Prince of the Icemark

by Stuart Hill

  The Witchmother beckoned up her companion, who during the heated exchange had melted back into the shadows. She stepped forward now, and both Redrought and Kahin suddenly recognised her. She was Bramwen Beast-Talker, the witch who’d translated the speech of the forest creatures who came to warn of the werewolf army’s advance on Frostmarris.

  “Bramwen here has had news from the ravens who fly the skies over the Great Forest and the plains and mountains beyond,” said the Witchmother and paused dramatically before turning to her companion. “Well, tell them what the ravens have told you.”

  Bramwen was small and her skin was as brown as tanned leather, so that Redrought found himself thinking that she looked just like an elderly mouse. For a moment she trembled and fluttered as all eyes were turned on her, but then she drew breath and stood as straight as her aged spine would let her. “My Lord, I know that you and your advisers have been worried about our allies in the north, and so when I saw a flight of ravens over the Great Forest I called them to me and asked if they had any news about the province of the Hypolitan . . .”

  “And?” Redrought prompted impatiently.

  “And they told me that the city of the Hypolitan is under siege but still stands defiant.”

  The young King let out a howl of delight that shook the windows and brought the palace guards running. He dismissed them, but not before he’d told them the good news, knowing that it would soon spread throughout the entire city.

  “You’re absolutely certain of this?” he asked, hardly daring to believe that the Icemark’s oldest allies still survived.

  “Yes, My Lord,” Bramwen said. “Ravens are totally honest birds, they wouldn’t have told me such a thing if it wasn’t true. They say that the Vampires were attacking the city every day, but since you killed the werewolf King the raids have stopped, though they still watch the walls closely.”

  “Did they say how long the Hypolitan can hold out?” Redrought asked eagerly.

  The old witch frowned. “No, My Lord, they are birds. They’d have no idea about the tactics and likely outcome of warfare.”

  “No, I suppose not,” said Redrought, remembering the battle in which his brother had fallen. “They probably only see war as the provider of food and feasts.”

  “Each creature has its tasks in the Goddess-given world,” Bramwen answered tartly. “If the land wasn’t cleansed of the fallen, disease would run rampant.”

  Redrought nodded distractedly, his mind already on other matters. “If only there was some way we could get word to the Hypolitan. If they knew that Frostmarris still stood and that the werewolf army had been defeated, it might give them the strength to fight on . . .”

  Wenlock cleared her throat meaningfully. “Bramwen has an idea that concerns just that problem of communication.”

  “She does?”

  “Yes, I do,” replied the witch with a confidence she hadn’t felt at the beginning of the interview. “My Lord, we must send a messenger to the Hypolitan to tell of your victory over the werewolves, and inform them that even now your army prepares to march north against Their Vampiric Majesties.”

  Redrought contained his impatience with a huge effort of will and said as quietly as he was able, “Well, yes, of course. But how would you suggest that this messenger gets through the enemy lines?”

  “By being a common sight in the lands of the Hypolitan. By being of no importance in the eyes of the Vampires and others that besiege the city.”

  Kahin watched with an almost detached interest as the young King’s hair seemed to lift and swirl around his head like a raging flame. She found herself wondering how many were-wolves had seen the fire of Redrought’s wrath before the dark descended on their eyes for ever.

  “WELL, OBVIOUSLY!!!” he exploded. “BUT HOW?!”

  “Send a raven,” Bramwen answered calmly. “They will do as I ask them. We can attach a message to its leg.”

  For a moment there was silence, then Redrought suddenly erupted from his bed and began to jump up and down on it like a small child. “YES!!! YES!!! YES!!!”

  “I think his Majesty is pleased,” Kahin observed quietly.

  “Pleased?! Pleased?! I’m more than pleased! I’m sodding ECSTATIC!!!!”

  Next day Redrought insisted on getting up, and not even the threat of Wenlock Witchmother could stop him.

  “I won’t stay in bed any longer. There’s nothing wrong with me,” he said as Kahin tried to convince him to take a longer rest. “Besides, soon there’ll be rumours that I’m badly injured or even dead.”

