by Stuart Hill
The people watched the Queen and her escort in silence. There was too much fear in the air to allow for cheering; the Icemark feared the vicious old General. He would have studied his enemy well, and had presumably found them lacking in some way if he thought he could defeat them this time. Even so, they were comforted to see the controlled power displayed by the columns of housecarles and werewolves who marched along behind Thirrin. The Empire wouldn’t find this war any easier than the last.
With almost perfect timing the Royal party arrived in the square that led to the main gate just as the Snow Leopard army was beginning to climb the causeway up to the city. The marching troops stamped to a halt and a silence descended. In the cold air every tiny sound was magnified: the frost on the roofs and walls crackled continually like a cold fire, and the creak of leather boots and breeches rose like the murmuring of trees swaying in a gentle breeze.
The massive outer gates were opened and slammed back against the walls of the long entrance tunnel. Thirrin struggled to keep her face a mask of Royal composure as her heart beat in excitement. The softly muffled tread of thousands of padded paws whispered and murmured into the air as the first ranks of the Snow Leopard army advanced through the entrance tunnel.
At a signal from their Captain, who was peering through a small spyhole, the gate guards drew back the enormous bolts, and the inner gates swung ponderously open. And there, framed in the gateway, stood Tharaman, One Hundredth Thar of the Snow Leopards, Lord of the Icesheets and Scourge of the Ice Trolls, and with him his Tharina, Krisafitsa, Lady of the White Fire and his partner in rule and power.
For a moment, all was silent. The giant leopard then rose up on his hind legs and roared. His mighty voice reverberated through the frozen air and into the city,filling the ears of all those who waited to the uttermost brim.
Thirrin and Oskan rode slowly to the centre of the square and waited quietly for Tharaman and Krisafitsa to come to them. With all their natural grace and power, the Royal Snow Leopards seemed to glide forward. As they came to a halt, Oskan and Thirrin dismounted, and the people waited for the formal speeches of welcome to begin. But they never came. Their Queen cast aside her Royal dignity and rushed forward to hug the giant leopard. His booming purr filled the square with a rumble like distant thunder.
Wild cheering broke out. Tharaman-Thar and Krisafitsa-Tharina, the Icemark’s greatest allies, had arrived, and the people could begin to hope again.
Charlemagne thought the Royal apartments were impossibly crowded. King Grishmak sat with his large feet resting on the hearth before the blazing fire, adding a slightly cheesy scent to the already stuffy atmosphere, while Tharaman and Krisafitsa had each managed to cram in their huge bulk on opposite sides of the fireplace. The human beings sat in a squashed semicircle of chairs with Thirrin and Oskan at the centre. Maggiore sat on the extreme left with Primplepuss on his knee, and Charlemagne on the right. Cressida, as Crown Princess, sat next to her mother, while the twins, sitting next to Oskan, towered over him, laughing and poking each other happily. Medea on the other hand, sitting in a chair only a few feet behind her father’s, managed to convey the impression of a massive physical chasm between herself and the rest of the family.
Sharley seemed to be dozing in the warm fug, but he was still listening to the conversation going on around him. “That was just what I needed,” Tharaman purred contentedly. “Though I must admit I rather surprised myself by eating two entire cows. The journey must have taken more out of me than I thought.”
“Even I could only manage one and a half,” said Grishmak with admiration. “But then, I’ve done nothing more physically strenuous than walk from meeting to committee and back again for the last week. Still, I think we’re as ready as we’ll ever be to face the Bellorum clan.”
“Oh, no business tonight, please!” begged Krisafitsa. “You can fill in the details tomorrow. But tonight, let’s just enjoy each other’s company and relax. We all know there’ll be precious little time for such things in the coming months.”
A general murmur of agreement greeted this comment, and for a while the only sounds were the crackle of the fire and the odd rumblings and squeaks of Tharaman’s digestive system as it processed his gargantuan dinner.
