Prince of the Icemark (8 page)

A movement in the dense shadow of the forest caught his eye. Redrought stepped forward and raised his axe. A dark shape suddenly slunk out of the undergrowth, its body low to the ground, and leapt up onto the young King’s shoulder.

He spun about in shock and several of his soldiers sprang forward to help, but then he let out a laugh of relief.

“Cadwalader! What are you doing here?”

The huge cat gave a throaty yowl. He’d been travelling through the forest for the last two days looking for Redrought.

“Well, no matter. You’re here now. Keep clear of the fighting. We’re dealing with werewolves here.”

Cadwalader growled in answer. He knew.

By this time the rhythmic beat of the werewolf lope was filling the air around them like a deadly pulse. The very trees seemed to vibrate and all birdsong fell silent. Cadwalader hissed and, standing on Redrought’s shoulder, he began a slow, deep growl that gradually rose to a high-pitched screech.

Then, like a mighty door bursting open, the hordes surged into view, cascading along the track in an unstoppable wave. At their head came King Ashmok, his black mane a cloud of smoke around the amber fire of his eyes. Immediately the archers sent a barrage of arrows scything into their ranks, bringing down dozens, but still they came on, howling and snarling as they spotted the human soldiers.

“Hold them, soldiers of the Icemark!” Redrought bellowed like a raging bull. And driving his feet deep into the earth beneath him he swung his axe. “BLOOD! BLAST! AND FIRE!!! BLOOD! BLAST! AND FIRE!!!”

His massive voice fell into the silence of the forest and was
then drowned by the howling of the werewolves. It was hopeless; how could a ragtag gathering of damaged veterans and inexperienced garrison troops led by a boy-King stop such a huge army? For a moment a tiny spark of despair threatened to burst into a flame in Redrought’s head. But then Cadwalader stood on Redrought’s shoulder and, opening his large red mouth, he let out a shriek of defiance. Redrought laughed despite everything.

“That’s right, Caddy, You tell ’em. BLOOD! BLAST! AND FIRE!! BLOOD! BLAST! AND FIRE!!”

Once again his voice seemed to create an oasis of silence. It was almost as though the forest itself was holding its breath. And then a light wind washed through the branches making them whisper and mutter, and with it came an answering cry. “Blood! Blast! And Fire!”

Redrought hardly dared hope. Could it be? It was! Suddenly the main body of the Icemark’s army swung into view. They were moving at a steady trot, their shields locked in a solid wall and bristling with spears. Then, with a great roar, they leapt forward and charged in support of their King.

Redrought’s guerrilla force now merged with the army and as one they swept forward to smash into the werewolf hordes. The roar of onset echoed through the forest, the fighting banner of the Icemark snapping proudly in the wind of the army’s speed. The shieldwall held steady against the wild ferocity of the werewolves, an impenetrable barrier of spears dripping with steaming blood as the creatures threw themselves against it.

But then a huge howl rose up and as one the hordes drew back to reform around their King, Ashmok.

Redrought watched as the ferocious amber eyes of the pack
leader sought the weak spot in the wall of shields. Then, with a roar, he leapt forward at the head of his werewolves. They smashed into the shields like the point of a poleaxe and immediately the line buckled, giving back before the ferocity of the mighty werewolf King. His enormous arms ran red with human blood and his teeth tore flesh and bone as he drove forward.

Redrought dropped back through the line and ran to the point where the shields were being pushed inexorably back. “TO ME! TO ME, SOLDIERS OF THE ICEMARK! HOLD THEM! HOLD THEM!”

He burst into the wall, shoring up the position and giving heart to his flagging warriors. His face was a mask of battle fury as he roared out his war cry. His axe flashed and whirled like lightning made iron as he felled werewolves, and slowly the line straightened.

Cadwalader stood on his shoulder, his mouth wide as he yowled defiance and hatred. And around them both the Spirits of Battle shimmered as they fought to drive back the were-wolves. But then Ashmok strode forward and his werewolves drove into the fight again as they followed their King. None could stand against the huge black-maned creature as he tore the human soldiers apart. Cadwalader saw him coming and snarled a warning.

Redrought turned to see the werewolf King smash apart the shieldwall and for a moment he almost despaired. But then Cadwalader growled in his ear. He was a witch’s cat and the power of battle was strong within him. Suddenly he stood and his yowling voice rose to a pitch that pierced the din, and Redrought felt his mind and strength expand as the fury of battle filled his huge frame.

