by Stuart Hill
Praise for THE CRY OF THE ICEMARK
. . . will have readers shivering with delight . . . From the moment that its 13-year-old heroine, Princess Thirrin, punches a werewolf on the nose you know you’re in for a rollicking good read.
THE TIMES
. . . a supremely satisfying read which really deserves to be called a page-turner . . . [Hill’s] original and quirky approach could yet make him the proper heir to Joan Aiken’s crown.
PHILIP ARDAGH, GUARDIAN
. . . the writing is as crisp and clear as the snowy landscape Hill depicts so beautifully. The characters are so fresh, and the writing so vivid, that Hill should win many new recruits to fantasy fiction among 10- to 14-year-olds.
SUNDAY TELEGRAPH
. . . a first novel with a distinctive and seductive voice.
INDEPENDENT
A wonderful, swashbuckling read and an exceptional debut.
BOOKS FOR KEEPS
A most satisfying, absorbing and compelling read.
CAROUSEL
. . . a remarkable first novel, a glorious fantasy, a long book full of powerful word-pictures, that enable readers to live for a while in the land of the Icemark.
CHILD EDUCATION
. . . a sensational new author who is going to take the children’s book world by storm . . . read it, read it, read it . . .
BOOKSELLER
WINNER OF THE WATERSTONES CHILDREN’S BOOK PRIZE 2005
To Clare, for all the love and support.
Contents
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Acknowledgements
Copyright
FAR, FAR TO THE NORTH . . .
Far, far to the north lay a small land known as the Icemark. For six months of the year it was covered in snow and the ice that gave it its name, and even in the height of its short summer it could rarely be described as warm. Its skies were wide and cold, its forests dark and deep, and its people were fierce and proud warriors. But so too were their enemies, and many wars had been fought over the long years to keep the land free from the evil power of the Vampire King and Queen.
These living corpses ruled in The-Land-of-the-Ghosts beyond the high peaks of the Wolfrock Mountains that formed the northern border of the Icemark. They commanded great armies of vampires and ghosts, werewolves and zombies with the one driving aim of defeating the living people of the Icemark and making them part of their Undead domain.
The rulers of the human kingdom kept a close guard on their northern borders, with a network of defences and regiments of spies. But even the strongest gate can be broken and the highest wall breached. And if the vigilant eye blinks for even a moment, the dead will get in . . .
The shieldwall shattered. Werewolves poured through the breach, teeth and claws slashing and rending. Vampires dropped from the sky, landing inside the smashed ring of shields.
The cavalry was ripped apart by the werewolf phalanx, horse and rider brought down under a tangle of teeth and claws. The surviving horses ran in terror, trampling human and foe alike. All around was chaos and death. Soldiers scrambled away as best they could, throwing aside shield and armour and anything else that slowed them down.
Nearby the boy could see his brother, King Edward, standing with his war band of bodyguards. They were surrounded by werewolves and fighting like cornered animals. Dozens of the enemy fell to the King’s axe as he whirled it round his head and struck again and again, but there were always more to take their place.
The boy tried to reach him, calling his name, tears of horror streaming down his face. But it was no good. There were just too many werewolves attacking him. The boy could see Vampires changing from their bat forms and becoming pale warriors in black armour, their fangs dripping blood as they tore out the throats of living soldiers.
He looked to the King again and watched as two huge werewolves leapt on him, ripping at his armour. The King fought on, stabbing and slashing at the creatures, but then one seized his head in a crushing grip and, with a twist, tore it from his shoulders.
For a moment the corpse stood, blood cascading from the torn arteries in its neck, the axe in its hand still raised, then the knees buckled and it dropped to the ground.
The boy screamed in terror and grief. His spirit broken at last, he turned to run, but his feet got tangled in the limbs of a corpse and he tripped. It saved his life; the Vampire sweeping down on him overshot and landed instead on another soldier, biting open his jugular and drinking the fountain of blood.
He scrambled to his feet. All around him housecarles and the fyrd were running, desperate to escape the huge were-wolves and the Vampire warriors. The cavalry was no more, the few remaining loose horses dragged down in a welter of blood. The stench of death filled his nostrils, and he could see the proud banners of the Icemark falling beneath the unstoppable tide of monsters. All was lost! All was lost!
He ran on, trampling the bodies of his fallen comrades, for as long as his heart and lungs would allow. His breath rattled harshly in his throat and his mouth gaped as he tried to drag as much air as he could into his body. The hideous screeches of the Vampires echoed over the sky as they chased the broken army, and their allies the werewolves howled in reply. Ahead the boy could see the eaves of the Great Forest stretching across the skyline like a giant static wave crashing over the land. If he could reach the trees he might be able to hide.
A leathery rattle of wings sounded and he looked up to see a Vampire diving towards him. He stopped and crouched, his sword drawn ready. He steeled himself to wait until he could see the whites of the creature’s eyes, then he leapt skywards, his sword cutting a wide arc through the air. The blade bit deep and the Vampire’s head rolled away over the grass. He dived to the ground as the ruined body crashed to earth, then he climbed to his feet, spat on the corpse and ran on.
