by Stuart Hill
“Lining the road, not defending it? Not blocking it?”
“No, My Lord. As far as I could see, they’re just standing along both edges of the roadway.”
Redrought frowned in puzzlement and called up Brereton and Ireton to consult with them. It was soon decided to proceed with caution and in full battle readiness. The orders were passed along the line and the army set off again. Soon they reached the edge of the forest and they could clearly see a wide paved road meandering away across a valley floor and apparently leading to a large building in the distant foothills.
“The Blood Palace,” said Redrought, though it was the sight of thousands of Vampire soldiers on each side of the road that held his attention. None of them showed any signs of preparing to resist the allies’ advance, and after a few minutes’ pause, Redrought gave the order to march. The housecarles marched directly behind the young King and the Princess, their shields interlocked and spears levelled. The rest of the army was also ready and prepared for treachery. But as they drew level with the first Vampire warriors they saw that they had laid their weapons, shields and helmets at their feet, and as Redrought came level with them, each soldier dropped to one knee and bowed their heads.
“They’re surrendering!” said Athena excitedly.
“They have little choice,” Redrought replied, though he couldn’t help grinning broadly as he said it.
But soon it was the brooding presence of the Blood Palace that began to hold the attention of the allies. The road crossed the valley floor and began to climb the foothills towards a narrow plateau, where the large many-pinnacled building stood in its high arching elegance. Despite its beauty there was an atmosphere of morbidity about it that made the advancing victors shudder. The many windows were blank and black, and shadows gathered in the crenellations and carvings that festooned each arch and doorway. It was as though the palace itself was a living entity that sensed its enemy’s approach and resented their presence.
By the time Redrought, Athena and the other members of the High Command had reached the base of a large flight of steps that led up to a pair of huge double doors, each and every soldier of the allied army felt almost as threatened and afraid as they had when fighting the Vampire army. Only Redrought kept his true feelings hidden and glared up to the palace doors that were closed against him. Quickly he dismounted Hengist and waved up Beorg, the giant drum horse that had stood so bravely against the werewolf attack. Theodred, his rider, had been killed in the battle, so his saddle was empty, and in a matter of moments the young King had climbed up, released the harnessing that held the war-drums in position and urged the huge horse to climb the steps that led to the Palace. Cadwalader was in his usual place on Redrought’s shoulder, and as they began to climb he raised his voice in a deep-throated yowl.
The steps of the staircase were shallow and wide, making it relatively easy for a horse to climb, and quickly Athena urged her own nimble-footed pony to follow, while the rest made their way on foot. At the top, Redrought rode across a wide terrace to the palace doors, where, drawing his axe, he struck the woodwork three times with the haft. The doors boomed hollowly like a drum, but as the sound died away nothing happened. He struck again and waited. Still the doors stood closed and locked against him.
He withdrew a short way and, drawing breath, shouted, “I am Redrought Athelstan Strong-in-the-Arm Lindenshield, Bear of the North, King of the Icemark, Liege Lord of the Hypolitan and commander of the armies that have brought your power to its knees. Open your doors that I may enter and pronounce judgement on those criminals known as Their Vampiric Majesties!”
His words were greeted with silence, and nodding to himself he rode up to the doors again and made the giant horse rear so that he struck at the woodwork with his massive hooves. Again and again he smashed at the doors until at last they splintered, cracked and then finally flew open to crash back against the walls inside.
Redrought now rode through and into a wide audience chamber, which stretched away to a distant dais where two thrones stood. The room was packed with terrified courtiers who grovelled on the floor as the King and his psychopomp cat rode by. Cadwalader stared around the audience chamber, his eyes a blazing yellow and his voice a deep growl that echoed over the air. All of the courtiers withdrew as far away as possible, hugging the walls and staring with terrified eyes at the creature who had destroyed the Undead existence of General Romanoff.
Beorg’s hooves clopped loudly over the elegant black-and-white tiles that stretched in geometric patterns towards the dais where Their Vampiric Majesties sat, quietly waiting in their finest state robes. As a result of their encounter with Redrought in the battle the Vampire Queen was wearing a sling for her broken arm and the King had a black eye, but neither injuries seemed to detract from their perfect poise. Redrought looked to neither left nor right, but rode directly to draw rein before the twin thrones.
“I am—”
“With a voice as loud as yours I should imagine everyone from here to the Southern Continent has heard who you are,” the Queen interrupted. “Please, just get on with whatever you feel you have to do before we all expire of boredom.”
But Redrought was no longer the boy the Queen had hoped to belittle. He held her eye in an unblinking gaze and repeated. “I am here to judge your crimes, dead monarchs of a dead land. How do you plead?”
“Well, really,” said the King petulantly. “How would you plead in our situation? We are rulers who have ruled as we saw fit. We own to no guilt; we reject all accusations of crime and we demand to be treated with respect by our fellow monarch!”
