Prince of the Icemark

  The trolls reeled in confusion. Their general had abandoned them and the human army was led by a boy-King who fought with the ferocity of a boar. They blinked at the Icemark warriors with stupid hating eyes and realised they couldn’t win. With a roar the monsters suddenly broke and ran.

  Redrought led his soldiers in a chase that saw many trolls slaughtered, until at last he called them in. More trolls still stood around the city of Bendis, and the Vampires were still attacking from the air. Quickly rallying and reorganising the ranks of his army, he began the final move on the city. The rumour of his coming had flowed before him, and troll and Vampire alike fell back before the New Model Army’s advance.

  The city was close enough now to make out the Hypolitan warriors fighting on the walls. Redrought gave the order and clarions, horns and war-drums sounded over the land, announcing his arrival again to friend and foe alike. A single bugle replied from the city, and suddenly the gates burst open and the cavalry of the city charged out, driving the enemy before them. At the head rode the Sacred Regiment of mounted archers, led by the Basilea herself, along with Princess Athena and Commander Saphia, who’d quickly mounted the two spare horses the regiment had brought along. Behind came the infantry under the command of Herakles, the Basilea’s Consort. Their shields were locked in a solid wall and they drove into the ranks of the trolls and Vampires, pushing them back in confusion.

  Even in the midst of the battle, Redrought found himself pausing to admire the balletic grace of the Sacred Regiment. First they would charge the enemy, shooting their arrows as they went. Then, at the last moment before crashing into the trolls, their small ponies would suddenly turn to the left or the right and their riders would shoot again as they galloped parallel to the enemy front. After this, the brilliant mounted archers would show their skills again as the ponies moved away while their riders turned in the saddle and shot yet more arrows into the trolls’ ranks. Such battlefield precision and skill was one of the many reasons why Their Vampiric Majesties had laid siege to the city, penning the regiment up and denying the Hypolitan the opportunity to use their skills to their fullest advantage against the land forces.

  The effect of the Basilea’s sally was devastating. The enemy perished in their thousands as the deadly pincer of the allied armies closed on them. Vampires dropped from the skies in a hideous rain as arrows from both armies wreaked havoc among their squadrons, and the trolls fell back in disarray before the combined infantry and cavalry of the Icemark and Hypolitan.

  On a nearby hill Their Vampiric Majesties watched the rout quietly. “Such, my dear, is the fortune of war,” said the King. “The Icemark was all but defeated, and then they find a new leader and everything changes.”

  The Queen looked up from where she’d been helping to bind General Romanoff’s badly lacerated arm. “If only Redrought had died with his brother in the first battle.”

  “Well, quite, my darling detritus, but it was not to be.” He turned his attention to the injured Romanoff. “Will you be able to fly home, General? I feel the time has come to make good our escape.”

  “I’ll definitely be able to fly; just the thought of that psychopomp is all the incentive I need,” Romanoff replied.

  The King shuddered delicately. “The very idea that such a creature has taken the field of battle against us is almost more than Undead flesh can bear. Are you sure it rode with Redrought?”

  “The rumour is that it’s his pet,” the general said with deep distaste. “I barely escaped, but when I flew off I saw it fall into the most savage part of the fighting. With any luck it’ll have been trampled by the trolls.”

  “We can but hope.”

  “None of this would have happened if the werewolves had been with us,” the Queen said with barely suppressed rage. “I knew the trolls would be a poor substitute.”

  “Oh how right you are, my dear, but the rituals and ceremonies the werewolves observe to choose a new King are protracted to say the least. We must take some cold comfort in the fact they will have anointed their new monarch by the time we reach The-Land-of-the-Ghosts,” His Vampiric Majesty replied.

  “I think we may take more than cold comfort from that fact, Your Monstrous Majesty,” said General Romanoff. “There is every possibility that Redrought will be less than content with his victory today, and the werewolves may prove themselves a very valuable commodity.”

  “What precisely do you mean, General?” the Queen asked quietly.

