Blade Of Fire (Book 2)

by Stuart Hill

  “That’s Tharaman-Thar, to you,” said Cressida sharply. “And don’t you think you’re getting a little old to expect presents every time Mum and Dad have been away?”

  “No, actually!” Cerdic answered forcibly. “It’s traditional for monarchs to present their friends and allies with gifts!”

  “But not their small-minded offspring!” his sister answered in a dangerously quiet tone that made both twins subside immediately.

  “I bet they will bring us prezzies, anyway,” Cerdic muttered rebelliously, but quickly closed his mouth when Cressida shot him a warning look.

  “You don’t have to wait out here in the cold if you don’t want to, Sharley,” Cressida said, sounding concerned. “We can send word as soon as the army comes into sight.”

  Charlemagne sighed quietly. Even his sensible elder sister treated him as though he was constantly on the point of collapse. “I’m fine,” he snapped with a frown. “At least I’m wearing furs. You lot are likely to freeze if you don’t get something warm on over your armour. I suppose you’ve been training in the lists.”

  “With the Weapons Master, yes,” Cressida answered, deciding to overlook her youngest brother’s tone. “We’re perfecting some of the finer points of the shield wall technique. I think we’ve got the hang of it now.”

  Charlemagne nodded silently. He sometimes watched them training, but his need to join in had become almost too much to bear, so he’d reduced the time he spent spectating on the sidelines.

  Cressida knew the root cause of Charlemagne’s silence and put her arm around his shoulders. She was just taller than him by about two inches, and their bright red hair and green eyes would have proven to any stranger that they were brother and sister. “Come on, Sharley. We have to accept what we are.”

  “You sound like Maggiore Totus,” he answered sullenly.

  “Do I?”

  “Yes. He said just that, this afternoon.”

  “Well, he’s right. Look at old Carnwulf, the porter. He was a housecarle, and one of the best, until he lost his leg to the green rot after he was wounded. But you don’t hear him moaning or going on about the unfairness of life.”

  “And I do, I suppose.”

  “That’s not what I meant, Sharley, and you know it,” Cressida answered sharply. “Not all warriors carry swords and shields.”

  Charlemagne felt his face redden in a confusion of embarrassment and anger, but before he could say anything a call rose up from the werewolves at the gatehouse. Immediately, all four children of Queen Thirrin Freer Strong-in-the-Arm Lindenshield, Wildcat of the North, stared out over the snows to the dark and glowering eaves of the distant forest. For a moment it seemed that the trees themselves had begun to march out over the plain, but then the sharp eyes of the Royal siblings slowly distinguished cavalry horses and the raised spears of marching infantry. The army had come home.

  As they watched, the soft diffusion of moonlight seemed to gather about a tall figure riding a long-eared mule, until a brilliant shooting star of light illuminated the marching housecarles and the distinctive white forms of the Queen’s bodyguard of Ukpik werewolves. This was Oskan Witchfather’s signal to his children who, he knew, would be watching from the walls.

  A call rang out from the Wolf-folk down at the main gatehouse, and after a few moments a faint reply came from the Ukpik bodyguard. All four siblings scrambled for the stairway, eager to be first to greet their parents.

  In one of the highest towers of the citadel, Medea looked out over the snows beyond the city walls and watched as her parents marched home. A year older than Charlemagne, she was of the same slender build, but where he had the red hair and green eyes of his mother and Cressida, she had the same dark colouring as Oskan. Once, a Court poet had even compared her deathly pale complexion and black hair to snowfall in a shadowed forest, though Medea’s cold silence in response had ensured that no other social-climbing artist had ever again tried to win her support with flattering verses or songs.

  Medea’s feelings were a tangled knot of contradictions. She was happy that Thirrin and Oskan had arrived home safely, but she was angry that they would greet everyone before her and she was overflowing with a fierce resentment.