Krisafitsa looked at her human allies and purred gently. Thirrin’s family was growing fast, and Cressida was so like her mother that they could almost be sisters. The twins were typical of young males of any species – they were rapidly growing into a strength they had yet to fully understand and control. Even so, they were already of warrior height and would make a valuable contribution to the coming war.
Medea, on the other hand, was an unknown quantity. The Tharina gazed at the dark-haired young woman whose closed face and black, oddly unfocused eyes gave nothing away. She was staring into her lap and only looked up if her father moved or spoke, otherwise she remained utterly still as if no one other than those with the Gift were of any interest to her. Krisafitsa realised she’d never actually heard Medea speak. Polite conversation between ordinary people was something the Princess obviously had little time for
The Tharina’s gaze then settled on Charlemagne, or Sharley as his family called him. He rarely spoke in company either, but his silence seemed to be more a lack of self-confidence than indifference to the people around him. His leg was obviously a problem for him, and he was small for a human boy of his age. Even so, something about him suggested there were unknown depths to his character. Krisafitsa could understand why Thirrin felt so protective of him.
“Charlemagne, what would you be?” Krisafitsa asked.
The boy looked at her, blushing in surprise that the Tharina had spoken to him, and angry with himself for not understanding the question. “‘What would I . . .?’ I don’t know what you mean.”
“If you could be anything you wanted, what would you be?” she explained.
“Oh, I see. That’s easy. I’d be a warrior, like my mother and sister and brothers.”
“And what would you be if you could be anything other than a warrior?”
“There’s nothing else worth being.”
“There are many lives to live in the world. Not everyone can be a soldier.”
“No,” Charlemagne agreed. “But you first asked me what I would be if I could be anything, and I would be a warrior.”
A heavy silence told Krisafitsa that she’d found an old family wound, and she deftly changed direction. “And where would you live if you could choose anywhere in the world?”
“Here, in the Icemark,” he answered immediately. But then he stopped and after a moment added. “I suppose. But I don’t really know anywhere else. Not properly. Oh, I know I’ve learned about different places from Maggie. But knowing what type of food a country grows or what sort of minerals they mine only tells you about the . . . body of a place, not about its mind; not about how it feels and what it’s really like.”
“No, it doesn’t,” the Tharina agreed. “I’m sure there must be some mighty minds in the lands beyond our borders, Charlemagne. Perhaps one day you’ll have a chance to find out.”
“Sharley’s going to explore the world anyway, according to Dad, aren’t you Sharley?” said Eodred in a tone that suggested he thought the whole idea a bit daft.
“That’s your brother’s prophecy, Eddie. Leave him to decide whether he discusses it or not!” said Cressida sharply.
“Prophecy?” asked the Tharina with interest.
“Yes. He’s going to a ‘land of fire’, whatever that means, and when he comes back he’ll have a ‘blade of fire’ in his hand. All sounds a bit unlikely— ow! That hurt.”
“It was meant to,” said Cressida. “I’ve already told you to let Sharley decide whether he wants to talk about it or not. And don’t you ever let me hear you doubting Dad’s foretellings again!”
“I wasn’t doubting anything! It just . . . well, it just all seems a little . . . odd. I mean, Sharley!”
“That’s enough,” said Thirrin wit
h quiet force. “Eodred, if you’re ever to become a Commander of any worth you need to understand that there are times when you should keep your opinions to yourself. And not least because they’re likely to be wrong!”
“I don’t mind what he says,” said Charlemagne. “After all, it’s true. It does seem unlikely.”
“Prophecies often do,” said Oskan quietly. “They tell us of the unlooked-for, the unexpected. That’s their very nature. They come into our lives with news of shock and amazement and leave us to puzzle over what may seem unbelievable.”
“And you had just such a . . . presentiment about Charlemagne?” Krisafitsa prompted gently.
“Yes, more or less as Eodred said. But there was more. He’s destined to be listed amongst the very greatest in the land. How, I don’t know, nor even when. But that’s typical of the Sight. It only ever gives a tantalising glimpse of possibilities, never the full story. It would be so much easier if it would reveal things in their entirety! I can’t imagine why it doesn’t.”
