Prince of the Icemark

by Stuart Hill

  Kahin could only hope that when battle was joined, it wouldn’t be the tongue-tied boy who held sway over Redrought’s mind, but the majestic and confident monarch who seemed above the limits of an ordinary human being.

  A few days later and Redrought Athelstan Strong-in-the-Arm Lindenshield felt just about as human as it was possible to feel. He’d spent the previous day training hard with the remnants of the old army and the new contingents that had come in from the free cities of the south, as well as the new cavalry. His stallion was proving to be a brilliant war horse and he’d re-named him Hengist after the shadowy hero from deep in his country’s past who had first established the kingdom. He was fierce and wild in the training lists, and gentle at all other times. What more could Redrought ask?

  He’d trained and practised until both he and Hengist were in a lather of sweat. And after that Redrought had a wild night of drinking and eating in the Great Hall as he feasted his officers and as many of the other ranks as possible in a “morale-boosting and bonding” exercise. He sat now in the great throne of his ancestors and groaned as he remembered just how much beer he’d drunk. His head thumped every time he moved it, and, if any memory of food entered his brain, his stomach heaved and rolled like a storm in the treacherous seas that pounded the coast of his small country.

  “My Lord is well, I trust?”

  Redrought jumped, then held the top of his head. He hadn’t heard Kahin arrive.

  “Oh, it’s you. Feeling a bit delicate, I’m afraid.”

  She looked over the broad frame and strong features of the young King and thought that there was nothing the least bit “delicate” about him. He had all the finesse of a battering ram and, given a few more years, he’d look as though he was carved out of rock. Just what a besieged and benighted country required in time of war.

  “What you need is one of my cure-alls,” Kahin finally said.

  “Cure-alls?” Redrought asked warily.

  “Yes, they’re known in my community as a sovereign remedy for those times when the body takes revenge for what we inflict on it.”

  Redrought’s stomach suddenly sent an eruption of gas northwards and it exploded into the Great Hall in the form of a cavernous burp that echoed back from the rafters. “Excuse me,” said the boy in an exhausted voice. “I thought I was going to pass out then.” He rallied slightly. “Grimswald’s already given me something to settle my stomach, so I shouldn’t need anything else.”

  Kahin waved aside the warm fug of stale beer that had enveloped her and beckoned a chamberlain who stood nearby. “Yes, well it obviously hasn’t worked. My cure-all will set you up.” Quickly she gave a list of ingredients and instructions to the chamberlain and sent him off. Then, while she waited for him to come back, she delivered a long and tedious report on supplies while Redrought politely tried not to fall off the throne.

  “Great, Kahin, great. But I don’t really think I can take in all the details right now. Could we perhaps talk about it later?”

  “But My Lord must be apprised of all the facts, otherwise how can he make his wise decisions?”

  Redrought looked at his adviser through the one eye he could open with any ease, but saw not the least trace of sarcasm. He was saved from having to reply by the arrival of Cadwalader, who had spent the morning hunting the enormous rats that lived in the citadel’s undercroft. One or two had actually put up a fight, but even the fear of imminent death hadn’t been enough to save them, and they’d been ripped apart in an act of pure savagery.

  “Hello, Caddy,” Redrought said companionably, then let out a winded gasp as the animal leapt onto his lap with no regard for anatomy. Kahin eyed the creature, deeply unsure of its levels of hygiene. For some reason it seemed to have developed an affection for the King; probably because it recognised a fellow warrior who was also unencumbered by the demands of polite society.

  “My Lord, the animal appears to have blood around its mouth,” the old merchant pointed out with distaste.

  “Oh it’s probably just rat-juice,” Redrought answered, not in the least bothered by the gore, despite his hangover. “He seems to like hunting them in the cellars.”

  “Indeed?”

  “Yeah, I thought you’d approve. Rats are vermin, you know.”

  “Quite,” Kahin answered, privately placing the animal in the same category.

  Redrought stroked the cat and soon its thunderous purrs filled the enormous Great Hall as if it was a sounding chamber. “He sounds like a distant thunderstorm,” he said happily, his hangover almost forgotten.

