought Athelstan Strong-in-the-Arm Lindenshield was the only surviving member of his line, and the battle ahead would decide if he would be the last mortal ruler of his tiny kingdom. Human survival in the Icemark was now entirely his responsibility.

He desperately wished that the old legend of the warriors of the Icemark sometimes being possessed by the so-called
Spirits of Battle, and going Bare-Sark, was true. The stories said that a Bare-Sark warrior had the strength of ten men and the ferocity of a wild boar. No one could stand against them, not even a werewolf King.

But he reluctantly accepted that he couldn’t rely on myths and legends to help him. He and his fighters had only themselves to fall back on. Of his two senior commanders, one was in charge of the main bulk of the army slowly advancing along the forest trackway and the other was back in Frostmarris organising “Home Defence”. It wasn’t lost on the young King that both men had happily accepted commands of the more defensive positions. In fact, Redrought strongly suspected that both generals expected him and his guerrilla force to fail, after which they’d fight as ordered a retreat as they could and then defend Frostmarris for as long as possible: defeatism that could only end in the inevitable collapse of human resistance.

Redrought sighed. Only Kahin had shown any confidence in him, and even she had looked worried. She was like some proud granny, desperately and loyally supporting her grandson against impossible odds. Well, he’d just have to reward her loyalty with unexpected success!

The hours of darkness passed slowly, and he filled them by making a constant round of the sentry points, testing his soldiers for readiness. None had been asleep at their posts, which was a huge relief, not least because he hadn’t relished the idea of executing a soldier for dereliction of duty. He had too few warriors as it was.

But at last the few patches of sky that could be seen through the dense canopy of the trees began to lighten to the colour of bruised skin. Dawn had arrived and Redrought himself began to rouse his soldiers. Soon the veterans were eating a breakfast
of bread and cheese and the solid dry biscuit called hard-tack as they got ready to march. No fires were allowed; the scent of smoke and cooking food would alert the werewolves.

In much less than an hour they were advancing quickly through the trees towards their target. Every soldier carried only the lightest equipment for their barest needs. Speed and manoeuvrability were essential, and heavy packs and even shields would slow them down. Many were armed with long-bows and two quivers of arrows, others had throwing axes and short, broad-bladed stabbing swords. The tactics would be classic hit-and-run, designed to wear down the enemy. It all sounded perfectly logical and simple; Redrought could only hope that it would be.

They continued to march parallel to the main trackway that snaked through the trees way off to their left. Scouts had been sent out before the guerrilla force set out, and Redrought continually scanned the trees ahead, watching for their return. Then, after a few hours, the undergrowth ahead parted and two of the scouts emerged. Seeing the King, they headed straight for him.

“A thousand paces, My Lord,” the older of the two women said.

“How many?” Redrought asked.

She shrugged. “More than us . . . twenty, thirty thousand.”

Redrought nodded, hiding his shock. His entire combined army was outnumbered upwards of two to one by creatures that were stronger than three human warriors put together! What chance did they have?

They spotted the first werewolves before midday. They were loping along at an incredible pace, eating up the ground before
them and growling out a vicious war-song in their own gruff language as they advanced. Redrought hadn’t seen the enemy since the Battle of the Northern Plain where his brother had been killed, and he glared at them now with loathing. Their hugely strong arms almost brushed the ground as they ran, and their wide shoulders and thick pelts made them look like the pictures of the Minotaur that Redrought had so enjoyed in his nursery books. But that had been a creature of Hellenic mythology, whereas werewolves were all too real and invading his lands. With an effort he controlled his emotions and coolly gave the orders of disposition.

He’d chosen a point in the road where the trackway narrowed to pass through a shallow gorge. The werewolves may have only been the vanguard of their army but their numbers soon crowded the route as those amongst the trees gathered in to negotiate the bottleneck. Now . . . now was the time.

Redrought chopped his hand down and immediately a dense swarm of arrows ripped into the werewolves. For a moment the vanguard of the Wolf-folk writhed in a chaos of shock, but then they broke out in a running mass of muscle and teeth as they charged the archers. More arrows scythed into their ranks, bringing down dozens, but still they came on, snarling and howling.

Redrought drew his axe and raising it above his head he gave the war cry of the Icemark: “THE ENEMY ARE AMONG US! THEY KILL OUR CHILDREN, THEY BURN OUR HOUSES! BLOOD! BLAST! AND FIRE! BLOOD! BLAST! AND FIRE!”

