by Stuart Hill
Redrought hurried to the position he’d held in the previous attack, and settled his shield into the wall. This was where he expected the hammer blow to fall, and the presence of the Spirits of Battle seemed to confirm this. Everything around him was shimmering; half-heard voices and half-seen forms were clouding the edge of his senses. But still they didn’t possess him. For a moment he physically and mentally sagged, but then the great clamouring explosion of sound from the enemy erupted to greater heights, and at last they burst forward in a charge.
King Guthmok and the white-pelted Ukpik werewolves led the attack. They headed straight for Redrought, who shook himself back to readiness, and the shieldwall braced for onset. Closer they came, howling and raging, their white pelts brilliant in the cold sunshine.
At the last moment, they jinked aside and slammed into the wall near Beorg the drum horse. They hit at a raking angle, and many fell. The massive horse stood like a rock, and the wall shuddered but held. Theodred, his rider, drew his axe and hewed at the werewolves as though felling trees, but still they swarmed forward, howling and snarling. The wall began to bow under the pressure and immediately a wild rush of the fyrd joined them, shoring them up like a living buttress.
Now the Vampire squadrons rose up, and with wild screeches dived into the attack. The longbows began to thrum, bringing down dozens, but more Vampires got through the hail of arrows, landing on the housecarles and ripping out their throats in crimson fountains of blood.
All along the wall the zombies and Rock Trolls rolled forward, smashing into the shields like an unstoppable sea. Only dismemberment or fire would stop the zombies, and they clamoured at the wall, stinking corpses that killed and sucked fresh brains through eye sockets.
Redrought and Cadwalader led the stance against the Rock Trolls, who hammered at the wall with giant clubs. The young King seized a longbow and shot bodkin arrows into the monsters’ thick hides, bringing down dozens, before taking his axe and hacking them down in a rush of black blood. All around him the Spirits of Battle swarmed through the air and he desperately willed them to seize him, body and mind. But still nothing happened and he fought on.
A sudden clamour of rattling wings made Redrought pause and he looked up to see two giant bats preparing to land. They spiralled down, at the last moment transforming into their human shapes and stepping elegantly out of flight. Their Vampiric Majesties had come to war.
They drew swords as vicious as steel talons, as delicate as spider’s silk, and they killed with the grace of ballet dancers and the speed of striking snakes. Dozens fell to their deadly dance, and the wall began to fall back before their fey power. With a roar of pure rage and hatred Redrought smashed his way through the Rock Trolls and stood before them, barring the way.
The monstrous monarchs drew back their lips in snarling smiles and the Queen drove a straight-armed thrust at Redrought’s face. He parried the cut, and, swinging his axe, smashed it down to break the Queen’s arm through the black shield she carried. She fell to one knee, her head bowed in pain, and the mortal King aimed for the curve of her neck.
His chopping blow was blocked by the Vampire King, and Redrought broke his cheek with the haft of his axe. The Undead sovereign reeled away and Redrought turned back to the Queen, smashing her flat to the ground and raising his axe for the final blow.
Before it fell, a far distant musical note, bright and sharp and clean, cut through the air. Redrought paused and turned towards the sound. Could it be . . . ? But then a scream of rage burst through the din of battle, and with it rose the yowling voice of Cadwalader. The young King glared about. The warrior cat was bounding through the fighting, and landed at last on Redrought’s shoulder. The scream came again, and Cadwalader stood and stared over the battle to where Beorg the giant drum horse stood.
Ukpik werewolves were swarming around him like a living blizzard. Theodred’s headless corpse rocked back and forth as his mighty horse reared to strike with his fore-hooves again and again, bringing down the powerful Ukpiks with deadly blows. But as each one fell, more crowded in to take its place. The huge horse stumbled, but he reared again and struck down more of the foe. Even so, the shieldwall he anchored was giving back and more of the white werewolves were driving forward, sensing success.
“NO!” Redrought’s voice boomed over the air, and he began to run towards the struggle. Nearby, a section of the fyrd saw the King and Cadwalader thunder past, and, raising their home-made banner of a fighting cat, they ran in support.
