by Stuart Hill
“Or at least for a good few years,” Redrought said with weary realism.
“As long as we gain enough time to live our lives, gather a good few harvests and raise our children.”
He looked at her and wondered if the fact they weren’t blushing at the mere mention of raising children meant they were at last beginning to mentally grow up. How many other girls as young as Athena – or, for that matter, boys as young as him – had the need to worry about gathering harvests and having time to live their lives? Only those that lived with war from day to day, he supposed.
“We’ll have time,” he said at last.
A sudden murmuring and the metallic rumour of weapons and creaking wheels told them that the hidden army was almost ready to move out. They looked at each other with what felt like a sense of rising panic.
“Redrought, when the Hypolitan reach the battlefield the fighting will have started—”
“Probably long before,” he interrupted.
“Yes . . . so you might not know we’ve arrived. The noise and killing . . . So listen out for this.” She held up a small silver hunting horn. Its surface was engraved delicately with running deer and chasing hounds, and it looked as though it’d been made for a fairy child.
“Listen for that?” Redrought said incredulously.
In answer Athena raised the horn to her lips and blew. Immediately the forest was filled with a piercing high note that cut through the noise of the departing army like a stiletto blade.
“I’ll listen for it with hope.”
Suddenly realising that this could easily be the last time they’d see each other alive, Redrought took a deep steadying breath, and with the same sense of determination and resolution he felt in the height of battle, he leant from his saddle and kissed Athena on the cheek. She looked shocked for a moment, then, throwing her arms round his neck, she dragged him towards her and kissed him long and hard on the lips.
With the army hidden by the witches’ Glamour they almost felt themselves to be alone as they expressed exactly how they felt for each other. But then a huge cheer rose up from the hidden soldiers, who were obviously watching closely. This time both Athena and Redrought blushed, and even managed to feel deeply guilty when Herakles rode out from the camouflaging Glamour and reined to a halt across the clearing.
“I have to go,” the Princess said.
“Yes.”
“Be safe,” she said simply, and gently pressed a delicate chain and locket into his hand.
“But I’ve brought nothing for you,” he said, completely mortified.
“You’re the King; you’ve enough to worry about without bringing me tokens,” she answered.
Suddenly Cadwalader, who’d been silently watching proceedings with interest, leapt down to the forest floor, then up onto Athena’s horse where he presented her with a small twig and two acorns.
Athena laughed. “Thank you, Caddy. Look, he’s brought a gift from both of you.”
“When we get back from battle I’ll have the Royal jewellers cast it in gold,” Redrought said with determination.
“That’ll be nice,” the Princess said, and, smiling, she placed Cadwalader back on the King’s saddle. “May the Goddess keep and protect you,” she said, and turning her horse about she rode back to her father, the precious twig and acorns held tightly in her grasp.
“They’ll keep you safe,” Redrought said quietly, knowing she wouldn’t hear. “Cadwalader’s a witch’s cat, they don’t give their tokens lightly.”
A day or so later Kahin had finally left the temporary camp that surrounded the walls and settled into the citadel. She could see no point in being cold and uncomfortable when there was a perfectly acceptable fortress she could live in as the autumn temperatures gradually fell and frost crept down from the mountains. Especially as the Basilea and a lot of her court and household had gone off to war.
Kahin had a small but cosy room in one of the citadel’s towers with an incredible view towards the Wolfrock Mountains. On clear days, the huge jagged range could be seen, misty in the distance and seemingly insubstantial against the brilliant blue of the northern skies. She knew Redrought and his worryingly small army would be making for the pass that was the main route into The-Land-of-the-Ghosts, and she found herself spending hours gazing avidly towards the tiny notch between the two major peaks of the range. She knew it would be impossible to see anything of the army from such a distance, but logic had nothing to do with the protective fear she felt for the boy who almost felt like a grandson to her.