  Kahin secretly thought the noise was more like a herd of pigs with a wind problem, but allowed herself to be distracted by the arrival of the cure-all. “Ah, at last,” she said, taking the beaker from the chamberlain who’d brought it. “Now, if My Lord will just drink this, he’ll find all traces of discomfort will soon disappear.”

  Redrought stopped stroking the cat and looked up suspiciously. “What’s in it, exactly?”

  “Only ingredients that you’d find in any kitchen: raw eggs, vinegar, milk, salt, ale, pepper, ginger, garlic, sugar, mustard, raisins, cinnamon, nutmeg . . . oh, and a little grated carrot.”

  “Sounds lovely,” said Redrought eyeing the liquid that frothed in the beaker he held. “Anyway, I’ve already told you that Grimswald’s given me something. And it looked a lot less nasty than this!”

  “Well, this will actually work. I can taste it first, if My Lord wishes,” said Kahin quietly.

  The King grinned. “You’ve had plenty of chances to poison me before now. I think I can trust you. All right, I’ll take it, but don’t tell Grimmy.” He then threw the liquid down his throat in one gulp and immediately exploded into a fit of coughing.

  “You’re meant to sip it!” Kahin snapped as though scolding one of her grandchildren, and bustled up to the throne to thump Redrought’s back.

  The young King groaned between paroxysms of spluttering. “Hell’s bells, you have poisoned me!”

  “Nonsense. Just take a deep breath; it’ll settle down.”

  “How can I take a breath when I can’t breathe?”

  “You can breathe enough to talk.”

  “Oh God . . . I’m going to be sick . . .”

  “Yes, children often vomit when they take my cure-all,” Kahin said conversationally.

  “What!? . . . Children? . . . WHAT!?”

  “I said . . .”

  “I heard you . . . I don’t feel sick now. It must have been a . . . a . . .”

  “Momentary aberration?” Kahin suggested.

  “Yes a momentary aber . . . aber . . . what you said.”

  “I thought it could be.”

  “I feel fine now,” said Redrought sitting upright and trying to control the coughing that still racked his frame.

  “I thought you might.”

  “It must be so nice to be right all the time.”

  “One of the greatest pleasures of my life,” Kahin agreed. “How does My Lord feel now?”

  The King cleared his throat long and hard. “Well . . . well, actually, much better. My head’s stopped throbbing and I think . . . yes, I think I can actually feel the blood running through my veins.”

  “Wonderful stuff,” said Kahin with quiet satisfaction. “My great-grandmother brought the original recipe with her from the homeland.”

  During Redrought’s coughing fit, Cadwalader had leapt to the foot of the throne and had sat watching proceedings with a detached interest. But now that things were settling down again, his overriding interest in food reasserted itself and he began to investigate the beaker where it had fallen from the King’s hand. He took an experimental lick at the dregs of the cure-all that still frothed in its depths, and immediately sneezed. The cat shook his head in surprise, hissed at the beaker and looked thoughtful for a moment before finishing off the remaining dregs. He then stretched luxuriously and began looking around for something he could damage, maim or kill.

  His eye soon settled on an app
roaching figure, but he reluctantly abandoned the idea of making it a victim. It was Wenlock Witchmother, and being a witch’s cat he had some sense of loyalty to the head of all witches. Besides, she was one of the few creatures on the surface of the planet he couldn’t intimidate.

  “King Redrought, you have emissaries at your gate. Is it polite to leave them waiting?” the old witch said as she approached the throne.

  The King and Kahin looked up, aware for the first time of Wenlock’s presence. “What emissaries? From where?” Redrought demanded.

  “From the Great Forest, and you’d do well to listen closely to what they have to say.”

  “Who of any importance lives in the Great Forest?” Redrought asked in surprise.

  “More than you could know or guess,” Wenlock replied as she stopped before the throne and planted her staff with an audible thump. “But ignorance is no excuse for rudeness. I respectfully suggest that you and your wise adviser take yourselves down to the main gate and see what they have to say. Don’t worry, Bramwen Beast-Talker will be there to translate.”