Redrought threw back his head and gave the war cry of the Icemark as he waded into the werewolf hordes, his axe hacking limbs and severing heads. The creatures fell back before him, only King Ashmok holding his position. In a moment of clarity Redrought suddenly thought that now would be the time to go Bare-Sark if it was ever going to happen. But then the needs of battle clamoured into his brain and he faced his enemy.

The two Kings met with a clash that rang through the forest. Iron against tooth and claw. Both stood, indomitable, tearing at each other.

The young human King felt neither pain nor fear as he faced the giant werewolf. He only knew a deep raging need to avenge the death of his brother. He hefted his axe and, whirling it around his head, he struck at Ashmok. The were-wolf sidestepped and smashed his fist into the boy’s face. Redrought returned the blow, drawing blood from Ashmok’s snout. But then he staggered back as the haft of his enemy’s axe broke one of his ribs.

The human army cheered as their young King made the monster reel, but now Ashmok’s razor claws sliced at his opponent’s arm and Redrought spun away before they could slash his flesh. But they caught his axe and the wood splintered, sending the razor-sharp blade flickering and flashing through the trees.

Swords and axes landed at his feet as his soldiers sacrificed their weapons to help him. Nearby on a low-hanging branch stood Cadwalader, his voice screeching a vicious paean as he watched the battle. Now Ashmok charged into the attack again, bearing back the boy-King under his weight and power. He raised his claws again to slash his exposed throat, and
immediately Cadwalader sprang. He landed on the creature’s neck, and buried his needle teeth into its flesh. All of the witch’s cat’s power was driven into the rending teeth, slicing through muscle and sinew, slicing through the werewolf’s fighting rage.

Ashmok bellowed and spun around, dashing the cat to the ground. But now Redrought drove forward and, seizing an axe that lay at his feet, he whirled it about his head with a strength he’d never known before. Ashmok’s eyes narrowed as he watched the fury of his opponent and he took back a step before standing again.

The werewolf King roared, and an image rose up in Redrought’s mind. A memory of his brother at the Battle of the Northern Plain; again he relived seeing the werewolves wrench his brother’s head from his shoulders.

With a wild cry of grief and ferocity, Redrought poured his desperate need for revenge into his axe. And with an explosion of power that erupted through his entire body, the human boy struck at the werewolf’s neck. The blade bit into flesh with the sound of an axe hewing wood, and the head leapt from Ashmok’s shoulders. Seizing it, Redrought raised it in triumph before his cheering soldiers, then threw it deep into the ranks of the enemy army.

A great groan rose up from the werewolves, and they began to fall back. Now a huge wind suddenly sprang up, roaring through the trees and whirling up the leaf litter from the ground. Then, as suddenly, it dropped away to silence, and there stood an army of strange warriors dressed in armour that looked like polished leaves and holding weapons like giant thorns.

The sound of hunting horns echoed through the trees, and
as one they fell on the flanks of the werewolf army. Redrought led his warriors in a charge that smashed into the retreating ranks of his enemy. And at last, with a despairing howl, they broke ranks and fled.

For almost two hours the victorious human army chased the broken werewolves through the trees, hacking down thousands as they scrambled to escape the human King. But at last, Redrought called in his warriors and they stopped.

The strange tree-warriors had disappeared not long after the werewolf army had been routed, and everyone began to wonder if they’d imagined them in the heat and hysteria of the battle. Certainly Redrought was convinced that the fighting rage that still swirled through his mind had made him hallucinate, and he dismissed the fighting trees as nothing but imagination. He shook his head, trying to see and think beyond the ferocity in his brain.

“Where’s Cadwalader?” he suddenly asked, remembering that the cat had saved his life by distracting Ashmok after Redrought had lost his weapons.

Nobody said anything, but after a while a soldier stepped forward and reverently laid the limp body of the cat at the King’s feet. Redrought threw back his head and roared, but before he could do anything more, a group of his warriors suddenly burst through the trees, dragging a werewolf with them.

“My Lord, we have an important captive. Look, he has the silver collar of a werewolf Prince!”

“The whelp of the House of Blood-Drinker,” said Redrought, naming the Royal line of the werewolves. He narrowed his eyes as he remembered the warning from
Wenlock Witchmother. “Tell me, why shouldn’t we just kill you now and wipe out your bloodline?”

