Thirrin watched as the corpse swayed for a second or two, before its knees buckled and it finally sprawled on the ground at her feet. After a moment she placed her foot squarely between Bellorum’s shoulder blades and walked over his body to the mud-splattered head. She turned it over with her foot. The monster’s sightless eyes gazed up at her.
At long last, the architect of two terrible wars was dead. The sense of relief was immeasurable. Thirrin walked slowly away. Looking back over her shoulder, she caught the Vampire Queen’s eye. “He’s all yours,” she said. “Do as you wish.”
In an instant, the sound of General Bellorum’s body being torn to shreds filled Thirrin’s ears, but she was hardly aware of it. She was already too busy planning the rebuilding of Frostmarris.
Mekhmet lay barely conscious on a blood-soaked mattress in the infirmary, the pain of the sabre wound raging like fire through his chest. Every now and then he would cough up more blood, flooding his already soaked tunic with more of the precious liquid. He was dying, and he knew it. But he had fought bravely and had earned his place in Paradise. He wasn’t afraid. In fact, to die seemed to him easier than making the effort to live.
Only the pressure of Sharley’s hand in his kept him from closing his eyes and giving up. He liked having his friend with him at the end. He was glad Sharley had achieved everything he wanted; he could die happy, knowing that. But Sharley wouldn’t let him go. Mekhmet wanted to plead with him to let him leave, but he couldn’t speak. When at last his hand was released, he lay back with a sigh.
Sharley was rigid with fear and limp with grief at one and the same time. Mekhmet was dying! When he’d found him on the field, he and two troopers had carried him to the infirmary, but there was no sign of Oskan. Some of the witches had run to find him. All Sharley could do was hold Mekhmet’s hand and pray, “Please don’t let him die! Please don’t let him die!” again and again to every goddess and god he could think of.
Oskan arrived at last to find his youngest son sitting next to a badly wounded soldier of the Desert Kingdom. Gently he stroked Sharley’s hair, and he leaped to his feet.
“Dad! Dad! It’s Mekhmet – he’s dying! Please don’t let him die. Please don’t let him die! I don’t know what I’d . . . how I’d . . . please . . .”
Oskan quickly examined the wound. Punctured lung, dangerously near the heart, and massive blood loss. He sighed. What could he do? He drew breath to tell Sharley it was hopeless, but seeing his face he turned and beckoned to a young witch. “Fetch Old Meg,” he said simply.
“Can you save him, Dad?” Sharley asked, his voice barely a whisper.
“I’ll fight for him, Sharley. I can say no more than that.”
A sudden rustle and bustle announced the arrival of Old Meg. “You asked for me, Witchfather?”
“Your skill is needed. Keep the boy with us.”
“Only if the Goddess decrees.”
Oskan smiled sadly. “There’s only one way to find out, isn’t there?”
The old witch nodded, and sitting beside Mekhmet she took his head in her hands. “Hello, my lovely,” she said gently. “What have you been doing with yourself, then? You are in a bit of a mess. Never mind. The Witchfather will soon put you right. Now you just stay with us. I’m sure the Goddess has got more plans for you yet.”
“He only believes in one God,” said Sharley quietly.
“Does he, now?” said Old Meg. “Well, never mind. The Goddess believes in him, and she won’t mind. Mothers are wonderfully forgiveful like that.” She turned to Oskan and nodded. “You can get on with it. He’s going nowhere.”
Sharley watched his dad wash his hands and wearily open his bag of instruments. “Please don’t let him die!” Sharley prayed to all his newfound goddesses and gods. “Please don’t let him die!”
As he prayed, the sound of quiet singing began to fill the room. A blue light softly infiltrated the shadows and fitful lamplight, surrounding Oskan and Old Meg and giving them strength in their efforts to cradle Mekhmet’s soul and keep it from slipping away.
“Thank you,” whispered Sharley. “Thank you.” And taking his friend’s hand, he willed him to survive.
Olememnon and Olympia sat wearily on a pair of old boxes in one of the quieter side caverns, still not quite able to take it all in. It was over. Bellorum and his mad sons were defeated. Both Octavius and Sulla were dead: one killed by Sharley, of all people – who would have believed that only a few hours ago? – and the other dispatched by Cressida. It really was astounding. But no matter how stupendous the events, they just couldn’t keep awake, and were soon slumped against each other, snoring gently with their fingers interlaced and their swords leaning together against the cave wall.
Eodred and Howler found them a few minutes later, and stood nudging one another as they decided what to do. Eventually, they scraped some mud from the cave floor, and squeaking and spluttering, drew huge muddy moustaches on them both. Then, finding a nice fresh pile of horse dung from a nearby stable, they gently prised open the deeply sleeping couple’s hands and popped in a nice smelly mound to rest between their palms. Satisfied they’d done a reasonable job in difficult circumstances, the boys went off to find some beer.
CHAPTER 39
The war had long been over. A huge mass grave had been dug on the plain of Frostmarris and the enemy dead had been tumbled into it, rank upon rank of defeated soldiers whose bodies would nourish the soil and help in part to make amends for the damage they’d done by ensuring long, long years of good harvests.
The city of Frostmarris was rising again, stone by stone, and wounds had slowly become scars to be carried as reminders of the most desperate of times. The Vampires had long since flown north, much honoured and thanked by all the survivors of the Icemark, and their lonely Queen now sat on her throne in silence.
