by Stuart Hill
Now he was leading his small band of woodland guerrillas through the Great Forest, and as the sun began to edge towards the horizon, he took them off the main track and deep into the trees. The scouts had reported that the werewolves were still more than a day’s march away, but he didn’t want to risk being spotted by their scouts.
After a few hours of advancing through the dense under-growth, he ordered a stop and they rested and ate while they still had the chance. The forest around them was pitch black, making it impossible to go any further without torches, something the sharp-eyed Wolf-folk would easily spot even through the dense stand of crowding trees. They’d have to wait now for the dawn before going on.
Redrought looked about him at the warriors who’d taken the opportunity to sleep. They were all veterans and survivors of the battle against the Vampire King and Queen, and like every seasoned fighter, they took their ease whenever and wherever it presented itself. Redrought could only be envious; his mind was too active to allow rest. He knew perfectly well that if he failed and the army was broken by the werewolves, then Frostmarris would be vulnerable. Redrought Athelstan Strong-in-the-Arm Lindenshield was the only surviving member of his line, and the battle ahead would decide if he would be the last mortal ruler of his tiny kingdom. Human survival in the Icemark was now entirely his responsibility.
He desperately wished that the old legend of the warriors of the Icemark sometimes being possessed by the so-called Spirits of Battle, and going Bare-Sark, was true. The stories said that a Bare-Sark warrior had the strength of ten men and the ferocity of a wild boar. No one could stand against them, not even a werewolf King.
But he reluctantly accepted that he couldn’t rely on myths and legends to help him. He and his fighters had only themselves to fall back on. Of his two senior commanders, one was in charge of the main bulk of the army slowly advancing along the forest trackway and the other was back in Frostmarris organising “Home Defence”. It wasn’t lost on the young King that both men had happily accepted commands of the more defensive positions. In fact, Redrought strongly suspected that both generals expected him and his guerrilla force to fail, after which they’d fight as ordered a retreat as they could and then defend Frostmarris for as long as possible: defeatism that could only end in the inevitable collapse of human resistance.
Redrought sighed. Only Kahin had shown any confidence in him, and even she had looked worried. She was like some proud granny, desperately and loyally supporting her grandson against impossible odds. Well, he’d just have to reward her loyalty with unexpected success!
The hours of darkness passed slowly, and he filled them by making a constant round of the sentry points, testing his soldiers for readiness. None had been asleep at their posts, which was a huge relief, not least because he hadn’t relished the idea of executing a soldier for dereliction of duty. He had too few warriors as it was.
But at last the few patches of sky that could be seen through the dense canopy of the trees began to lighten to the colour of bruised skin. Dawn had arrived and Redrought himself began to rouse his soldiers. Soon the veterans were eating a breakfast of bread and cheese and the solid dry biscuit called hard-tack as they got ready to march. No fires were allowed; the scent of smoke and cooking food would alert the werewolves.
In much less than an hour they were advancing quickly through the trees towards their target. Every soldier carried only the lightest equipment for their barest needs. Speed and manoeuvrability were essential, and heavy packs and even shields would slow them down. Many were armed with long-bows and two quivers of arrows, others had throwing axes and short, broad-bladed stabbing swords. The tactics would be classic hit-and-run, designed to wear down the enemy. It all sounded perfectly logical and simple; Redrought could only hope that it would be.
They continued to march parallel to the main trackway that snaked through the trees way off to their left. Scouts had been sent out before the guerrilla force set out, and Redrought continually scanned the trees ahead, watching for their return. Then, after a few hours, the undergrowth ahead parted and two of the scouts emerged. Seeing the King, they headed straight for him.
“A thousand paces, My Lord,” the older of the two women said.
“How many?” Redrought asked.
She shrugged. “More than us . . . twenty, thirty thousand.”
Redrought nodded, hiding his shock. His entire combined army was outnumbered upwards of two to one by creatures that were stronger than three human warriors put together! What chance did they have?
