by Stuart Hill
“I have very good reason to believe the information will be momentous, and possibly detrimental to the morale of our forces,” said Romanoff with stiff formality, her twitch getting worse. “Therefore I thought it wise to withdraw our army in preparation for any strategic retreat that may be needed.”
The Vampire King snorted into his sherry. “Oh, really, General Twitch-a-lot, a retreat! Why, by all that’s unholy, would we need to retreat?”
“A mere contingency measure, Your Majesty,” the general replied, ignoring the King’s cruel jibe. “I thought it expedient to allow for every possibility, be it either positive or negative.”
His Vampiric Majesty sighed wearily and turned to his Queen. “I wonder why she feels the need to speak as though she’d eaten a dictionary for breakfast. Can you enlighten me, oh putrescent perfection?”
“Not at all, my lugubrious love, I really have no idea. Though I would say that if Twitch-a-lot has any inkling what the news is, then she should divulge it and end this tedious farce.”
Romana Romanoff’s arrogance easily equalled that of her monarchs, but she was far too clever a tactician to show it. Instead she steeled herself to smile and give a little bow. “I know nothing but unsubstantiated rumour of some sort of setback, Your Majesties. And rather than risk spreading false despondency, I thought it best to await the envoy.”
“Well, exactly when can we expect him, her or it?” the Vampire King demanded as he drained his glass of sherry. “I’m in need of sanguine refreshment, and unless we have any fresh prisoners left, I’ll need to hunt.”
“As I’ve already said, Your Majesty, my scouts state that the envoy should be here within the hour.”
“I do hope it’s nothing too irksome,” said the Vampire Queen. “A serious setback really would be rather sick-making.”
A sudden noise at the mouth of the cave interrupted the discussion and they all turned to watch as a young werewolf, wearing the silver collar of a Prince, burst through the entrance and stood for a few moments while his eyes adjusted to the lower light levels.
“It seems your scouts are woefully inaccurate in their estimates of time, General Romanoff,” said the Vampire Queen.
“You may approach the throne,” His Vampiric Majesty called as the werewolf began to peer around the gloomy cave. “Yes, over here . . . I said, we’re over here! Oh dear, I don’t think he’s very bright.”
“This is Prince Grishmak Blood-Drinker,” General Romanoff said, stepping forward and beckoning. “He is nephew to King Ashmok Blood-Drinker, and I would guess his confusion is due to exhaustion having just come from the assault on Frostmarris.”
“There’s been no assault on Frostmarris,” the young were-wolf said without preamble as he stood before the throne and sketched a rough bow. “We never even reached it. The army of the Icemark was waiting for us in the Great Forest.”
“The army of the Icemark?” echoed the Vampire Queen. “But there’s no such thing. We destroyed the entire human force less than two months ago.”
“And killed their rather pathetic King,” His Vampiric Majesty added.
The werewolf Prince scratched his pelt and glared at them. “Yeah, well, they’ve got a new army and a new King, and he’s anything but pathetic.”
“A new King?! Oh, now, surely not! I really can’t believe the humans have had sufficient time to find a monarch and an army, all in less than eight weeks!” the Vampire Queen said incredulously.
“Well, now’s the time to start believing it,” Prince Grishmak snapped. “The new King’s called Redrought Athelstan Strong-in-the-Arm Lindenshield: a name I won’t forget in a hurry, especially as he announced it to our army just before he killed my uncle King Ashmok.”
The following silence was so complete that the faint echo of dripping water deep inside the network of caves could be heard.
“I’m sorry . . . I . . . I’m sorry?” the Vampire King eventually stuttered. “I may have misheard you. Did you say this . . . Redrought person has killed King Ashmok?”
“’S right – and broken the werewolf army, put it to rout and killed thousands as we tried to get away through the forest,” Grishmak replied conversationally.
“No! Impossible!”
“I was captured and taken before Redrought,” the werewolf Prince went on, completely ignoring His Vampiric Majesty’s inability to believe the facts. “I thought I was a dead ’un like so many others, but he let me go so that I could come here and tell you what happened.”