  Medea burned with the jealousy she felt for her elder sister and her brood of brothers, Charlemagne in particular. She had been six years old when polio had nearly killed him, but when he’d survived with a crippled leg Medea had realised that the attention and pampering her parents were lavishing on him would be his for life, now that he would never be strong enough to fulfil his role as a fighting Prince of the House of Lindenshield. Medea felt as if she’d been forever demoted in the pecking order of the family, and rising above them all was Charlemagne, untouchable because of his disability, and for ever steeped in his parents’ love. It was then that she knew she would always hate her younger brother and she did her best to make his life a misery.

  With a smile she remembered a time when, soon after he’d recovered, Charlemagne had broken his favourite toy horse. After weeping over it for a minute or two, he had set about repairing the damage. Of course he made a terrible botched job of it, all gobbets of glue and legs set at odd angles, but he seemed quite pleased.

  “I could mend it properly for you so that you couldn’t even see the joins,” she’d said after watching him struggle with his toy for almost an hour.

  He’d looked up then, his innocent face alive with hope. “Could you?”

  “I could. Would you like me to show you?”

  “Oh, yes please!” he’d squeaked, and had handed the horse to her. He’d then watched every move she’d made in rapt fascination, trusting his sister to make the world right again.

  For several minutes her Magical Eye had inspected the fabric of the toy until she’d finally understood how grain meshed with grain, how molecule combined with atom to make the wood of its form. She’d then drawn on the energy she needed, and had unbroken the splits and breaks, tying splinters back into a flawless surface, smoothing away all signs of damage and at last returning the toy to Sharley.

  Medea had let him play with the little horse for a while until, satisfied he trusted her, she’d said: “Give it back to me a moment, I want to show you something.” And she’d made him watch tearfully as she broke off the legs again, one by one.

  The insane jealousy of the memory still boiled in her veins, but at least her Gift ensured that she still got some of her father’s attention. As the only other member of the family with Ability, he was the one who put her through her magical paces and devised different training regimes for her. For several nights a week – until she’d Come of Magical Age at fourteen – he had gone to her tower, and together they’d created landscapes and cities from the ectoplasm of moonlight and shadow, or sent their Sight far out into the night, viewing the world or sometimes even spying on the housecarles in their mess hall. She’d been thrilled to find that her Far-Seeing abilities were stronger than her father’s.

  Now, on this night of her parents’ return she extinguished all the lamps and candles in her tower room and, opening the shutters wide on the freezing night, secretly watched her sister and brothers waiting on the walls. She had no intention of joining them yet. Only when the sickening screeches and tears of greeting were over and done with would she go down, knowing that at least Oskan would be looking for her.

  CHAPTER 3

  Glad to be home, Oskan stretched his feet towards the fire and sighed contentedly. It was the first time he’d felt truly warm in nearly two months, and the addition of a very fat Primplepuss curled up in a purring heap of tabby fur on his lap somehow added to the sense of comfort. He stroked her gently, grateful for the medical skills that had kept the ancient cat alive for almost twenty years. When Oskan had first met Thirrin, Primplepuss had been a tiny kitten, a scrap of fur nestled in King Redrought’s huge war-callused hand. But now the animal was a massively fat matriarch of a large dynasty of palace cats that stalked the corridors and halls in search of an
y rodent stupid enough to try and raid the pantries and storehouses.

  Meanwhile, out in the Great Hall, the sounds of trestle tables being set up and of servants scurrying about told Oskan that supper would soon be ready. Recently, he and Thirrin and their five children had taken to eating as a family in the private apartments – with the permanent addition of Maggiore – but tonight would be different. This was their first meal since returning home from the Ice Troll wars, and although it wasn’t exactly a banquet with important guests and dignitaries, Thirrin had thought it best to show themselves to the household.

  Oskan stroked Primplepuss, making her purr ecstatically like a hive of happy bees, and waited in warm contentment for the return of ‘the rabble’, as he termed his family.

  Medea was somewhere in the citadel. She’d put in an appearance almost an hour after the rest of the children, and welcomed them home, although, as usual, she’d been as reserved and mysterious as a locked box in a secret room. The rest of his brood were with Thirrin, who had been forced to go to the lists with the twins and Cressida to see their latest accomplishments in battle tactics, and of course Charlemagne had insisted on going with them. Why could that boy never sit quietly? He always had to torture himself by watching his siblings train in ways he never could. Perhaps one day he’d redirect his energies into something other than his burning ambition to be a warrior, but Oskan suspected Sharley would be old and grey before that happened.

