by Stuart Hill
Charlemagne decided to see how fast he could really go.
He bent forward over the animal’s neck and shook the reins.
Havoc leaped to the gallop, with Charlemagne clinging on desperately as the wind howled and roared in his ears and his spine jammed against the high back of the war-saddle. He was terrified, especially when the stallion took it into his head to leave the road, leap hedgerow and ditch and head for the forest.
Then, as suddenly as the closing of a door, Havoc slowed. Within seconds they were walking towards the eaves of the forest as though nothing had happened. Charlemagne’s thumping heart gradually slowed to a reasonable pace and the sweat of his terror dried in the freezing wind. One of the veteran housecarles had once told him that even the greatest warrior experienced terror at some time in his life, but a truly brave man carried on despite his fear. After several steadying breaths, he sighed with relief. His plan was back on track and he began to look about for landmarks. Eventually, he spotted what he was looking for: a distinctively twisted oak tree in the distance.
He had chosen the tree for a reason: it had a crack in its side, large enough to allow a small youth such as himself to slip inside the wide and dry space where over the decades the wood of the ancient oak had slowly rotted away. As they drew level with the tree he reined Havoc to a halt, quickly dismounted and slipped through the crack. Inside, it was pitch dark and smelt, not surprisingly, of wood dust and rotting leaves. Charlemagne searched through the deep pile of crumbled wood. Uncovering a large sack, he opened it and pulled out a pair of hunting spears, a long dagger, a set of skinning knives, and three torches primed with pitch and bundled together with a tinderbox.
His plan was going better than he’d ever dared hope. All he had to do now was find a boar, kill it, and take the carcass back to Frostmarris in triumph. Deep in the barbaric past of the little kingdom of the Icemark, no youth would have been considered a man and no maid a woman until they’d killed either a boar or a Greyling bear. Charlemagne intended to use this old way to prove himself worthy of warrior training and status.
Outside in the cold air, Havoc whickered. Charlemagne hurried back to the horse, strapped the spear scabbard to his saddle and, when the horse obediently settled to his knees, remounted.
He’d never really expected to get so far with his plan, and now that his initial elation was wearing off, a nagging sense of doubt began to creep into his mind. He was untrained, untried and, he had to admit, unfit. What would happen if he really did find a boar and had to give chase?
After a few minutes of steady riding, Charlemagne reined to a halt as the eaves of the forest loomed darkly ominous before him. The massive brooding trunks seemed almost to be daring him to enter their domain. A cold wind breathed out at him, bringing with it a scent of decaying leaves and the blended smells of all the animal, insect and bird life that found a home under its spreading canopy.
Havoc whickered nervously, and Charlemagne almost turned back towards the warmth and safety of the city. But all his years of frustration and humiliation suddenly boiled up inside him, and he kicked the horse’s flanks to urge him on. The stallion snorted and threw up his head in the dim light. Charlemagne could see the whites of the animal’s eyes as he bordered on panic.
“Havoc, forward!” he barked.
And the animal trotted on, blowing fiercely.
The blackness of the forest enfolded them like a stifling cloth, and Charlemagne hurriedly drew out one of the torches, lit it with his tinderbox, and held it high above his head. The darkness receded slightly, but clamoured at the edges of the small pool of light like an animal stalking its prey. He had no idea what time it was, but he hoped dawn wasn’t far away. He longed for daylight now. Somehow it hadn’t occurred to him that it would be impossible to hunt in the dark. How dim could he be? He’d been so determined to prove himself before anyone had even noticed he was missing, he’d reached the forest when it was too dark to do anything!
“Idiot! Pin-brain! Prat!” He slapped his forehead with his open palm. This was hardly the cool and collected head of a warrior and tactician. The only thing he could do now was to find a clearing, light a fire, and wait for daylight.
After stumbling through the dark, he didn’t know for how long, a wide glade opened up. He rode to the centre of it and dismounted to gather fuel. Fortunately, the freezing conditions under the first layers of snow had dried the wood to such a brittle and fibrous state that it flared up as soon as he lit the kindling. Havoc drew close to the warmth, while Charlemagne sat on a fallen branch, staring moodily into the flames and willing the darkness away.