  The old merchant immediately saw the common sense in what he was saying and reluctantly agreed to him getting up.

  “In fact, I’m going to have to show myself to the army and the people just to quash all the stupid gossip,” he went on as he leapt out of bed, his nightshirt so awry that Kahin was forced to avert her eyes. “Where’s Grimswald? I need my clothes!”

  “I’ll get him,” the old merchant said, glad of an excuse to leave the room and allow Redrought to make himself respectable. “He’s never very far away when you’re in the citadel.”

  “Tell him to bring my armour and weapons. When I go down into the city, I want to give the impression I’m battle-ready and raring to go. Then the cavalry must be readied and we must march to save the Hypolitan!”

  The rumour of the warrior King’s intended procession through the city ran ahead of him like a storm-wind. The people had lived in despair for weeks since the defeat of the army at the hands of the Vampire King and Queen, and yet, from nowhere and unlooked for, the boy Redrought had led a hastily gathered new army to victory over the werewolf hordes. Almost singlehandedly he’d turned the country’s fortunes around. He’d even killed King Ashmok in single combat! Were they living in a new age of miracles?

  Out of the houses and along the streets the people emerged, as spontaneously as their monarch’s impromptu victory march, spreading the news that King Redrought was coming down from the High Citadel to show himself to the population. Soon the roads were flowing like a living river and an excited babble rose up into the air. The death sentence that the country had been under may not have been lifted, but it seemed at least to have been postponed.

  Gradually a low mumbling rhythmic thump began to insinuate itself into the atmosphere. It grew more and more insistent until slowly it rose to a crashing beat as the stamp of heavy boots mingled with the thump of spear butts, axe hafts and sword hilts against shields.

  A great roar rose up from the people as the housecarles, the professional soldiers of the army, suddenly swung into view. At their head strode the tall red-haired boy, their King and saviour. On his shoulder sat a huge black cat, its red mouth gaping wide as it added its own music to the rhythm of the marching soldiers.

  On impulse the people broke into song, the battle-paean of the Icemark echoing back from the houses and crashing into the air. They were still alive! Against all the odds they were still alive. Frostmarris still stood. The Icemark lived and a human monarch still sat on its throne! He was their boy; he was their King; he was the fortune of the land!

  High in the citadel, Kahin stood on the walls and watched the people thronging around their heroes. She smiled, happy for them to have their joy. But there was still much to do. The danger was still clear and present; Their Vampiric Majesties were still undefeated and no one knew if the Hypolitan could hold out until the relieving army could reach them.

  For a moment her shoulders sagged, but then she stood straight and as tall as her small frame would allow. There was work to do.

  The attacks on the Hypolitan capital city had stopped days earlier, and still the skies were empty. Something was happening, as was definitely proven by the fact that nothing was happening at all.

  “What do you think, Saphia?” Athena asked as she scanned the sky from the battlements of the highest lookout tower. “Are you still convinced Their Vampiric Majesties are preparing something nasty for us, or have they suffered some sort of setback?”r />
  “Well, they haven’t lifted the siege, that much we know. Every patrol we’ve tried to send out in the last two days has been attacked before they got more than a few paces from our walls. But something’s happened. Something that’s forced them to stop their daily raids. If only we knew what it was.”

  Athena sat with her back against the battlements, where the sun bathed the stones in a warm glow. She was watching the skies as usual, looking out for Vampire squadrons. Saphia’s voice washed over her as she continued to rattle on, putting forward one theory after another to explain the enemy’s absence. Athena nodded or shook her head absently at each possibility, but then she froze. There in the sky was a black speck. She had no way of telling how high or even how big it was, but it seemed to be spiralling down towards where they sat.

  “Saphia, can you see that black . . . thing in the sky?”

  Her friend immediately fell silent and followed the line of Athena’s pointing finger. “I see it,” she confirmed.

  “What do you think? Vampire?”

