Blade Of Fire (Book 2)

by Stuart Hill

  “Grishmak, are you busy? Tharaman and Olememnon should be here soon, and there’s talk of a few relaxing drinks.”

  “Drinks, eh? Could do with a beer or two myself!” He rubbed his huge paws together happily and dragged a bench closer to the hearth. “Well, don’t just stand there like a stuffed cow, find some sheepskins for the Tharina to recline on!” he snarled at the younger werewolf, who scuttled off grumpily. “One of my whelps,” said Grishmak. “His mother’s family have had enough of him and sent him to me. But as he’s of an age to learn the art of the warrior I suppose he could be useful,” said Grishmak, nodding towards his son.

  “Such an awkward age,” said Krisafitsa sympathetically as she watched the youngster grab a huge armful of sheepskins that lay stacked against the wall, then fall flat on his face as he tripped over the bundle. “It must be so trying for him.”

  “And for everyone else! My paws ache from cuffing him round the ear, and he’s still as daft as ever in spite of it.”

  Grishmak’s son finally dropped the sheepskins in a pile before the Tharina, who thanked him kindly.

  “Well, don’t just leave them in a heap, spread them out!” Grishmak snarled impatiently, then sighing at the youngster’s ineffectual efforts, he snapped, “Oh, leave them alone!” and waved to a passing human chamberlain who quickly arranged the pelts into a comfortable couch.

  “How old are you, dear?” Krisafitsa asked quietly.

  The werewolf whelp gave her a hunted look, obviously expecting to be lectured on how difficult life had been when she’d been his age. “I’ve seen one hundred and ninety-five moons,” he answered sullenly. “Or fifteen years in human terms.”

  “I see,” said the Tharina pensively. “Exactly the same age as Prince Eodred. Have you met him yet?”

  He shook his head. “No, I’ve only been here two days, and Dad – I mean King Grishmak – has kept me busy most of the time.”

  “Hah, busy? You wouldn’t know busy if it jumped up and bit you on the arse!” the King snapped.

  “Perhaps a meeting could be arranged,” Krisafitsa said to Grishmak. “It might be beneficial in all sorts of ways. Not only would both boys have a companion of a similar age, but your son would be spending time with a battle-proven warrior.”

  Grishmak’s eyes suddenly shone. “I hadn’t thought of that. Might help to cheer Prince Eodred up a bit too.”

  “Precisely,” said the Tharina. “I’ll have a word with Thirrin and see what she says. What’s your name and tribe, my dear?”

  The young werewolf drew himself up to his full height. “I’m known as Growlahowl, and as the King’s son I’m of the Fengari Royal Tribe and bear the family name of Blood-drinker.”

  “Yes, of course. Do you know, I think you’ll make an ideal companion for the Prince.”

  “And what happens if I don’t want to be his companion? I hear he’s a right misery guts, always moping about and going off to his room. I’d sooner spend my time with someone with a bit of life in them.”

  Grishmak growled threateningly. “Right now your arse is inviting my foot to give it a good kicking. Eodred’s a fine lad, and if you end up half as good as him I’ll be amazed!”

  “There’s good reason for his depression, Growlahowl,” Krisafitsa explained. “His twin brother was killed in battle, but before that Prince Eodred was as boisterous and as fun-loving as any other teenage lad, and perhaps more so. Who knows, perhaps you can bring him out of his shell and make him laugh again.”

  “I’m nobody’s nursemaid. Let someone else wipe his snotty nose. I’m a Prince of the House of Blood-drinker; we don’t befriend invalids.”

  Krisafitsa sighed. Youngsters could be so trying.

  “You’ll be a good friend to the Prince or I’ll want to know why!” Grishmak snarled. “Here’s your chance to do something useful for once, and you’re going to take it!”

  To save his much-cuffed ears from a further battering, Growlahowl subsided into rebellious mutterings and stared moodily into the flames of the central hearth where they were sitting. The young werewolf had his own pain to bear and he’d asked no one to make concessions for him. He hadn’t withdrawn from the world and sunk into some sort of soppy solitude. He got on with life.