As he charged on, Redrought could see Beorg being dragged down to his hocks by the Ukpiks, their white pelts dappled red with blood. And now, with howls of joy, they parted to let through their King, Guthmok. His dark fur looked black against their white, his yellow eyes burned like flames, and with a roar he led a charge to where Beorg fought valiantly to regain his feet.
“NO!” Redrought roared again, and now at last he felt the Spirits of Battle surging over his body. He could hear their raging voices and sense their ferocity as suddenly they invaded his brain and filled him with a strength and a fighting fury that made him froth at the mouth. His own warriors drew back as they watched their young King go Bare-Sark.
He felt the fighting power of his ancestors coursing through his body, filling his muscles with a towering strength, sharpening his senses so that he felt the world around him with a clarity he’d never known before. And his mind raged with the ferocity of the fighting beasts of the forest: wolf and bear, stag and wild boar.
He felt unbearably hot in the leather and steel of his armour, and, wrenching at it, he stripped all clothing away to stand naked on the field of battle. He had become a Bare-Sarker: possessed, powerful and deadly. His roar was that of a bellowing beast of the forest. His eyes were wild and startling, and saliva dripped from his mouth.
With his sights set on the failing drum horse, he covered the ground in four mighty bounds and drove into the foe. Three flew skywards on impact and the rest fell back before his ferocity, as he struck with his bare hands again and again, raking bloody furrows through flesh like sabre wounds, wrenching limbs from sockets and tearing heads from shoulders. Werewolf dead lay about him, and still he fought on with an unstoppable fury. Beorg struggled to his feet and Cadwalader leapt onto his back, where he reared onto his hind legs, shrieking his support. The shieldwall stood firm again, and the opposing forces of defence and attack stood toe to toe, neither giving ground.
King Guthmok surged to the fore and howled a challenge. Redrought answered, and the two leapt at each other to meet with a sound like an avalanche in the mountains. For a moment the pair were evenly matched, trading blow for blow. But then the Bare-Sarking human King seized Guthmok’s neck in his rage-powered hands and ripped out flesh and muscle, tendon and windpipe, to leave a ruined and haemorrhaging hole where once there had been a throat.
The dying werewolf tried to close the wound with his doubled fist, but the blood gushed skywards in a crimson arc and slowly he collapsed into a crumpled heap. The Ukpiks immediately despaired and began to fall back, but before they could turn and run, the clatter of bat wings sounded and Vampire squadrons flew in to support them. Black-armoured warriors stepped out of flight, bolstering the Ukpik line and driving forward once again.
Above the roar of battle, the high clear note sounded again. It cut through the din of fighting and even the Bare-Sarker King paused to listen. He threw back his head and laughed with ferocious joy. “THE HYPOLITAN!” he roared wildly. “THE HYPOLITAN ARE WITH US!”
Lowering her horn, Athena led the Sacred Regiment of mounted archers in a furious attack on the rear of the enemy. Already the Rock Trolls had turned to meet the threat and stood waiting, their war hammers raised. Herakles led the mixed regiments of cavalry and infantry to hit them in the flank, but Athena directed her mounted archers in a head-on assault.
The Princess signalled to her warriors and vicious bodkin arrows were fitted to the strings of each bow. As one, the fighting women raised their weapons and cha
rged down on the bellowing monsters, shooting a rain of death into their ranks. In a continual flow like the oiled movements of a precision machine, arrows were fired again and again into the thick hides of the trolls as the fearless ponies of the Sacred Regiment carried their riders into close range. Hundreds of the trolls fell in a raging welter of blood. For almost twenty minutes, the Sacred Regiment charged, wheeled and charged again, sending flight after flight of arrows into the enemy phalanx in a vicious ballet of move and counter-move.
At the head of the troll regiment stood a truly enormous creature. His hide was so stuck with arrows that he looked like a giant porcupine, but he boomed defiance at the fighting women, his strength steadying his warriors and keeping them fighting. It was obvious that this was the chief of the troll soldiers and, signalling her women to wheel away, Athena turned her pony to attack him alone.