  All of a sudden he sat bolt upright, causing Primplepuss to look up in alarm. He’d felt the unmistakable touch of the Gift nudging him, whispering into his mind from its deep mystery, and sending tell-tale shivers down his spine and thrilling down to his fingers.

  “What . . . what? The boy? . . . Charlemagne!”

  But the moment had passed, the Mystery curling a protecting veil around information he wasn’t yet meant to know. Oskan slumped back in his chair feeling the familiar sense of draining that even the gentlest touch of the Gift always inflicted on him. The details would come in time . . . perhaps. But whether they did or not, Oskan felt a sudden upsurge of pride for his youngest child. Perhaps little Charlemagne had a destiny that would overshadow even those of his sisters and brothers . . .

  The familiar uproar of the twins began to echo faintly across the Great Hall. He smiled to himself. The twins certainly took after Thirrin’s side of the family. He could never fathom where they got all their energy from, and neither could he understand why everything they did needed so much noise!

  He listened now to Cerdic excitedly greeting one of the palace wolfhounds, and the playful barking and giggling as Eodred tried to get on the dog’s back to ride it round the hall as he used to do when he was little. Thirrin’s sharp voice soon stopped the horseplay, and Oskan smiled as a familiar rebellious muttering rose up from the twins, and was followed by another sharp rebuke. It was only then that he realised it wasn’t Thirrin’s voice, but Cressida’s. How like her mother she was: strong, capable and, it had to be said, bossy and domineering.

  “Just right for the heir to the throne,” he murmured, bracing himself for the dramatic entrance.

  The salute of the housecarle on guard duty was followed by the twins exploding into the room. “Hiya, Dad!” Eodred boomed. “Bit quiet in here isn’t it?”

  “Not now it isn’t,” Oskan answered.

  “Yes it is!” Cerdic joined in. “I can hear spiders tapdancing across the ceiling.” This was considered so hilarious by the twins they began to giggle.

  “Good evening, dearest. We’re not disturbing you, are we?” asked Thirrin, a small ironic smirk on her lips.

  “Not in the least. I love spending an evening in the quiet company of warriors.”

  “Sharley’s not a warrior,” said Cerdic, immediately going a brilliant crimson as he realised what he had said. “I mean— ow, that hurt!” he finished, frowning at Cressida and rubbing his arm where she’d hit him.

  “It was meant to, you oaf,” his sister hissed angrily.

  Diplomacy was never going to be either twin’s strong point, Oskan thought to himself.

  “Well, come in and find yourselves chairs,” he said. “Supper’s going to be served soon. While we’re waiting, you might as well tell me what you’ve been doing.”

  A sudden movement at the door caught his eye, and he tried hard not to look surprised as Medea slipped into the room, as quietly and as stealthily as a hunting cat. He smiled at her and almost got a response, but hardly noticed it as he tried to fathom why she was deigning to visit her family for the second time in one evening. Perhaps she’d actually missed her parents and wanted to make up some of the lost time. It was a happy thought, but one Oskan didn’t believe for a moment. Medea was far too self-sufficient; there must be another reason.

  “We can all hold the shield wall now, even with the most experienced housecarles trying to break us!” said Eodred proudly.

  “Good, good,” said Oskan, trying to sound interested. He would have to puzzle over the enigma that was Medea later. “And what about horsemanship?”

  “Oh, that’s always good,” said Cerdic.

  “Especially mine!” Eodred put in. “I’m working out ways to use the cavalry to break a shield wall.”

  “You’re more likely to break your neck,” said Cressida sharply.

  “And what about you, Charlemagne?” Oskan interrupted hurriedly. “What have you been doing while we were away?”

  His youngest son looked at him moodily and shrugged. “Nothing much. Lessons with Maggie, mule riding, vegetating.”