The young werewolf raised his head. “Kill me if you wish, but the House of Blood-Drinker will live on in my brothers and sisters.”

His voice was deep and guttural but perfectly understandable, and Redrought nodded. “Then all that would be gained from your death would be our pleasure,” the human King said.

“Have your pleasure then, and be done with it,” Prince Grishmak answered defiantly.

Redrought nodded, and he stepped forward, prepared to ignore Wenlock’s warning. But then the responsibilities and duties of his position of King rose up in his mind and he lowered his axe. “I have been told to let you live, Grishmak Blood-Drinker,” Redrought said. “Perhaps you have a future role to play that none of us can guess.”

He stood for a moment, letting the rage of battle flow from his body, then said, “So go now, and have safe passage back to your own lines. But take this message to your allies, the Vampire King and Queen. Tell them that King Redrought Athelstan Strong-in-the-Arm Lindenshield demands that they leave his land immediately and pay for the damage they have inflicted on his kingdom. And tell them that if they ignore this demand, then the remodelled army of the Icemark will be unleashed against them, and no mercy will be shown.”

The young werewolf stared at the human King for a moment, then he bowed his head, before turning and running off through the trees.

Redrought watched him go and shivered. He was suddenly becoming aware of the many wounds that the werewolf King
had inflicted on him during the battle, and this, coupled with a severe reaction to the stress and horror of the battle, made his head swim. “What’s wrong with me?” he asked irritably, as he rubbed his eyes.

But before anyone could answer him, he collapsed in a heap next to the still form of Cadwalader.

A
thena made her way to the infirmary through the streets of the Hypolitan city. Many of the houses were fire-damaged, caused by the Vampire army bombarding the buildings with burning pitch. Fire crews had managed to keep at least some of the blazes under control, and damage had been limited to the residential districts, rather than the citadel and military buildings. So far the Vampire attacks had been beaten off, but Athena rightly assumed that Their Vampiric Majesties were happy to let simple tactics of attrition wear down the city’s defenders. After all, the Hypolitan were isolated and without allies. It was only a matter of time before they were finally crushed.

Athena desperately wished that her older sisters Elemnestra
and Electra were with her, helping to defend the city, instead of being locked out of the country by the blockading fleets of the enemy. She knew that both of them would be frantic with worry. As warrior Princesses of the Hypolitan, they’d be desperate to take part in the war and take revenge on their enemies. But deep down in a secret part of her mind, she was almost shocked to realise she was glad that her sisters couldn’t get home, and that they’d be alive and safe when the city finally fell.

This thought gave Athena a lighter step as she walked through the war-ravaged streets of Bendis. The early autumnal sunshine was surprisingly warm and this, when combined with the scents of some late wild flowers that grew on the flattened remains of bombed-out buildings, helped to lift the young Princess’s spirits further. The fact that the acrid stench of burnt wood and buildings also mingled with the scents did nothing to damage her morale. Despite being little more than fifteen years old, she was already a seasoned warrior, and like all veterans she took her comforts and happiness where and when she found them.

She arrived outside the infirmary building and quickly went in. The proof that the Hypolitan would ultimately be defeated lay moaning and dying in the infirmary corridors. Because of the recent Battle of the Northern Plain and the continuing struggle to defend the city, the infirmary was filled beyond capacity, with many pallets lining the central corridor. The stench of blood and infected wounds filled the air, and the physicians and nursing staff rushed around with an atmosphere of combined exhaustion and haste. Athena knew the Hypolitan couldn’t sustain such casualty rates without reinforcements from somewhere.

She fantasised about a sally, in which the entire population
of the city broke out and beyond the siege lines to freedom. But even if all of the non-combatants – the children, injured and elderly – could be got out safely, where could they go? To the coast and take ship? Assuming there was a military miracle which would allow them to fight all the way to the nearest harbour and find enough ships ready and waiting, again, where would they go? And how would they break through the blockades?

No, it seemed the best they could hope for was a glorious last stand in which the Hypolitan went down fighting to the end. But without any surviving singers to record the event, even that seemed valueless.

It was a shock for the Princess of a warrior culture to find out that ultimately war was futile. But this war had been nothing but shocks since its very beginning when Their Vampiric Majesties had launched a surprise attack. Then the King of the Icemark had been killed and his army defeated, and the Hypolitan themselves, despite their tight discipline and fighting abilities, had barely escaped the lost battle.