He ran for what felt like for ever, but soon his body could take no more and he collapsed and lay still. All around him he could hear the screams of agony as his comrades were slaughtered by the pursuing enemy, but he was beyond caring. His lungs burned and he thought he’d choke as he fought for breath.
Then all went black.
When he came round it was beginning to get dark, and everything was quiet apart from the gentle moaning of the wind and the distant calls of ravens and crows. The fighting was obviously over, and most of the army lay dead.
Cautiously he raised his head and looked around. He thought he could see the hulking figures of werewolves looting bodies in the distance, but the sun had set and shadows were gathering, so he couldn’t be certain. The Great Forest lay just ahead, about a bowshot’s distance; he could hear the wind whispering and hissing through the leaves like the sound of a distant sea, and he could smell the scent of the rich earth that its deep and ancient roots burrowed down into.
He began to crawl slowly forward, inching his way to safety. It took him almost an hour to reach the edge of the forest, then when he was certain there were no Vampires or werewolves anywhere near, he slowly stood up and looked around him. It was now fully dar
k and he could see hardly anything in the blackness of the forest, but he continued to move forward, putting as much distance between himself and the battlefield as he could.
He walked for hours, but at last he could go no further. Exhausted, he curled up in a dense thicket of undergrowth and waited for morning.
How long he slept he didn’t know, but eventually he opened his eyes just as the eastern sky was beginning to pale. He looked out from his hiding place at a tangle of trees and undergrowth. Still terrified, he crept out into the open, expecting to be killed at any moment. But nothing happened.
He wandered on and soon realised he was lost. Days passed and he might have starved, but he didn’t. Only the fresh blood-stains on his tunic gave any clue of how he’d survived.
When she found him he was bedraggled and filthy. “So, another one,” she said. “There must be hundreds of you in the forest, though perhaps you’re younger than most.”
The boy didn’t understand what the tall dark-haired woman meant. Since escaping the battlefield, his brain seemed to have stopped working properly; all he could remember was death and blood.
“Come with me,” she finally said and, after hesitating for a moment, he let her lead him through the trees until great outcrops of rock began to thrust up through the forest floor. Eventually they came to a cave that was warm and dry and smelt strongly of herbs. He hung back in the entrance at first, suspicious of what she wanted and who she was. He watched the woman’s every move as she prepared something at a table that stood against one of the rocky walls, and when she presented a bowl of stew to him, he snatched it and bolted it down like an animal.
She stood back and watched him, a frown on her face as she assessed him. “From what I can see of your clothes through all the filth, they’re fine and well made, so you’re obviously a boy from a wealthy family. But I can also see you’re in no fit state to answer any questions, so I’ll not find out who you are that way.” She continued to watch him as he ate a second bowl of stew. “I’d say your mind has closed itself against the horrors you’ve seen, so perhaps a long healing sleep will put you right.” She nodded to herself and walked to a bench at the rear of the cave.
Here the woman gathered together herbs and small glass phials of dark liquid, which she mixed together in a bowl. She came back to him and held out a beaker. At first he snatched it thirstily, but then a strange scent hit him and he frowned at her suspiciously. She sat next to him and guided the beaker back to his lips.
“Drink,” she said. “It’s medicine.”
He resisted for a moment, but remembering her kindness he decided to trust her and drank it down. The taste was bitter and he shuddered, but she immediately gave him a honey-cake to take the taste away, just like a mother with her child. Within a few minutes he began to feel drowsy, and she led him to a bed in a dark corner of the cave where he immediately fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.
He slept for more than a day, his mind empty and still, then he awoke to brilliant sunshine flooding through the cave mouth. He remembered the battle, but now he was able to think clearly about it. He felt horror and revulsion. and a desperate, desperate sadness for his dead brother Edward; but he no longer felt the terrible panic that had driven him to the brink.
A movement in the cave caught his eye and he watched as the woman approached. He knew now she was a White Witch and that she’d probably saved his mind, if not his life.
“I’m . . . I’m Prince Redrought,” he said, finding his own name strange at first, but knowing she’d recognise it.
She nodded and sat down on the edge of the bed. “And I’m Annis the healer. The people call me White Annis.” She smiled, and for the first time he noticed that her eyes were such a pale blue they seemed almost white.
“Well,” she went on. “I suppose I’d better send word to the city.”
The escort, when it came, was comprised of two elderly soldiers riding broken nags. They were leading a similar mount for Redrought, and after the young Prince had struggled into the saddle he raised his hand in farewell to White Annis, who stood watching in the cave entrance.
“You’ll be fine, boy,” she told him confidently. “I’ve sent word to the Witchmother; she’ll give whatever help she can. We all will.”
Redrought didn’t really understand what she meant by this, but he did his best to smile, then turned his nag about and headed for the city.