They spotted the first werewolves before midday. They were loping along at an incredible pace, eating up the ground before them and growling out a vicious war-song in their own gruff language as they advanced. Redrought hadn’t seen the enemy since the Battle of the Northern Plain where his brother had been killed, and he glared at them now with loathing. Their hugely strong arms almost brushed the ground as they ran, and their wide shoulders and thick pelts made them look like the pictures of the Minotaur that Redrought had so enjoyed in his nursery books. But that had been a creature of Hellenic mythology, whereas werewolves were all too real and invading his lands. With an effort he controlled his emotions and coolly gave the orders of disposition.
He’d chosen a point in the road where the trackway narrowed to pass through a shallow gorge. The werewolves may have only been the vanguard of their army but their numbers soon crowded the route as those amongst the trees gathered in to negotiate the bottleneck. Now . . . now was the time.
Redrought chopped his hand down and immediately a dense swarm of arrows ripped into the werewolves. For a moment the vanguard of the Wolf-folk writhed in a chaos of shock, but then they broke out in a running mass of muscle and teeth as they charged the archers. More arrows scythed into their ranks, bringing down dozens, but still they came on, snarling and howling.
Redrought drew his axe and raising it above his head he gave the war cry of the Icemark: “THE ENEMY ARE AMONG US! THEY KILL OUR CHILDREN, THEY BURN OUR HOUSES! BLOOD! BLAST! AND FIRE! BLOOD! BLAST! AND FIRE!”
There wasn’t time to think; there wasn’t time to be afraid. He leapt forward and his soldiers followed him in a fighting phalanx. They smashed into the werewolves like a battering ram, swords and axes raining death. But the Wolf-folk hardly wavered and struck back with tooth and claw. Redrought planted his feet like the roots of a mighty oak and swung his axe before the storm of the werewolves.
The stench of blood, hot and bitter, hung in the air as the war cries of wolf and human tore through the silent forest.
The lightly armed humans drove in to strike and then fell back before the massive Wolf-folk could come to grips with them. Only Redrought stood firm and none could withstand him. The corpses piled around his feet and still he stood, striding forward only to find a clear space to fight. His head was afire with the cold rage of battle and the fighting spirits of his ancestors surged around him, distorting the air like a heat haze. But he knew none of this; all he saw were the enemy, the murderers of his brother, the invaders of his land.
His fighters surged around him like a raging sea, rolling forward to strike at the werewolves, back as the monsters charged and then forward again as they fought to stand with their King. Redrought’s axe ran with the blood of his enemy and his hands were red where they grasped the haft in a grip of frozen iron.
A unit of five werewolves suddenly burst out from the ranks of their force, intent on bringing down the boy-King. Redrought saw them coming, and smiling coldly he raised his axe and waited. They raged down on their target and as the first huge face filled his field of vision he struck with all his young strength, his axe chopping deep at the junction of neck and shoulder. Blood fountained skywards and the werewolf desperately scrabbled at the massive wound as it fell to the ground.
Now spinning about, Redrought used the force of his speed to add power to his stroke and his axe sliced through the neck of the second werewolf, the head erupting from its shoulders like a bird leaping int
o flight.
His warriors surged protectively about him, and the remaining three werewolves perished under a rain of sword and axe, while Redrought strode forward calling out the war cry of the Icemark and took up a stand to await the next attack.
For a while the struggle hung in the balance, but then the main body of the werewolf army began to emerge from the trees, swinging along at a fast lope, howling as they came. Immediately Redrought gave the order to fall back and stood like a rock as his fighters began a controlled withdrawal.
Soon the ranks of the werewolves were close enough for him to see that at their head ran a truly enormous creature. The mane that swirled around its head was black, making its amber eyes flame, and around its neck was the gold collar of the werewolf King.
Recognising the creature, the young boy strode forward and, levelling his axe, he pointed the blade at the werewolf. “Know who I am, invader,” he called, the rough edge of his adolescent voice echoing into the forest. “I am Redrought Athelstan Strong-in-the-Arm Lindenshield, King of the Icemark, and I will have your blood! Your death awaits you. Follow me now and find it!”