Redrought’s axe smashed the armrest of the King’s throne, missing his elegantly placed hand by inches. “As you respected my brother at the Battle of the Plains?”
“He fell in battle as a warrior King; surely an honourable death for the ruler of a warrior race,” said the Queen defiantly.
“You allowed him no honour! His body was defiled, torn apart by werewolves, and his tomb lies empty even now; an incomplete memorial to a lost King.”
“Well, I’m sure we’re perfectly contrite about that,” Her Vampiric Majesty replied. “But such are the fortunes of war.”
Cadwalader hissed and stood on Redrought’s shoulder, making the monstrous monarchs cower back in their thrones. “Must you bring that filthy creature everywhere with you?” the Vampire King asked in pained tones. “It’s hardly conducive to civilised conversation.”
“But haven’t you always said that the Icemark and its Royal House of Lindenshield is anything other than civilised?” said Redrought. “How can you expect anything more than mere barbarity from me and my people? How can you plead for respect for your positions as monarchs and rulers of your lands when the Icemark’s King is a loutish boy? How can you hope for mercy when that quality is only to be found in the genteel and refined and civilised? After all, I think it’s obvious to all who meet me that I’m nothing but a loud and boorish King of an uncouth and backward land.” He paused and smiled with all the warmth of the tundra, before he went on: “Therefore you’ll hardly be surprised when I tell you that I have appointed myself as your judge, jury and executioner, and that now, at this very moment, I am about to mete out your sentence!”
He then raised his axe and swinging it around his head, he prepared to strike.
“REDROUGHT!!”
The voice cut through the horrified silence like a razor through silk. The young King stopped in mid-chop and turned in his saddle to see who’d dare interrupt his Royal Justice. “Oh, of course,” he said and almost smiled. Then, remembering where they were, he added: “What on earth are you doing here?”
Kahin now strode forwards from the ruined doors where she’d been standing and made her way to the dais. “What am I doing here, you ask? Well, I’ll tell you. I’m stopping you carrying out an execution that you and our homeland would have cause to deeply regret.”
“Regret?! How could I ever regret the death of the monsters who murdered my brother
, invaded my land and killed my people in their thousands?”
“To that I have no answer, but Wenlock Witchmother says there are possible futures where The-Land-of-the-Ghosts could have its uses.”
“What uses?”
Kahin paused. As loyal as she was to the young King, she was well aware of his limitations. Any talk now of a future where Their Vampiric Majesties could be allies of the Icemark would be beyond his capacity to believe or accept. Therefore, like all good diplomats and politicians, she edited the truth to fit the purpose.
“My Lord, let us consider the possibility of a time when your land and throne may be saved by sacrificing another domain.”
Redrought frowned. “And the Witchmother claims that this situation could arise?”
“She claims that it is at least a possibility.”
“And how does she know this?”
“There are those witches skilled in divining at least some small part of the future, and it is they who have warned of this.”
The King paused and rested his axe on the shoulder unoccupied by Cadwalader. Eventually he turned to look at his adviser, his eyes those of a pained young boy. “But I want to kill them, Kahin. They deserve it, they deserve it many times over, and . . . and . . . they smell!”
“We most certainly do not!” Her Vampiric Majesty exclaimed in outrage.
“Yes you do!” Redrought insisted. “You smell like something sweet that’s gone off, like a rancid trifle or jelly or something.”
“I think he’s referring to the perfume of the grave, my putrescent princess,” said the Vampire King.
“Oh, that,” said the Queen in relief. “I thought he meant something nasty.”
“Can we assume that we are in agreement, then?” Kahin asked. “Their Vampiric Majesties will be allowed to live and also to retain their thrones and rule?”
Redrought curled his fist and slammed it down on the pommel of Beorg’s saddle in frustration. “But . . . but . . . it’s so unfair, Kahin! They’re responsible for a war that’s killed thousands.”
“Yes, I know, but if I may make a suggestion, we’re in occupation of the Blood Palace and by reputation its cellars and undercrofts are stuffed with treasures and money. With my blessing take everything in at least part reparation for the damage Their Vampiric Majesties have inflicted on us.”
Several hours later the Vampire King and Queen sat on the top step of the dais in the audience chamber. The entire building had been stripped of anything that could be carried off, including even some of the more ornate doorknobs and hinges. All of the coffers in the cellars had been carried off, as had the Royal thrones. And every room had been stripped of all ornaments, curtains, hangings and draperies.
Even so, His Vampiric Majesty smiled. One of his loyal chamberlains had managed to hide some of the better vintages from the wine cellar, and though the Royal couple were reduced to swigging from a bottle, which they passed from one to the other, they could at least still appreciate some of the finer things in life.
“Do you know, my dear, all things considered I think that went rather well,” he said, holding the bottle up to the light and appreciating the fine ruby depths.
“Rather well . . . ?! Rather well . . . ?!” Her Vampiric Majesty almost screeched. “How on earth can you say such a thing? Our home is an empty shell, our armies have been defeated, and our plans for the annexation of the Icemark have been thwarted. Just how can any of that be interpreted as going ‘rather well’?”