There wasn’t time to think; there wasn’t time to be afraid. He leapt forward and his soldiers followed him in a fighting phalanx. They smashed into the werewolves like a battering
ram, swords and axes raining death. But the Wolf-folk hardly wavered and struck back with tooth and claw. Redrought planted his feet like the roots of a mighty oak and swung his axe before the storm of the werewolves.

The stench of blood, hot and bitter, hung in the air as the war cries of wolf and human tore through the silent forest.

The lightly armed humans drove in to strike and then fell back before the massive Wolf-folk could come to grips with them. Only Redrought stood firm and none could withstand him. The corpses piled around his feet and still he stood, striding forward only to find a clear space to fight. His head was afire with the cold rage of battle and the fighting spirits of his ancestors surged around him, distorting the air like a heat haze. But he knew none of this; all he saw were the enemy, the murderers of his brother, the invaders of his land.

His fighters surged around him like a raging sea, rolling forward to strike at the werewolves, back as the monsters charged and then forward again as they fought to stand with their King. Redrought’s axe ran with the blood of his enemy and his hands were red where they grasped the haft in a grip of frozen iron.

A unit of five werewolves suddenly burst out from the ranks of their force, intent on bringing down the boy-King. Redrought saw them coming, and smiling coldly he raised his axe and waited. They raged down on their target and as the first huge face filled his field of vision he struck with all his young strength, his axe chopping deep at the junction of neck and shoulder. Blood fountained skywards and the werewolf desperately scrabbled at the massive wound as it fell to the ground.

Now spinning about, Redrought used the force of his speed to add power to his stroke and his axe sliced through the neck of the second werewolf, the head erupting from its shoulders like a bird leaping into flight.

His warriors surged protectively about him, and the remaining three werewolves perished under a rain of sword and axe, while Redrought strode forward calling out the war cry of the Icemark and took up a stand to await the next attack.

For a while the struggle hung in the balance, but then the main body of the werewolf army began to emerge from the trees, swinging along at a fast lope, howling as they came. Immediately Redrought gave the order to fall back and stood like a rock as his fighters began a controlled withdrawal.

Soon the ranks of the werewolves were close enough for him to see that at their head ran a truly enormous creature. The mane that swirled around its head was black, making its amber eyes flame, and around its neck was the gold collar of the werewolf King.

Recognising the creature, the young boy strode forward and, levelling his axe, he pointed the blade at the werewolf. “Know who I am, invader,” he called, the rough edge of his adolescent voice echoing into the forest. “I am Redrought Athelstan Strong-in-the-Arm Lindenshield, King of the Icemark, and I will have your blood! Your death awaits you. Follow me now and find it!”

Slowly he turned and walked into the trees. Several were-wolves began to run in pursuit but their King held them back, his amber eyes narrowing as he watched the boy disappear amongst the dense undergrowth.

*   *   *

Now began a running battle through the forest as the human guerrilla force struck, withdrew and struck again at the were-wolf hordes. Redrought was fighting a controlled retreat that would eventually fall back on his main army still advancing along the trackway. Once he’d joined with them he would make a stand against King Ashmok. His fighters had reduced Wolf-folk numbers, if only marginally, and his human warriors would know that the werewolves could indeed be killed. Invincibility was a myth, and he, Redrought, would dispel it for ever.

After more than an hour of fighting the young King beckoned up a bugler and the signals for retreat and regroup were given. A scout had come in and reported that the main Icemark army was closing fast. Now was the time to rejoin them, end the hit-and-run tactics and make a stand against the werewolves.

After withdrawing for more than a mile Redrought took up a position in the centre of the trackway and waited, while his warriors quickly reformed into a rough phalanx of archers, slingers and swordsmen. With the fighting over, if only for a while, he had time to take stock of the situation − and one of the most pressing questions was why King Ashmok had let him go when Redrought had challenged him earlier. Could it be that the mighty werewolf warrior acknowledged him as a leader, and so was reserving the right to challenge him personally in battle? Redrought hardly thought it possible, but then he began to look at his own achievements. Had he really led his soldiers in a running battle against the huge werewolf army? Had he really killed dozens of their warriors? It didn’t seem real. But before wonder could become self-doubt, the noise of the werewolves’ marching lope came to his ears. King
Ashmok and his fighters were drawing near.