Slowly he turned and walked into the trees. Several were-wolves began to run in pursuit but their King held them back, his amber eyes narrowing as he watched the boy disappear amongst the dense undergrowth.
* * *
Now began a running battle through the forest as the human guerrilla force struck, withdrew and struck again at the were-wolf hordes. Redrought was fighting a controlled retreat that would eventually fall back on his main army still advancing along the trackway. Once he’d joined with them he would make a stand against King Ashmok. His fighters had reduced Wolf-folk numbers, if only marginally, and his human warriors would know that the werewolves could indeed be killed. Invincibility was a myth, and he, Redrought, would dispel it for ever.
After more than an hour of fighting the young King beckoned up a bugler and the signals for retreat and regroup were given. A scout had come in and reported that the main Icemark army was closing fast. Now was the time to rejoin them, end the hit-and-run tactics and make a stand against the werewolves.
After withdrawing for more than a mile Redrought took up a position in the centre of the trackway and waited, while his warriors quickly reformed into a rough phalanx of archers, slingers and swordsmen. With the fighting over, if only for a while, he had time to take stock of the situation − and one of the most pressing questions was why King Ashmok had let him go when Redrought had challenged him earlier. Could it be that the mighty werewolf warrior acknowledged him as a leader, and so was reserving the right to challenge him personally in battle? Redrought hardly thought it possible, but then he began to look at his own achievements. Had he really led his soldiers in a running battle against the huge werewolf army? Had he really killed dozens of their warriors? It didn’t seem real. But before wonder could become self-doubt, the noise of the werewolves’ marching lope came to his ears. King Ashmok and his fighters were drawing near.
A movement in the dense shadow of the forest caught his eye. Redrought stepped forward and raised his axe. A dark shape suddenly slunk out of the undergrowth, its body low to the ground, and leapt up onto the young King’s shoulder.
He spun about in shock and several of his soldiers sprang forward to help, but then he let out a laugh of relief.
“Cadwalader! What are you doing here?”
The huge cat gave a throaty yowl. He’d been travelling through the forest for the last two days looking for Redrought.
“Well, no matter. You’re here now. Keep clear of the fighting. We’re dealing with werewolves here.”
Cadwalader growled in answer. He knew.
By this time the rhythmic beat of the werewolf lope was filling the air around them like a deadly pulse. The very trees seemed to vibrate and all birdsong fell silent. Cadwalader hissed and, standing on Redrought’s shoulder, he began a slow, deep growl that gradually rose to a high-pitched screech.
Then, like a mighty door bursting open, the hordes surged into view, cascading along the track in an unstoppable wave. At their head came King Ashmok, his black mane a cloud of smoke around the amber fire of his eyes. Immediately the archers sent a barrage of arrows scything into their ranks, bringing down dozens, but still they came on, howling and snarling as they spotted the human soldiers.
“Hold them, soldiers of the Icemark!” Redrought bellowed like a raging bull. And driving his feet deep into the earth beneath him he swung his axe. “BLOOD! BLAST! AND FIRE!!! BLOOD! BLAST! AND FIRE!!!”
His massive voice fell into the silence of the forest and was then drowned by the howling of the werewolves. It was hopeless; how could a ragtag gathering of damaged veterans and inexperienced garrison troops led by a boy-King stop such a huge army? For a moment a tiny spark of despair threatened to burst into a flame in Redrought’s head. But then Cadwalader stood on Redrought’s shoulder and, opening his large red mouth, he let out a shriek of defiance. Redrought laughed despite everything.
“That’s right, Caddy, You tell ’em. BLOOD! BLAST! AND FIRE!! BLOOD! BLAST! AND FIRE!!”
Once again his voice seemed to create an oasis of silence. It was almost as though the forest itself was holding its breath. And then a light wind washed through the branches making them whisper and mutter, and with it came an answering cry. “Blood! Blast! And Fire!”