  “Simply this: I believe the new King of the Icemark may follow us to the north, intent on revenge. Providing, of course, he can persuade his allies to do so.”

  “Then we can only hope such persuasion proves impossible.”

  “Perhaps,” the general said lightly. “But even if the new human King does invade, we can calm our fears with the knowledge that no army of the Undead has ever been defeated on home soil. We can call on our reserves and the new were-wolf King to support us, and maybe Redrought’s intended revenge will become his last ever battle.”

  “A trap, you mean?” Her Vampiric Majesty asked with delight. “Oh, how delicious. The little kingling all flushed with success and prowess invades in his overweening pride, only to be finally crushed and defeated. Gorgeously ironic.”

  “I’m pleased that you can find some pleasure in our present predicament, darling corpse,” said the King with cold precision. “But we must first make good our escape before we can lay any plans for Redrought’s final downfall.”

  “Of course, my putrescent prince. Let us return to the Blood Palace and begin preparing our plans for revenge,” said the Vampire Queen. “One can accept minor setbacks such as a lost battle if one is guaranteed to win the long game.”

  And with that Their Vampiric Majesties and their general stepped into flight, transformed into bats and flew away. The surviving squadrons of Undead warriors followed them, but the land forces were left to be slaughtered by the armies of the Icemark and the Hypolitan.

  Redrought watched the sun set in a blaze of blood that visually echoed the battlefield. Hengist snorted and pawed the ground, still ready to fight after hours of combat, but the enemy had finally been crushed and only corpses littered the land where once living warriors and the animated Undead had stood and held their positions.

  The Basilea and the Sacred Regiment had chased the routed Rock Trolls for miles, bringing down as many of the monsters as they could in an attempt to completely destroy their ability to mass in any numbers and threaten human rule again. Redrought and the New Model Army had spent the time mopping up pockets of resistance on the battlefield and now that task was completed, the boy-King was waiting for his campaign tent to be set up. With the Basilea not yet returned from the fighting, etiquette demanded that he shouldn’t enter the city alone, even though she was technically his vassal and owed allegiance to the Icemark throne.

  Redrought desperately hoped she wouldn’t be long; after several nights camping out and then fighting a battle, he was looking forward to a soft bed and, he hoped, a good meal. In the meantime, he’d just have to make do with whatever could be cobbled together from marching rations. He knew Commanders Brereton and Ireton would probably want to discuss the battle and minutely dissect every aspect of every manoeuvre but, as he put it to himself, he really couldn’t be arsed. They’d won, that was all that mattered.

  The elation of victory had kept him going for a couple of hours or so. After all, he’d defeated Their Vampiric Majesties, the creatures who’d killed his brother. But now he was cold and hungry. Besides, he couldn’t concentrate on anything much; Cadwalader was missing, and even though he’d sent several troopers off to look for him, they’d found nothing. The cat had driven off the Vampire general, an act that had turned the battle at a crucial stage. But Redrought knew that even if Cadwalader had just been a soppy old moggy that did nothing more constructive than eat, drink and purr, he still would have missed him and been worried about him.

  An orderly arrived to tell him that his tent wa
s ready, and he wearily dismounted, handed Hengist over to a groom with strict instructions on exactly how to bed him down for the night, and made his way to what little luxury was on offer.

  In fact his accommodation was very comfortable, but as he settled in he found himself wishing that Grimswald was there to look after him. The little man had been his body-servant for as long as he could remember, and in a way he represented home and safety. Though Redrought had decided to assert his Royal authority, and against all military tradition had sent for Grimswald, the man hadn’t arrived yet and there was no knowing how long it would take him to get there. The army orderlies did their best to make the young King comfortable, but he couldn’t relax around them. As soldiers, they had about as much idea of how to run any sort of domestic set-up as Redrought had himself.

  In the end he dismissed them and pottered about like some old bachelor, getting himself food and drink and groaning as he lowered his aching bones into a chair. He hadn’t used the tent at all on the march through the Great Forest, not wanting to seem to have more than the men and women in his army. But now he could hear raucous singing around the camp as his soldiers began to celebrate victory in their own way, and decided that having a campaign tent almost made up for the fact he was spending the night after a famous victory all alone.