  “I’m sure you’ve done more than that, Charlemagne,” said Thirrin gently. “I’ve been told you’ve missed none of your lessons.”

  “No, but I bet he let Maggie sleep through half of them,” said Cerdic, and laughed.

  “Shut up, bonehead,” said Cressida. “Let Sharley answer for himself.”

  They all looked at Charlemagne, who stood next to his mother. Even Medea, who’d positioned herself in the shadows by the door, turned her blank eyes on him. He went crimson, and desperately tried to think of something interesting he’d done while his parents had been away on the Icesheets. But nothing came to mind. He’d spent the entire time in one long boring round of lessons, eating and sleeping. Eventually, he just shook his head, completely defeated.“Well, I’m sure if you really put your mind— Quiet!” Thirrin interrupted herself as Oskan suddenly slumped forward in his seat, his jaw working and his eyes rolling back in his head. “Leave him! It’s the Sight. Just wait.”

  All the children had seen their father go into a trance before, but not so often that it wasn’t still terrifying to watch. Only Medea observed everything with calm fascination as Oskan’s Gift worked to take control of his mind. She’d sensed something magical might happen that night, and she knew it would have something to do with a family member. The rest of them waited breathlessly as Oskan slowly sat upright, his white eyes staring out over their heads, and a low growling sound rumbling in his throat.

  He drew breath, and a deep inhuman voice boomed into the room. “Charlemagne Athelstan Redrought Strong-in-the-Arm Lindenshield, your fate – your Weird – will take you to the south, over burning sands, to a people of one god. Their cavalry was once dreaded by all, and will be again; they wait to be woken by the shadow of the storm. There will be your fulfilment, Prince Charlemagne, and you will return to the north, a blade of fire in your hand, at the head of—”

  Oskan suddenly choked and slumped forward again.

  “Eodred, fetch wine. Cressida, keep the guard out,” Thirrin ordered. “We don’t need any rumours of this getting round the city.”

  Then, taking the beaker her son held out, she put an arm around Oskan’s shoulders and trickled wine into his mouth. Thirrin had seen her husband’s Gift grow since they were both in their teens, but there were still times when she felt she hardly knew the man who’d been her Consort for almost twenty years. When the moon was full his aura changed from that of a quietly amusing individual who was m
ore than happy to play with his children, to that of a cold and distant Practitioner of the Art. He coughed again, and Thirrin poured more of the wine into his mouth. He swallowed greedily, then seized the beaker and drained it.

  “More,” he whispered, and when a second beaker was put into his hand he drained that too.

  They all waited, stunned into a quiet intensity. But then Oskan smiled, and sat upright. “I wish they’d give me more of a warning,” he said, as though talking about unexpected guests. “So, what did I say?”

  All eyes now turned to Charlemagne, who stood open- mouthed in exactly the same position he’d been in when his father had first collapsed. Then, all of a sudden, his weak leg gave way and he fell to the floor with a crash.

  Medea’s normally white face blazed crimson. She glared at her brother with undisguised hatred. She’d hoped her father’s prophecy might have related to her in some way, but she’d been overlooked again, and her youngest brother was once more the centre of everyone’s attention. Angrily, she slipped away and sought the sanctuary of her tower and the sweet bitterness of solitude.

  The Great Hall wasn’t overly full, Charlemagne noted as he ate his supper. Just the family, the housecarles, and the werewolf guards who weren’t on duty. It felt almost intimate compared to the crowds and noise of official banquets. Musicians were playing softly up in the minstrel’s gallery, and housecarles were greeting each other in the traditional manner. There was a contented burbling of: “Eh up, hairy arse! How’s things?” and “Great, fathead, just great,” as they sat down at the long trestle tables. The central hearth roared mightily with what looked like half a forest of logs blazing and crackling in it, and sending great billows of smoke up into the rafters where only some of it escaped through the vents.

  Charlemagne was relieved to be able to sit in the relative quiet without almost jumping out of his skin every time one of the werewolves roared with laughter, or a housecarle bellowed the punchline of a filthy joke to his mates. Besides, he wanted to think over what his father had said when he had fallen into his trance earlier.