The Icemark Chronicles: The Cry of the Icemark

by Stuart Hill

  The small party of Thirrin, Oskan, Grimswald, and the bodyguard of white werewolves stood for a moment of silent respect by the side of the newly raised funeral mound that stood on the plain of Frostmarris. It was deeply buried under a layer of frozen snow, and beneath the pristine brilliance of the icy covering, the earth was still bare and grassless. But come the springtime it would be glorious with the tumbled colors of wildflowers, for when King Redrought’s funeral urn had been placed in the central chamber, Thirrin had personally scattered seeds over the loose soil.

  The raising of her father’s burial mound had been for Thirrin the final act of the war with the Polypontus. She’d kept her promise and brought Redrought’s ashes home from the Hypolitan, and now he lay at peace with his ancestors, close to the city he had loved.

  Grimswald blew his nose loudly on an enormous handkerchief and smiled sadly. It was almost a year ago that the Empire had invaded and Redrought had marched off to destroy the first of their armies. And now that that fateful date had been commemorated, Grimswald felt that his master had finally been laid to rest.

  Thirrin looked up at last and gazed around her, scrutinizing every detail of the defensive walls before slowly taking in the broad sweep of the panorama to the eaves of the forest. Beside her, Oskan waited patiently, using the time to adjust Jenny’s ear-warmers and secretly feed her a carrot. Thirrin had been doing a lot of this sort of thing recently. It was as though she couldn’t quite believe the war was over and the land was still free, so she had to reassure herself by looking at things long and hard, just to make sure there were no Polypontian soldiers patrolling the walls, roads, or wherever else she was staring.

  “Everything all right?” Oskan asked at last, when she took a little longer than usual.

  “Yes, why?” she snapped.

  “Oh, no reason. I just wondered if you were looking for anything in particular.”

  “No, just … looking.”

  “Fine. Shall we …?” Oskan nodded his head toward the forest, their intended destination.

  In answer, Thirrin trotted her horse forward, and the escort of cavalry and her bodyguard of white werewolves followed. “Have you got everything?”

  “Well, no, I haven’t, but the werewolves have,” Oskan answered, pointing back to her bodyguard, who each carried a barrel or a box of some sort.

  “Good. Do you think they’ll answer your summons? It is winter, after all.”

  “They don’t hibernate, you know. They’re not bears. If they hear me, I’m sure they’ll come. They always have before.”

  Thirrin nodded and rode on in silence. The trees drew slowly nearer until they filled the horizon, their colonies of crows and ravens rising to tumble around the sky like black ash, their harsh calls giving winter a voice.

  At last they rode under the eaves of the Great Forest, the ring of the horses’ hooves on the frozen ground echoing through the woodland. “This’ll do,” said Oskan as they entered a small glade where a giant oak tree slept and a holly tree blazed in a glory of polished leaves and fiery berries.

  Thirrin signaled to the Wolffolk guards, who then placed the boxes and barrels they carried on the ground in a neat pile, and withdrew to stand with the cavalry troopers nearby. A fanfare was sounded, the brassy notes rebounding through the woodlands until they died away to silence. Oskan dismounted and stood quietly for a moment. His usual collection of black clothing was overlaid by a rich scarlet cloak with a green lining, an early solstice present from Thirrin, who was determined to make his wardrobe a little more colorful.

  He blazed like a flame against the snow, then he raised his hands and called into the dark forest: “Greetings to Their Royal Highnesses the Holly King and the Oak King, Rulers of the Wild Wood, Monarchs of the Beasts. Felicitations from Queen Thirrin Freer Strong-in-the-Arm Lindenshield, Wildcat of the North, Monarch of the Icemark.”

  His voice died away, and only the sound of a gentle breeze moaning through the naked branches broke the silence. They waited for almost five minutes, and Thirrin was just about to suggest another fanfare when a sudden blast of wind exploded through the trees, sending a great billow of snow over the clearing and causing the branches to thrash and writhe against the gray sky.