* * *
They arrived on the Plain of Frostmarris just as the sun was setting. The city stood in silhouette against the brilliance of the western sky and Redrought could see the dark figures of guards patrolling the walls. He’d almost expected to find a smoking ruin, but the Vampire King and Queen had obviously not attacked yet. Perhaps there was some small hope after all. But he quickly dismissed the idea; better to despair and be pleasantly surprised, than hope too much and be crushed.
The plain consisted of a network of fertile fields that fed the capital city of Frostmarris, and as they rode across it everything seemed to be continuing as normal. Peasants were working the land, cattle cropping the grasses and farmers surveying the coming harvest, which promised to be good that year. It was almost as though no battle had been fought and lost; it was almost as though Their Vampiric Majesties weren’t even now planning the next stage of their campaign that would crush all human resistance once and for all. Despite everything, Redrought found his spirits rising and hope rekindling.
But then they reached the main gate of Frostmarris and the reality of the catastrophe came home to him. None of the few guards who protected the barbican and entrance tunnel were under seventy, and they were equipped with the oldest, rustiest, most dilapidated of weapons. Almost none of these elderly soldiers recognised him, and of those that did, most just stood and stared while one sketched a half-salute that translated itself into a vacant scratching of his head as Redrought rode by.
The streets were deserted, and most of the houses had purple and white mourning banners hanging from their windows. The wind moaned through the empty walkways like a despairing soul, but worst of all was the terrible all-pervading sense that the city was simply waiting to die. Everyone knew that the army had been destroyed, and that the few old soldiers of the garrison would have no chance against the enemy when they chose to attack.
Redrought slumped in his saddle and rode the rolling gait of the broken-down old nag as though he was a fisherman rocking with the swell of the sea. He and his escort soon reached the citadel and were passed through the gates without comment. Only Grimswald, Redrought’s body-servant, showed any life, when he suddenly appeared in the entrance-way to the Great Hall and yelped for joy at the sight of his master.
“Oh, My Lord, you’re alive! You’re alive!” he shouted, scuttling forward like an excited crab. “I thought . . . I thought I’d lost you . . . I mean, I thought you’d died with all the rest!”
“No, Grimmy, I’m still here. Just,” the boy replied, and smiled properly for the first time since the battle. His old servant represented safety and a sense of normality that had been destroyed by the invasion.
The small, fussily neat man hugged him awkwardly, and Redrought returned the embrace, literally hanging on to him as though physical contact could somehow return everything to what it had been. Grimswald gently extracted himself and launched into a monologue of all that had happened while he’d been away. Redrought listened absently, but then suddenly grabbed his servant’s arm.
“Say that last bit again.”
“Erm . . . rats have been found in the palace grain bins . . .”
“No, before that.”
“Oh you mean the bit about the Wittanagast declaring you King if you were still alive.”
“Yes, that’s the bit . . .” Redrought fell silent as the full importance of what he’d just heard hit him. The Council of Elders had declared him King! For a moment he stood still, fully expecting a wave of excitement and euphoria to hit him. When it didn’t he nodded to Grimswald and walked through the huge
doors and into the Great Hall. He was King, but only because his brother had been killed and there was no one else suitable. He tried to ignore the memory of the young man, who’d only been four years older than him, dying at the teeth and claws of the werewolves. But it was no good, and his eyes filled with tears as he remembered the kindness and sheer good fun of his brother Edward.
Before their father had died of a fever that not even the most skilled of the witches could cure, they’d had time to be typical boys of the Icemark, hunting in the Great Forest and racing their horses across the Plain of Frostmarris. But all that had ended when Edward had become King and the responsibilities of his new role had taken over his life. Even so, they’d still managed to snatch the occasional moment together between one duty and the next. Sometimes they’d just stood on the battlements of Frostmarris watching the world go by, telling jokes and enjoying each other’s company.
But now even that small pleasure had been taken away, and Redrought was alone in the world. He wasn’t even allowed time for any private grief because as he stood reminiscing in the shadows of the Great Hall, several of the guards recognised him and a buzz of excitement began to grow and spread throughout the palace. Redrought’s alive! Redrought’s alive. We still have a King!
By the time he reached the huge throne that was carved in the likeness of a giant rearing bear, the hall was filled with members of the Wittanagast and household staff. He stood on the dais and raised his hand absently in acknowledgement of the ragged cheers that were beginning to break out. Then he sat down to think.
Soon he was forced to accept oaths of loyalty from the Council and everyone else present. But when he showed no signs of ordering a celebratory feast, the reality of the country’s dire situation reasserted itself, and most of the crowd wandered off. Redrought himself dismissed the rest, and settled as comfortably as he could into the throne of the ancestors he considered far greater than he could ever hope to be.
For the next hour or so, he thought things through as carefully and precisely as he could. His brother was dead, torn to pieces by Vampires and werewolves. The Vampire King and Queen had harboured ambitions to conquer the Icemark for many years and so had invaded. And now the battle had been lost, and the entire war would soon be too, if he, Redrought, couldn’t rally resistance. Half the country had fallen, from the Wolfrock Mountains in the north to the Great Forest in the Mid-Lands. He himself had only just escaped with his life.