“Can you not?” said Maggiore Totus, and drained his mug of mulled wine. “I think it’s true to say that if we were given a detailed view of our future we might well sit back and do nothing to actually bring it about. So, our future would be changed by our own inaction.”
“Of course!” Oskan agreed excitedly. “That’s it precisely. If we know too much, we could change our futures by our reaction to what we know. Thank the Goddess for the gift of wise men!”
“Thank the Goddess,” echoed a quiet, yet powerful, female voice, and everyone in the room turned to look at Medea, whose deep eyes were resting on her father.
“Well, at least Dad’s Sight didn’t say Sharley’s going to be a great warrior,” said Cerdic. “That would have been too difficult to believe. Ouch! Why’d you do that?”
“Because identical twins should have identical injuries,” said Cressida calmly.
In the amused and approving silence that followed, nobody noticed Charlemagne blushing deep crimson as he sank down as far as possible into his chair. His brothers’ honesty cut him like a knife. The thought of him becoming a warrior was laughable, and yet the desire to do just that filled Sharley’s every waking moment and, indeed, many of his dreams. Medea broke the silence by suddenly leaving the room without a word. Everyone stared after her, surprised by her lack of manners. Oskan shrugged his apologies to the guests, and quickly followed her.
He didn’t try to reach Medea until they were in a quiet corridor deep within the labyrinth of the citadel. When she heard his footsteps she stopped and waited for him to catch up.
“You wanted me?” she asked quietly.
“What I want is an explanation for your rudeness, Medea,” he said, his voice even and steady.
“The room was warm, and the conversation of no interest to me.”
“Wouldn’t it have been more polite to make an excuse and ask permission to withdraw?”
“Apparently you think so.”
“I do,” he agreed, keeping a tight rein on his temper. “But it’s equally apparent that you don’t.” Medea had always been a strange child, but he was usually able to reach her with patience.
Her odd, dark eyes held his gaze unflinchingly. “I have no time for social niceties.”
“Even if a lack of those social niceties can offend important friends and allies?”
“Oh dear,” she said, her tone quite flat yet bitingly sarcastic. “Have I caused a war?”
“Medea,” Oskan said calmly. “Why must you be so rude?”
“I’ve already—”
“No, I want the real reason. Everyone in that room is your friend or your family.”
“It is possible for family not to be friends,” she pointed out softly.
“What do you mean? We all love you, Medea.”
“That may be true, Father, but doesn’t it occur to you that I may not love you all in return?”
Oskan stared at her, unable to answer. After moment or two Medea turned and walked away.
CHAPTER 5
There were still hours to go before dawn, and the air literally crackled with frost as Charlemagne crept across the stable yard as quietly as his weak leg would allow. There was no moon, and the stars blazed like molten silver spilt over the blue-black sky.
He reached the stable door without being seen, and lifted the latch. Once inside, he lit his lantern and held it up. Several long-faced, sleepy horses whickered at him gently.
“Shush!” hissed Charlemagne urgently. “Don’t give me away!”
He limped along the row of stalls until he came to his mother’s warhorse. Havoc stood well back in his stall, obviously unhappy about being disturbed, and Charlemagne swallowed nervously. The huge horse was as black as the shadow of a dark night, had hooves the size of a housecarle’s shield, and eyes that glittered and rolled dangerously whenever he scented even the possibility of a fight.
Charlemagne hoped the warhorse recognised his scent and would respect him for the Queen’s sake.
“Hello, Havvy,” he said gently, his voice wavering, and breaking into a high note just when he wanted to sound as adult as possible.
The horse rumbled deeply and snorted. Then, as Charlemagne climbed awkwardly on to the door and held out his hand to coax him over, he laid back his ears and let out a deafening squeal that echoed around the stables.
“Quiet, Havoc!” Charlemagne barked with an anger bordering on panic, and almost magically the horse’s ears pricked up and he stood motionless. Acting before he could reason himself out of his plan, Charlemagne climbed down from the door and opened it.