“How much of the werewolf army has survived?” Romanoff asked urgently as she desperately tried to adapt to the rapidly changing situation.
Grishmak shrugged. “Hard to say . . . perhaps fifteen . . . maybe twenty thousand.”
“But that means over half have been killed!”
“’S right. Wiped out, just like that.” He snapped his fingers expressively.
“I must say you’re treating this disaster with unwarranted levity,” said the Vampire King.
The young werewolf fell silent for a moment and then said, “If I stop laughing, then I’ll have to start thinking and remembering, and I’m not ready to do that yet.”
“If Ashmok’s dead, then who’s in command of the retreat?” Romanoff asked.
“No one. It’s a rout, not a retreat,” the werewolf Prince explained with the sort of exaggerated patience reserved for very young children and imbeciles. “All of the survivors are getting away as fast as they can, and as best as they can. We can only thank the Blessed Moon that the new human King didn’t chase us beyond the eaves of the forest, otherwise I’d be reporting that the werewolf army had been annihilated.”
“Well where are the survivors now?” asked Romanoff, her head and neck twitching violently.
“Strung out along the North Road, between here and the Great Forest. Most of the survivors are stumbling along in a state of shock. It’ll be days before they all get here.”
“Well, I suppose there’s nothing more to be said on the subject,” said the Vampire King with masterly restraint and understatement. “All we can—”
“Excuse me, but there is more to be said,” Grishmak interrupted brusquely. “I haven’t delivered my message yet.”
“What is it, then?”
Grishmak paused, drew a deep breath then said, “These words were given to me by the new human ruler, listen well: ‘Take this message to your allies, the Vampire King and Queen. Tell them that King Redrought Athelstan Strong-in-the-Arm Lindenshield demands that they leave his land immediately and then pay for the damage they have inflicted on his kingdom. And tell them that if they ignore this demand, then the remodelled army of the Icemark will be unleashed against them, and no mercy will be shown.’”
In the silence that followed, the words seemed to ring in the vastness of the cave like the note after a bell has been struck. Slowly the resonance died away and the Vampire Queen shifted in her throne.
“Well, really! The impertinence! Who is this human that he dares to make demands of the alliance that killed his brother and destroyed the Icemark’s army?”
“He’s the human who killed the werewolf King and destroyed his army,” Grishmak pointed out quietly. “You’re going to have to be very certain you can face him before you take to the field against his new army, especially as you won’t have the Wolf-folk to help you.”
“What do you mean?” General Romanoff asked warily. “Why won’t the werewolves help us?”
“Because we have to choose a new King, and to do that we must return to our ancestral homes high in the mountains. It’ll be weeks before we’re ready to take to the field of battle again.”
Romanoff sighed, but then straightened her shoulders and looked unwaveringly at the Vampire King and Queen. “After your disastrous decision to send the werewolves to attack Frostmarris before we’d defeated the Hypolitan, Your Vampiric Majesties, perhaps now you will accept my strategic advice. Before we can face this Redrought our rear must be secured. We must take the Hypolitan b
efore he’s ready to launch a counter-offensive, and without the werewolf infantry we must send to The-Land-of-the-Ghosts for reinforcements. We need the strength and power of the Rock Trolls. To do anything else will only mean our ultimate defeat.”
“Rock Trolls!” Her Vampiric Majesty almost squeaked. “But they’re completely unreliable . . . unsteady. They just can’t be trusted.”
“The werewolf infantry must be replaced,” Romanoff pointed out. “Rock Trolls are virtually unstoppable once they begin an attack.”
“But no one can control them . . .”
“I will control them, Ma’am,” the general replied with a quiet arrogance that was belied by her continuing twitch.
The Vampire King took his Queen’s hand, deeply regretting Romanoff’s ill breeding. How very common it was to point out that Their Vampiric Majesties had insisted that the attack on Frostmarris was carried out even before the Hypolitan fell. There was an element of gloating to be heard in her tone, even at this time of such national emergency. Her Vampiric Majesty caught his eye and a moment of perfect understanding and agreement flashed between them, before the King turned to look at the general.