  Just then a booming laugh echoed through the Great Hall as Tharaman-Thar arrived with Olememnon, and all attention turned to the Snow Leopard as he padded across the wide space to join them.

  “Well, well! Grishmak, are you joining us in a little refreshment?”

  “I certainly am!”

  “And who, may I ask, is this young wolf-person?” the Thar asked, turning his huge amber eyes on Growlahowl and purring benevolently.

  “No one of any importance. He’s just going back to his quarters now where he’ll stay until I call him, if he knows what’s good for him.”

  The werewolf Prince immediately sloped off, torn between relief and anger. How dare his father just dismiss him like that! He may not have wanted to spend his time with a bunch of old fogeys – they’d probably only get drunk and become even more annoying – but he should have been allowed to choose his own moment of departure, not be told to leave like some common lackey!

  Never one to miss the opportunity for a good tantrum, he stormed blindly along one of the many corridors that led off the Great Hall, unsure of where he was, but totally certain he wasn’t going back to his room as his dad had ordered.

  He was soon totally lost, but rather than admit it he crashed blindly on, climbing stairs and bursting through doors as he wound deeper and deeper into the labyrinth of the palace.

  As his temper gradually cooled he began to slow down. He looked around, trying to get his bearings. As he entered another corridor a housecarle saluted, having recognised the silver collar of a werewolf Prince. Relieved, Growlahowl realised that if this passageway had a guard it must lead somewhere important.

  He was just about to go back and ask the soldier where he was, when a nearby door was thrown open and a tall human, dressed in armour and concentrating on buckling his sword belt, burst through it. He walked into Growlahowl, knocking him against the wall, and instantly apologised in wolf-speech. “Who are you?” he asked, catching sight of the werewolf’s silver collar. “Should I know you?”

  Growlahowl could have snarled in frustration. Everybody was asking him questions! If one more person, of any species, cast doubt on his actions or called him a fool, he wouldn’t be answerable for what happened! But before he could do or say anything, something made him pause. The human before him was obviously young, as he had no beard. Only Oskan Witchfather and the Hypolitan men shaved. As far as Growlahowl could tell, the boy was probably about his own age. “I only arrived a few days ago, so no, you wouldn’t know me,” he said finally. “I’m the son of King Grishmak.”

  “Oh, I see,” the boy said, still trying to buckle his sword belt. When he succeeded he looked up and grinned. “Didn’t know Grishmak had any whelps. Want to come along to the training ground? We’re pitching a shield wall and werewolves against Taradan’s cavalry. We always lose, but this could be the day we finally hold them.”

  Growlahowl shrugged. “Well . . . yes, I suppose. Won’t the Weapons Master mind a stranger just turning up?”

  “No. Why should she? Captain Aethelflaed likes as many as she can get in a war game. She thinks it makes it more authentic. What’s your name?”

  “Prince Growlahowl.”

  “Too long for the battlefield. Howler will do. Don’t worry, you’ll get used to it. In official circles I’m Prince Eodred Cerdic Thor-Hammer, Spiller of the Blood of the Polypontian Empire, but when going into action I’m known as Eddie.”

  Growlahowl took a step back. “You’re Prince Eodred? I thought you were fading away and threatening to kill yourself!”

  Eodred scowled ferociously, but then his face lightened and he grinned. “Now I know you’re Grishmak’s son. As blunt as a rusty sword. Still, at least your feet don’t smell like his.”

  “Wh
at do you mean?” asked Growlahowl sharply, ready to defend the family honour.

  “Don’t tell me you haven’t smelt them! Like old cheese with a fart problem,” said Eodred, giggling at his own joke.

  “Like old cheese . . .” said Growlahowl, then barked with laughter. A perfect description of his dad’s pongy paws. “Yeah, that’s right! Dad doesn’t like soap near his feet. He says it softens the pads and makes marching over rough ground painful. Can’t say it causes me any problems, though.”

  Both boys laughed again. “Come on, I’ll introduce you to Captain Aethelflaed. By the way, she’s called ‘Ethel’ in battle, but don’t laugh at that – she’s got a vicious fist and she’ll use it, Prince or not.”

