by Stuart Hill
Muttering and tutting to himself, the old man pottered about his room collecting papers and straightening cushions. At least now he could be certain that the smell had gone. Surely not even ‘Essence of Primplepuss’ could survive a good blasting by an Icemark blizzard.
A knock at the door was immediately followed by Charlemagne. “What’s that awful smell?” he asked, wrinkling his nose.
“Smell? What smell?” said Maggie innocently. “Come in and sit down, or better still, help me tidy up these papers.”
Sharley limped about the room, gathering documents and piling them neatly on Maggie’s desk. The old scholar surreptitiously watched him as he worked, and was pleased to note that the Prince seemed calmer, or at least more resigned to his circumstances than he had for months.
Once the room was restored to some sort of order, they sat down. “You’ve spoken to your mother and father?” Maggie asked without preamble.
“Yes,” Charlemagne answered flatly, giving nothing away.
“And your thoughts on the matter?”
Sharley shrugged. “It’s a carrot-and-stick situation, isn’t it? I’m in the way here, a distraction to the fighters, so I have to go. On the other hand, I’m to be Prince Regent to the Exiles. But I do wonder just how real my power to rule the people will be.”
Maggie nodded, pleased to hear a voice of maturity rising above the boy’s disappointed tones. “Very real, I believe. I’m to be your adviser, Sharley, and I don’t serve mere puppets.”
“Are you sure you won’t be my puppeteer?” Sharley asked sharply, his narrowed eyes scrutinising the scholar with fierce intensity.
The old man laughed. “At last! At long last, Charlemagne Athelstan Redrought Strong-in-the-Arm Lindenshield speaks his mind with the voice of a true Prince! No, My Lord Charlemagne, I will not be your puppeteer. You are truly your mother’s son, and I wouldn’t dare try!”
The boy nodded grudgingly, apparently satisfied, and asked cautiously, “How much do you know of my mother’s . . . attitude to the coming war?” “She expects to lose, as usual. A more pessimistic monarch I never hope to meet, and after all these years she still believes she can hide her thoughts from me.” With an effort, Maggie lifted the giant Primplepuss on to his lap, and added, “Even so, she may have a point this time.”
Sharley looked startled. Maggie’s doubts echoed his mother’s perfectly.
“I said she may have a point,” said Maggie, seeing his reaction. “Bellorum’s not going to risk defeat and humiliation a second time. Unless he’s absolutely certain he’s going to win, he wouldn’t invade us. But no doubt he was equally confident all those years ago, and look what happened then.”
“But you think he has more chance of success this time.”
“Twenty years ago, we were an unknown quantity. This time he knows what to expect. Or so he thinks,” said Maggie,smiling mysteriously into his beard.
“You have something in mind, don’t you?” said Sharley, a glimmer of hope growing in his chest.
“I may have. But it will rely on so many untried factors, the greatest one being yourself.”
“Me?”
“Yes, Charlemagne, you. How strong are you? How diplomatic? How determined? How brave?”
Sharley squirmed under his tutor’s piercing gaze. “I don’t know. Very . . . perhaps. I don’t know!”
“Good. I dislike overconfidence.”
“Just what are you planning? If I’m to answer your questions I need to know.” Sharley’s eyes locked on to Maggie’s gently smiling face.
“I hardly know myself yet. It’s still the merest germ of an idea, so My Lord will have to be patient while it develops and reaches maturity. Strategies and plans are like people in that way. They need to grow.”
After a brief silence, Sharley nodded. “All right, I’ll wait. But I’ll want to know what you have in mind before we sail for the Southern Continent.”
“My Lord may have to wait a little longer than that, I’m afraid. An old brain is very thorough, but unfortunately, slow. Still, I believe my cogitations may bear interesting fruit.”
“Well, at least give me a clue. Are we talking of allies, or weapons, or both?”