  “No . . . no, I don’t think so. It’s too small.” She casually reached for her bow, which lay nearby. “It could be some sort of spy. Shall I bring it down?” Ever since regaining the use of her injured arm she’d been seizing every opportunity to practise.

  “No, wait. It’d have to be a pretty stupid spy to come within bowshot of our walls. Let’s see what it does.”

  The two young women watched as the black speck gradually increased in size, until it resolved itself into the unmistakable form of a huge raven.

  “You know, I really think it’s heading for us,” said Athena in puzzlement. “What could it want?”

  “I don’t know, but it’ll get an arrow in its throat if it isn’t careful.”

  “Put your bow down. I’ve got an odd feeling about this.”

  They continued to watch in silence until the large bird side-slipped through the last few feet of air and stepped neatly onto the stone parapet of the battlements. It looked at them with brilliant black eyes and then cawed at them.

  Athena and Saphia stood and looked at each other. “This is bloody weird. What does it want?”

  “I don’t know,” Athena answered, then began to walk slowly towards the raven. It showed no signs of fear, and as she got closer it raised one of its legs. “There’s something there, look! A tube or something. Help me get it off.”

  “Watch out for its beak. It looks as thick and sharp as a dagger.”

  Athena ignored her and reached out to slip the tube from the raven’s leg. It was capped at one end with wax and without hesitating she broke it open. Inside was a tightly rolled slip of paper. Quickly she unfurled it.

  “It’s a note! The writing’s tiny. Just a moment, I’ll try and read it.”

  She squinted at the words, which were incredibly small, but so neat she could easily read them. Quickly she drew breath and began to read out loud.

  “‘Greetings to our loyal allies the mighty fighting Hypolitan, from King Redrought Athelstan Strong-in-the-Arm Lindenshield. Be of good cheer, the New Model Army of the Icemark has been led to victory over the werewolf army. Their King, Ashmok, has been killed and their power smashed. They have been driven from the Great Forest and run in disarray. We will be with you as soon as may be. Give greetings to Basilea Artemis and her Consort Herakles. Look to the forest; the people of the Icemark march! From King Redrought Athelstan Strong-in-the-Arm Lindenshield, dubbed Bear of the North by acclamation of the army.’”

  Athena looked up from the slip of paper, her eyes wild and dancing, to see tears running down her friend’s face. She felt a sense of shock through the elation – Saphia never cried.

  “The Icemark lives,” Saphia whispered. “They have a King.” She sucked in a sudden breath and shouted, “THEY HAVE A KING, ATHENA! THE WEREWOLVES HAVE BEEN BEATEN! ASHMOK IS DEAD! NOW WE HAVE THEM, ATHENA! NOW WE HAVE THEM!”

  Her voice echoed over the city and many came running, convinced the Vampire attacks had begun again.

  Basilea Artemis was cautious. The news was undoubtedly good – astonishingly good, in fact – but what proof did they have that it really had come from Frostmarris and a new King of the Icemark? She remembered of course that there had been a Prince Redrought of the House of Lindenshield, but he’d been very young . . . surely too young to be elected King by the Wittanagast. Though she had to admit that in extraordinary times, extraordinary things happened.

  She was standing alone on the battlements that overlooked the main southern gate. In the far distance she could just see the eaves of the Great Forest as a grey-greenish smudge on the horizon. If the message wasn’t some sort of hoax planted by Their Vampiric Majesties, then the new King and his army would arrive from that direction. “Look to the forest,” the message had said. “The people of the Icemark march!”

  She hardly dared allow herself to hope. They’d stood alone for so long with no idea of whether the Icemark still existed as an independent human nation, let alone whether it was actually still fighting on with a new King and army. And now they were being told that the werewolves had been defeated, Ashmok was dead and a relieving force was on its way. Too good to be true, surely! Though why Their Vampiric Majesties should send a false message that would boost the Hypolitan’s flagging morale and cause them to fight on with renewed vigour was beyond her.

  She sighed. All they could do was carry on fighting and resisting, then if this King Redrought really did arrive with his army, she’d very happily be the first to admit she’d been wrong to doubt in him.