Redrought hardly dared hope. Could it be? It was! Suddenly the main body of the Icemark’s army swung into view. They were moving at a steady trot, their shields locked in a solid wall and bristling with spears. Then, with a great roar, they leapt forward and charged in support of their King.
Redrought’s guerrilla force now merged with the army and as one they swept forward to smash into the werewolf hordes. The roar of onset echoed through the forest, the fighting banner of the Icemark snapping proudly in the wind of the army’s speed. The shieldwall held steady against the wild ferocity of the werewolves, an impenetrable barrier of spears dripping with steaming blood as the creatures threw themselves against it.
But then a huge howl rose up and as one the hordes drew back to reform around their King, Ashmok.
Redrought watched as the ferocious amber eyes of the pack leader sought the weak spot in the wall of shields. Then, with a roar, he leapt forward at the head of his werewolves. They smashed into the shields like the point of a poleaxe and immediately the line buckled, giving back before the ferocity of the mighty werewolf King. His enormous arms ran red with human blood and his teeth tore flesh and bone as he drove forward.
Redrought dropped back through the line and ran to the point where the shields were being pushed inexorably back. “TO ME! TO ME, SOLDIERS OF THE ICEMARK! HOLD THEM! HOLD THEM!”
He burst into the wall, shoring up the position and giving heart to his flagging warriors. His face was a mask of battle fury as he roared out his war cry. His axe flashed and whirled like lightning made iron as he felled werewolves, and slowly the line straightened.
Cadwalader stood on his shoulder, his mouth wide as he yowled defiance and hatred. And around them both the Spirits of Battle shimmered as they fought to drive back the were-wolves. But then Ashmok strode forward and his werewolves drove into the fight again as they followed their King. None could stand against the huge black-maned creature as he tore the human soldiers apart. Cadwalader saw him coming and snarled a warning.
Redrought turned to see the werewolf King smash apart the shieldwall and for a moment he almost despaired. But then Cadwalader growled in his ear. He was a witch’s cat and the power of battle was strong within him. Suddenly he stood and his yowling voice rose to a pitch that pierced the din, and Redrought felt his mind and strength expand as the fury of battle filled his huge frame.
Redrought threw back his head and gave the war cry of the Icemark as he waded into the werewolf hordes, his axe hacking limbs and severing heads. The creatures fell back before him, only King Ashmok holding his position. In a moment of clarity Redrought suddenly thought that no
w would be the time to go Bare-Sark if it was ever going to happen. But then the needs of battle clamoured into his brain and he faced his enemy.
The two Kings met with a clash that rang through the forest. Iron against tooth and claw. Both stood, indomitable, tearing at each other.
The young human King felt neither pain nor fear as he faced the giant werewolf. He only knew a deep raging need to avenge the death of his brother. He hefted his axe and, whirling it around his head, he struck at Ashmok. The were-wolf sidestepped and smashed his fist into the boy’s face. Redrought returned the blow, drawing blood from Ashmok’s snout. But then he staggered back as the haft of his enemy’s axe broke one of his ribs.
The human army cheered as their young King made the monster reel, but now Ashmok’s razor claws sliced at his opponent’s arm and Redrought spun away before they could slash his flesh. But they caught his axe and the wood splintered, sending the razor-sharp blade flickering and flashing through the trees.
Swords and axes landed at his feet as his soldiers sacrificed their weapons to help him. Nearby on a low-hanging branch stood Cadwalader, his voice screeching a vicious paean as he watched the battle. Now Ashmok charged into the attack again, bearing back the boy-King under his weight and power. He raised his claws again to slash his exposed throat, and immediately Cadwalader sprang. He landed on the creature’s neck, and buried his needle teeth into its flesh. All of the witch’s cat’s power was driven into the rending teeth, slicing through muscle and sinew, slicing through the werewolf’s fighting rage.
Ashmok bellowed and spun around, dashing the cat to the ground. But now Redrought drove forward and, seizing an axe that lay at his feet, he whirled it about his head with a strength he’d never known before. Ashmok’s eyes narrowed as he watched the fury of his opponent and he took back a step before standing again.