“Exactly what sort of weapon do you think could help us against the Empire? Don’t you think we would have made our own cannons by now if they could make a difference? Don’t you think we could have regiments of musketeers all primed and ready to repel invaders? Well, of course we could! But the Empire’s greatest technologies are less effective than our own longbows and ballistas. You know full well we can outshoot them in terms of range and rate of fire. So what would be the point? Harness me the lightning, and we may have a weapon that’s greater than Tharaman’s tooth and claw. Capture me the intense heat of the sun or the deepest cold of the arctic night, and we may have a means greater than your mother’s cavalry to destroy the Polypontian armies. In the meantime, we must rely on our housecarles and werewolves, and even our Vampire allies.”
“Then what else can we do?”
“Hope, my dearest Charlemagne, and trust to the determination of the ordinary soldier.”
Charlemagne opened his mouth to protest, but immediately snapped it shut and slapped a hand over his nose, a look of disgust on his face. Primplepuss had struck again. Scrambling to his feet, he hurried for the door and wrenched it open before glancing back at Maggie. The old man was struggling to escape from beneath the enormous cat’s weight. “We can discuss this later, Maggie,” he said. “Perhaps tonight, on the battlements, where our thoughts might be clearer.” And he hurried off, ignoring Maggie’s pleas for help to get the cat off him.
“Sharley, wait! Give me a hand! This cat’s so heavy – oh, my God! No! How can you smell like that and live? Sharley, help!”
An already distant voice floated back into his room. “Sorry, can’t stop. I value my nostrils.”
“Prince Charlemagne, for the love of all that’s decent! My God, cat, if we could harness your arse we could repel any invasion! How do you do it?”
A small questioning meow was the only reply he received as he flapped a handkerchief under his nose and tried to breathe through his mouth without retching.
For years now, the Icemark had been preparing its people for a second Polypontian invasion, and now that the time had come, the actual evacuation had gone almost as smoothly as the theory. The land by the coast had been gathering a harvest of people all through the winter months. All noncombatants and the populace not essential to the war preparations had been resettled in large camps of small draughty huts built beside the harbour, which would be first to thaw at the coming of spring. The very young, the very old and those who would look after them, the sick, the disabled, and those without the temperament for war, had been waiting through the winter months for the time when they could set sail for the Southern Continent.
At long last the spring had come, and much, much earlier than was normal – a sure portent of danger. Already the harbour was clear of pack ice, although floes still populated the waters like miniature icebergs. The fleet would soon gather, and the first refugees would set off with their animals and all their possessions to set up new homes in the lands which the Doge of the Southern Continent had so generously offered them until it was safe to return to the Icemark.
The entire Royal Court had moved to Old Haven in the southwestern corner of the Icemark, to prepare for the day when the ships would sail. Maggie would be on the first ship in his role as envoy to the Southern Continent, and with him would sail Charlemagne. As Prince Regent to the Exiles, he would be acting as monarch in the absence of his mother Queen Thirrin. The people were already beginning to call him the Little King, which pleased Maggie a great deal. A new and affectionate name given by the people might help to boost Sharley’s confidence and improve his outlook. Such developments were essential to the plans taking shape in Maggie’s subtle brain.
For weeks the harbour had rung with the noise of hammering and sawing as shipwrights lab
oured to complete their work in time for the good sailing weather. The place was bright with new sails and paint, and seething with craftsmen and labourers hurrying to get the first of the fleets ready for the journey over the grey northern seas to the warmer waters and hotter lands of the Southern Continent.
At last, the ships were ready. The entire population of Old Haven had gathered at the harbour to watch as the refugees waited for the order to board. The sky was clear and the sun shone brilliantly, while a wind blew strongly seaward, bringing with it the faint scent of early wild flowers.
A fanfare was blown, its metallic rasp echoing back from the houses to cross the harbour and over the sea as if showing the way for the fleet. Then, as the beat of a marching drum sounded, a murmur arose, and all heads turned towards the main highway that wound down from the Old Haven town citadel. A column of housecarles and werewolves could be seen marching with a measured tread. A banner was held high at the head of each regiment, showing the fighting bear of the House of Lindenshield, the full moon of the Wolf-folk, or the galloping horse and charging Snow Leopard of the Icemark cavalry. Excitement tingled through the atmosphere, and erupted into cheering as Thirrin emerged riding her magnificent charger, while Tharaman-Thar and Krisafitsa-Tharina paced beside her. A deep braying of war horns heralded the arrival of a fighting fleet of Icemark dragon galleys. They were rowing in formation across the broad expanse of the harbour, their oars beating in unison like the wings of strange aquatic birds. Brilliantly painted shields studded every ship’s hull, and their dragon-carved prows reared upwards out of the water to snarl a warning at anyone who dared to threaten the seas of the Icemark. These dragon galleys were to accompany the refugee ships as their fighting escort to guard them from marauding Corsairs and Zephyrs.