“Very well, Romanoff. You have full command of the Vampire army,” the King said. “But remember, both the Queen and I will be watching you closely and noting every success, twitch . . . and failure.”
The general bowed and clicked her heels; a note of theatricality that had both of the monstrous monarchs raising their eyes to a heaven they hated.
Kahin was sure the cat was attracting flies. If she’d had her way she’d have banished the animal to a stable days ago. But the witches looking after Redrought said the two were “linked in their healing” and that if the unconscious Cadwalader was removed then the King’s recovery could be compromised. Kahin had no answer to that – she was a businesswoman, and lately Royal Adviser, not a healer – and so she’d had to accept what they said.
She watched as Grimswald fussed around the unconscious boy, the old body-servant’s face a mask of fear and compassion for his master. Kahin allowed her thoughts to travel back over the last few days to when Redrought had been carried back from the battle in the Great Forest. At first she’d thought he was dead and surprised herself by feeling a terrible grief for the boy-King who wasn’t even of her faith or her race. And the deep sense of relief she’d then felt when told that he was simply unconscious had surprised her again. What was it about this uncouth, loud, boisterous youth that had raised in her such feelings of deep maternal love?
He was nothing like her own quiet, intelligent and studious sons and daughters. In fact he was the complete opposite; a great hulking giant of a boy with red hair, of all things, and a laugh that could shatter rock at fifty paces. But whatever it was, she couldn’t deny it. She felt the same for him as she had for her first-born, Kyros, who had died of a fever when only ten years old.
She sighed and straightened the blankets that covered his sleeping form, and watched as Grimswald then pointedly rearranged them.
“When is he expected to regain consciousness?” she asked him.
“Wenlock Witchmother said he should wake up in a matter of a few days. But only ‘when he’s good and ready’, so don’t nag me, Mrs Royal Adviser.”
When the attending witches left the room to fetch some potions, and Grimswald bustled off in search of an extra pillow, Kahin seized the moment, reached down and took Redrought’s strong young hand. It was calloused and the nails were bitten down to the quick. Kahin tutted and frowned as she decided to bring some of her grandmother’s sovereign skin cream next time she visited. The boy had the complexion of a peasant, not a King! She patted his hand and squeezed it, in an effort to let him know he wasn’t alone, when suddenly, she felt the squeeze returned!
Gasping, she knelt beside the bed and smoothed the fiery hair from his brow. “Redrought, can you hear me? Are you with us?”
The boy took a deep breath. “Of course I can hear you. And where else would I bloody well be?” His voice was barely a whisper, but then he opened his eyes, coughed, cleared his throat then said, “Hiya, Kahin! We beat them! We beat the bastards!”
“Yes . . . y-yes, you did,” she agreed, standing back hurriedly and blinking away the tears which for some reason had welled up. “I knew you could do it.”
The King was silent for a moment as his thoughts coalesced. He’d been unconscious for several days, but his natural strength and youthful resilience now combined to clear his head and drive him back to something like full awareness. “You knew I could do it, did you? I didn’t. In fact I don’t think we would have done without Cadwalader.” Redrought paused and his face fell. “Caddy died. He attacked the were-wolf King and he killed him.”
“No, he didn’t! He’s here,” said Kahin excitedly. She grabbed the unconscious animal and held him up for the young King to see.
“Caddy!” Redrought boomed in delight, and with a sudden convulsive twist the cat woke up, leapt from Kahin’s arms and onto the bed. Immediately he opened his mouth and yowled for the pure joy of living, and Redrought threw back his head and laughed.
Kahin found herself looking at the ceiling to see if the plaster had been cracked by the explosion of sound, but she couldn’t see anything through the tears that had inexplicably welled up again. His recovery was amazing. He’d been unconscious for days, and yet here he was laughing and talking as though nothing had happened.
“We did for ’em, Caddy! Me and you, we did for ’em!”
“There might have been a few others involved,” Kahin pointed out tartly, as she recovered from the shock of Redrought’s lightning recuperation. “Like an entire army.”