  They hurried along the maze of corridors, but Eodred obviously knew the way and hardly bothered to look up as he constantly checked his equipment, settling a belt here, adjusting a scabbard there or shrugging his shoulders more comfortably into the straps that attached the huge shield he carried on his back.

  “Who’s your mum, then?” Eodred asked suddenly.

  “Princess White-pelt of the Ukpik tribe.”

  The human boy glanced at his companion respectfully. “Really? I thought your coat was a bit on the light side for an Icemark werewolf,” he said. “You’re tall for your age too. I suppose your mum must be a mighty warrior.”

  “She was,” Growlahowl answered in a quiet voice. “She fell in battle against the Ice Trolls in their last big uprising.”

  Eodred stopped in his tracks and gazed at his companion. “Then you know what it feels like when someone in your family dies. My brother was killed in battle too. At least we can both be sure that they’ll get their rewards and be with the gods in Valhalla.”

  “The Wolf-folk don’t have Valhalla,” said Growlahowl, trying to ignore the tightening in his throat. “We are servants of the Blessed Moon. She’s above the pain and misery of mere mortals.”

  Eodred had long ago reached his own conclusions on this subject. He’d seen many of his werewolf friends die in his first battle, and couldn’t accept that their Goddess wouldn’t reward her people’s faithfulness. The Wolf-folk may not have a tradition of an afterlife, but Eodred knew in his heart that they lived on after death. “The Blessed Moon is a Goddess who must love her people as much as any other. Your mother’s not gone, she’s not become just . . . nothing. No, she’s become part of the Blessed Moon’s Royal bodyguard as a great warrior should. She strides the sky now, full of strength and power just as she strode the earth before she was killed. Those we love don’t die – only their bodies break down, or get broken. But the real bit of them lives on for ever.”

  Growlahowl looked at his new friend and thought that he was probably the strangest person he’d ever met. Still, the tightness in his throat didn’t feel quite as bad as it had – or, at least, it felt different. He liked the thought that his mother still existed somewhere. And if he had to imagine her as a bodyguard to the Blessed Moon to believe that, then so be it!

  “Are we ever going to get to this training ground?” the young werewolf asked gruffly.

  “We’re almost there,” Eodred answered and smiled, recognising a fellow warrior’s inability to talk too much about feelings and love.

  The human Prince was true to his word, and within a couple of minutes they’d arrived at the huge arena where the allied army of human beings, werewolves and Snow Leopards trained and played war games. Growlahowl was introduced as ‘Howler’, and so began a long afternoon of mock fighting presided over by the fearsome Weapons Master.

  Later that evening as the Princes walked back to their quarters they happily compared cuts and bruises, and then made arrangements to go hunting in the forest together the following day. They parted cheerfully, neither of them realising this was the first day of a friendship that would span the years, and would grow up and grow old just as they did. Then as Eodred finally closed the door on his new friend’s retreating back, he smiled. Suddenly the world had lightened, suddenly the sun was warm again, and he knew there were things worth fighting for.

  The huge complex of underground caverns that lay beneath Frostmarris was filled with regimented lines of coffins. Some of them were closed, but others gaped open and their occupants sat up quietly chatting with their neighbours, or gathered in small groups discussing the next stage of the war. The Vampires expected the alarms to go at any minute, even though Bellorum and his Sky Navy hadn’t yet attacked the capital. They were now all seasoned veterans of the war with the Empire, and they knew it was wise to expect the unexpected.

  The battle for Learton had been ferocious, with both sides suffering heavy losses, and although the town had eventually been destroyed by the bombers, it had taken far longer than Scipio Bellorum had either planned or expected. The Vampires and their allies, the Snowy Owls, took enormous pride in knowing that the ferocity of their fighting had badly damaged the Imperial cause.

  The Vampire King and Queen were being housed in the largest underground cavern of the city they had once ambitiously imagined adding to their Blood Kingdom. They had arranged for their thrones and a few other home comforts to be delivered to their new quarters, and had then taken up residence with such an air of intended long-term ownership that the human chamberlains forced to conduct business with the Vampire Court had become rather worried.