She fitted an arrow to her bow, and guiding her mount with her knees she drove in close to the mighty Rock Troll. With a roar he swung his hammer at the Princess, but her pony swerved aside, and standing in her stirrups Athena shot. The arrow buried itself deep into the throat of the troll. It staggered back, but then raised its war hammer again and with a mighty bellow swung at Athena. The weapon whistled through the air above her head as she ducked. But another arrow was already fitted to her bow, and standing again in her stirrups, she shot the monster in its eye. It threw back its head and roared in agony. Quickly the Princess shot again, piercing the second eye, and finally the troll crashed to earth like a mighty tree.
The Sacred Regiment now galloped back in to support their commander, raining death down on the troll phalanx. For a while the creatures held their position, but as more and more fell they gave a despairing roar and fled.
Again Athena raised her silver horn to her lips and gave a great blast. This time it was answered immediately as the Basilea rode to join her daughter. Minutes earlier she’d been riding down through the foothills from the eastern pass when she’d heard the noise of battle and urged her warriors to greater speed. Redrought’s plan had worked almost perfectly: the two Hypolitan contingents had travelled unhindered through the Wolfrock Mountains, and now they were both ready to spring the trap on Their Vampiric Majesties. Merging forces, they charged together into the ranks of the enemy.
Now the mounted archers shot fire-arrows into the ranks of zombies and Vampires that stood against them. Soon the air was thick with oily black smoke as the Undead warriors staggered around, blazing like animated torches. In panic the army of Their Vampiric Majesties began to retreat before the ferocity of the Hypolitan.
The Bare-Sarking Redrought still stood with Beorg and Cadwalader, giving the shieldwall a triple anchor, and now the soldiers of the fyrd joined them. The position was stronger than it had ever been. The Vampire plan had failed, the initiative was lost, and soon the enemy commander decided to withdraw.
But as the black-armoured figure began to direct the pull-out, covering the Ukpik retreat and maintaining a rearguard, Cadwalader’s eyes narrowed in hated recognition.
Romanoff!
The cat leapt, landing within feet of the general. She spun about, sword raised, and immediately recognised the psychopomp. All colour drained from her pale face, and for a moment the point of her sword dropped as she faced her enemy. But then her warrior spirit regained its hold and she prepared to fight.
“Do you know death, General?” asked a voice uttered by no mouth, filling her head. She’d heard it before when last she’d faced Cadwalader, and now knew it was the psychopomp himself, talking directly to her, mind to mind.
In answer she screamed a wordless war cry and drove forward, her sword drawn.
“Do you know death, General? Because death knows you.” The voice settled in her head, bringing with it an unlovely quiet. She looked around at the battle, and though she could see the fighting and the mayhem, she could hear nothing.
“This is the silence of oblivion, General. It waits for you.”
She screamed but made no sound.
Cadwalader snarled, his lips drawing away from teeth that gleamed as though lit from within, then slowly he stepped forward and reared up before her. Desperately she tried to raise her sword, but her arm wouldn’t respond. It hung cold and useless . . . as though dead.
The cat pounced and, seizing her throat in his jaws, he unhurriedly ripped it open with slow, deliberate relish. Blood spurted as the general’s eyes opened wide in terror. Cadwalader’s mind now reached into her dark brain, and when he found the animating force that gave her life, he slowly snuffed it out.
For a moment the corpse stood as though it wanted to argue a case for its continuing life, but then it fell as rigid and unbending as a stone column, its armour shattering around it.
The news of the general’s death swept over the field like a storm-wind, and with a wail the entire army of Their Vampiric Majesties began to scramble away. Slowly at first, but then with increasing speed, the ranks of the zombies and Rock Trolls, Vampires and werewolves streamed away from the battlefield like a receding rip tide.