  It was when he heard a sentry salute Commanders Brereton and Ireton that he finally slipped out of the rear entrance and went off to join the revellers around the campfires. There was no way on the planet that he was going to listen to the two old soldiers drone on about tactics and strategies. There was beer to be drunk and singing to be done, and he’d finally decided that he was the King to do it!

  He woke up in his tent the next day with no idea at all of how he’d got back there. His head throbbed with an excruciating rhythm as he reached out automatically to stroke Cadwalader. It took him a few seconds to remember why the huge cat wasn’t in his usual place in the crook of his knees, and when he did, his hangover seemed to deepen.

  He crawled out of bed, washed as best he could without bothering the inept orderlies for hot water, then quickly found his razor and scraped away the few apologetic and straggly hairs on his chin before anyone noticed them.

  Now what? He didn’t feel like a King who’d just defeated his most hated enemies, and he resented that fact. Why hadn’t the Basilea sent for him? He was just allowing himself to sink into yet another quagmire of resentful self-pity, when he heard the beginnings of a commotion beyond the walls of his tent. An argument developed, carried on mainly in whispered undertones, but eventually a voice rose to a level that was clearly audible.

  “I don’t care if he is still sleeping, or for that matter if he’s still sleeping whilst painted blue and hanging upside down and naked from the tent pole. Just get on with it and announce me.”

  Kahin!

  There was a moment’s silence and then another whispered argument, after which a sentry appeared with the sort of expression that suggested she’d just been fighting a werewolf while armed with a dishcloth.

  “Erm . . . Your Majesty . . . erm, there’s this woman . . .”

  “I heard,” said Redrought, frowning in puzzlement. What was Kahin doing here? “Show her in.”

  The sentry disappeared and suddenly the tent-flap was thrown back and a small force of nature burst in.

  “Kahin! It is you! What are you doing here?”

  “My job. Someone has to advise you now you’ve won your battle.”

  Redrought smiled in relief; he hadn’t realised until that moment just how much he needed his Royal Adviser. Then his face fell again and all his woes poured out, starting with the most pressing. “Cadwalader’s missing. He attacked the Vampire general and no one’s seen him since. The Basilea’s left me waiting out here all night; there’s been no victory feast; not one of the Hypolitan has said even the smallest thank-you to us for raising the siege on their city and . . . and . . . I’ve had to sleep in a campaign bed again, when by rights I should’ve had a comfy bed in the citadel!!”

  Kahin absorbed all this in silence, her grim features settling into deeper and deeper lines of annoyance. “Well, as for that cat, I wouldn’t worry about him. It’d take more than a Vampire to separate him from his life. But are you really trying to tell me that there have been no envoys or official thanks from the Hypolitan?”

  Redrought nodded sullenly, like the young boy he still could be if the pressing needs of state and battle allowed him the time.

  “No written communication, not even a verbal message of loyalty from the Icemark’s oldest and only ally?”

  Redrought shook his head.

  “Right!” said Kahin, literally rolling up her sleeves and acquiring the sort of expression she used when faced with the most complex of family and business disputes. “First get dressed in the very best state robes you’ve got with you, and then we’re making our entry into the city whether the Hypolitan invite us or not! And after that, I’ll have words with Mrs High-and-Mighty Basilea, put her right about displaying a few good manners and explain to her just exactly how she should treat and receive her Liege Lord and King.”

  Redrought grinned. “Great! There is one problem, though.”

  “And what might that be?”

  “I don’t have any state robes with me.”

  Kahin rolled her eyes and shook her head.

  “Well, I did have a battle to fight, you know,” Redrought said defensively. “Posh clothes were the last thing on my mind at the time.”

  “Which is precisely why I didn’t expect you to remember them. You are, after all, a man. So I brought some with me.”