  That very morning the Royal Vampires were expecting a visit from Thirrin to discuss tactics for the coming assault, and they were busy contriving just the right effects to make the Queen of the Icemark feel like a visiting dignitary in her own city. Their thrones had been raised on a dais that had been hastily cobbled together from spare coffins, but which were now draped in black velvet and gave the impression of having been in situ for centuries.

  The King leaned back against the elegant upholstery as though the tedium of it all was almost beyond his ability to tolerate. “Perhaps we should offer wine – that’ll put us squarely in the position as hosts, and Her Mortal Majesty as mere guest,” he offered, in a languid voice that sounded as though it barely had the strength to pass his lips.

  “What a good idea, light of my death,” said the Queen. “Lugosi, fetch the best crystal we have and decant the finest vintage,” she ordered. Her Master of Vampiric Ceremonies bowed with supreme decorum and then managed to both glide and hurry to do her bidding at one and the same time.

  “I suppose the loathsome Witchfather will be in tow,” said the King, his tones becoming almost heated as he spoke of Oskan. “No doubt we’ll get the usual pep talk on how we’re committed to the war and any attempts to renege on our so-called obligations will result in mayhem, and our destruction! Someone really should take that man aside and give him a few pointers on how to maintain morale amongst one’s allies.”

  “Calm down, Kingy darling,” said the Queen soothingly. “Think of your Royal dignity.”

  “I am thinking of my dignity, oh illuminator of the centuries. We’re summoned and ordered about like the lowliest palace chamberlains, with no thought given to etiquette and the due respect our Personages deserve! When I think of their measly little lives, spent and gone in the blink of a Vampire’s eye, I could almost laugh at their presumption, were it not for the gross impertinences we are forced to suffer!” He slumped back in his throne as though despairing. “Oh well, I suppose we can expect little else from a land of country bumpkins. One simply has to rise above it, and hope our example of proper behaviour will eventually influence the manners of our hosts and allies.”

  “Precisely, my undying love. See yourself as an ambassador from the Court of the Impeccable to the lowly hovels of the aspiring barbarian. Which, might I add, is exactly what you are, my lord of the darkest shadows.”

  “Thank you, dear unbeating heart,” said the King with quiet appreciation. “You always manage to raise my spirits. How could I exist without your steady support? The centuries would stretch to an eternity of interminable boredom and drudgery.”

  The Queen kissed him lightly on the
cheek and smiled a glittering grin. “We have an aeon of evers before us, my love. Let us relish our immortality and bear the presumptions of these little people for as long as it takes their paltry lives to end.”

  They laughed quietly together, and only stopped when they became aware of Thirrin and Oskan standing before their thrones.

  “Oh, I’m sorry,” said His Vampiric Majesty. “We didn’t see you there. Can we help at all?”

  As a sentence designed to put a mere mortal firmly in their place it was almost perfect. But Thirrin was used to the tricks of the Vampires and, ignoring them, turned to beckon a group of chamberlains and housecarles, who quickly built a dais out of specially constructed boxes. They then placed two high thrones in the centre of the platform and laid a small set of steps before them. Thirrin inclined her head regally and, taking Oskan’s hand, ascended to her throne. When Queen and Witchfather were seated comfortably, Their Vampiric Majesties realised that Thirrin’s dais was higher than theirs. Someone had been spying on the Vampires’ quarters, and Oskan’s wolfish grin told its own story. He’d used his Eye to prepare himself for any tricks .

  “Our small cave is a little crowded with regality,” said the Vampire Queen acidly. “Monarchs almost outnumber subjects! Who, then, will be subservient?”

  “Perhaps we should just accept we are all equally superior, if you’ll forgive the oxymoron,” said Oskan with quiet amusement.

  “Oh, please! These games begin to tire me,” said His Vampiric Majesty. “We have business to discuss – let us get on with it and have done.”

  “As you wish,” said Thirrin with an air of efficiency. “I have important news, anyway. The werewolf scouts report that Bellorum and his sons are advancing towards Frostmarris. They should be here at any time, but we expect the Sky Navy to attack first.”