He must have fallen asleep because he suddenly found himself sprawled on his back, staring into a morning sky that was heavy with a blanket of grey cloud. He scrambled to his feet and looked about himself, open-mouthed.
The black and shadowed forest of the night was now a woodland of breathless silence. In the grey light, not even the wind stirred the crowding trees that flowed away from his searching eyes as far as he could see, fading slowly away to distant shadow. Tiny, misty crystals of ice filled the air, drifting on invisible currents, and everything, every part and particle of the forest, seemed to be watching him.
Charlemagne shivered and moved towards Havoc, immediately aware of his boots creaking on the snow. Once he’d got himself into the saddle the lethargy of the winter woodland seemed to fall away and he drew a spear from its scabbard. He struggled to raise the weapon to the correct position, but eventually managed it and rested the butt on his boot. Feeling more in charge now, he urged the horse on. Having never been allowed to hunt, he wasn’t exactly sure what signs to look for, but just knowing he’d slept out alone in the wilderness without any harm coming to him had boosted his confidence. He felt ready for anything, and was sure he’d soon find his boar and be ready to ride home.
But Charlemagne didn’t find a boar at all. Instead he found a Greyling bear recently emerged from hibernation, and hungry. It was perfectly camouflaged, digging for grubs and insects beneath a fallen tree. Havoc caught its scent and whinnied a warning.
The bear spun round. Seeing them, it rose up on its hind legs, towering almost five metres into the freezing air, and let forth a deep rumbling growl. Normally it would have made off through the trees, but it was still dopey from its long hibernation, and its sleep-slowed brain reacted instead with aggression.
Charlemagne gasped, and gripped Havoc’s reins tight. His thoughts raced. Should he fight or run? How could he possibly kill such a huge animal? He’d never hunted even a rabbit, let alone one of the most dangerous creatures in the forest. He’d surely die if he charged it. But if he didn’t, then everything Cerdic and Eodred said about him would be true: that he wasn’t a warrior and had as much chance of fighting in the coming war as a newborn baby.
He lowered his spear, jammed his spine against the high back of the saddle, and dug his heels into Havoc’s flanks. The stallion leaped forward and raced fearlessly at the bear.
The animal roared, and lumbered forward to meet them. As its huge face filled Charlemagne’s entire field of vision, he closed his eyes and drove the spear into the raging creature. The shock of impact almost knocked him to the ground. Horse, bear and boy all screamed. Havoc lurched and stumbled, but righted himself and automatically wheeled about to face the enemy. Roaring in pain, the bear raised a massive paw and knocked the spear from its shoulder.
Charlemagne drew his second spear and barely had time to level it before Havoc charged the Greyling again. This time he kept his eyes open. The roaring mouth seemed to fill his entire world, until the wrenching pain of impact ground his spine into the saddle back and his shoulder felt as if it had been torn from his body. The battle-trained stallion skipped nimbly aside, dodging the slashing great paws, but Charlemagne could do nothing but cling to the saddle as if he were just a spectator in a competition between horse and bear.
Havoc turned and readied himself to charge again, as the young Prince spied his fallen spear
a few metres away in the snow. Without thinking he jumped from the saddle and ran to grab it.
On foot, unarmed, and hampered by a gammy leg, he was now at the animal’s mercy. Charlemagne scrambled for his spear, seized it, and jammed the butt into the frozen ground at an angle, like a pikeman defending himself from a cavalry charge.
The bear attacked. Charlemagne gritted his teeth and gripped the spear shaft as though clinging to a ledge over a sheer drop. He was about to die, but he would die a Prince of the House of Lindenshield. But at that moment the bear crashed sidewards and a ferocious snarling filled the frozen air. Charlemagne stared in astonishment at the viciously writhing tangle of limbs before him. Blood spurted into the sky, and a hairy figure sprang back from the bloody mass, raised its head to the sky and howled.
Sharley at once realised that it was a young werewolf scout, no doubt sent from the city to search for him. Faint answering howls echoed through the trees, but then the werewolf staggered and fell. He was badly hurt.