  The wind suddenly dropped, and when the snow had settled again, a line of twenty soldiers stood facing them. Ten were dressed in armor that was fashioned like polished holly leaves, and ten in oak; both kings had sent a guard to greet their ally.

  Thirrin urged her horse forward and looked at them closely. Even after all their help in the war against the Empire, she still found them fascinating. Here before her stood the stuff of legends. These soldiers had marched through her childhood in the form of nursery rhymes and songs, and yet they were real, and had answered her call for help when Scipio Bellorum had invaded. She shook herself, brought her thoughts back to the present and addressed the soldiers of the Great Forest.

  “Take my heartfelt thanks and greetings to your rulers and my fellow monarchs, the Holly King and the Oak King. Convey to them my continuing friendship, and ask them to share in our celebration of the winter solstice with these gifts of wine, mead, and beer. Take also this box,” she continued, pointing to a slender polished container. “It contains the sword of General Scipio Bellorum of the Polypontian Empire, taken by me along with his hand in single combat. Receive it in acknowledgment of your monarchs’ help in the war of freedom just lately won. Our victory could not have been secured without the people and the animals of the wild wood.

  “Know also that no living creature will be hunted by the humans of this land while they remain within the borders of the forest, and no wood or any other material will be taken without the paying of due thanks.”

  Thirrin fell silent, and the gentle breeze rustled through the branches of the trees. Then one holly and one oak soldier stepped forward from the ranks, and saluting her, took Bellorum’s sword. Other soldiers came forward and took up the barrels, and when they stepped back in line, the huge blast of wind boomed through the forest again and they were gone.

  “Well, that went quite well, I think,” said Oskan, brushing the powdered snow off his new cloak. “Shall we go back now? I’m getting quite hungry.”

  Thirrin glared at him. There were times when she was certain he made light of every occasion just to annoy her. But she controlled herself and nodded curtly.

  By the time they were out on the plain again her mood had softened and she smiled. “I love Yuletide! I can’t wait for solstice morning, with all its singing and good things to eat. Tharaman will have arrived with Taradan, and he’ll have all sorts of tales about the Ice Troll Wars. And of course there’ll be presents; I particularly love the presents. What will you give me this year? It had better be good.”

  “What could I give that you don’t already have?” Oskan asked. “It’s an impossible task. So I admitted defeat and got you a loaf of bread. It’s a cleverly symbolic gift, as bread represents life, and you’re nothing if not lively.”

  “Why, Oskan, how sweet,” she teased in return. “Does that mean you’ll be with me for life?”

  But the warlock had fallen silent, and his eyes stared into the middle distance as though he could see things beyond human sight. Thirrin knew the signs and held her breath. He was about to prophesy.

  “Thirrin Freer Strong-in-the-Arm Lindenshield, Wildcat of the North, Taker of the Hand of Bellorum …” His voice was strangely hollow and his breath rattled in his throat. “You ask the Old Ones about your servant Oskan the Warlock. Will he be with you for life?”

  “Yes, yes!” Thirrin urged breathlessly.

  “The Old Ones answer you thus … You’ll just have to bloody well wait and see,” he said, and grinned so wickedly that she cuffed him around the head.

  But then a howling sounded on the frozen air and they all stopped to listen. The werewolf escort answered in a tumble of voices and then trotted on.

  “Well?” Thirrin demanded.

  “Tharaman-Thar and his
escort have just crossed the northern border. They’ll be here tomorrow night,” Oskan explained.

  She nodded and smiled contentedly. This was going to be a wonderful Yule. “Do you know what?”

  “What?”

  “The last one back has a face like Jenny’s arse,” she said, and galloped away toward Frostmarris with Oskan, werewolves, and cavalry escort following in wild pursuit.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  I would like to acknowledge the support and help of my work colleagues: Lesley, Jackie, Jon (big and small), Amy, Matt, The Stoat, Sonia, Mariam, Monica, Dipesh, Andrea, Andrew, Steve, and all of the Saturday and Sunday plebs. Also to Trace (the manager and bazooka specialist), as well as Louse, second-in-command and collector of hoofcoverings.