  “Who . . . ? Translate . . . ?”

  “There’s no time to explain,” the Witchmother interrupted. “All will become clear. Just trust me.”

  “Come, My Lord,” said Kahin, leading the way. “Sometimes trust can be well placed in the unlikeliest of people.”

  Redrought followed his adviser and the old witch as they bickered their way across the Great Hall. Now what was happening? He sometimes felt he was just a victim of circumstance, harried and chivvied to wherever anyone and everyone wanted him to go.

  They arrived at the main gate to find a group of Wenlock’s sorceresses waiting with a contingent of nervous-looking armed guards. Redrought was getting fed up with all the mystery and was just about to loudly demand what was going on, when he looked out to where the road entered the gateway. There sat a huge timber wolf, a stag, an even bigger bear and a truly massive wild boar.

  The young King felt his jaw drop open, but suddenly aware of Royal dignity, he shut it again with a snap. “What . . . ? What are they doing here?” he squeaked as much as his recently acquired baritone would allow him. WHAT?

  “As I said earlier, they’re emissaries from the Monarchs of the Forest,” Wenlock answered impatiently.

  “Who?”

  “Just listen,” the Witchmother snapped, then nodded to an elderly woman beside her. Immediately the woman began to make odd growling and grunting noises. Redrought loosened the sword in his scabbard. Brilliant! Just what he needed: a raving loony on top of all his other troubles!

  He was just about to draw his blade when Kahin rested her hand gently on his arm. She’d lived long enough in the Icemark to know that the small, damp country constantly threw up surprises that had never been mentioned in the Avesta. “Wait.” The beasts were responding with a range of sounds. “I think they’re giving information,” said Kahin.

  “Information!” Redrought very nearly squeaked again. “How can animals give information?”

  Wenlock Witchmother then had a muttered conversation with the mad woman and turned to face them. “Bramwen Beast-Talker says these creatures were sent to warn of an invasion of the Great Forest. A werewolf army is heading this way and obviously intends to attack Frostmarris.”

  “What!? But how can these animals have told her . . . ?”

  “She’s a witch, Redrought,” said Kahin quietly. “Understanding the speech of such creatures is obviously part of her Magical Gift.”

  Wenlock Witchmother smiled warmly at the Royal Adviser, understanding that such a statement from someone of her religion was deeply significant. “Thank you, Kahin. And yes, you’re right; animal language is Bramwen’s greatest Gift.”

  Redrought looked at the formidable women standing before him and after a moment’s cogitation he finally nodded decisively. “All right. Well, Their Vampiric Majesties obviously think we’re still so weak that the werewolves can wipe us out without the support of the airborne divisions. So just how far off are the Wolf-folk, how long before they reach us and how many are there?”

  Bramwen turned back to the beasts and uttered another series of grunts, squeaks and growls, then listened as the animals replied.

  “My brothers and sisters tell me that there are more werewolf warriors than stars in the sky on a moonless night,” the witch answered for herself this time. “And if they cover as much ground as they have already, they’ll be on the Plain of Frostmarris in three days.”

  The Witchmother nodded and turned to Redrought. “It looks as if you’ll soon be fighting your first battle as King, My Lord. And if so then I must warn you of something.” She paused as though marshalling her thoughts, then went on, “The Goddess has seen fit to tell her children of the Icemark that if victory is theirs, then they must spare the whelp of the werewolf Royal House of Blood-Drinker.”

  “Does that mean I’ll win, then?” Redrought asked desperately.

  “That wasn’t made clear; the Goddess only said if victory is ours.”

  Redrought nodded. “Well, who’s this whelp, then? What’s its name?”

  “That will become clear if you survive the battle.”

  He paused, frowning, shook himself and looked around. “Right,” he said with sudden authority. “I’ll need every soldier that can be found with woodcraft skills. You,” he went on, pointing at one of the guards who stood nearby, “go and find Commanders Brereton and Ireton and tell them to meet me immediately in the Campaign Room. And you,” he continued, pointing at a second guard, “go to the training grounds and tell Commanders Hereward and Aethelflaed to find all soldiers in their contingents who have worked as foresters or who’ve been hunters and trappers. MOVE!”