Charlemagne scrambled over to him and held his dagger protectively in his blood-soaked hands as the bear lumbered round to attack again.
Then, all of a sudden, a warhorse crashed into the clearing, and without pause its rider charged the bear and drove a spear deep into its chest. Expertly, the horse wheeled about, reared and struck out with its forelegs as its rider drove in a second spear. Stallion and rider fell back, and the huge forms of the Queen’s bodyguard of Ukpik werewolves burst into the clearing, Havoc galloping with them. Howling and snarling, they struck the bear as a solid phalanx. At last, the creature fell in a tumble of thrashing limbs, teeth and claws. Within seconds it lay dead in the snow.
A terrible silence fell over the forest, and Charlemagne sank to his knees beside the young werewolf. Gently, he turned him over and his eyes flickered open.
“The bear?”
“Dead,” said Charlemagne. “The Queen’s bodyguard have finished it off.”
The rider of the warhorse dismounted and, as she removed her helmet, the young Prince realised it was his mother striding towards him. He scrambled to his feet and was nearly knocked flat as she grasped him and hugged him tight. Almost at once, she released him and stepped back to make sure he was unhurt. In another instant the deep relief in her eyes was replaced by an incandescent rage that made her flame-red hair seem to rise on her scalp and storm about her head.
“How dare you? How dare you risk the lives of Wolf-folk and human by riding off like that? I could beat you to a pulp! I could tear you apart with my own hands! If you ever, ever do such a thing again I will personally beat you in the presence of the entire household and army of the Icemark, and I will disown you as my son! Do you understand?”
Shocked speechless in the face of such rage, Charlemagne could only nod dumbly.
“I cannot tell you how blisteringly angry I am. You have risked not only your own life but the lives of those who serve you, and they should be your first consideration! Did you even remember to ask permission from the Holly King and the Oak King to hunt the animals in their domain?”
He shook his head, shocked to see tears in her eyes, and quickly looked away. Then, remembering his fallen ally, he knelt down beside him again.
Thirrin quickly turned her attention to the young werewolf. “Let me see,” she said, stooping over him to assess the deep wounds in the youngster’s chest and shoulder.
“Find Oskan Witchfather,” she instructed one of her Ukpik bodyguard. “He’s somewhere along the forest road. Send messages ahead, and say the Prince is safe.”
The werewolf threw back her head and howled to warn of casualties, then loped off through the trees.
“Prince Charlemagne is a mighty warrior,” the young werewolf suddenly said, taking them all by surprise, as they’d thought him unconscious. “He fought well.”
“Rest now,” said Thirrin, taking his paw in her hand. “The Witchfather will be here soon to treat your wounds.”
“No, My Lady. I’m going to the Land of Perpetual Moon where I’ll stand before the glory of the Goddess for ever.”
Thirrin nodded sadly, recognising that his bravery deserved honesty. “Tell us your name, so that we may properly remember and honour you.”
“Your Majesty, I am Sharp Fang Sky-howler of the Nashrack tribe.”
“Then, Sharp Fang Sky-howler of the Nashrack tribe, I appoint you a soldier of my Royal Bodyguard, and your name will be proclaimed throughout the land as bravest of the brave,” Thirrin said simply.
“Ma’am. I am more than content,” the young werewolf said, his voice fading to a whisper. Blood then flowed from his mouth, and he lay still.
The Ukpik werewolves lifted their heads and howled to mark the passing of one of their own, their call rising into the air and fading into distance as it flowed to the very borders of the forest and even to the walls of Frostmarris.
Charlemagne quietly wept, mortified that his quest for acceptance as a warrior had caused the death of a friend and ally. Nothing he did ever seemed to work out as he wanted, and he finally decided to accept whatever fate sent him. He would become the family burden he’d never wanted to be, and sit uselessly by the fire with the elderly, the very young and the sick, waiting for news from the battlefields. Charlemagne Athelstan Redrought Weak-in-the-Leg Lindenshield, the first and last of his unwanted line.