Athena arrived at a door that opened off the corridor and paused while she put aside all negative thoughts and rearranged her face into a smile. Taking a deep breath she knocked once and walked in.

“Why’re you grinning like a moron?” asked a young woman who was lying in a bed with her arm in a sling.

“Hello, Saphia. Nice to see you as well,” Athena answered, and without waiting to be asked she sat down heavily on the straw-stuffed mattress. The room was painted white, had one small window looking out over a courtyard garden and was empty of all decoration and furniture, apart from the bed.

“I’m bored,” Saphia announced. “You can’t expect good
manners from me when I’m bored.”

“I never expect good manners from you,” Athena said patting her friend’s good arm. “I’d be as likely to catch a Vampire sunbathing.”

Saphia grunted, then demanded, “When are they letting me out of here? Have you spoken to any of the doctors?”

“Yes, I have. And despite your arm being broken, and your shoulder dislocated, they’re releasing you into my care, the Goddess help me.” Athena paused to mutter a prayer for strength, then went on. “You can’t expect to recover overnight. These injuries are serious, you know.”

“I’m very well aware of that. I was there when it happened!”

The Princess ignored her friend’s sarcasm. “Anyway, you’ll be staying with me at the citadel.”

“Good. At least I’ll be able to get dressed. I feel like some fairy godmother wearing this nightie all day.”

Athena laughed. With her short-cropped hair, boyish good looks and almost permanent frown, Saphia looked nothing like anybody’s idea of a fairy godmother. “Fairy
godbrother
, more like.”

Saphia gave a snort of laughter in return. “Thanks, I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“I thought you would. Anyway, I’ll go and find out what they’ve done with your clothes and then we’ll get you dressed and settled into the citadel.”

“Does the Basilea mind?” Saphia suddenly asked, looking worried.

“Mind? You saved my mother’s life, not to mention mine and the entire Sacred Regiment’s. Of course she doesn’t mind . . . though, of course, she’s still pretending to be
annoyed about it.”

Saphia snorted again. “The entrance was only as wide as a narrow doorway. A ten-year-old armed with a soup spoon could have held it.”

“Not against King Ashmok and his werewolves they couldn’t. You’re lucky to be alive.”

Saphia went quiet for a moment. “I know. When I saw him I didn’t think there could be a warrior anywhere in the world who could stand up to that creature and live.”

“You did.”

“Yes, but I was in an easily defendable position, I had enough arrows to keep me happy all day,
and
I had a horse ready to escape on. Even then he nearly got me. I thought he was going to rip my arm off.”

“He almost did.”

Saphia nodded. “It was only because my horse kicked him in the guts that we got away. And then he chased us for half a mile. I’ll admit it to you because I’ve known you for ever: I was terrified, Athena. Nothing could kill him. I hit him squarely with four arrows. He should’ve died.”

Athena nodded, then became brisk. “Well, there’s no point in worrying about him now. He and his werewolves have disappeared. The scouts think he’s gone through the Great Forest to take Frostmarris. If there was anyone left alive in that city, they won’t be now.”

Both young women fell silent, but then Athena sighed, cleared her throat and headed for the door. “I’m going to get your clothes. See if you can get out of that granny nightdress while I’m away.”

“What, with one arm?”

*   *   *

Later that same day, Athena sat with Saphia in the citadel’s War Room.

“It’s strange the Vampires haven’t attacked today. Perhaps they’ve given up.”

“Fat chance of that,” Saphia replied. “They’re probably preparing something hideous for us.”

“Comforting thought.”

“Well, you don’t really think they’ve packed up and gone back to The-Land-of-the-Ghosts, do you?”

“Of course not! But something . . . unexpected must have happened. They’ve attacked every day and every night since the Battle of the Northern Plain. And yet today the skies are empty.” Athena replied, her eyes focused on the middle distance as she tried to find a solution to the mystery.

Saphia climbed to her feet and stared out of a window, scanning the sky. “Well, whatever the reason for them staying away, let’s hope it’s bad news for them. In fact, let’s hope it’s the worst possible news.”

Athena nodded. “I wonder what it could be. Perhaps . . . perhaps Their Vampiric Majesties have died. Maybe some hero has hunted them down in their lair and staked them both through the heart!”

Saphia swung around from the window, her eyes shining. “Or what about this? The people of Frostmarris have fought back against the werewolf army and defeated them. King Ashmok is dead and his warriors routed. Thousands of them have been killed as they ran from the wrath of the Icemark . . .”