  The Basilea automatically searched the skies, looking for Vampire squadrons, and her eyes immediately latched on to a distant tendril of what looked like smoke. She leant forward on the battlements, her eyes narrowing as she concentrated. Whatever it was, it was moving against the prevailing wind. It could be a flock of birds, of course.

  She glanced around, looking for someone with younger eyes. A soldier was patrolling on a lower section of wall and she beckoned him up. “Tell me, what do you see there?” she asked without preamble, and pointed to the undulating black mass in the distant sky.

  He squinted for a moment, and Artemis began to wonder if she’d chosen a short-sighted guard to act as her eyes. But then he straightened up with a gasp. “Vampires, Ma’am! Battalions of ’em!”

  “Give the alarm,” Artemis said calmly. “And tell my daughter and Consort to join me here.”

  The soldier clattered off, screaming out the alarm as he ran. The Basilea continued to watch the sky and the black smudge that had slowly evolved into a flying army of Vampires. The force was truly enormous. Was this what the enemy had been doing during the lull in the fighting? Had they simply been regrouping and building their numbers, perhaps calling on reserves from The-Land-of-the-Ghosts? There was no way of knowing, and for the moment it wasn’t important. The priority for now was the defence of the city. Analysis could come later . . . if any of them survived to do it.

  The squadrons were now near enough for the Basilea to hear the hideous screeching of the giant bats. But there was something else too, a rhythmic beating and stomping that had nothing to do with the leathery rattle of wings. Quickly Artemis tore her eyes away from the Vampires and scanned the land. She soon found what she was looking for.

  There in the distance she could clearly see a land army advancing. At first she almost cried aloud for joy, thinking it was the new King of the Icemark with his forces, but then she noticed that the soldiers that made up the ranks were enormous, and swayed as they marched in a way that just wasn’t human.

  She squinted, trying to make out details, then she physically sagged against the battlements. “Rock Trolls!” she whispered. “They’re sending Rock Trolls against us!”

  She closed her eyes for a moment, then straightened up, and crossing the walkway, called down to a unit of soldiers that were doubling towards the walls. “Secure the gates! Brace them with rocks, barrels, wagons, anything you can find!”

  Bugle alarms
were now echoing throughout the city and soldiers were hurrying to their stations. Everything looked efficient and disciplined. But would any of it be enough to fight off the Rock Trolls and Vampires? Basilea Artemis couldn’t help wondering if the new King of the Icemark would arrive to find nothing but a smouldering city populated by corpses.

  * * *

  Redrought had sent patrols through the Great Forest two days earlier, and so far all messages reported the way to be clear. The last remnants of the werewolf army had simply disappeared, almost as though something had systematically carried out mopping-up operations. It was a puzzle, but he had no time to think about it now. The New Model Army was almost ready to set out; in fact, he’d given the order for a dawn march for the next day.

  He was sitting on the lowest step of the dais that led up to the huge ceremonial throne. Somehow, he didn’t feel up to occupying the seat that had accommodated so many heroes of the Icemark’s history. He was, after all, still only a boy; beardless and witless and with the experience of precisely two battles behind him. One of which he’d run from, and one of which he’d won only, it seemed, with the help of a pungent black cat. And now here he was on the eve of a march that would take him to the walls of the Hypolitan city and another battle. He had no way of knowing how it would go. It could be disastrous; the army could be smashed, thousands could be killed, including himself, and the whole war could be lost. Whatever the people of Frostmarris thought, there was no reason to suppose that his success so far wasn’t just pure good luck rather than any skill on his part.

  He sank deeper into the despair that’d been threatening for days. Soon he’d reached a point of such perfect pessimism that wallowing in the hopelessness of the situation became a positive pleasure. Why did he bother to carry on? Why not just give up and take ship to some comfortable exile somewhere? He could raid the treasury, saddle up Hengist, stuff Cadwalader in a sack and set off to seek his fortune. It was only the fact that there wasn’t actually enough in the Royal coffers to buy him more than a small cheese sandwich that stopped him rushing off immediately.