The horse immediately began to dance lightly on his massive hooves. Charlemagne stopped dead as the sheer bulk of the animal loomed over him, but then the fighting blood of the Lindenshields coursed through his frame and he stepped forward. Better to die in a brave attempt to make the family accept your right to be a fully trained warrior, than to run away and fulfil only a fraction of your real potential.
“Havoc!” he said sharply, and reached up briskly to pat the strongly arching neck that rose above him. The horse’s flesh quivered, and he snorted loudly, but he stamped to a standstill and allowed the boy to stroke him.
“We’re going out for a canter, you and I. So you just wait quietly while I fetch your saddle and bridle.”
He crossed to the tack room. First he fetched a blanket and, returning to the stall, he managed to drape it across the animal’s plateau-like back. Then, back in the tack room, he seized the massive saddle in his strongest grip, and fell straight over backwards.
After a frantic struggle, he managed to climb out from under the tangle of buckles, stirrups and leather and stood glaring at the saddle angrily. But he’d gone too far to give up now, so shrugging at the indignity he grabbed the thing firmly by the girth strap, and slowly and painfully dragged it to Havoc’s stall.
The horse seemed a little surprised to see his equipment arrive in such an unorthodox manner, but after a few sharp words in a voice that had a familiar echo of Thirrin’s powerful tone, he allowed the boy to put on his bridle. But now Charlemagne was stuck. He could barely lift the saddle, let alone raise it above his head and throw it over the stallion’s broad back.
He held his breath, close to panic. But just as he was about to despair, he remembered one of the cavalry commands.
“Havoc . . . knees down!”
The stallion turned his massive head and regarded him solemnly.
It was one thing making the horse stand still, but it was something else entirely to make him act on specific voice commands. But Charlemagne knew he mustn’t lose heart now or his plan would have failed before it had even begun.
He tried again. “Havoc. Knees down!”
The great horse blew down his nostrils contemplatively and, almost seeming to shrug, he lowered himself until he was prone in the sawdust and straw. Charlemagne heaved a sigh of relief. Then he began a struggle to get the saddle over Havoc’s wide back. At last he managed it and, pr
aying the tangle of leather and metal wouldn’t slip off, he gave the order to stand.
Havoc sprang to his feet and Charlemagne hurried to fasten the girth strap. Finally, the horse was ready, and Charlemagne climbed on to the door of the stall and made an undignified scramble into the saddle. Taking up the reins, he urged the horse forward, and they surged out into the stable corridor with Charlemagne staring down from an incredible height. Eventually, he managed to lean over far enough to open the latch on the stable door, and they went out into the yard. The stallion’s massive hooves rattled and rang on the cobbles, but amazingly nobody came to investigate the noise. Charlemagne settled himself in the saddle, and after five minutes’ riding, the low postern gate in the outer circuit of the city walls came into view.
Only a solitary figure standing in the window of the highest tower in the citadel saw him go. The wind drew her long black hair out into the freezing night air, and her odd, unfocused eyes absorbed every particle and photon of starlight. As horse and boy dwindled away to tiny figures in the distance, she reached up and closed the shutters. She then returned to her high-backed chair at the centre of the floor. Her lips moved slightly as she chanted under her breath, and the icy whisper of her voice rose into the air, forming her name, “Medea, Medea . . .” over and over again.
Charlemagne was still getting used to the reality of riding a charger. But he was tingling with a sense of elation. He’d done it! They’d all said he couldn’t possibly ride an ordinary pony, let alone a warhorse, and yet here he was out on the plain of Frostmarris on his mother’s own personal charger. Havoc the fierce! Havoc the mighty! Havoc the barely controllable!
Charlemagne was beginning to suspect that although the stallion was undoubtedly a formidable charger, the rest of his reputation as a firebrand and demon in horse disguise was all a sham. Havoc was trotting along now as docile as the gentlest mare.