Redrought rode as close to Athena as he could. He was a little shy with her at first; after all, once the Spirits of Battle had left him, he’d realised that she – and everyone else, for that matter – had seen him naked. Fortunately, his soldiers had managed to find enough clothing amongst them to cover his blushes. But despite the death and mayhem that surrounded them, and the elation of the rout, he still managed to remember he was nothing but a gangling, odd-looking boy who was besotted with a beautiful young woman. Even the relief that they’d both survived the ordeal of war – so far – wasn’t enough to overcome the most spectacular display of blushing he’d managed to date, or the stumbling and stuttering that went with it.
Behind his confusion, though, Redrought was feeling something for the Princess that he’d never felt for anyone before: enormous pride. She’d arrived at the battlefield with almost perfect timing and had attacked the flank of the Vampire army with such ferocity that the enemy hadn’t realised that her force was tiny in comparison to their own numbers. The fact that her mother the Basilea had been with her somehow didn’t impress Redrought anywhere near as much.
After the enemy retreat, the young King and the victorious allies had slept overnight in the dense forests of The-Land-ofthe-Ghosts, and Redrought had spent an entire evening sitting happily with Athena beside a campfire, receiving continuing reports from scouts and preparing for the march on the Blood Palace the next day. It had only ended when Basilea Artemis had pointedly escorted her daughter to her designated sleeping place, which just happened to be a roll of blankets next to her own.
The following day had dawned bright and crisp and, after a hurried breakfast, the army set off for the Blood Palace to arrest Their Vampiric Majesties and bring them to account for the invasion of the Icemark and countless other war crimes.
Of course, the shattered remnants of the Vampire King and Queen’s army could have reformed and be preparing for a last stand in defence of the monstrous monarchs. But this seemed unlikely; so far, scouts had reported nothing but scattered bands of fleeing soldiers. There were no reports of any werewolves at all. Perhaps they’d simply returned to their mountain holds, and in the case of the Ukpiks, to the Icesheets of the far north. But Redrought was determined to be ready for all possibilities, and his soldiers marched in full armour with weapons drawn.
Despite the possible dangers, the young King rode in a contented silence beside the Princess, but his peace was suddenly interrupted by Athena’s voice. “The scouts seem to think we’ll reach the Blood Palace in less than a couple of hours.”
“Yes,” Redrought agreed. “I’ll only believe this war’s over when the Vampire King and Queen are finally dead.”
“Who or . . . what do you think will rule in their stead?” Athena asked quietly. “I mean, a country can’t just govern itself, can it?”
“I don’t know, I suppose not, but to be honest I don’t really care. Let the land fall in
to total anarchy!”
“But couldn’t that be dangerous, for us I mean? We do share a border with them.”
“Could it be any more dangerous than it’s already been? At least if the country’s in chaos and leaderless they won’t be able to organise an invading army any time soon.”
“No, I suppose not,” Athena said, but she sounded less than convinced. Then she added, “Perhaps Their Vampiric Majesties have gone into exile.”
“Yes, perhaps. But if they have I’ll hunt them down; they’ll never have peace until I trap them somewhere and drive a stake through their Undead hearts!”
Athena looked at the boy she was beginning to suspect she loved. He was such a mass and mess of contradictions: ugly in an attractive way; painfully shy and yet a leader of armies; gentle-hearted and at the same time ferocious and unforgiving. Which part was the real boy, and which part did she love?
She was an intelligent young woman and it didn’t take her long to realise that all these traits were integral to the young King and she loved the sum of all his parts. Redrought was a warp and weft of contradictions, that was what made him fascinating.
They continued in a companionable quiet for several miles while Redrought received a constant stream of messages from different parts of the allied army. The Basilea and her Consort had been appointed as rearguards, an important and honourable role that Athena couldn’t help thinking Redrought had personally assigned as a means of keeping her parents out of the way for a few hours. She soon came to the conclusion that she could also add “devious” to the list of his character traits.
Then after about an hour a scout came galloping back along the forest track the army was following. Redrought immediately called a halt and waited quietly.
“Vampires! Vampires, My Lord!” the scout called as he approached.
“Where and how many?”
“Thousands, Sire. Beyond the eaves of the forest. They’re lining a road that seems to lead to a large palace in the distant hills.”