Such momentous times, such conclusions. The Lusu had eventually embarked for the dangerous journey back to the Desert Kingdom and beyond, and Mekhmet’s own people had gone with them. The exiles of the Icemark had also made their way home, arriving in the harbours to tumultuous, joyous greetings as once again the people and the soul of the land walked free under its skies.
Banquets and celebrations lit the country from end to end. Thirrin, Tharaman, Krisafitsa and Grishmak had made a Royal Progress the length and breadth of the Icemark, along with Oskan and Cressida. Maggiore Totus had settled down to write his history of the war, accompanied only by a large bottle of sherry and a smelly old cat. And everywhere was action and activity, rebuilding and renovation, as the scars of the invasion were cleared away.
Only Charlemagne Athelstan Redrought Strong-in-the-Arm Lindenshield seemed quiet and pensive. As he carefully limped down a bank towards the gently flowing river, a cold wind blew, rippling the surface of the water and blurring the reflection of the half-moon that had been lying peacefully in its depths. The eastern sky was beginning to lighten, and soon the early morning frost would melt to a crystal splendour of dew.
As Sharley climbed into a boat moored at the edge of the water, old Hereward seated him in the middle of the craft. Sharley had once tried to explain fishing and rivers to Mekhmet, long ago when he’d first arrived in the capital of the Desert Kingdom, and when Mekhmet had found it impossible to understand, Sharley had promised to teach him how to fish when he returned to the Icemark.
He smiled at the memory, and then started to laugh gently as he saw Mekhmet edge carefully down the bank after him, then grasp the housecarle’s hand and step with exaggerated care into the unsteady boat.
“Thank you, Hairywart, you old fathead,” he said in his thick accent, and he grinned at Sharley. “See? I did it!”
“You did indeed,” Sharley agreed.
“So, where are these fish?”
“Oh, we’ll be a while yet afore we get to the trout pool, Your Highness,” said Hereward. “Just you sit back and enjoy the view while I get the oars out.”
This was the first time Oskan and Thirrin had agreed to
let Mekhmet out of the city since he’d been wounded three months earlier. And everyone had strict instructions to be back in Frostmarris in time for supper. Tharaman and Krisafitsa were on a State visit to commemorate the rebuilding of Frostmarris, and everyone would be there. There was still lots to do, but Archimedo Archimedes had insisted they have a banquet to celebrate what had been done so far, because it was, in his opinion, superb. Still, Sharley didn’t mind too much – the Royal Snow Leopard cubs would be there, and Kirimin had a sense of humour that made Eodred’s and Howler’s look tame!
Of course, Maggie would still be annoying everybody by demanding the tiniest minutiae of details from them all so that he could make his history of the war as accurate as possible, but at least Thirrin and Oskan had forbidden him to bring Primplepuss to the feast. The smell of rancid fishy farts really wasn’t very good for the appetite. Sharley laughed; he must have the best family and friends in all the known world. They were all eccentric, argumentative and bossy – especially Cressida – but now he could hold his head up in their presence. He, too, was counted as a mighty warrior, and that was wonderful – more wonderful than he would ever have dreamed possible only a year ago.
But best of all, Mekhmet was recovering well at last, and all he needed now was good food and gentle exercise. Sharley couldn’t have been happier. Feeling a pressure on his knee he looked up at his friend.
“Eh up, hairy arse! How’s things?” Mekhmet said, using the first phrase of the Icemark language he’d ever learned.
Sharley’s smile widened into a grin. “Just great, fathead,” he said. “Just great. We’re going to catch the biggest trout in the entire river. And then we’re going to sit on the bank and eat it for breakfast, aren’t we, Hereward?”
“We are at that, Your Highness,” the old housecarle agreed.
“What do they taste like?” Mekhmet asked.
Sharley frowned as he thought about it. How do you describe a taste? “Well . . . well, think of one of Primplepuss’s fishy farts . . . a bit like that, I suppose,” he said at last. “But much, much nicer!” he added hurriedly.
But it was too late. Mekhmet had gone a funny green colour, and hanging over the side of the boat he was loudly sick. His digestive system hadn’t fully recovered from his wounds, and the slightest thing could upset it.
“I don’t think I like the sound of trout,” he said in a small voice when he’d regained some control of his stomach.
“No,” said Sharley sadly. “Never mind. We’ve got some apples.”
From The Chicken House
I couldn’t wait for Stuart Hill to welcome us back to his wild world! Now he takes us on a journey to the hot southern region, and introduces us to a new generation of characters.
Scipio and his two cruel sons seek revenge, and the children of Thirrin and Oskan must struggle with witches, werewolves and vampires against impossible odds!
Thrilling! Awesome! Epic!
Barry Cunningham
Publisher
Thanks are very much due to Mariam Ashraf-Shah for her invaluable advice.
I'd also like to mention Louise Walker, Barmy Beryl and the Bean, and Esther, Sarah and the Clan Cameron for conversation, cats, beer and curry. And Nigel for years of support.
I am also indebted to Immers for her supreme patience, and to all at
The Chicken House.
And finally, Pauline McClelland; author, historian, raconteur, artist and complete Renaissance woman.
Text © Stuart Hill 2006
First hardback edition published in Great Britain in 2006
First paperback edition published in Great Britain in 2007
This electronic edition published in 2013
The Chicken House
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ePub ISBN 978-1-909489-16-5
Stuart Hill, Blade Of Fire (Book 2)
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