The twin columns of housecarle and werewolf infantry reached the harbour and drew up in silent ranks, waiting as the cavalry clattered over the cobbles to join them. The cheering increased as Thirrin and the Snow Leopard monarchs took up a position close to the quayside.
Just then, another fanfare brayed out from the walls of the citadel, and through its gates emerged a third group, led by a tall sombre-looking man riding an old mule. The animal’s ears stuck out horizontally, and the huge dip in her long back meant that the man’s feet almost touched the ground as she trotted along with a sprightly step. Her long camel-like face was split wide by a mouth that sent forth a rolling thunder of brays that echoed about the port.
Riding behind Oskan Witchfather were the Royal children: Crown Princess Cressida, fully armoured and astride a massive warhorse that snorted and sidled as though spoiling for a charge; the twins Cerdic and Eodred, also in full armour and riding chargers; and finally Prince Charlemagne, dressed entirely in black like his father and riding a quiet horse that paced along nodding its head with each step. Only Medea was missing, but if the people noticed her absence, none mentioned it. A few paces behind the family came Maggiore Totus, carried in a large sedan chair by a party of werewolves, looking about him at the land and the sky of the Icemark, and wondering if he would ever again see his adopted home.
Stomping along with them, his hands behind his back and his head thrust forward in a way that suggested impatience and a bad temper, was a scruffy little figure with wild hair and dusty clothes. Archimedo Archimedes was a renowned and brilliant military engine-eer from the Southern Continent. Cressida had hired him when he first arrived in Frostmarris, and since then he had become her most favoured adviser. She knew his usefulness in the coming war would be without equal, and she had already put him in charge of rebuilding and reinforcing the capital’s defences.
The Royal party arrived at the quayside, and eventually the sound of cheering died down to a low murmur, which mingled with the wind sighing through the rigging of the ships.
Thirrin looked out over the crowds, her face set in its usual stern mask. Since arriving in Old Haven two weeks earlier, she’d spent as much time as she could with her youngest son, but now that time had come to an end and she must say goodbye. A knot of fear gripped her stomach. She would sooner be armed with no more than a wooden sword and ride Jenny into battle against an entire regiment of Bellorum’s cavalry, than do what she must do now. How could a fighting monarch possibly hope to function properly when she was in so much pain? Her youngest child, gentle Charlemagne, was leaving, and she was afraid she’d never see him again. Oskan had assured her that she would, but he couldn’t say when. And he would only add that at the darkest time Charlemagne would be an unexpected light. Mystics were such pains! They spoke in riddles even they didn’t understand, when all she needed was some proof that Sharley would come home and that she would see him again.
Taking a deep breath, she urged Havoc forward and he paced out into a large square that was defined by the ranks of infantry on one side, the cavalry on another, and on the remaining two sides, the sea and the crowds. Charlemagne rode out to meet her, calmly holding her gaze. Thirrin felt the familiar longing to wrap the slight, vulnerable figure in her arms and protect him from the world. So intense was the pain in the pit of her stomach, she almost bowed forward over the high pommel of her saddle, but she made a show of adjusting her shield. None but Oskan and Krisafitsa saw and understood what had happened.