There was nothing she could do other than pray, and once she’d done that to the best of her fervent ability, she began to wonder how to fill her time as she waited for news from the war.
Eventually, with characteristic practicality, she decided to take herself off to the witches and offer her services to the healers. One day her experience, common sense and diplomatic skills would be needed again, but in the meantime more directly practical help was required. She may not be skilled in the healing arts, but at the very least she could fetch and carry for the healers, and clean up those that needed it. She’d have been a proud fool to stand aloof when she could do the kind of work which in normal circumstances she’d have considered beneath her.
So it was that one bright morning she made her way down to the Hypolitan infirmary. There were still many patients recovering from injuries received in the siege of Bendis and any help was being gratefully accepted, especially as some of the witches had marched with the army to provide medical cover.
Kahin soon found the senior witch in charge of the infirmary, but instead of being set to work immediately as she’d expected, she was taken to one of the small cells that were often used for the more seriously ill patients and asked to wait.
Like the rest of the building, the small room was whitewashed, scrubbed clean and smelt of the herbs used in medicines. Kahin sat down on a stool that stood next to the empty bed and waited. She had no idea who or what she was waiting for, but when needed, she could be patience itself. She sat with a calm expression on her face while the square of bright sunshine blazing through the window moved slowly around the walls.
At last, the latch clicked, the door was pushed open without ceremony, and there stood Wenlock Witchmother. She was leaning heavily on her staff as usual, but her eyes were on fire with the sort of energy only usually seen in the glare of a battle-enraged warrior.
“Welcome to the infirmary, Kahin Darius, Royal Adviser to King Redrought, Chief Treasurer of the Guild of Merchants, Spokeswoman for the Zoroastrians, general busy-body and putter-to-rights of all wrongs. To what do we owe the pleasure of your illustrious company?”
Kahin immediately felt her hackles rising, but smiling sweetly she stood and even sketched a rough curtsy to the old witch. “Wenlock Witchmother, how nice that you should find time to personally greet me! I am here to offer my services to the healers and physicians.”
“Really?” said the Witchmother as she stalked into the room and fixed her glittering eyes on the old merchant. “In what capacity do you imagine you’d be of any use?”
“In whichever I am needed,” Kahin replied, her voice quietly precise.
“Can you perform surgical procedures? Can you administer potions, medicines and drugs? Can you ease the pain of the suffering? Can you, in short, do anything?”
“After years of running my own businesses, administering to the needs of the Zoroastrians, and of raising my own children and grandchildren I feel I am eminently qualified to wash and clean, to clear up sick, wipe away blood, dry tears and give hope to those who’ve despaired. Or aren’t such acts considered important in the treatment of wounded soldiers any more?”
The Witchmother stared at her in silence for a moment, but then she said, “Indeed they are, but I’m surprised that one of your status and importance should feel a need to offer her time to do such things.”
“Why? The country’s at war and my people need help.”
“Are there m
any Zoroastrians in the army?” the Witchmother asked.
“Those of an age serve in the fyrd as all citizens do, and many of them march now with Redrought into The-Land-of-the-Ghosts. But when I speak of ‘my people’, I refer to all the population of the Icemark, not just the Zoroastrians.”
“I see,” Wenlock said quietly, and walking over to the neatly made bed, she surprised Kahin by sitting on it heavily. “Then your services are indeed needed and your offer gratefully accepted.”
The old merchant nodded. “Where shall I begin, and what shall I do?”
The Witchmother waved her hand dismissively. “Perhaps the healers will assign you to your tasks later.”
“Then you want to see me for some other reason . . . some other official reason?”
Wenlock frowned. “Can I not have sought out your company for mere pleasure and politeness?”
“No,” Kahin answered simply. “I would say that the concepts of pleasure and politeness are complete strangers to Wenlock Witchmother.”
“Bluntly direct as ever, Kahin Darius. Then let me get down to business so that we need spend no more time in each other’s company than is necessary.”