“Yes,” Redrought agreed. “They did well. They’re a proper fighting force now. Something to be reckoned with. Anyway,” he suddenly said, changing the subject, “what’s wrong with your eyes?”
“Nothing. I think I’m allergic to the cat.”
“Rubbish! Nobody could be allergic to Caddy . . . apart from werewolves and Vampires, that is.”
Kahin patted his arm, and even managed to tickle the top of Cadwalader’s head. “I’ll go and find one of the witches. They’ve probably got some vile medicine to give you.”
“Oh, great!” replied Redrought grumpily. Then he brightened up slightly. “I don’t suppose you could find me a beer, and some fish for the hero cat who sank his teeth into the werewolf King?”
Kahin said she’d do her best and left the warrior monarch of the Icemark informing his cat he was a “big thmelly fluffy puthy cat” while he tickled his tummy.
As she left the room, Grimswald burst in, his face alight with relief and joy. She closed the door on his reunion with the young boy and tried to tell herself that of course she wasn’t jealous of his closeness to Redrought. She was just glad that everything seemed to be all right at last.
Later that day, Kahin returned to the King’s room to find Wenlock Witchmother and another woman talking to him. Judging by her shabby appearance and wild unkempt hair, Kahin could only assume the newcomer was also a witch. The Royal Adviser hurriedly stepped forward to be noticed. Whatever was being said was probably important; the Witchmother never wasted her time on social visits.
“Ah, Kahin, I’ve just sent someone to look for you,” said Redrought happily. “Wenny here has had a good idea.”
“Wenny!!” the witch hissed in outrage. “Wenny!! My name is Wenlock and my title Witchmother, and I will have both treated with proper respect by all, be they peasant or Emperor!!”
The room felt suddenly colder and Kahin shivered as she gathered her cloak around her. “Indeed, Wenlock Witchmother, I can assure you that His Majesty has nothing but the deepest respect for both yourself and your exalted station. But I’m sure that a woman of your undoubted intelligence will understand that the King’s youth and his naturally friendly and open nature may sometimes cause him to misjudge both people and circumstances. In time he will grow to understand that not all people are as unaffected by the trap
pings of power and position as himself, and that some need to have their undoubted importance constantly acknowledged in the forms of address and ceremony that are used in their presence.”
The old witch’s eyes narrowed dangerously. “Kahin Darius, head of the Merchants’ Guild and lately Royal Adviser, I will remember your words and always address you accordingly.”
Redrought watched the two formidable women as they faced each other. Neither flinched and neither lowered their gaze, and he realised that there were times when a warrior King also needed to be a peacemaker, even if he was the unwitting cause of the crisis in the first place.
“Fair enough, Wenlock Witchmother, but should I also insist on my full titles every time you address me? King Redrought Athelstan Strong-in-the-Arm Lindenshield, Monarch of the Icemark, Commander of the New Model Army and Defender of the Realm? Don’t you think that if all of us are together in one room whatever business we’re discussing will take three times longer than it needs?” As usual his voice boomed into the silence, but his experiences in battle and command had begun to lend it a gravitas it had never had before. “Granted, perhaps ‘Wenny’ isn’t dignified enough for one of your Powers and standing, but a simple Wenlock when used by your friend and your King should be more than enough. As Redrought will be enough for me, and Kahin for my adviser.”
Wenlock turned her unwavering gaze on the young King, and after a few moments said, “Your feet have grown to fill the boots you inherited, My Lord. And, I might add, your head to fit the crown. Not many have dared to stand up to me, but Redrought dares. Good! Just what the country needs. Their Vampiric Majesties had better look to their own crowns – there’s a powerful King that would have them! Now, Kahin, shall we get down to business?”
“Yes, Wenlock, whenever you’re ready.” Kahin actually thought it rather inappropriate that three women, even if no longer in the first flush of youth, should be standing in Redrought’s bedchamber while he lay in bed. But war paid no heed to etiquette and convention, and so the old merchant decided to stay quiet on the subject.