  Family and friends who are as excited as I am can’t be left out, either, and Nigel must get a mention for many years of past listening without getting too impatient!

  I must also thank The Chicken House for being brave enough to publish my books. Particular thanks to Barry, Imogen, Rachel, and Esther, but also to those nice people who pick up the phone and say “Is that Stuart?” before I even have a chance to get beyond the opening remarks. It must be the accent or the neurotic way I gabble!

  Finally, my heartfelt thanks go to Margaret York, writer, teacher, actress, and complete inspiration; when reading King Solomon’s Mines, you gave a voice to Gagool I’ve never forgotten — I’m sure Rider Haggard would have approved!

  SPECIAL SNEAK PREVIEW OF

  BLADE OF FIRE

  THE SECOND BOOK

  IN THE

  ICEMARK

  CHRONICLES

  Coming in Spring 2007!

  SEVENTEEN YEARS HAVE PASSED. Somewhere on the snowy borders of the Empire, just out of sight of werewolf scouts, Scipio Bellorum is planning his revenge. Soon he will hit the Kingdom of Icemark with a ferocity never before witnessed by Thirrin and her allies: for this time he has his cruel, uncontrollable sons with him, and a mighty fleet of “sky ships” at his command.

  Meanwhile, in the Icemark, Thirrin and Oskan are returning victorious from a war with the Ice Trolls. Eagerly awaiting their arrival is their youngest child, Charlemagne (“Sharley”). Little does he suspect the fateful role he will play in the struggle to come….

  Out in the garden, Charlemagne stopped in his tracks and listened. He understood the language of the Wolffolk as well as human speech, having played with the palace werewolf guards since before he could crawl. He suddenly grinned as the final, drawn-out syllables became clear. His mom and dad, Thirrin and Oskan, would be home within a few hours. Giving a yelp of joy, he leaped into the air despite his withered leg and hurried back into the palace.

  Watching him, Maggiore Totus rapped on the window with his stick, but Charlemagne didn’t hear. The old scholar sighed. Now he’d have to wait until someone thought to come and tell him the news. Charlemagne’s skill with the Wolffolk’s speech, and languages in general, was his greatest gift, and Maggie had tried to establish it within a scholarly framework. But the young prince wasn’t interested. He saw the differences in the words he heard around him as a sort of mental game that he played with ease. He could speak the language of the Southern Continent almost as well as a native, and his accent was near perfect. And all this skill was based on nothing more than simple conversation and a quick ear. The old scholar almost despaired. Language-learning should be an academic discipline founded on well-tried formulae of grammatic structures and rigid exercises, not this casual method of listening and then almost perfect repetition that Charlemagne had developed! The boy had even picked up a good understanding of Polypontian after hearing the ambassadorial delegations on their annual visits to politely threaten the Icemark.

  The tutor’s thoughts were interrupted by a loud thump on his door, followed by Charlemagne leaping excitedly into the room. “Get dressed in your best, Maggie, Mom and Dad are coming home. They’ll be here by tonight!”

  “Any news of the war?” the old scholar asked eagerly.

  “Well, we already knew that they’d won days ago. What more do you need to know?”

  “Numbers, dispositions, tactics, casualties,” Maggie listed.

  “Those sorts of details you’ll have to get directly from Mom tonight. They’re not going to risk information like that on a relay that can be heard by anyone.”

  Maggie shook his head in tired amusement. Youth always assumed the world had access to its skills. “Not everyone speaks the language of the Wolffolk, Charlemagne.”

  “No? No, I guess not. Well, whatever, there were no details in the report.”

  At this point a member of the werewolf guard arrived, saluted smartly, and then Maggie listened in fascination as he and the prince quickly spoke to each other in the strange snarls and guttural grunts of the Wolffolk tongue.

  “Captain Blood-Lapper wants to know if a full guard of honor will be needed tonight,” Charlemagne translated, after politely waiting to see if Maggiore had understood.