CHAPTER 6
Krisafitsa-Tharina trotted out across the plain of Frostmarris with her Royal mate. They’d just finished several long hours of battle training as the horse of the cavalry and the Snow Leopard troopers practised the manoeuvres of their unique style of warfare. It hadn’t taken long to get back into the stride of charging, wheeling and regrouping, but to hone it all to a deadly precision would take time. Still, the passes into the Icemark remained blocked rock-solid with ice, and by the time Bellorum and his armies could get through they would be ready for them.
But it wasn’t the preparations for war that occupied the Tharina, it was the problem of Charlemagne. Thirrin and Oskan couldn’t afford to be distracted for one moment from the coming crisis, yet their youngest and most loved child seemed to absorb more of their time and attention than anything else. It couldn’t go on, and Thirrin was enough of a tactician and soldier to know it. A decision would have to be made soon.
“What do you think will happen?” Krisafitsa asked Tharaman.
“They’ll probably send him north to the province of the Hypolitan,” he answered, as though they’d been discussing it all along. Obviously he was as preoccupied as everyone else with the problem.
“Poor Sharley,” she said. “He does so want to fight.”
“Well, it’s just not possible. How could he hope to live for more than a few seconds on the front line? And with his death we’d then lose half of Thirrin. She’d be devastated. And you can bet Bellorum will know that. The killing of Charlemagne could lose us the war. He’s the one chink in the Icemark’s armour. I’m afraid he will have to go.”
Krisafitsa remained silent, understanding Tharaman’s reasoning perfectly. “Perhaps he could be trained. He managed to ride Thirrin’s warhorse, and put up a good fight against the bear by all accounts.”
“He’s already admitted that the horse bolted and he couldn’t control him. That would be crucial in battle. And being brave is no substitute for the strength needed to use weapons,” Tharaman added gently but firmly. “Sharley can’t even pick up a battle-axe, let alone swing one, and when he tried to prove he was strong enough to hold a fighting line by using his brother’s shield, it fell on him and Eodred had to help him to his feet.”
They trotted along in silence, enjoying the crisp cooling air after the rigorous training. Then Krisafitsa said, “Perhaps he could be physically . . . built up. He already gets good food, so proper training could do wonders.”
“He’d need a year at least, and even then there’s no guarantee he’d improve. There’s just not enough time. And even if there was, no amount of training is ever going to make his leg
better.”
“No,” Krisafitsa agreed in a small voice. “Poor Sharley.”
Charlemagne sat quietly on his bed. A housecarle had just brought a message from his parents requesting him to join them in their private chambers. He wanted to savour a few last seconds of peace before he had to face whatever it was they had decided for him. It was now three days since the incident with the bear. Sharp Fang Sky-howler had been cremated with full military honours, and Charlemagne had found himself envying the young werewolf as his body was placed on the fuel-soaked pyre, with the people of Frostmarris looking on. If only he too had died fighting the bear, then at least his end would have been honourable, and the people would have mourned him as a true Prince of the House of Lindenshield.
But Charlemagne couldn’t help thinking he was about to be punished for the crime of having a gammy leg. He was sure he’d be sent as far away as possible from the fighting, and felt he was being banished from his home and family. He already considered himself an exile.
After a few more moments of staring out of his window over the frozen garden of the citadel, he sighed and climbed wearily to his feet. Outside in the corridor, he was surprised to find that the housecarle who’d brought the summons was waiting for him, making him feel like a prisoner under escort. But all his resentment had to be put aside as he struggled to keep up with the soldier, who strode along the corridors of the palace at breakneck speed. Charlemagne was determined that his escort wouldn’t have to slow down to allow him to catch up. Since the incident of the bear, even tiny embarrassments had become too much for his fragile self-esteem to cope with.
They finally clattered down a wide sweep of stairs and strode out across the Great Hall. Immediately they were surrounded by a happy pack of wolfhounds, convinced they were going hunting. The housecarle hammered on the door of the private apartments, then saluted and stamped off. A Royal chamberlain opened the door and looked Charlemagne over critically. “Are they your best clothes?” he asked.