“Fine.”
The ancient witch turned her piercing eyes on Kahin. “Tell me, Madam Royal Adviser, have you never thought to ask why we wielders of Magic do not more often use our Powers to try and see the future and so help our people?”
“I’ve thought of it, yes,” Kahin answered. She rose from the stool where she’d been sitting since the Witchmother had arrived and walked over to the window to look out. “But I assumed I’d receive one of the usual stock answers like, ‘A veil of shadows is drawn over the future’, or ‘The Goddess will not reveal all of her mysteries to mere mortals’, or some other such nonsense, so I never bothered to ask. Why, was I wrong to believe that if the witches had information that’d be useful to the King, they’d have told him?”
Wenlock’s perpetual scowl deepened, but then almost immediately lifted as she allowed herself a brief smile. “You always were as sharp as newly stropped razors. I’d be careful if I were you, you might cut yourself one day.”
“What have you to say, Witchmother?” Kahin asked bluntly.
“Only this: stock answers become so only because they happen to tell the truth. The future is often hidden and the Goddess doesn’t reveal her mysteries to mere mortals.”
“But occasionally . . . ?”
“But occasionally those witches blessed with the Gift might be granted the right to see possibilities.”
“What possibilities?”
The Witchmother drew a breath. “The future could follow one of three paths, and we’ve been granted a view of them all. If Redrought loses the upcoming battle or if he wins and he is rash in the peace settlement, then the Icemark will fall and one day be ruled by an invader other than Their Vampiric Majesties.”
“Who?”
“Look to the south, Madam Royal Adviser. Do you not see an Empire there that’s ever greedy for more and more land?”
“The Polypontians, you mean.”
“Yes. They have a young general who’s making a name for himself as an invincible leader of armies, and one day his eyes will turn north.”
“Scipio Bellorum. A madman, a murderer,” Kahin said quietly.
“Undoubtedly,” the old witch answered. “And if he invades and defeats the Icemark, then a tyranny will descend on the land like none it has known before.”
Kahin shrugged. “That surely goes without saying. The Polypontus is by its very nature a tyranny.”
Wenlock nodded silently, then added, “But any rule they impose would be more than a simple political dictatorship. The Empire prides itself on its ‘Enlightenment’. They believe in pure rationality and Science. To them Magic represents the shadows they’re so afraid of, and Science is the light. All Magical creatures would be hunted down and destroyed.”
“Like Vampires and werewolves, you mean?”
“Yes and ghosts, zombies, and Rock Trolls,” Wenlock agreed. “But not all Magic is bad, and neither are all Magical creatures evil. Where would the Icemark be without the healing Gifts of the witches and their other Powers too? And what harm have the wood sprites ever done, or the dryads and satyrs? And there are some in the Great Forest who’ve helped the Kingdom of Humans more than many could even guess. Would you really want to see the land cleared of everything that couldn’t be explained by Science or measured in its Petri dishes or stared at under its microscopes?”
Kahin remained silent and Wenlock’s perpetual frown deepened to a ferocious scowl. “And don’t allow yourself to think your religion would be safe either. I’ve heard some of these Science-ists deny the existence of the Gods themselves. Even a God like yours that thinks it’s the only one and is male. To them you’re as bad as a witch or even a Vampire just because you dare to believe in a God.”
“Ahura Mazda, the Wise God, is above such restrictions as mere gender!” Kahin snapped. Then she added. “But surely you exaggerate.”
“I tell only the plainest truth,” Wenlock said simply.
“I’m a loyal citizen of the Icemark and would resist any invader no matter who they were or what their philosophies,” said Kahin with quiet conviction. “But any power that denies people the right to express their beliefs must be resisted to the uttermost.”
“Then we’re in agreement, Kahin Darius,” said the Witchmother. “But we still speak only of possibilities. There is a third way. If the battle’s won and peace is made, that peace cannot be allowed to destroy the enemy.”