  “Yes, I think so, Captain,” the old scholar answered in his role as Senior Royal Advisor. “After such a significant victory, the Queen should be greeted with full ceremonial.”

  “Yes, My Lord,” the werewolf replied in the language of the Icemark, his voice booming around the small room. Then saluting once more, he withdrew to pass on the order to the human housecarls and his own warriors.

  Maggie sighed in sudden contentment. Charlemagne’s mood had changed for the better and he also seemed to have forgiven his old tutor’s earlier bluntness. “Well, there are enough of the Yule supplies left to make a scratch feast in honor of your parents’ return. Though I wish they’d given us a little more warning: What’s the point of setting up an efficient werewolf message system if they don’t use it?”

  “Maybe they were preoccupied and just forgot,” Charlemagne said. “They have just fought a war, you know.” Then, grinning, he added: “Mom was right. She warned me you can be a bit of an old woman when you get going.” “'Old woman'! What do you mean?” “Always fussing and nagging.”

  Maggiore sniffed and drew his enormous dignity around him like a large cloak. “I’ll treat that remark with the contempt it deserves.”

  Charlemagne had been standing on the battlements of the citadel for almost an hour, listening to the werewolf messages coming in. And despite several layers of furs and the blazing brazier he was standing next to, he was freezing. Even so, there were compensations. Not only would he be among the first to see the Queen and her army come into view, but the sight of the nearly full moon rising over the frozen land of the Icemark was exquisitely beautiful. The subtle light was reflected by the snows and defused through the myriad ice crystals hanging in the frigid air. It seemed the entire world had been steeped in misted silver and smoky shadow.

  “‘A night for magic,’ Dad would say,” Charlemagne mumbled to himself as he remembered the times from his early childhood when Oskan would conjure little images from the “muscle and texture of light itself” and set them skipping and dancing on his bedcovers just before he fell asleep. Once his father had built an entire miniature castle, gleaming and shimmering on the shadows, and peopled it with soldiers and a cavalry mounted on flying horses that had galloped around the towers and turrets of their citadel. Charlemagne had tried for days after to copy his dad’s skills, but nothing happened. In the end he’d reluctantly come to the conclusion that he was about as magical as a chair leg. Of all his brothers and sisters only Medea had shown any magical ability.

  It had been weak and unimpressive at first, just a fuzzy materialization of a mouse scuttling across her bed, or a sudden certainty about what they were going to have for dinner that night. But at fourteen her powers had grown, and under Oskan’s guidance they’d developed into … into, well, what? Charlemagne hardly knew, his sister kept her skills and much of her life under close and mysterious wraps, letting very few into the secret world she’d made for herself. Their mother had dismissed her mysteries as teenage moods, but
Oskan had taken great trouble to spend time with her, and Charlemagne wondered if there was a problem of some sort. A magical complication that only the Gifted would truly understand. He shrugged. Whatever it was, it only underlined his own sense of isolation. Three of his siblings had their fighting and training to keep them occupied, Medea had her magic, and he had precisely nothing.

  His thoughts were interrupted by the lonely sound of another werewolf howling into the cold night air. It was nearer than the last couple of calls, which was hardly surprising: The Wolffolk were reporting the progress of the royal army, and each time it passed a lookout point a message was sent.

  An acknowledging call was relayed back from one of the werewolves at the main gatehouse and Charlemagne quickly calculated how long it would be before the army came into sight. Twenty minutes, he guessed, judging by the average marching pace of one of Thirrin’s expeditions. He turned and beckoned a housecarl who stood nearby.

  “Tell the kitchens the army’ll be here in less than an hour, and then tell Maggiore.”

  The soldier saluted and hurried away. Then a sudden noise on the spiral stairway that rose through the nearby turret told him his brothers and Cressida were on the way. All of them could understand werewolf speech and so would have heard the relay, but only he, Charlemagne, could actually speak the werewolf tongue. He happily placed his language skills in, as Maggie would call it, the “credit column” of his life and, for once, refused to even think about the debit of his weak leg, his hated name, and other frustrations.