  “Perhaps My Lord now sees the uses of the witches who serve him, and understands the importance of the Gifts they wield,” Wenlock said smugly.

  Redrought nodded absently as he continued to give orders and direct preparations for the battle. Guards scuttled off in all directions, and Kahin looked at the young boy who less than two weeks earlier had been a shambling and defeated shell. Redrought Athelstan Strong-in-the-Arm Lindenshield had left his boyhood behind and was now the commander-in-chief of a country at war.

  At that point a low throaty yowl interrupted Kahin’s thoughts and she watched as Cadwalader slunk from the shadows and in one bound leapt onto Redrought’s shoulder.

  “Hiya, Cadwalader!” the King shouted happily, then giggled as the massive cat rubbed his head against his cheek and purred deeply. Cadwalader caught sight of the animal emissaries, still standing patiently on the roadway, and immediately he bristled and hissed with the ferocity of a mountain lion. He was a witch’s cat and the power was strong within him. He continued to growl to himself as the boar, wolf, bear and stag took one look at his evil narrowed eyes and then turned about and galloped off back to the forest.

  “Aww, that wasn’t very nice, Caddy, was it?” said Redrought, burying his face in the deep fur of the creature’s flank. “You’re a very naughty wittle puthy cat. What are you? Yes, that’s right, you’re a very naughty wittle puthy cat.”

  The Royal Adviser sighed. Redrought may have left his boyhood behind, but it insisted on catching up with him every now and then. She could only hope the werewolf army had no spies watching the fearsome warrior King of the Icemark.

  She waited until Redrought turned to make his way back to the palace, all the while talking to his cat, and followed in his wake. Left to her own thoughts she pondered exactly who it was that had the authority and ability to send wild animals as envoys from the Great Forest.

  Redrought had left the bulk of the army strung out across the main trackway that snaked through the Great Forest. Now that most of the contingents had come in from the garrisons of the free southern cities it looked like quite a formidable force once again, even without the new cavalry. Horses would be of no use amongst the densely packed trees and he’d been reluctantly forced to give up the chance of riding Hengist into battle f
or the first time, but he was almost confident in his infantry.

  He could only hope that the Vampire King and Queen had no idea that welding the separate factions into a cohesive fighting unit was proving to be a struggle. Perhaps his commanders were right that once they’d been bloodied in battle they’d become the army the country so desperately needed. In the meantime, they could guard the approach to Frostmarris and advance at a slow pace while Redrought doubled ahead with his specially picked guerrilla force against the werewolf army.

  The warriors of the Wolf-folk had little experience of woodlands. Most of them came from high up in the Wolfrock Mountains, so a small force of woodcrafty fighters could inflict terrible damage on creatures that would find the forest an alien environment. At least, that was the theory; the actual practice might turn out to be wildly different.

  As they quickly made their way along the main trackway, Redrought tried to order his thoughts. He’d not been in battle since he’d seen his brother killed, and had no idea how he might react. He might freeze and leave his fighters leaderless; he might even run screaming. He had no way of knowing. All he could do was hope for the best.

  At least he knew he looked the part. Grimswald had insisted on dressing him for battle that morning, and he’d stood quietly while the little man had draped him in every piece of leather, linen and equipment he’d need for the battle ahead. He’d even helped Redrought into his under-drawers, something he’d been managing to do for himself since before he was five. But even though he was a little embarrassed, Grimswald had insisted, and had imparted the entire dressing process with a deep sense of ceremony that had helped to relax the young King’s mind.

  Then, when he was ready and he’d finally stepped out into the courtyard to take up his command, the entire waiting army had spontaneously broken out into wild cheering. Redrought had no idea that in his leather mailed hauberk and helmet he looked every inch a warrior King of the Icemark. He’d raised his axe in acknowledgement of the cheering, nodded at Kahin who’d smiled worriedly back, and led his army down through the city.