“Why ever not?” Kahin asked. “Wouldn’t the world be a better place without Their Vampiric Majesties and their squadrons of Undead warriors?”
“It would,” Wenlock agreed. “But for how long would our particular world be better, if we are too few to resist the Empire in any future war?”
The old merchant turned from the window where she’d been staring out over the bright autumnal day and glared at the Witchmother. “What are you saying?! There could never be an alliance between the Icemark and The-Land-of-the-Ghosts! Redrought would never allow such an idea to even enter his head!”
“No, Redrought wouldn’t, but who knows what leader waits in the potentials of the future?”
“What have you seen?” Kahin demanded.
“Possibilities. Possibilities only. A daughter perhaps, destined to be a great Queen and leader of more than just her own people. But if Redrought loses the battle, or the peace is too vengeful, then all will be lost.”
The Royal Adviser held the old witch’s eye for several long seconds, looking for some sort of truth in what she said. Then she nodded. “And what would you have me do?”
“Follow the army; be there to temper the King’s thirst for revenge if he defeats Their Vampiric Majesties. For some reason The-Land-of-the-Ghosts must survive as an independent country.” The old witch paused, slowly nodding her head. “If he loses, all’s lost anyway and none of it matters. But if he wins he must make the Icemark a land where the truth of Science and the knowledge of Magic can live side by side; where they can work together to help the people of the land.”
Kahin sighed. “It’ll be a cold journey.”
“It will,” Wenlock agreed. “But there’ll be time enough to get warm when you come back.”
They were miles beyond Bendis or any other sort of settlement, but still Redrought insisted that the soldiers continued to sing rousing marching songs as noisily as possible. Earlier a flight of four Vampire spies had been spotted, and when they had carelessly flown too low Redrought would only allow the archers to shoot one of them. The other three had to take news of the army’s approach to Their Vampiric Majesties. Of course, that might mean that the enemy would defend the pass and stop the army advancing into The-Land-of-the-Ghosts, but Redrought thought this unlikely. The Vampire King and Queen wanted him to march directly into their trap, and he was perfectly happy to oblige.
The road had been climbing s
teadily for over an hour and the surrounding landscape had become gradually rockier. Ahead, the Wolfrock Mountains stood in grim relief against a pristine blue sky. It was icy cold, and frost rimed every blade of grass and every other kind of vegetation that was hardy enough to grow in the region. There had been no snow yet, but Redrought expected to see banks and drifts as they climbed higher and higher towards the pass.
As usual when “in the theatre of war” Commanders Brereton and Ireton rode on either side of the young King, avidly discussing logistics, supply lines and communications in droning monotonal voices.
“Yes, but are there actually any problems with supplies?” Redrought finally asked when they fell silent for a moment.
“Problems?” said Brereton thoughtfully. “No . . . no . . . not as such, but . . .”
“Fine, so I don’t have to hear about every nut, bolt and cog essential to a ballista’s firing capacity, then, do I?”
“Well, it’s not essential, no,” said Ireton in puzzled tones. “But we thought you’d want to.”
Redrought looked at his commanders and marvelled at their capacity for deeply tedious detail. He’d once had to sit through a meeting in which they’d discussed exactly how much bread should be allowed for each soldier when training, compared to the needs of active service when they’d be marching and fighting. He knew that such details were essential for the efficient functioning of an army, but he couldn’t bring himself to enjoy hearing about them. Perhaps he should want to discuss the minutiae of army supply and lines of communication, as Ireton had said, but he didn’t. Sometimes he worried that this reluctance made the difference between a good general and a truly great one, but in the end he decided he’d rather settle for being good than have to spend an entire day discussing fodder for cavalry mounts.
“You thought I’d want to hear about logistical problems, you say, Ireton?” Redrought finally asked.
“Yes.”
“Well I don’t. I’d sooner watch a dog turd dry than have to hear one more word about supplies!”