The King smiled placatingly. “Please don’t distress yourself, dear unbeating heart; but consider the facts and you’ll see what I mean. We survived a proposed execution, we still rule The-Land-of-the-Ghosts and, best of all, our enemies have rid us of General Romana Romanoff!”
The Queen paused, and after a few moments she held out her hand for the bottle. She paused again, frowning, but then she raised the bottle and said: “A toast; then, to things going ‘rather well’!”
Far off in the Wolfrock Mountains, the newly acclaimed King Grishmak Blood-Drinker led his people back to their holds. It had been his leadership that had got as many of the Wolf-folk safely away from the lost battlefield as was possible. Had it not been for him, their casualties would have been far higher and it would have taken many years to repopulate the ancestral caves of the mountain werewolves.
He was relieved to have escaped the wrath of the human King Redrought, but deep down in the place where he kept his soul, he was even more relieved not to be fighting the people of the Icemark any more. There was something about them that called to him – or, at least, he felt that one day there would be someone who would call to him. Someone he’d be very proud to call his friend.
They gathered in the Great Hall of the citadel of Frost-marris. The guests crowded the entire space from the huge double doors to the dais where Redrought and Athena sat. Cadwalader looked oddly clean, with his fur brushed and a smart red bow around his neck. There was a small amount of rat juice bedewing his mouth, but apart from that he was really rather neat, and he couldn’t help looking at his master with an expression which, had he not been a cat, would have been suspiciously smug.
Redrought was aware of none of this, he was just sure that the Royal chefs would be able to fry eggs on his cheeks. They were so hot and red they’d probably come in useful as lanterns when it got dark.
“It’s lovely,” Athena whispered as she gazed at the engagement ring. “And so are you.” She was wearing a beautiful gown of white silk, with a white headband on which sparkled a single diamond. She looked like the personification of a bright winter’s dawn over the Icesheets.
The young King blushed even more and shifted his broad and yet gangling frame inside the stiff Royal regalia. He thought that only mothers and fiancées could think ugly men were lovely. Still, he wasn’t complaining: Athena had accepted his proposal, she liked the ring and even seemed to find him attractive. Funny things, women.
This last thought was confirmed by Kahin who was dabbing gently at her eyes with the most enormous snot rag Redrought had ever seen. Even the hatchet-faced Basilea looked a little tearful. Weren’t engagements supposed to be happy occasions? At least Herakles, Athena’s father, looked happy. With a bit of luck, Redrought thought, he’d be able to get away and have a few beers with him and some of the housecarles later.
A sudden gust of wind in the roof vents brought a flurry of snow down into the central fire. Yule wasn’t far away and Redrought had a feeling it was going to be one of the best ever.
“What are you thinking?” Athena suddenly asked from the throne that had been positioned next to his.
“Hmm? Oh, nothing much . . . just that these leggings are really itchy.”
She patted his hand and wondered with a smile if she dared say out loud what she’d just thought.
Cadwalader looked at her, and after gazing from one to the other of the Royal couple, he meowed in a way that would have sounded suspiciously like laughter, had he not been a cat.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
Roger and Beryl must be mentioned for their boundless generosity, as must Julian, Jane and Peter. Always there with help and a pot of tea.
I’d also like to thank Chicken House, particularly Barry and Rachel, as well as Helen for her editing and Tina for the email conversations in which I always managed to mention food and chocolate no matter what we were discussing.
And finally. Charles Arthur Hardy has to be acknowledged as the best darts player in Leicestershire. No truer dart was ever thrown.
From The Chicken House
Don’t worry if you have never heard of the Icemark. Stuart Hill sets up the most mouth-wateringly adventurous series ever, as he tells the first story of the land that’s forever threatened by monstrous invasions from creatures of the living and the dead. Like Narnia or Game of Thrones, there is no way to predict who will be on your side when the next battle comes. But, ultimately, as you’ll see, the most powerful weapon of all is friendship. This is stirring stuff with heart-
stopping action, wild humour and fantastic animals. Pass me my battle-axe.
Barry Cunningham
Publisher
Published by Scholastic Australia
Pty Ltd PO Box 579 Gosford NSW 2250
ABN 11 000 614 577
www.scholastic.com.au
Part of the Scholastic Group
Sydney • Auckland • New York • Toronto • London • Mexico City
• New Delhi • Hong Kong • Buenos Aires • Puerto Rico
SCHOLASTIC and associated logos are trademarks and/or registered trademarks of Scholastic Inc.
Text © Stuart Hill 2013.
First published in Great Britain by The Chicken House in 2013.
This electronic edition published by Scholastic Australia Pty Limited in 2013.
E-PUB/MOBI eISBN 978 1 921990 97 7
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, storage in an information retrieval system, or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publisher, unless specifically permitted under the Australian Copyright Act 1968 as amended.