Charlemagne himself felt extraordinarily calm. He had expected to be terrified when it came to leaving his home and family, instead of which he felt merely empty. An invisible barrier seemed to shield him from his own emotions. As soon as he began to feel any sadness or panic, the barrier would drop, leaving him to observe events from an odd position of unfeeling detachment. He suspected his brothers and sisters felt the same emptiness. Cressida and the twins were far too excited at the prospect of fighting in the coming war to think of anything else; in fact, the Crown Princess was even now deep in conversation with Archimedo Archimedes as they discussed some point in the defences of Frostmarris. For days now anyone who had come within earshot of the pair heard nothing but strange arcane words and phrases, like palisade, enfilade and killing ground. Their excited exclusion – of anyone who wasn’t a fighter, preparing to fight, or building defences to protect a city from invasion – made Sharley feel even more isolated from his family of warriors than he usually did.
And then there was Medea . . . well, Medea was a mystery in her own right. She wasn’t a soldier either, but all similarity between her and Sharley ended right there. He’d last seen his sister the previous evening at the farewell banquet given in his honour in the citadel of Old Haven. She’d been surrounded by her own unique atmosphere – at once removed and broodingly present. But, feeling he ought to make some effort to say goodbye, Sharley had forced himself to take Medea’s hand and hold it until some sort of human presence swam to the surface. The shock of her cold flesh had distracted him at first, but eventually he’d become aware of her staring at him.
“Medea, this is it,” he’d said. “I’m leaving tomorrow, so I thought we should say goodbye properly now. We won’t be able to at the harbour with all the people around us.”
“I won’t be there anyway,” she’d answered, her voice deep and expressionless.
“Oh! Well, all the more reason for us to take our leave of each other now.” But Medea’s black eyes had stared at him unwaveringly and she’d remained silent.
“Erm . . . well, goodbye then.” Naturally he’d waited for some sort of response, but her pale face had remained impassive, for all the world like a carving made in ice. Without a word, Medea had let go of his hand, and walked slowly from the banquet leaving small pockets of silence in her wake.
Charlemagne’s thoughts jolted back to the present, to the beautiful, comforting sight of his mother mounted on Havoc. Oskan joined her, riding Jenny, and father and son smiled at each other. Charlemagne urged his horse closer to his parents, and he stroked one of Jenny’s long ears. Oskan smiled at him again.
“Bye, Dad,” he said quietly.
Oskan nodded. “Bye, Sharley. Don’t forget us.”
What a stupid thing to say! Of course he wouldn’t forget them. The protective barrier wavered, but then slammed firmly back into place. Shielded within his unfeeling cocoon Charlemagne reined his horse back to the opposite side of the square, and sat waiting.
Thirrin straightened in her saddle, and her voice, pitched at battle level, echoed over the watching crowds:
“People of the Icemark, behold my son, Charlemagne Athelstan Redrought Strong-in-the-Arm Lindenshield, Prince Regent to the Exiles, and my beloved child. In this time of grave crisis I send him this day to be your leader in the Southern Continent until such time as our enemies are defeated and you can return to your homes . . .” She paused, and fought to control her voice. “Know you all, that in exile Prince Charlemagne is entrusted with the full power of the Lindenshield monarchy. His word is law. His thought is your action. His anger brings death. Look upon him now and tremble!”
On the quayside, Maggie couldn’t resist a small ironic smile as he watched Sharley’s slender figure astride his docile horse – hardly the fire and lightning of a great northern warrior. Still, he recalled, Sharley’s mother had been no bigger when she’d first led her armies against the might of the Polypontian Empire.
“I call upon all here present to witness my act,” Thirrin continued. “I now bestow upon your Regent the Great Ring of State. Know you all that sovereignty lies within the body and presence of the Monarch, but also with those who wear this symbol of our country’s power. For the duration of the coming war my son Charlemagne will wear the Ring of State. From this day, the Icemark effectively has two rulers! The histories shall record that King Charlemagne reigned in loving duality with his mother Queen Thirrin for the duration of the war with the Polypontian Empire. All hail King Charlemagne!”
Maggie gasped as Thirrin urged Havoc forward, removed the Ring of State from her finger and placed it on Sharley’s. This was unprecedented! This was unheard of! In all recorded history, as far as he was aware, no people had ever been ruled by two monarchs, unless they were fighting each other for the right to be the one and only ruler! Oh, happy day! Oh, joyous coincidence! How much easier this would make the plans he was busily making. Standing up in his sedan chair, he gustily added his own voice to the cheering.