  Redrought marvelled at her organisational flair. Here they were in the middle of a war, just a few hours after a crucial battle, and Kahin was already re-establishing the social trappings and etiquette of civilisation. But then at last the obvious questions about his Royal Adviser came to mind.

  “Look, Kahin, just how did you get here . . . and . . . and exactly why are you here?”

  By this point she’d found herself a fairly comfortable stool and had sat down, despite being in the Royal Presence. “Why am I here, he asks! Isn’t it obvious? Someone has to deal with ill-mannered Basileas; someone has to protect the dignity of the Crown and also ensure that proper respect is shown for the paramount office of authority in the land.”

  Redrought nodded, understanding the point completely. This had nothing to do with him personally, but the position within the government of the Icemark he just happened to occupy. “All right, I accept that, but I still don’t know how you got here.”

  “Oh, that’s simple; I came with the convoy of witches and other healers you’d agreed should follow the army to look after the wounded.”

  “But they set out only a day after I did!”

  “That’s right.”

  “And what if I’d lost the battle? There could’ve been Vampires and Rock Trolls marauding throughout the land!”

  Kahin looked at him in exactly the same way she looked at some of her more intellectually basic grandchildren. “But you didn’t lose the battle,” she pointed out patiently. “And the only thing ‘marauding throughout the land’ as you put it, is a woeful lack of respect for you and your position.”

  Redrought thought it best to stop arguing, and Kahin called the guards and gave them specific instructions on where to find Redrought’s robes in her luggage. For the next hour he stood as patiently as possible while Kahin draped and then re-draped him in the State regalia. He felt a little odd being dressed by anyone other than Grimswald, but warfare demanded all sorts of sacrifices and compromises, and besides, Kahin was doing a good job. She even had one of the Royal crowns with her; Redrought normally hated wearing a crown, but as this one was quite plain and simple in design, he didn’t mind too much. In fact it was one of the oldest in the treasury, and had been worn by the legendary King Horsa himself, the almost mythical founder of the Icemark. This cheered Redrought considerably and he wore it with a pride t
hat straightened his spine and lifted his chin.

  “You’ll do,” Kahin announced after a final critical survey. “Now send for Ireton and Brereton – they may be a pair of boring old buffers, but they scrub up well, and if you stick ’em on a horse they look quite imposing. If we’re going to gate-crash the Hypolitan city, we might as well look as official as we can.”

  Within an hour Kahin had used her innate sense of organisation, as well as her instinct for maternal bullying, to muster an imposing official party of the rulers of the Icemark. Redrought looked his impressive best as the young warrior-King sitting astride his fiery war horse, and both Brereton and Ireton looked fittingly martial as commanders of the victorious Icemark army. Behind them came the upper command of both cavalry and infantry, all mounted, but unarmed as a sign of the peaceful nature of their embassy. They were escorted by the huge drum horses Beorg and Scur, as well as two standard bearers, one carrying the flag of the Icemark which depicted a fighting white bear, and the other the colours of the New Model Army.

  As they set out across the plain towards the city walls, the army gathered and cheered the King as he rode past. He waved and smiled and at the same time tried to look as regal as Kahin would want.

  Theodred and Theobold, sitting astride Beorg and Scur, began to beat out a stirring tattoo on their huge kettle drums, and this had the effect of sending up the scavengers from the battlefield in billowing black clouds. Kahin shuddered in disgust, but then reminded herself that it was a raven that had carried a message to the besieged Hypolitan, and that, as the witch Bramwen Beast-Talker had said, “if the land wasn’t cleansed of the fallen, disease would run rampant.” Even so, she tried not to look at the corpses that littered the route, and she held a perfumed handkerchief to her nose as she rode along.

  Basilea Artemis sank wearily into the chair that stood in the War Room and sighed. She was too tired to feel elated or victorious, but a quiet satisfaction warmed her as she thought of the battle. Their Vampiric Majesties had been defeated, their army driven off, and – thanks to the Hypolitan – the routed Rock Troll army had been decimated as they tried to flee to safety. It would be some time, she hoped, before their numbers had recovered sufficiently to threaten human rule in the Icemark again.