“Very, very imaginative, Saphia, my dear,” said Basilea Artemis as she walked into the War Room. “But unfortunately
not true. You know very well the King of the Icemark was killed at the Battle of the Northern Plain, and his army smashed. If there was anybody left in Frostmarris they’ll now all be dead.”

Both young women nodded sadly. But then Athena squared her shoulders. “Have the scouts reported any Vampire activity?”

“No. Your father’s debriefing the latest patrol to return. But I don’t expect anything different. The Vampire squadrons have disappeared, as have their allies, the Snowy Owls.”

The Basilea sat down at the round table that stood in the middle of the room and for an instant Athena caught a look of total exhaustion and despair on her mother’s face. But the next moment, the stern mask of the warrior was back in place. She looked up with a rare smile. “At least you seem to be on the mend, Saphia. Some good news at last.”

“Yes, thank you, Ma’am. The doctors are pleased with my progress so far, though we won’t know for sure until they take these splints off.”

“Well, hurry up and get better; the Sacred Regiment misses you.”

“And I miss them. I can’t bear the thought that they’re fighting without me.” She fell silent for a moment and cast a wary look at Athena, who sat at the table next to her mother. “In fact . . .” Saphia went on at last, “. . . in fact I’ve been practising left-handed with a sword. That way if . . . things don’t heal as well as I hope, I’ll still be of some use to the Hypolitan.”

“Saphia, how could you?!” Athena exploded. “You might have put back the healing process by weeks!”

“Balls! I knew you’d say something like that, which is
exactly why I didn’t tell you. If anything, I think the exercise has helped things along; I can feel the blood rushing through my veins as I practise, and that can only make the bones knit faster and stronger!”

“So you’re a doctor now, are you?”

“No. But it stands to reason, doesn’t it? If water goes bad when it sits unmoving in pools, why not the body? I was stagnating in that infirmary!”

“I don’t think any harm’s been done, Athena,” the Basilea said placatingly. “Saphia could well be right. I’ve noticed that the wounded who get up and get on with their lives as quickly as possible usually do better than those who mope and droop.”

“Probably because those who mope and droop are too ill to do otherwise and will die anyway,” Athena said irritably.

“Possibly,” her mother agreed. “But I still say that exercise helps recovery . . . as long as it’s done sensibly.”

“You’re talking about Saphia, Mother. I don’t think she could do sensible if she had an instruction manual.”

“I
am
here, you know!” Saphia exploded. “I mean, have I suddenly become invisible? You can talk to me.”

“Who would want to—”

“Do I hear the sound of dissent in the ranks?” Herakles, Consort to the Basilea and Athena’s father asked as he walked into the room.

“No, Dad, just Saphia being her usual self,” Athena replied.

“So you mean brave, self-sacrificing and determined, then,” Herakles said, pulling out a chair from the central table and sitting down.

“No, I mean stupid, stubborn and impatient,” said Athena.

Both girls began to bicker but were interrupted by the Basilea. “Why is it always the closest friends who insist on fighting so much?”

“Probably because they know the other well enough to fully understand how annoying they are,” said Athena. Then she grinned. “But I suppose they know their good points too.”

Saphia smiled in reply. “I do have some then?”

“One or two.”

“Good, so that’s settled,” said Herakles. “When’s dinner?”

The cave high in the Wolfrock Mountains was hardly the sort of comfort Their Vampiric Majesties were used to, but the servants had done their best and draped many of the outcrops, stalactites and stalagmites with velvet throws and tapestries. They’d also contrived to haul the Royal thrones from The-Land-of-the-Ghosts and had set them up in the cave, artfully employing a natural outcrop of glistening quartz as a canopy.

The two monstrous monarchs sat there now, impatiently waiting for the promised envoy to arrive while they sipped sherry, and enjoyed the fact that they were keeping General Romanoff standing in their presence. Sometimes it was necessary to remind subjects of their inferior status, even if they were brilliant strategists and tacticians.

“Really, General, it’s too, too boring sitting here waiting for this . . . this
messenger
or ambassador or whatever it is. Will we have to wait much longer?” His Vampiric Majesty asked petulantly.

“Do you mean the Royal Envoy from the werewolf army, Sire?” Romanoff corrected through gritted teeth, her head and shoulder twitching in irritation. “My scouts have reported that
he should be here within the hour.”